#Silicon Valley Tech Tour

[pinkponyluv]

kind of weird how attatched I am to the immigrant mentality considering im not an immigrant

[seekercity]

Ohio University - Premier University in the Northwest at Cityseeker

Founded in 1804, Ohio State University is the oldest university in the Northwest and the ninth oldest in the nation. Located in the center of Athens Ohio, this university occupies almost the entire center. It has extensive graduate and undergraduate programs. Visit the website to learn more.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Mark Zuckerberg announces mind-control ray (again)

I'm on a 20+ city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me in PITTSBURGH on May 15 at WHITE WHALE BOOKS, and in PDX on Jun 20 at BARNES AND NOBLE with BUNNIE HUANG. More tour dates (London, Manchester) here.

Mark Zuckerberg has told investors how he plans to make back the tens of billions he's spending on AI: he's going to use it to make advertisements that can bypass our critical faculties and convince anyone to buy anything. In other words, Meta will make an AI mind-control ray and rent it out to grateful advertisers.

Here, Zuck is fulfilling the fundamental duty of every CEO of every high-growth tech company: explaining how his company will continue to grow. These growth stories are key, because growth stocks trade at a huge premium relative to the stocks of "mature" companies. Every dollar Meta brings in boosts their share price to a much greater degree than the dollars earned by companies with similar rates of profit, but slower rates of growth. This premium represents a bet by investors that Meta will continue to grow, which means that the instant Meta stops growing, the value of its shares will plummet, to reflect the fact that it is a "mature" company, not a "growth" company.

So Zuck needs to do everything he can to keep investors believing that Meta will continue to grow. After all, Zuck's key employees and top managers all take much (or even most!) of their compensation in Meta stock, which means that the instant the company stops growing, those workers' pay will plummet and they will seek employment elsewhere, depriving Meta of the workers it needs to successfully create or conquer a new market and once again become a growth stock.

This is why Zuck keeps telling stories. The most important story Zuck tells is about himself, the boy genius who converted a tool for nonconsensually rating the fuckability of Harvard undergrads into a social media monopoly with four billion users. Zuck's cult of personality isn't the product of mere narcissism – it's a tool for creating the material conditions for ongoing investor confidence:

https://www.businessinsider.com/mark-zuckerberg-shirt-latin-what-does-it-say-explained-words-2024-9

If Zuck is a boy genius, then Zuck's pronouncements take on the character of prophesy. When Zuck announced the "pivot to video," investors poured tens of billions into Facebook stock and into video-first online news production, despite the fact that Zuck was obviously lying:

https://slate.com/technology/2018/10/facebook-online-video-pivot-metrics-false.html

The "boy genius" story is an example of Silicon Valley's storied "reality distortion field," pioneered by Steve Jobs. Like Jobs, Zuck is a Texas marksman, who fires a shotgun into the side of a barn and then draws a target around the holes. Jobs is remembered for his successes, and forgiven his (many, many) flops, and so is Zuck. The fact that pivot to video was well understood to have been a catastrophic scam didn't stop people from believing Zuck when he announced "metaverse."

Zuck lost more than $70b on metaverse, but, being a boy genius Texas marksman, he is still able to inspire confidence from credulous investors. Zuck's AI initiatives generated huge interest in Meta's stock, with investors betting that Zuck would find ways to keep Meta's growth going, despite the fact that AI has the worst unit economics of any tech venture in living memory. AI is a business that gets more expensive as time goes on, and where the market's willingness to pay goes down over time. This makes the old dotcom economics of "losing money on every sale, but making it up in volume" look positively rosy:

https://www.wheresyoured.at/reality-check/

Now, Zuck has finally described how he's going to turn AI's terrible economics around: he's going to ask AI to design his advertisers' campaigns, and these will be so devastatingly effective that advertisers will pay a huge premium to advertise on Meta:

https://finance.yahoo.com/news/the-ai-revolution-is-an-advertising-revolution-morning-brief-100001467.html

This narrative is especially galling because it's literally the same story Zuck has been telling for decades: "Facebook has built a mind-control out of Big Data, and we can sell anything to anyone":

https://pluralistic.net/2021/09/30/dont-believe-the-criti-hype/#ordinary-mediocrities

This is a facially absurd proposition. After all, everyone who's ever claimed to have perfected mind-control – Rasputin, Mesmer, MK-ULTRA, neurolinguistic programming grifters and pathetic "pick up artists" – was a liar. Either they were lying to themselves, or to everyone else. Or both.

But many of tech's critics helped sell this narrative (and thus helped Meta sell ads). Many critics have fallen prey to the sin of "criti-hype," Lee Vinsel's term for critiquing the claims of your adversary without bothering to ask whether they are true:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/02/02/euthanize-rentiers/#dont-believe-the-hype

The project of convincing investors that tech's "dopamine hackers" had perfected mind-control with warmed over, non-replicable Skinnerian behavior-mod techniques and mass surveillance sold a hell of a lot of ads. After all, if there's one kind of person the advertising sector has always been able to sell to, it's advertising executives, who are the easiest of marks for a story about how easy it is to trick the public into buying whatever you're selling:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/10/05/florida-man/#wannamakers-ghost

Every ad-tech sales-bro who takes a meeting with an advertising executive finds himself pushing on an open door. Advertisers desperately wants to believe in mind-control rays. Think of the department store magnate John Wannamaker, who said, "half my advertising spending is wasted – I just don't know which half." Imagine: some advertising exec convinced John Wannamaker that he was only wasting half of his advertising spending!

I've long maintained that the threat from AI to workers isn't that AI can do your job – it's that an AI salesman can convince your boss to fire you and replace you with an AI that can't do your job:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/03/18/asbestos-in-the-walls/#government-by-spicy-autocomplete

The corollary here is that it doesn't matter if AI can design ads that work, not so long as an AI ad salesman can sell this proposition to an advertisers, and not so long as a tech CEO can sell it to investors.

AI keeps passing the worst kinds of Turing tests – for example, it's great at helping people who are prone to life-destroying hallucinations that they are talking to God:

https://www.rollingstone.com/culture/culture-features/ai-spiritual-delusions-destroying-human-relationships-1235330175/

Zuck kept up his growth story with this mind control narrative for more than a decade, got caught committing a string of spectacular frauds, and then lured investors back into his stock offerings by telling the same story. This isn't just an indictment of Zuck, it's a stinging rebuke to the whole idea that markets are a kind of infallible computer for assessing and operationalizing information. The market's "thought process" demonstrably lacks the object permanence that most babies acquire by the time they are a year old. You can tell when your child has acquired object permanence by the fact that they cease to enjoy "peek-a-boo" (object permanence means they understand where you have gone when your face is hidden).

In claiming that AI will give him an infinite growth mind-control ray, Mark Zuckerberg is challenging the market to a game of peek-a-boo – and he's winning.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/05/07/rah-rah-rasputin/#credulous-dolts

Image:

Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

[msbigredmachine]

Finding Angel: 3

MASTERLIST

Naima steps out of her sleek Mercedes-AMG GLE, her heels clicking against the pavement as she strides toward Exotica’s grand entrance. The valet, a young man who always greets her with awe-struck eyes, rushes to open the door for her. 

“Miss Angel,” he says with a slight bow, addressing her by her stage name. She flashes him a dazzling smile, handing him the keys to her car, along with a crisp twenty dollar bill tucked between her manicured fingers.

Inside, the air is electric. The regulars at Exotica know when Angel’s in the building. Heads turn as she passes by, her aura commanding attention without effort. Tonight, she’s in a custom sequined jumpsuit gifted by a devoted patron who insisted she have it after seeing her in an ad for Exotica’s marquee events. The outfit sparkles under the club’s low light, clinging to her every curve like a second skin.

Within moments of settling down at the bar, the bartender slides a chilled flute in front of her. “Compliments of Mr. Wellington,” he says, nodding toward a gray-haired man in a three piece suit sitting in the VIP section. Naima lifts her glass in acknowledgment, her smile polite but distant.

In her five years working at Exotica, she’s grown accustomed to the gifts and attention that come with being the top attraction in town. Regulars and high-rollers compete for her favor, sending her everything from designer handbags and Louboutins to exotic perfumes and expensive jewelry. Just last month, a tech guru flew in from Silicon Valley and asked her to have dinner with him. Naima declined, but his offer still made its way to her email, along with an invitation for a private jet tour of Napa Valley.

Her semi-private dressing room at Exotica feels more like a boutique than a functional space. Flowers arrive monthly; roses, orchids, even rare blooms from overseas, with notes scribbled in admiration. Tonight, a black velvet box sits on her vanity. Inside, a delicate diamond bracelet catches the light. The attached card reads: “To Angel, because you shine brighter than all my diamonds.” The sender is a regular from Houston, a Chevron executive who flies in once a month just to see her perform.

But the perks aren’t just material. There’s power in her position; the ability to command a room, to captivate a crowd with a single glance, to turn heads and elicit envy even among the other dancers. The DJ ensures her setlist is flawless, and the club manager, Khalil, gives her the prime spot on every lineup without question.

By the time she steps onto the stage, the crowd is buzzing with anticipation. This is her domain. Every move she makes is calculated yet effortless, her body moving in perfect sync with the music. Hundred-dollar bills rain down from the VIP section, where a mix of regulars and new faces vie for her attention. She gives them just enough; a sultry smile here, a lingering glance there; but her focus remains sharp.

