#local moving companies chicago

[we-re-always-alright]

seven years in a row!!!!!!!!

[extramilemovers]

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[ckret2]

So y'all know the Gravity Falls production bible that leaked three weeks ago. Someone in one of my discord servers pointed this out:

And, naturally, that spawned an entire AU.

AU Concept: Ford was kicked out instead of Stan and takes a job as a trucker to makes ends meet since he couldn't go to college, while still studying the weird and anomalous however he can.

Ford driving around from quirky small town to quirky small town, drifting through the liminal spaces of truck stops, meeting odd people in isolated diners, seeing strange things out on the road—a deer with too many eyes bounding across a two-lane highway, a flirty woman at a rest stop who doesn't blink or breathe, mysterious lights in the sky at night, inhuman growls on the CB or 50-year-old broadcasts on the radio—and taking notes when he stops for gas or food.

Aside from having gotten kicked out before graduating high school, Ford's the same person he is in canon.

He's still an ambitious guy, and here "ambitious" means working hard and saving as much money as he can—so, a long haul owner-operator who spends weeks at a time on the road. (He goes through a LOT of educational audiobooks.) Plus, this is the easiest way for him to get to travel the country; and since it looks like his "travel the world" dreams with Stan are dead, he'll take what he can get.

Since he's never in the same spot long and carries his life in a truck, almost all of Ford's research is in his journal. His bag of investigation supplies has an instant camera, a portable tape recorder, a thermometer, a flashlight, rubber gloves, and a few zip lock bags—and that's about it. It has to share space with all his clothes, toiletries, and nonperishable food when he's on the road. He doesn't have much opportunity to closely examine anything odd he finds, unless he's lucky enough to run into something when he can stop for the night. He has to cram his paranormal research around the side of his full-time job.

He doesn't live in Gravity Falls, but he knows it exists. Every time he moves—to Chicago, to Nebraska, to California—he seems to inch closer. He currently lives in Portland and usually hauls loads between the Pacific Northwest and Chicago or New York. He stops at the truck stop outside Gravity Falls when he can and has gone fishing in town a few times. He doesn't have the benefit of extensive research to know that this is the weirdest town in the world; but it seems pretty weird to him, there are local rumors about the town, and he's had some weird experiences in the area.

Plus, he can't explain it, but it's like the town's calling to him. He wants to move there, but it'd put him over an hour outside of Portland where the nearest jobs are. Maybe if somebody chucked him like $100k to build a cabin in the woods; but what are the odds of that?

He does know Fiddleford. Truck broke down somewhere and Fiddleford kindly pulled over to fix it on the fly. They looked at each other, had mutual knee-jerk "dumb trucker/hillbilly" reactions, and within ten minutes both went "oh wait you're the most brilliant genius i've ever met." Fiddleford's living the same life he was in canon before Ford called him to Gravity Falls—with his family in California, trying to start a computer company out of his garage—but they make friends and keep in contact.

One time Ford stops at a kitschy roadside knickknack store that also sells new agey magic things—crystals, tarot cards, incense, etc. He bought a "lucky" rearview mirror ornament that looks like an Eye of Providence in a top hat and hung it from his cab fan, and ever since then he's had weird dreams whenever he sleeps in his truck.

Things I don't know yet: what Stan's up to; or why Ford's the one who got kicked out. I tend to believe that in canon Stan wasn't just kicked out because he ruined Ford's college prospects, but rather because the family thought he deliberately sabotaged Ford; so in this AU, Ford would've been kicked out over a proportionate crime.

[thosemoversllc]

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[mostlysignssomeportents]

Cleantech has an enshittification problem

On July 14, I'm giving the closing keynote for the fifteenth HACKERS ON PLANET EARTH, in QUEENS, NY. Happy Bastille Day! On July 20, I'm appearing in CHICAGO at Exile in Bookville.

EVs won't save the planet. Ultimately, the material bill for billions of individual vehicles and the unavoidable geometry of more cars-more traffic-more roads-greater distances-more cars dictate that the future of our cities and planet requires public transit – lots of it.

But no matter how much public transit we install, there's always going to be some personal vehicles on the road, and not just bikes, ebikes and scooters. Between deliveries, accessibility, and stubbornly low-density regions, there's going to be a lot of cars, vans and trucks on the road for the foreseeable future, and these should be electric.

Beyond that irreducible minimum of personal vehicles, there's the fact that individuals can't install their own public transit system; in places that lack the political will or means to create working transit, EVs are a way for people to significantly reduce their personal emissions.

In policy circles, EV adoption is treated as a logistical and financial issue, so governments have focused on making EVs affordable and increasing the density of charging stations. As an EV owner, I can affirm that affordability and logistics were important concerns when we were shopping for a car.

But there's a third EV problem that is almost entirely off policy radar: enshittification.

An EV is a rolling computer in a fancy case with a squishy person inside of it. While this can sound scary, there are lots of cool implications for this. For example, your EV could download your local power company's tariff schedule and preferentially charge itself when the rates are lowest; they could also coordinate with the utility to reduce charging when loads are peaking. You can start them with your phone. Your repair technician can run extensive remote diagnostics on them and help you solve many problems from the road. New features can be delivered over the air.

That's just for starters, but there's so much more in the future. After all, the signal virtue of a digital computer is its flexibility. The only computer we know how to make is the Turing complete, universal, Von Neumann machine, which can run every valid program. If a feature is computationally tractable – from automated parallel parking to advanced collision prevention – it can run on a car.

The problem is that this digital flexibility presents a moral hazard to EV manufacturers. EVs are designed to make any kind of unauthorized, owner-selected modification into an IP rights violation ("IP" in this case is "any law that lets me control the conduct of my customers or competitors"):

https://locusmag.com/2020/09/cory-doctorow-ip/

EVs are also designed so that the manufacturer can unilaterally exert control over them or alter their operation. EVs – even more than conventional vehicles – are designed to be remotely killswitched in order to help manufacturers and dealers pressure people into paying their car notes on time:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/24/rent-to-pwn/#kitt-is-a-demon

Manufacturers can reach into your car and change how much of your battery you can access:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/28/edison-not-tesla/#demon-haunted-world

They can lock your car and have it send its location to a repo man, then greet him by blinking its lights, honking its horn, and pulling out of its parking space:

https://tiremeetsroad.com/2021/03/18/tesla-allegedly-remotely-unlocks-model-3-owners-car-uses-smart-summon-to-help-repo-agent/

And of course, they can detect when you've asked independent mechanic to service your car and then punish you by degrading its functionality:

https://www.repairerdrivennews.com/2024/06/26/two-of-eight-claims-in-tesla-anti-trust-lawsuit-will-move-forward/

This is "twiddling" – unilaterally and irreversibly altering the functionality of a product or service, secure in the knowledge that IP law will prevent anyone from twiddling back by restoring the gadget to a preferred configuration:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/19/twiddler/

The thing is, for an EV, twiddling is the best case scenario. As bad as it is for the company that made your EV to change how it works whenever they feel like picking your pocket, that's infinitely preferable to the manufacturer going bankrupt and bricking your car.

That's what just happened to owners of Fisker EVs, cars that cost $40-70k. Cars are long-term purchases. An EV should last 12