As the music fades and she slides back down the pole, she gathers the bills strewn across the stage and leaves. Naima knows she’s not quite just a dancer; she’s a brand, a name synonymous with allure and excellence in Atlanta’s nightlife. The glamour, the gifts, the admiration…They’re all part of the life she’s built. And tonight, like every other night, she owns it.

All of that are the fun, glamorous parts. 

The not-so-glamorous parts? 

That’s a whole other story that she does not enjoy delving into. Ever. She’d much rather prefer to dwell on positives.

Like Roman.

It’s been days since he left town, but his presence still clings to her like a scent that won’t fade. His voice, his touch; both lingering distractions. And it’s not just the physical connection, though that was electric. It’s the way he looked at her, the way he listened, how he treated her like she was more than just the persona she slips into under the club’s lights.

And the sex…Damn, the sex.

Fire and passion, raw and unrelenting, the kind that still makes her breath hitch when she thinks about it. The way his strong hands gripped her hips, the deep growl rumbling in his chest when she arched beneath him, the way he whispered in her ear, telling her how fucking good she felt. He didn’t just touch her—he consumed her, made her feel cherished, claimed in a way no one ever has. Their goodbye still echoes in her mind. Or, as he put it, see you soon—a promise that this, whatever this is, is only beginning.

Still, doubt lurks at the edges of her thoughts. How realistic is this, really? They come from completely different worlds. Can those worlds ever truly align?

Seated at her vanity in the dressing room, Naima applies a fresh coat of ruby-red lipstick with practiced precision, though her mind is miles away. The distant thump of the club’s music and the low murmur of the other girls barely register. Beyond the door, in the general dressing area where the others get ready, the usual pre-shift chatter hums in the air, but she’s separate from it, tucked away in the private space she claimed as their own. Her reflection blurs as she loses herself in memories, replaying that night with Roman over and over again.

“Girl, is you deaf?”

The sharp voice yanks her back to reality. Whatever small smile had ghosted her lips vanishes, replaced by a sigh as the world she’s actually in comes crashing back. This isn’t where she wants to be tonight. But it’s where she is, unfortunately.

In the mirror, she catches the other woman’s reflection as she saunters in. Out of all the girls here, Brandy Rivera is the only one she trusts, the only one who keeps it real and makes her dire days that much brighter. Right now, she’s dressed down in an oversized sweatshirt and skintight leggings, but nothing about her is ever low-key. Her bubblegum-pink wig cascades in sleek waves down her back, glossy and vibrant, a candy-coated fantasy come to life. Plump, glossed lips, high cheekbones, and a body built for sin, she looks every inch the Lollipop she embodies on stage. Sweet on the surface, but with just enough bite underneath to keep things interesting.

“What?” Naima demands, frowning.

Brandy leans against the vanity, crossing her arms. “I said, you’ve been walkin’ around here lookin’ like a love-struck fool. You better spill, ’cause I know it ain’t work puttin’ that goofy ass look on your face.”

Naima groans and turns back to the mirror. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Uh-uh,” Brandy says, walking past her own side of the room and leaning against Naima’s vanity. “Don’t even try it. You’ve been glowing since that big-ass Jason Momoa lookin’ dude came in here last week.”

Naima glares at her. “You so annoying.”

Brandy smirks. “And you’re dickmatized already. I know he smashed. Don’t even try to deny it. You’ve been acting all dreamy and distracted.”

“I’m not dreamy,” Naima protests, rolling her eyes.

“Girl, you practically floatin’,” Brandy shoots back. “Is it heavy? I bet it is.”

“Brandy!” Naima hisses, glancing toward the wall where some of the other girls are no doubt eavesdropping.

“What?” Brandy laughs, eyes gleaming with mischief. “I’m just asking. Plus, he look like he got stamina for days. Bet he left you walking funny.”

Naima rolls her eyes, fighting the warmth creeping up her neck. “You’re impossible!”

“And you’re deflecting.” Brandy smirks, leaning in. “Come on, at least give me somethin’. I’m dying here.”

Naima exhales slowly, fingers grazing the edge of the vanity as if the polished wood might ground her. She keeps her tone even, detached—like this is nothing, like he’s just another man. “It was…good.” A small shrug. “Real good. But that’s all it was. Just a night.”

Brandy’s brow lifts. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

Naima ignores her, forcing a casual flick of her wrist. “I mean, he’s Roman Reigns. WWE, big-time, all that. I’ve dealt with big-timers before. No big deal.” A pause, a slight waver. “It’s just…he’s different.” She frowns, like she’s annoyed with herself for even admitting that much. “And I don’t know if I like that.”

Brandy studies her, unimpressed. “Girl, don’t do that shit.” She shakes her head. “You’re Naima fucking Murphy. Atlanta’s finest and baddest. Period. And that man knows it. Hell, he’s probably somewhere thinkin’ about you right now.”

Right on cue, Naima’s phone buzzes on the vanity, cutting through the moment. She hesitates before picking it up, her heart skipping when Roman’s name lights up the screen.

“Told you!” Brandy says, smirking. “What’d I say?”

Naima opens the text, her cheeks warming as she reads it.

Roman: Been thinkin bout you all day, beautiful.

Brandy peers over her shoulder. “Ohhh, what’s he saying? Is he sexting you? I bet he’s good at it.”

Naima laughs, swatting her away. “Bitch, get outta my business!”

Brandy cackles, standing up straight. “Fine, fine. Tell him I said hi. Or don’t. You know what, don’t. He don’t need to know who I am.”

“Bye, Brandy,” Naima waves her away, shaking her head as her friend strolls out of the room.

When she’s alone again, she stares at Roman’s text for a moment before typing a response.

Naima: Oh really? I’m sure you say that to all your women 😒 😂 

His reply is immediate.

Roman: 🙄 I don’t have “all my women.” Just one who’s been driving me crazy since the moment I saw her.

A small smile tugs at her lips, warmth spreading through her chest.

Naima: Is that so? 😏 

Roman: 😏 You know it is, don’t play with me. I’m counting the days until I see you again.

Naima: Counting the days? 🤔 That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?

Roman: Not when it’s true. You’re unforgettable, baby.

Naima sets her phone down, her heart fluttering. Wow. The sweet talk isn’t new to her; many clients have tried to rizz her up on many occasions and all were swiftly rebuffed. 

This one though? For some reason, she’s eating this up. She has an inkling why, but she’ll keep it to herself for now.

Two nights later…

The city pulses with life as Naima adjusts the strap of her duffel bag, staring out at the Atlanta skyline. Neon lights blur against the twilight sky, reflecting her muddled thoughts. She stands by Brandy’s Lexus hybrid SUV, which idles behind Exotica’s loading dock. The smell of gasoline mixes with the faint aroma of the club’s signature vanilla incense that lingers even in the parking lot.

Brandy leans casually against the hood of the car, scrolling through her phone. Her nonchalance is almost enviable.

“You good, girl?” Brandy asks, her voice cutting through the hum of the city.

Naima sighs, running her fingers through her bone straight wig. “Yeah…just tired, I guess.”

“Liar,” Brandy quips, shooting her a knowing look. “It’s that man, ain’t it? Mr. Fine-Ass wrestler got you all twisted up. What’d he say when you told him about this gig?”

The memory of Roman’s call just last night plays in her mind. She’d been lying on the couch, the throw blanket still faintly smelling of him, when her phone buzzed.

“Hey,” she said, her voice soft.

“Hey, beautiful,” Roman replied, his deep, smooth tone wrapping around her like a blanket. “What’s up?”

“Not much. You?”

“Thinking about you,” he admitted. “I wanna see you again. Soon. I’m thinking about flyin’ in this weekend.”

Naima hesitated, her heart tugging in two directions. “I can’t this weekend. Brandy and I have a private party booked. It’s work.”

There was a pause, the kind that stretched like a taut wire. “What kind of party?”

“Bachelor party. It’s just a job, Roman. You don’t need to worry.”

His voice turned hard, laced with frustration. “I’d be lying if I said I was the biggest fan of you doin’ this stuff, Naima.”

“Well, it’s not your call to make,” she said, sharper than intended. “This ‘stuff’ is how I pay my bills. I can take care of myself.”

Naima smirks faintly. “He wasn’t happy. Told me he wanted to come back to see me this weekend.”

Brandy lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Man just left and already tryna come back? He’s hooked, huh?”

Naima shrugs, her chest tightening. “Yeah, but…he shouldn't come in here tellin’ me what to do. This is my life, ya know? It ain’t always glamorous, but I can handle myself. I been doin’ this long before he showed up.”

Brandy nods, her playful demeanor giving way to something more serious. “Damn straight you can handle yourself. But if tonight’s anything like the last party we did? Stay ready.”

“Always,” Naima replies, forcing a small smile. But the knot in her stomach doesn’t ease as they drive toward the glitzy high-rise downtown.

The elevator ride is silent except for the soft dinging of floors passing. Naima smooths down her dress, while Brandy adjusts her heels, her expression a mix of anticipation and mild irritation at the extra effort these gigs demand. But the payout is worth it. It usually is.

When the doors slide open, the penthouse is alive with bass-heavy music, the glass walls trembling under its pulse, offering a dazzling view of the city skyline. The air is thick with the scent of liquor, expensive cologne, and indulgence.

At the center of it all, Trey Mitchell lounges with the effortless arrogance of a man who already has the world in his hands. A top NBA prospect with a multimillion-dollar contract on the horizon, he’s young, cocky, and weeks away from locking himself into a marriage that doesn’t seem to be slowing him down tonight.

Dressed in designer clothes from head to toe, Trey cradles a glass of champagne as his gaze sweeps over them, lingering on Naima with blatant interest. His grin stretches slow and wolfish.

“Damn,” he drawls, tilting his glass in their direction, the diamonds from the pimped out Rolex nearly blinding both women. “Y’all look even better than the pictures. ‘Specially you, sweet thang.” His attention locks onto Naima, his grin wolfish and eyes dark with intent.

She forces a polite smile, ignoring the way her skin crawls under his gaze. “Thanks.”

Brandy isn’t as diplomatic. “Uh-huh,” she snips, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Where’s our space?”

Trey laughs, waving them toward the center of the room, where his equally rowdy friends are gathered. The night starts smoothly enough, with Naima and Brandy sticking to their routine; dancing, collecting tips, dodging wandering hands with practiced ease. 

The penthouse is soon reeking of excess. Expensive champagne bottles litter the marble countertops and the faint, chemical tang of cocaine hangs in the air. Trey and his crew are gathered around the glass coffee table, lines of white powder meticulously laid out.

“Y’all want a bump?” he asks casually, gesturing toward the table as Naima and Brandy move through the room. His tone is lazy, but there’s a sharp edge of entitlement lurking beneath.

Naima shakes her head firmly. “No thanks. We good.”

Brandy snorts. “Yeah, we here to dance, not catch a charge.”

One of Trey’s friends, a lanky guy with dreads and bloodshot eyes, leans back and laughs, shaking his head. “Man, they shoulda sent y’all’s fun sisters or something. This supposed to be a party.”

“Yeah, for real,” Trey chimes in, his words slurring slightly as he takes another sip of champagne. “Frigid ass strippers. Ain’t nobody tryna vibe with that.” He makes a ‘shoo’ motion with his hand.

Naima clenches her jaw but says nothing, keeping her movements controlled and professional. She feels Brandy’s anger simmering beside her.

“Frigid, huh?” Brandy mutters under her breath, her tone dangerously low. “Yeah, keep talkin’, assholes.”

The night is already spiraling, the air thick with disrespect and bad intentions. Naima can feel it, that electric tension that always comes before something goes terribly wrong. And she is right. Trey’s arrogance becomes more apparent with each passing hour, his confidence growing bolder with every sip and every snort.

“Come on, baby,” he slurs, leaning in far too close to Naima as she dances. She steps back, keeping her movements fluid but firm.

“Look, Trey, just enjoy the show,” she says, her tone light but edged with warning.

He laughs, unbothered, and reaches out to grab her ass. Naima sidesteps him smoothly, but her patience wears thin.

“Don’t touch me,” she says, sharply this time.

“Why not?” he challenges, his grin turning mean as he grabs her arm so hard she winces, his untrimmed nails scraping at her skin. “I paid you to entertain me right? So entertain me. Make me happy.”

Before Naima can respond, Brandy cuts in, her voice sharp as a blade as she shoves him backwards. “Back the fuck off, Trey! She said no!”

Trey turns on her like a disturbed predator, his drunken swagger unshaken. “The fuck is your problem, bitch?”

“My problem?” Brandy barks, stepping between him and Naima. “My problem is you actin’ like you bought us. You didn’t. So sit your big ass down before I make you!”

The room goes quiet, tension crackling like static electricity. Trey smirks, but his eyes are hard. “Or what? What you hoes gon’ do, huh?” He reaches over again and slaps Naima’s ass hard. “Yeah, that’s what I thought, fuckin’ whores.”

That’s all it takes. In one swift motion, Naima lashes out and swipes her nails across his face, splitting his skin. Trey screams, stumbling back and clutching his face.

“You crazy bitch!” he yells, his voice muffled as he doubles over.

“I told you to keep your fucking hands to yourself!” Naima shouts, landing a punch that sends him sprawling onto the couch. The room erupts as Trey’s minions rush to his side.

“Okay stop, stop, Nai, you got ‘em!” Brandy cries, grabbing her friend’s arm and yanking her back when she tries to descend on Trey again.

“Fuck that!” Naima spits, still fuming. “He had it coming!”

It’s chaos. Trey is bleeding, his friends shouting, demanding that Naima and Brandy get the hell out. In the midst of it, the one with the dreads—the same loudmouth from earlier—sees an opening and grabs for Brandy, his intentions clear and unwelcome.

But she’s faster. Her knee snaps up hard into his crotch, and he crumples instantly, a choked gasp replacing his cocky attitude.

Naima grabs their bags, her hands trembling as she drags Brandy toward the elevator. The ride down is silent except for Trey’s and his punk friend’s muffled howls and curses echoing in their ears.

The burly man leans back in his oversized leather chair, a smug sneer plastered across his face as he eyes Naima and Brandy like a cat about to pounce on a pair of trapped mice. His black eyes glint under the dim light of the office, tucked away in the bowels of Exotica’s building, and the faint haze of stale cigar smoke clings to the air, mingling with the sharp notes of his cologne. His stocky frame is clad in a black velvet designer tracksuit with the name ‘Khalil’ emblazoned in gold on his left chest, shimmering under the office’s dim light. His face is hardened with a permanent scowl, accentuated by a neatly trimmed goatee and piercing, judgmental eyes. A thick gold chain gleams around his neck, and his fingers, adorned with chunky rings, drum impatiently on the mahogany desk as he glares at the two women. 

“You know what y’all problem is?” he starts, his voice low but edged with venom. “Y’all think you can just do whatever the fuck you want and not bring it back on me. I don’t give a fuck what that asshole Trey did. Angel, you scratched up a VIP, and Lollipop, you beat the shit outta his friend. And now they people blowin’ up my phone, talking about lawsuits and refunds. You messin’ with Exotica’s reputation!”

Brandy crosses her arms, glaring back at him, but Khalil’s gaze remains on Naima. His eyes linger a little too long on her, like they always do, sliding over her curves like he has every right to. She shifts uncomfortably under his leer, but he doesn't stop, the corner of his mouth curling into a sickening grin. “And you, Angel. You used to be the quiet one, huh? But now you bringin’ me problems too? You might be my best bitch, but you know how much I’ve done to keep you in this place? Could’ve fired you ten times over, but I didn’t.”

Her stomach twists at the implication. She hates the way he still acts like she owes him something. Hates the way his eyes make her feel stripped bare even when she’s fully clothed.

Brandy bristles. “Khalil, we ain’t here for a lecture, and we sure as hell don’t owe you an apology. That dude was out of line! High as hell, putting hands on us. What were we supposed to do? Smile and take it?”

Khalil slams his palm down on the desk, silencing her. “I don’t give a fuck what he was doin’! Your job is to make ‘em happy, not piss ‘em off. If you can’t handle the work, there’s the fucking door!”

Naima’s chest tightens, her eyes stinging with tears she refuses to let fall in front of him. “We don’t deserve this,” she murmurs, her voice trembling despite her best efforts.

Khalil leans forward, his grin gone, replaced by a cold sneer. “You don’t deserve this?” He laughs, humorless and sharp. “You chose this, Angel. You said yes. This means you gon’ play by my rules. Both o’ y’all been here long enough to know this shit. Now get the fuck outta my office before I change my mind about letting y’all keep your jobs.”

As they turn to leave, his voice follows, dripping with fake charm.

“And Angel? Don’t act brand new. You and I both know how…good…you used to be at followin’ orders. Don’t start slackin’ now.”

Before she can react, the door slams shut behind them. Naima feels like she can finally breathe, though the knot in her chest doesn’t loosen. Khalil doesn’t care about them. He never has. He only cares about his money, his reputation, and how much he takes from them while giving little in return.

When Naima finally gets home at 2am, exhaustion crashes over her like a wave. Dragging herself to her bedroom, she kicks off her heels, drops her bag by the door, and sinks onto the bed, her hands pressing against her face. The gritty, ugly reality of her life as a stripper isn’t new…but damn if it ever gets easier.

She exhales sharply, shaking off the frustration clawing at her chest. Then, against her better judgment, her mind drifts to Roman; to his texts, to the softness of his voice when he told her he wanted to see her again. A part of her itches to call him, just to hear that voice, to feel some kind of comfort.

But what for? It’s not like they’re anything. And what the hell would she even say? That she’s sitting here in the dark, feeling like she’s unraveling, wondering how much longer she can keep this up?

Yeah. No.

Instead, she just lays there, staring at nothing while the city lights cast faint, shifting patterns on the walls.

Ever since Roman left Atlanta, his boys have been on his ass. Jimmy and Sami won’t let up, constantly teasing him about his mysterious vanishing act that night, while Jey sulks like a damn child. Roman takes it all in stride, unfazed. Let them talk. What they don’t know—what he’s not ready to say out loud—is that, for the first time in years, someone else has his full attention. And even though they barely know each other, that someone is on his mind more than he cares to admit.

Between meetings and appearances, he catches himself checking his phone more often than usual, anticipation curling in his stomach every time Naima’s name pops up. Their texts are effortless, their conversations stretching late into the night. And when they talk on the phone? Her voice alone is enough to settle something deep inside him.

Two weeks go by before he finally has a break in his schedule, and he flies back to Georgia. He hasn’t told Naima as he wants to surprise her. When he walks into Exotica later that night, the dim, pulsating lights do little to distract him from his mission. His eyes immediately scan the crowd, searching for her. But as the clear favorite in this place, she’s hard to miss.

She’s mesmerizing, her movements fluid and captivating, as if the music bends to her will. Roman’s heart thuds in his chest—part awe, part possessive pride. But as the set ends and Naima makes her way off the stage without interacting with anyone, a man stops her near the bar, leaning in close. 

Roman frowns as he studies the guy. Tall yet stocky, bearded with puffy cheekbones. His slick suit and self-assured smirk suggests authority. The owner, maybe. The interaction seems tense. The man says something to her, his hand, adorned with gaudy rings, gripping her elbow. Naima’s face falls, her usual confidence replaced by an expression Roman hasn’t seen before—an uneasy mixture of frustration and sadness. The OTC clenches his jaw, his protective instincts flaring.

When the man finally lets her go, Naima heads toward the back. Roman leaves the VIP section and follows discreetly, his towering presence parting the crowd with ease.

By the time he reaches the champagne room, she’s seated on the plush sofa, sipping sparkling water from a clear glass. Her outfit is sequined, revealing, and sparkles in the dim light, but her expression is pensive, the earlier encounter clearly still on her mind.

Roman closes the door behind him, the soft click drawing her attention. She looks up, surprise flashing across her face before a smile tugs at her lips.

“Roman! So soon already,” she says, a mix of surprise and happiness in her voice.

“I told you I wanted to see you,” he says simply. He strides over to her, his hands in his pockets. “Who was that guy?” he asks, his tone calm but laced with authority.

Naima blinks, her smile faltering. “What guy?”

Roman gestures toward the door. “The guy who pulled you aside after your set. I saw the way you looked at him. Who is he?”

She signs tiredly, setting her glass down with a soft clink. “That’s Khalil. He owns Exotica.”

Roman’s frown deepens as he sits beside her, pulling her onto his lap with ease. He tilts her chin up, searching her face. He doesn’t like the shadow in her pretty eyes. “He gives you a hard time, doesn’t he?” he presses.

Naima forces a small shrug, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Roman counters.

She grimaces. She’s already said too much. “It’s just work stuff,” she deflects, “Don’t worry about it.”

Roman starts to say more, but his gaze sharpens as he notices faint red scratches trailing along her forearm. She’s tried to cover them with her sleeves, but it only draws his attention more. His jaw tightens, and his voice comes out low and taut.

“Did he do this?”

She glances down at her arm, then quickly tugs her sleeve further down, as if that can erase what he’s seen. “No. Happened at the bachelor party,” she replies, frowning at the look in his eyes. ”Work hazard. I’m fine.”

“Nope, that is not fine,” His voice rises slightly, disbelief and anger flaring in his tone. “Who?” he demands, the protective storm brewing behind his calm demeanor.

“I can handle myself, Roman,” Naima insists.

Roman takes a long, deep breath, trying to rein in his temper. “I know you can,” he says, his voice softening just a touch. “But you shouldn't be in this position to begin with.”

She appreciates his concern, but something about the way he says it that makes her bristle. There’s an implication there, one she can’t—and won’t—ignore.

“Whatchu tryna say?” she asks, her tone cautious.

Roman leans back slightly, his hands resting on her hips to steady her. His silence speaks volumes before he finally speaks. “I’m saying, I don’t like you being here. I hate the idea of guys like Khalid or whatever the fuck his name is, thinking they can look at you or treat you however they want.”

Her smile fades, replaced by a guarded expression. “What I do here pays my bills, Roman. It’s not about what anyone else thinks, it’s about survival.”

“I get that,” Roman agrees, frustration creeping into his tone. “But you shouldn’t have to survive like this. You’re better than this...Better than the stage, the lights, the—”

“The stripping?” she fills in for him, her eyes narrowing. She shifts off his lap, crossing her arms over her chest. Her body language oozes defiance. “Is that what this is about? One night together, and suddenly you think you can judge my fucking life choices?”

Roman exhales sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. “I’m not judging you, sweetheart. I just…” He pauses, his words heavy with concern. “I hate that you’re in a position where you feel like this is your only option. It’s not about me judging you.”

“Coulda fooled me,” she snaps, her voice rising. “You waltz in here with all your muscles and big-man energy, acting like you’re some knight in shining armor. Just cuz we fucked one time don’t mean you get a say in what I do with my life!”

Roman’s expression softens, his features clouding with something that resembles hurt. “That’s not…” he starts, then pauses, takes a deep breath to compose himself. “Look. You don’t gotta believe me, but I care about you. And it pisses me off that motherfuckers think they can come at you sideways.”

“Well, get over it,” she shoots back, her voice cracking slightly despite her defiance. “This is my life, Roman. Not yours. If you can’t handle that, tough.” She stands abruptly, marches to the door and throws it open, her pointed silence saying everything else she’s too angry to say.

The tension in the room is suffocating. Roman watches her, his dark eyes stormy with emotions he doesn’t seem ready to articulate. Finally, he stands, his broad shoulders casting a shadow over her. “Fine,” he says gruffly, his voice edged with resignation. “If that’s how you feel, I’ll get out of your way.”

Naima crosses her arms. “Yeah, you do that,” she retorts, though her voice wavers as if the words hurt to say.

Roman doesn’t respond. He walks out, the sound of the door slamming behind him echoing in the small room.

Left alone, Naima sinks back onto the couch, her head in her hands as anger and regret churns in her chest. She hates the way his words have struck a nerve, even though she’s heard several variations before; hates even more that she lashed out like that. The truth is, she wishes she could let him in, but she’s not sure how, or if she even wants to…not when letting him in means risking everything.

Thoughts? Who's in the right?

🏷️: @harmshake @cyberdejos2 @thesamoanqueen @vebner37 @thewarlordsworld @trippinsorrows @herwickedlittlesins @jxtina-86 @wrestlingprincess80

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[probablyasocialecologist]

Spies are supposed to be good at keeping secrets, but soldiers in 8200 like to talk about their service. Technically, David said, he combed through data from a base in central Israel to determine where bombs should fall. But at the end of the day, he assured me, the military was really more of a networking opportunity—a surefire way to land a high-paying gig at Google or Facebook. As his time in the army neared an end, he turned his work surveilling the occupied Palestinian territories into a line on a corporate CV, toured high-tech companies in Central Tel Aviv, and was connected to cybersecurity CEOs over WhatsApp. While some soldiers in 8200 spend their time monitoring Hezbollah cells in Lebanon or waging covert war against Iran, others are tasked with managing Israel’s high-tech military occupation of Palestine. The destructive effects of Israel’s surveillance regime in the West Bank and Gaza are well-documented, but veterans of intelligence units who surveilled Palestinians often describe their work as removed from the reality of occupation. David was just one of many veterans I spoke with who framed his service in the parlance of high-tech careerism: as another kind of DevOps, product management, or data analysis. These days, intelligence units are structured in the image of tech conglomerates, and tech conglomerates are contracted to do the work of intelligence units. From Israeli military bases to Silicon Valley corporate campuses, warfare has simply become a white-collar tech job.

[techav]

REDog at VCFSW 2025

REDog is a prototype accessibility aid that can take a picture of a document and read aloud the text on that document. It has been on display outside the UT Dallas Media Archeology Lab at the past two VCFSW shows, but always with a sad note about it no longer being functional. This year REDog was on display and reading again!

Dr. Anne Balsamo, Arts and Humanities Distinguished Chair at University of Texas at Dallas, shared the following about REDog to the Vintage Computer Festival Southwest group on Facebook:

I’m so proud of Media Archaeology Lab undergraduate research assistant, [Strayer], who was recognized with an award yesterday at the VCF Southwest!

Strayer has only been a part of the Lab SINCE August 2024! From the moment he joined the lab, he took the initiative to work on restoring the READING EYE DOG, who we call REDog.

If you’re still at VCF Southwest today (Sunday, June 22) please find Strayer and REDog near the Media Archaelogy Lab in the ATC building for a demo!

In the rest of this post, I’m going to piggyback on this moment to present the backstory of “REDog and Me,” and how we ended up at UTD and VCF Southwest this year.

DEFINITELY…. TOO LONG, read later!

The backstory is also part of my professional history in the loosely defined “computer industry.”

REDog has been my avatar for my transformation as a researcher and innovator in cultural and creative technologies!

REDog was originally created by a research lab at XEROX PARC in 1999; right around the time I joined the lab as a Principal Research Scientist. (How I got there is an even longer story; I’ll try to stick to the relevant bits for this context.)

The research lab was itself called RED, led by the brilliant PARC researcher Rich Gold. The RED lab was a stand-alone research unit supported by Xerox Chief Scientist, John Seely Brown, and Xerox Chief Technologist, Mark Weiser, names I assume are familiar to this community.

RED’s mission was to prototype the technologies of (what was then) the imagined future of ubiquitous computing. My role in the Lab was to create the stories about the plausible future cultures that would take shape around these technologies.

REDog was one of 13 speculative reading machines created by our Lab based on the bench computer science going on in other PARC labs during the 1990s.

These speculative devices became part of an exhibit called “Experiments in the Future of Reading” that toured science/tech museums throughout the U.S. and Mexico from 2000-2004.

Fast forward:

The Dot.com bust ignited the first researcher lay-offs at PARC during its 30-year history. Sixty research scientists of the 300 then on staff at PARC were let go, including all 7 of us in the RED Lab.

As was common in the Valley during that age, three of us launched a start-up to commercialize some of the RED@PARC reading devices.

As part of my severance package I negotiated a no-fee license, into perpetuity, to reproduce and further develop the devices.

Fast-forward again:

The work of RED, and then of our start-up (Onomy Labs) prefigured use-cases for the IBM touch table (aka The Surface) and the proliferation of glyph bar codes (aka the QRC). Our interactive museum exhibits demonstrated a new approach to the design of public interactives in sci/tech cultural institutions.

WHAT didn’t take root was the charming and evocative REDog. 😔

Although my start-up colleagues created versions of the REDog for Epcot and museums in Singapore and Mexico, REDog, to this day, remains a one-off marvel of the fusion of culture and (what was then) cutting edge integrated compute systems research.

I left the start-up when it became evident that I was never going to make ends meet as it struggled to fund the ongoing efforts of commercialization and research. The giant computer companies of the time had more resources of course.

After five years as a researcher and entrepreneur in Silicon Valley, I returned to academia to head a different sort of research unit at Univ of Southern California. When the start-up closed its space in Menlo Park in 2008, I officially adopted REDog.

For the past 17-years, the 75+lb dog and its hassock has been with me as I relocated from LA, to NYC, and then, in 2016 to Dallas.

During that span, its technology has been obsolesced and its CULTURAL significance has morphed from an example of speculative computing, to an emerging technology, to now an object of research in media archeology.

To return then to Stayer’s recognition at VCF yesterday, it was so well deserved.

He brings an academic background in software engineering to his current major in Art, Technology and Emergibg Communication; this biography distinguishes him from many other comp sci students.

He has the rare gift and grit required to make the vintage and obsolseced come back to (our) life. I will brag that this is characteristic of each of the five undergrad research assistants in the Lab.

(blatant pitch: they all graduate next Spring, and will be looking for jobs in the field / industry!)

More personally, last evening was also a magic moment for me!

His work on “TEACHING AN OLD DOG NEW TRICKS” as a research assistant in my UTD Media Archaeology Lab makes me proud (of course), and reminds me again of the importance of efforts such as this VCF Southwest event to keep alive the tangible histories of our technology pasts, and to provide opportunities for really smart young people to find a community that groks them!

And, it probably goes without saying, this is one of small joys of being a teacher!

[faantasm]

⁀➴ arc ii task. the family tree

Musings from the mind of Jackson ‘Monty’ Montgomery, long-time head of security for the Drake Family, on persons of interest related to Archer Drake, participant in the Trial of Hearts

mrs. elaine knight, Mr. Drake’s personal chef. The closest thing to a mother those girls had, I think. She’s the one who made them snacks when they finished their homework, who celebrated their birthdays with cake, who memorized their allergies, knew their favorites. She worked herself to the bone for those girls, and no wonder — even now, she can only afford to pay her husband’s medical bills thanks to Mr. Drake’s generosity. I heard she wanted to follow little Archie when she moved out of her father’s place, but I guess Mr. Drake liked her cooking too much to let her go.

piper drake, a wildcat, through and through. She used to drive her father up the wall — but he loved her. We all did. She was impossible to hate; she didn’t give you any other choice. When she was fifteen, she convinced Archie they should go and find Saoirse while she was touring the UK. They got all the way across the Atlantic before I caught up with them, and even then, she didn’t go quietly. She made Arch break my fucking nose. Cussed me out all the way back to Palo Alto. God, I miss that kid. Gone too young, too soon.

archer drake, a good kid. Tough kid. I taught her how to throw a punch, smoke a cigarette. I remember, the day we buried Piper, she snuck out halfway through the funeral. I found her crying on the curb, quiet as a ghost. I asked her what I could do for her; she asked if I could bring Piper back. When I said I couldn’t do that, she just nodded and asked me for a cigarette. Archer’s still alive, still here — but we buried two girls that day, not one. She's never been the same.

casimir drake, a titan of industry. The years have changed him. When he first hired me? Told me to call him Casimir, big smiles, big laughs. But the bigger Drake Inc. got, the higher he ascended. No more time for the small stuff — he had bigger fears, was facing bigger threats. He’s got warrants for arrest out in three different countries. For breaches of data privacy law, skirting of international norms, flaunting of regulatory guidelines — keeping Dante and his firm busy. He’s unprecedented. His tech drives revolutions and enables autocracies. He’s like a god in Silicon Valley — but he doesn’t come down the mountain anymore. He doesn’t need to. He has Arch for interacting with everybody lower on the totem pole — his eyes, his ears, his hands.

saoirse blake, the indie popstar better known by her stage name, Gaia. She and Mr. Drake are living proof opposites attract. She sells out arenas, he hates getting his picture taken. She was long gone before my time — Anan says she left Mr. Drake when the girls were just infants, to keep touring. No contact for years, until Piper’s accident. Then — well, if Piper was a firecracker, her mother was a goddamn firework spectacular. Mr. Drake had to take out three different restraining orders against her. I don’t think she’s even allowed to step foot in the state of California, much less on any Drake properties.

jack meyer, the girls’ personal driver. I hate to say it, but he might have been more father to them than Mr. Drake — he took them everywhere. Gymnastics, ballet, school plays, summer camp. Taught them to drive. Let them ‘borrow’ his keys, every now and then… Mr. Drake was never going to let him keep his job, not after Piper’s accident. But what he said about the brakes being tampered with, that crazy conspiracy theory shit — I should have hit him harder. Drake was right to keep him away from Arch; who knows what she might have thought if she’d caught wind of his bullshit.

anan mcintyre, Mr. Drake’s left hand. She runs his entire life — scheduling every minute of every day. She never misses a beat, never skips a step. In her own way, I think she’s tried to look out for the girls — putting them on Mr. Drake’s schedule, pushing for Arch to get a P.A. of her own. She’s talked Mr. Drake off some pretty high ledges. She’s been with the company since the beginning — she could retire anytime she wants. But the thing is, she believes in Drake Inc. She thinks we can kill Google, Samsung, all of them. She thinks we’ll take over the world. Gods need disciples, I guess.

[mariacallous]

If the past five years of EU tech rules could take human form, they would embody Thierry Breton. The bombastic commissioner, with his swoop of white hair, became the public face of Brussels’ irritation with American tech giants, touring Silicon Valley last summer to personally remind the industry of looming regulatory deadlines.

Combative and outspoken, Breton warned that Apple had spent too long “squeezing” other companies out of the market. In a case against TikTok, he emphasized, “our children are not guinea pigs for social media.”

His confrontational attitude to the CEOs themselves was visible in his posts on X. In the lead-up to Musk’s interview with Donald Trump, Breton posted a vague but threatening letter on his account reminding Musk there would be consequences if he used his platform to amplify “harmful content.” Last year, he published a photo with Mark Zuckerberg, declaring a new EU motto of “move fast to fix things”—a jibe at the notorious early Facebook slogan. And in a 2023 meeting with Google CEO Sundar Pichai, Breton reportedly got him to agree to an “AI pact” on the spot, before tweeting the agreement, making it difficult for Pichai to back out.

Yet in this week’s reshuffle of top EU jobs, Breton resigned—a decision he alleged was due to backroom dealing between EU Commission president Ursula von der Leyen and French president Emmanuel Macron.

“I'm sure [the tech giants are] happy Mr. Breton will go, because he understood you have to hit shareholders’ pockets when it comes to fines,” says Umberto Gambini, a former adviser at the EU Parliament and now a partner at consultancy Forward Global.

Breton is to be effectively replaced by the Finnish politician Henna Virkkunen, from the center-right EPP Group, who has previously worked on the Digital Services Act.

“Her style will surely be less brutal and maybe less visible on X than Breton,” says Gambini. “It could be an opportunity to restart and reboot the relations.”

Little is known about Virkkunen’s attitude to Big Tech’s role in Europe’s economy. But her role has been reshaped to fit von der Leyen’s priorities for her next five-year term. While Breton was the commissioner for the internal market, Virkkunen will work with the same team but operate under the upgraded title of executive vice president for tech sovereignty, security and democracy, meaning she reports directly to von der Leyen.

The 27 commissioners, who form von der Leyen’s new team and are each tasked with a different area of focus, still have to be approved by the European Parliament—a process that could take weeks.

“[Previously], it was very, very clear that the commission was ambitious when it came to thinking about and proposing new legislation to counter all these different threats that they had perceived, especially those posed by big technology platforms,” says Mathias Vermeulen, public policy director at Brussels-based consultancy AWO. “That is not a political priority anymore, in the sense that legislation has been adopted and now has to be enforced.”

Instead Virkkunen’s title implies the focus has shifted to technology’s role in European security and the bloc’s dependency on other countries for critical technologies like chips. “There's this realization that you now need somebody who can really connect the dots between geopolitics, security policy, industrial policy, and then the enforcement of all the digital laws,” he adds. Earlier in September, a much anticipated report by economist and former Italian prime minister Mario Draghi warned that Europe would risk becoming “vulnerable to coercion” on the world stage if it did not jump-start growth. “We must have more secure supply chains for critical raw materials and technologies,” he said.

Breton is not the only prolific Big Tech adversary to be replaced this week—in a planned exit. Gone, too, is Margrethe Vestager, who had garnered a reputation as one of the world’s most powerful antitrust regulators after 10 years in the post. Last week, Vestager celebrated a victory in a case forcing Apple to pay $14.4 billion in back taxes to Ireland, a case once referred to by Apple CEO Tim Cook as “total political crap”.

Vestager—who vied with Breton for the reputation of lead digital enforcer (technically she was his superior)—will now be replaced by the Spanish socialist Teresa Ribera, whose role will encompass competition as well as Europe’s green transition. Her official title will be executive vice-president-designate for a clean, just and competitive transition, making it likely Big Tech will slip down the list of priorities. “[Ribera’s] most immediate political priority is really about setting up this clean industrial deal,” says Vermuelen.

Political priorities might be shifting, but the frenzy of new rules introduced over the past five years will still need to be enforced. There is an ongoing legal battle over Google’s $1.7 billion antitrust fine. Apple, Google, and Meta are under investigation for breaches of the Digital Markets Act. Under the Digital Services Act, TikTok, Meta, AliExpress, as well as Elon Musk’s X are also subject to probes. “It is too soon for Elon Musk to breathe a sigh of relief,” says J. Scott Marcus, senior fellow at think tank Bruegel. He claims that Musk's alleged practices at X are likely to run afoul of the Digital Services Act (DSA) no matter who the commissioner is.

“The tone of the confrontation might become a bit more civil, but the issues are unlikely to go away.”

[troger]

The $400 million gifted jet from Qatar and the late night Taylor Swift posts are designed to distract you from what happened on the first overseas trip of Trump's second term.

I am not referring to the highly choreographed, censored, Hollywood version of his Middle East tour. I am not talking about the tepid and inaccurate reporting from failed legacy media outlets, who only repeated his claim of 'hundreds of billions in deals'.

I'm talking about what really happened between the Trump family, the US oligarchs, and the Sunni dynasties which control the Gulf states.

Let's provide some proper grounding. Before departing on Air Force One, the White House informed the most reliable global news agencies, often referred to as 'the wire', that they would not be joining the administration. This marks the first time in US history that journalists from the wire services (like Reuters, Associated Press, UPI, etc) would not accompany the US president on an overseas trip, especially one of this magnitude.

Upon landing, Trump and family, top aides, and the CEOs of at least 20 major companies scurried to make deals as fast as they could. Trump's large adult sons wrangled a few billion out of Qatar and Saudi Arabia for golf course resorts, each.

Amazon's founder Jeff Bezos bowed before Mohammad bin Salman, a man who kidnapped, sexually tortured, and dismembered one of Bezos' journalists, Jamal Ahmad Hamza Khashoggi, employed at the Washington Post. The few remaining talented reporters still employed by Washington Post must rest easy at night knowing in the event someone murders them because they dislike their reporting, their boss will kiss their killer's hand. Not exactly a fantastic workplace vibe for a newspaper, but I digress.

To be honest, there is not enough room in this post to describe the torrent of deals happening in that room. We are talking about the 20 most powerful companies on earth, mingling with 20 or so members of the Saudi and Qatari ruling families, all pitching deals to channel oil money into their pockets.

One attendee, the CEO of Blackstone, the company responsible for buying up swaths of single-family homes and rental buildings across the US, and using algorithm to squeeze every penny out of American renters, pitched a monster deal where Saudi Arabia would recycle billions in oil wealth into the financial products made by bundling the rental payments of millions of Americans.

Again, it's a great deal for Saudi Arabia: sell the fossilized dinosaur bones under your feet that you produce for $3 a barrel, sell it for $65 on the market, use the proceeds to raise rents in the US and finance a little terror on the side. What's there not to love?

Elon Musk landed a significant deal with Saudi Arabia to use his Starlink system for aviation and nautical systems. The military industrial complex, the tech CEOs, and the crypto creeps emerged from the summit with ear to ear smiles. It was a spectacle for the ages as the ruling elites of Saudi Arabia sought to greenwash, tech wash, and generally launder their oil wealth into the coffers of America's biggest tech titans.

To be clear, Saudi Arabia is a backward nation of women-hating oil thieves who have nothing but contempt for our democracy and values. They have financed terrorist atrocities across the world, including 9/11. The Saudi sultans and sheiks attempt to spin their countries as reformed and modern by investing in goofy golf tournaments, but every single strip, brick, and building of the 'new Middle East' was built on the backs of chattel slaves from South Eastern Asia.

These Sunni sultans and sheiks, like the Trump family and the Silicon Valley tech bros, are the takers of the world. They contribute nothing. They live solely to extract as much wealth and amass as much power as they can.

And the takers of the world, like the Sunni elite and the wannabe dictators like Trump, share a similar model of the world: that vision rests on holding the makers of society in total contempt. The people who build your cities, farm your food, and generally provide the entire structure and foundation of modern life are deserving of nothing more than squalor, poverty, terror, cruelty, and denied even the basic recognition of citizenship. This is the model of Dubai. This is the vision of Trump's America.

But Trump and his dopey sons aren't the captains of this ill-fated journey. Not by any stretch...

Peep🧐 Trump's little hands holding onto King Salman bin Abdulaziz Al Saud's hand. At first glance, it appears Trump gently supporting an old and enfeebled man. Which is weird, cause he doesn't even hold his own wife's hand. But no, the King has stuck his middle finger right through Trump's palm as he grips his wrists with the other fingers.

Trump is being groomed.

The Saudis played him like a child. They rolled out their silly lavender carpet. They bussed in a McDonald's trailer so bozo could enjoy a Big Mac in the sweltering 110 degree heat while he canoodled with the people who funded 9/11. They adorned him a Toys R' Us gold chain. They even pawned off a rusted jet they were unsuccessfully trying to offload for years.

The only thing the Saudis wanted was the ability to launder their money into America's leading semiconductor technologies and boatloads of our latest weapon systems.

In the end, hundreds of billions of dollars changed hands. The number of hands numbered no more than two dozen. The 77 million MAGA muppets who voted for this traitor were not part of the deal.

(source)

[allnews-95]

Wired: Why the EUâs Vice President Isnât Worried About Moon-Landing Conspiracies on YouTube

During a tour of Silicon Valley, EU vice president Věra Jourová said she expects tech giants to prioritize stamping out content that could distort democracy.

[houseofbrat]

I see the critiques of Kamala Harris' closeness with the billionaires is already becoming an issue.

Elizabeth Warren:

This appearance was followed by reporting that there’s a Silicon Valley fundraising tour for Harris being planned by none other than… Reid Hoffman. Ok, so it’s pretty stunning for an oligarch like Hoffman, with a net worth of a couple billion dollars, to publicly make such a demand. So why is he doing it? One reason is that there’s a lot of money involved. As the Lever reported, Hoffman is on the board of Microsoft, which is right now being sued and investigated by the FTC. It’s a pretty good gig, if you get to fire the law enforcer investigating your misdeeds. Still, there’s another reason. Hoffman is a sophisticated operator who wants to be a kingmaker in politics. The money is real enough, but he’s likely leaking the fundraising tour as a means of forcing Harris to be seen to do his bidding. Hoffman wants Harris to get rid of Biden policies which protect workers through trade and antitrust so that big business can do what they want. And he’s going to supply the financing for Harris’ campaign if she does what she’s told. [...] An anonymous secondhand conversation with a donor isn’t great evidence for Harris’ policy instincts. But one possibility is that the Harris campaign set up these reporters with sources, and is trying to imply that she’s open to the demands of executives so that she can collect more campaign money from billionaires and dealmakers. There are other possibilities as well. So far, Hoffman’s demand has been met with disinterest from the political press and a muted response from labor and progressive groups, who have mostly endorsed Harris and are enthusiastically celebrating her candidacy. There are a few exceptions. Senator Bernie Sanders chimed in angrily about Hoffman’s demand, and Senator Elizabeth Warren offered an endorsement of Khan. A pharmacist group also weighed in, and there will likely be more statements as the news filters through a very confused media environment, as Khan has a lot of fans (including in tech, she’s speaking at YCombinator today to a packed room).

So...are we going to get a Vhagar moment from Bernie soon?

[ausetkmt]

Quartz: Burning Man's wealthy Burners got the wakeup call they needed

As a touring musician, I’m partial to festivals. After all, if an album drops and nobody is around to hear it live … did it really happen? As a climate activist, however, what I’ve read about Burning Man this year has given me pause.

Billed as an orgy of “self-expression” and a display of orchestrated self-reliance, Burning Man is meant to be a utopia-in-progress for disaffected, deep-pocketed “Burners,” including billionaires and assorted tech bros from all over the world. This small slice of supposed freedom wasn’t ever free, with attendance costing thousands of dollars. And now, it’s not even guaranteed. Thousands of Burners got trapped when two-months’ worth of rainfall dropped in 24 hours and turned the festival grounds, situated on a dried-out lake bed in the Nevada desert, into a muddy nightmare.

One conservative politician mused that this was divine retribution for a famously debaucherous event. I prefer to see it as a climate comeuppance. Extreme heat scorched last summer’s Burning Man. This year, the ultra-polluting parade was rained on just days after police broke up a protest by climate activists blocking entrance into the festival.

It isn’t just Burning Man, of course. Festivals around the US and the world have been affected by extreme weather events. It was more than a coincidence that I finished writing this article on my way to Greece, where my bandmates and I ended up having to drive through a flash flood in Athens to reach our performance venue as the rooms back at our hotel took on several inches of water. If musicians continue to tour, we clearly need to work around a changing climate, and we need to employ more sustainable ways of doing it.

But what happened to the Burners at Burning Man this year also gives me hope, if only because we are finally witnessing a wake-up call that we—and they—have needed.

Black Rock City

At the Burning Man venue of Black Rock City, which ironically shares a name with a financial behemoth wrestling with its own sense of responsibility to the environment, “decommodification” and “radical inclusion” are the watch-words. Outside the festival grounds, in the so-called “default world,” there is an opportunity for those messages to finally stick.

Burners are drawn to this pop-up town in the Nevada desert because they see it as a blank canvas for their utopian aspirations. Those who can afford to attend have the financial and political capital to make that difference outside of the desert, too.

Though many Burners, especially the lifers, don’t fit the Silicon Valley mold that has become synonymous with the event, the Black Rock City census shows they are overwhelmingly well-educated, relatively politically active, and on the high side of the median income line.

They also are prime targets for the “eat-the-rich” catharsis so frequently found on social media. One tweet goes: “Influencers at Burning Man are unable to fulfill sponsored content agreements and you’re laughing?” Others point out that after spending a week in an encampment, many Burners will go home and ask the police to clear the unhoused encampment next door.

Let’s forget for a minute the gross emissions footprint of an annual event with its own improvised private airport. Or that, despite a “Leave No Trace” ethos, the festival leaves behind an environmental clean-up nightmare for nearby communities. There is a lesson here about what needs to change alongside our responsiveness to climate change. Let’s make better lifestyle choices, sure. More importantly, let’s stop sowing the seeds of inequality in our quest for lifetime passes to a destructive dream-world.

The luxury of avoiding climate-change risk isn’t available to anyone

The fortunate few have always found escape away from society’s inconveniences. But try as they might, they’ll find that no amount of money will keep climate change out of their lives. Away from the grind and grime of city life, many have sequestered away in luxurious gated communities or chic palatial homes at the edge of society. These expensive vanity projects are now at high risk of natural disaster.

As a realtor on Netflix’s Selling Sunset recently pointed out, a $19 million mansion in the Hollywood Hills is a lot harder to offload when insurers need an additional $200,000 a year for coverage against wildfires—if they’ll offer insurance at all. And rather than reading the signs, like warnings that sea-level rise will destroy $100 billion of beach-front property within the next 20 years, those who can afford fortified luxury housing in flood-prone areas like Miami are still moving in, driving housing prices higher as mobile homes are washed away.

And what about that get-away weekend to Tulum, or Turks and Caicos? As local communities in vacation destinations have said for years, and as the tragic fires in Lahaina on Maui recently demonstrated, tropical paradise may be short-lived even for the most undiscerning tourists. That bottle of Champagne you’d like to enjoy in the hot tub while on vacation? That will be gone, too, as heat and drought damage vineyards and flavor profiles. Climate change is coming for it all.

On the drive into the festival, Burners were met with demands from climate activists to reduce their carbon footprint, for example by cutting down on plastics and private jets. Let’s hope that, as the mud dries and the roads clear, they will have taken stock of the bigger picture on their exodus out.

This is a group that, by and large, can exert influence, and not just in where they choose to live or how they choose to travel or what they choose to drink. Steered effectively, their invested fortunes and political connections can actually move the needle on climate action, in ways that also benefit those most vulnerable to the impacts of climate change.

While the climate deniers are fewer and farther between than ever before, we are at a tipping point, where those who recognize the problem need to be pushed over the edge into action.

Perhaps the Burners’ mud-caked belongings will remind them of the value of making their money and power work not only for their own future, but a mutually beneficial collective future. It just might bring them closer to the utopia they were looking for in the first place.

[whitehatlink]

Using Experiential Marketing Vehicles for Audience Engagement and Brand Awareness

In today’s fast-evolving marketing landscape, brands are constantly seeking innovative ways to connect with consumers on a deeper level. One of the most impactful methods gaining momentum across the United States is experiential marketing vehicles. These mobile brand activations allow businesses to physically immerse their audience in unforgettable, hands-on experiences that create lasting impressions and foster real emotional connections.

What Are Experiential Marketing Vehicles?

Experiential marketing vehicles are customized mobile units—often in the form of branded trailers, pop-up buses, or experiential marketing trucks—designed to deliver interactive brand experiences directly to consumers. These mobile platforms are used to bring the brand story to life in a tangible and engaging way, whether at festivals, sporting events, concerts, or busy urban centers.

Unlike static billboards or digital ads, these vehicles bring your brand into the real world. They enable consumers to touch, feel, taste, and experience your product or service in a highly memorable setting. This level of sensory engagement drives higher brand recall, loyalty, and ultimately conversions.

The Power of Experiential Marketing Trucks in Driving Engagement

Experiential marketing trucks are a popular format for mobile brand activations due to their flexibility and mobility. These trucks can be fully customized with digital screens, interactive kiosks, product sampling stations, and more. When deployed strategically, experiential marketing trucks allow brands to reach target audiences in multiple cities without the high overhead of permanent retail spaces.

For example, a beverage company may use a branded truck to hand out cold samples during a summer music tour across the country. Inside the truck, visitors could experience a VR simulation of the drink's origin story or interact with branded content on touchscreen walls. This kind of engagement turns passive consumers into active brand participants, which is the core strength of experiential marketing.

Building Brand Awareness with Mobile Experiences

Creating awareness in crowded markets requires more than just visibility—it requires memorability. That’s where experiential marketing vehicles excel. These mobile campaigns are not just advertising tools; they’re storytelling machines. They capture attention on the street, generate buzz on social media, and often become the centerpiece of user-generated content.

Because they’re shareable by nature, campaigns built around experiential marketing trucks often enjoy amplified exposure beyond the physical activation. When people snap photos or record videos of their unique experience and share them online, it organically extends the brand’s reach. Influencers, media outlets, and everyday consumers become part of your storytelling engine.

Why the U.S. Market Is Ideal for Experiential Marketing

The United States, with its geographically diverse population and vibrant event scene, is uniquely suited for experiential campaigns. Whether you're launching a new tech product in Silicon Valley or activating a health campaign in New York City, experiential marketing vehicles offer the mobility and customization needed to resonate with different audiences in different locations.

Moreover, U.S. consumers crave authentic experiences. Studies consistently show that millennials and Gen Z prefer spending money on experiences over material goods. When brands meet them where they are—both physically and emotionally—with experiential marketing trucks, it builds trust and opens the door for long-term brand affinity.

Final Thoughts

In an age where digital overload is real, the physical presence and emotional impact of experiential marketing vehicles provide brands with a refreshing edge. They break through the noise by creating meaningful interactions that go beyond just selling—they tell a story, spark conversations, and build community.

Whether you’re a national brand seeking a coast-to-coast rollout or a startup looking to make a splash at your first event, experiential marketing trucks and vehicles offer a dynamic, scalable solution. As the marketing world continues to evolve, those who prioritize experience will be the ones who win hearts—and market share.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

More Everything Forever

I'm on a 20+ city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me at NEW ZEALAND'S UNITY BOOKS in AUCKLAND on May 2, and in WELLINGTON on May 3. More tour dates (Pittsburgh, PDX, London, Manchester) here.

Astrophysicist Adam Becker knows a few things about science and technology – enough to show, in a new book called More Everything Forever that the claims that tech bros make about near-future space colonies, brain uploading, and other skiffy subjects are all nonsense dressed up as prediction:

https://www.hachettebookgroup.com/titles/adam-becker/more-everything-forever/9781541619593/

Becker investigates the personalities, the ideologies, the coalitions, the histories, and crucially, the grifts behind such science fictional pursuits as infinite life-extension, space colonization, automation panic, AI doomerism, longtermism, effective altruism, rationalism, and conciousness uploading.

This is, loosely speaking, the bundle of ideologies that Timnit Gebru and Émile P. Torres dubbed TESCREAL (transhumanism, Extropianism, singularitarianism, (modern) cosmism, Rationalism, Effective Altruism, and longtermism):

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/TESCREAL

While these are largely associated with modern Silicon Valley esoteric techbros (and the odd Oxfordian like Nick Bostrom), they have very deep roots, which Becker excavates – like Nikolai Fyodorov's 18th century "cosmism," a project to "scientifically" resurrect everyone who ever lived inside of a simulation:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nikolai_Fyodorov_(philosopher)

In their modern incarnation, these ideas largely originate in science fiction novels. That is to say, they were made up and popularized by people like me, the vast majority of whom made no pretense of being able to predict the future or even realistically describe a path from the present to the future they were presenting. Science fiction is something between a card trick and a consensual con game, where the writer shows you just enough detail to make you think that the rest of it must be lurking somewhere in the wings. No one in sf has ever explained how consciousness uploading could possibly work, and neither have any of the advocates for consciousness uploading – the difference is that (most of) the sf writers know they're just making stuff up.

Becker's central question is how many "smart" people (some of them very smart and accomplished, others merely very certain that they are smart despite all evidence to the contrary) can mistake futuristic allegories made up by pulp writers for prophesy?

In answering this question, he uncovers a corollary of Upton Sinclair's famous maxim that "it is difficult to get a man to understand something, when his salary depends on his not understanding it," namely, that "it is easy to get a person to believe something when doing so will make them feel good about themselves."

The beliefs that Becker explores in this book sometimes make the believers rich (like the AI grifters who run around shouting about AI taking over the world and turning us all into paperclips). Sometimes, they make their believers feel good about being selfish assholes (like longtermism, which holds that all the misery in the world today is worth it if you can make 24 heptillion hypothetical simulated people just a little happy in 10,000 years). Sometimes, they make their believers feel good about life after death, or eternal life – the same pitch that religions have been roping in followers with since the stone age.

What differentiates these beliefs from other faith-based claims is that their followers claim that they aren't operating on faith, but on science, reason and rationality. This is where the fact that Becker is a bona fide astrophysicist comes in. Not only is he personally qualified to debunk claims about space colonization, but he's also familiar with the rigorous process of scientific inquiry, and capable of consulting experts and listening to them. That's how he concludes, for example, that having your head cut off and frozen when you die is just a form of corpse mutilation, with a zero point zero zero zero zero percent chance of someone recovering your mind from your freezerburned brain.

Like his subjects, Becker has a complicated relationship with science fiction. He, too, enjoys the imaginative flights of the genre, its delightful thought-experiments, its gnarly moral conundra. I love these too. They make for a fascinating and often useful lens for understanding and challenging our own relationship with technology and our very humanity. Ultimately, Becker is exploring the difference between reading sf because it makes you think in new ways, and reading sf as a kind of prophetic text, and – crucially – he's asserting that it's perfectly possible to enjoy this stuff without organizing your moral life around hypothetical heptillions of virtual people living in the year 25,000; or, indeed, having your head cut off and frozen.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/04/22/vinges-bastards/#cyberpunk-is-a-warning-not-a-suggestion

[beegru]

What Makes an Agent Stand Out in Bangalore’s Competitive Market?

Bangalore's real estate market is one of India's most dynamic and competitive landscapes, driven by the city's status as the country's Silicon Valley and its continuous influx of IT professionals, entrepreneurs, and investors. With thousands of real estate agents vying for clients in this bustling metropolis, standing out requires more than just basic market knowledge and a license. The agents who thrive in Bangalore's market are those who understand the unique challenges and opportunities this tech hub presents.

1. Deep Local Market Expertise and Micro-Area Specialization

Focus on becoming the go-to expert for specific neighborhoods rather than spreading yourself thin across the entire city. Understanding the nuances of areas like Koramangala's rental dynamics or Whitefield's infrastructure growth gives you credibility that generic agents lack. Stay updated on metro expansions, upcoming commercial projects, and local regulations that directly impact property values in your chosen areas.

2. Technology Integration and Digital Marketing Mastery

Bangalore's tech-savvy clients expect modern solutions. Invest in professional virtual tours, maintain active social media presence, and use CRM systems to track client preferences and follow-ups. A well-optimized website with quality content attracts organic leads, while data analytics helps you provide evidence-based market insights that clients value.

3. Specialized Service for IT Professionals and Expatriates

Bangalore's large population of IT professionals and expatriates has unique needs that generic agents often miss. Offer flexible viewing schedules for busy professionals, understand corporate lease requirements, and provide relocation assistance. Building relationships with HR departments and corporate housing coordinators creates steady referral streams.

4. Strong Professional Network and Partnership Development

Success in real estate is about relationships. Build a network of trusted contractors, interior designers, mortgage brokers, and legal experts to offer comprehensive solutions. Partner with developers for early access to projects and maintain good relationships with fellow agents for referrals. Your network becomes your competitive advantage.

5. Exceptional Communication and Client Relationship Management

Consistent communication sets top agents apart. Send regular market updates, be transparent about pricing and timelines, and offer multilingual services for Bangalore's diverse population. Focus on building long-term relationships rather than just closing transactions. Clients who trust you become your best source of referrals.

Conclusion

Standing out in Bangalore's competitive real estate market requires a combination of deep local expertise, technological savvy, and exceptional client service. The agents who succeed are those who recognize that Bangalore's unique position as India's tech capital creates specific opportunities and challenges that generic approaches cannot address effectively.

Ultimately, what makes an agent stand out in Bangalore's market is the same principle that drives success in the city's tech industry: innovation, specialization, and a relentless focus on solving client problems better than anyone else. Agents who embrace this mindset and consistently deliver exceptional value will find that Bangalore's competitive market becomes their greatest opportunity for building a thriving, sustainable real estate practice. Ready to differentiate yourself in Bangalore’s dynamic property landscape? Explore the tools and opportunities at Beegru.com to take your real estate game to the next level.

[inkasarmored]

How Armored Ford Cars Are Becoming a Trend Among Executives and Celebrities

In an era where personal security is a rising concern, armored vehicles are no longer exclusive to military operations or high-risk zones. Today, they’ve made their way into the driveways of global business tycoons, celebrities, diplomats, and ultra-high-net-worth individuals. Among the many armored vehicle options available, armored Ford cars are quickly gaining traction as the go-to choice for those seeking a blend of safety, sophistication, and everyday usability.

If you're searching for an armored Ford car for sale, you're not just investing in protection—you’re investing in power, performance, and prestige.

A Shift from Luxury to Practical Armoring

Traditionally, armored vehicles were associated with bulky, military-grade trucks or ultra-luxury sedans like the Mercedes S-Class or Bentley Bentayga. While these still hold their place, the trend is shifting. Today’s high-profile personalities are looking for vehicles that don’t scream “security detail” but still provide the utmost safety. Enter the armored Ford lineup.

From the robust Ford F-150 and the spacious Expedition to the utility-driven Explorer, Ford models are increasingly being modified with ballistic protection to offer discretion along with defense.

Why Executives Prefer Armored Ford Vehicles

1. Discreet But Strong

Corporate leaders and tech entrepreneurs often travel without full security convoys. Armored Ford vehicles offer them a low-profile yet highly secure alternative. An F-150 or Ford Explorer with hidden ballistic protection and run-flat tires looks just like a regular car but performs like a mobile safe house.

2. Cost-Efficient Security

Compared to armored luxury sedans, Ford models are far more economical. Executives appreciate the fact that they can acquire advanced ballistic protection without spending hundreds of thousands of dollars. Finding an armored Ford car for sale means you’re getting high security without breaking the budget.

3. Customizable Interior for Mobile Offices

Ford’s SUVs and trucks are known for their roomy interiors—ideal for executives who spend hours on the road. Many armored models come with upgraded interiors, high-speed Wi-Fi, charging ports, and other features tailored to business needs.

Why Celebrities Are Jumping on the Trend

Celebrities often face unpredictable fan encounters and unfortunately, sometimes even targeted threats. For them, security has to be invisible, comfortable, and stylish.

1. Everyday Use with a Safety Upgrade

Unlike a tank-like convoy, an armored Ford Expedition or Explorer allows stars to go about their day—whether it's shopping in Beverly Hills or attending a charity gala—without drawing attention.

2. Family-Friendly and Secure

Many celebrities are parents, and Ford’s armored SUVs provide the perfect mix of family functionality and bulletproof assurance. Spacious seating, child-safety features, and discreet armor make them perfect for school drop-offs or family trips.

3. Travel-Ready

Whether it’s a long drive through the countryside or commuting between sets, armored Ford vehicles offer high performance, comfort, and peace of mind on any terrain.

Real-World Use Cases

Tech CEO in Silicon Valley: A notable tech founder upgraded to an armored Ford F-150 after a series of stalking incidents. Now, he enjoys secure travel without a heavy security entourage.

Hollywood Actress: Known for her privacy, this A-lister uses an armored Ford Expedition for both red carpet arrivals and daily errands.

South American Musician: Traveling across borders and through high-risk zones, this artist chose an armored Ford Ranger for regional tours and public appearances.

These examples reflect a growing need for subtle, everyday protection across industries, and Ford is answering the call.

Key Features of Armored Ford Vehicles

When browsing an armored Ford car for sale, here are some essential features you’ll typically find:

Ballistic Glass: Multi-layered, bullet-resistant glass to withstand high-caliber rounds.

Armored Shell: Reinforced doors, roof, and floors to provide all-round protection.

Run-Flat Tires: Enables continued driving even after tire damage.

Suspension Upgrades: Ensures the vehicle can handle the added weight of armoring.

Secure Fuel Tanks & Engine Protection: Designed to prevent explosions or mechanical failure in an attack.

Where to Find an Armored Ford Car for Sale

As demand increases, more dealerships and specialized armoring companies are offering Ford conversions. Look for certified providers with ballistic testing accreditation (like NIJ or VPAM), customization options, and transparent build histories.

Online platforms and niche car shows are also great places to spot new listings. Whether you're looking for a pre-owned armored Ford Explorer or a custom-built F-150, there are numerous options available to match your needs and lifestyle.

Conclusion

What was once reserved for heads of state and dignitaries is now becoming a must-have for everyday celebrities and business leaders. The growing popularity of armored Ford cars for sale proves that you don’t have to sacrifice style or comfort for security. These vehicles represent a new era of protection—smart, subtle, and strong.

So whether you're an executive, a public figure, or someone simply looking for peace of mind on the road, an armored Ford car might just be the perfect vehicle to take the driver’s seat in your security strategy.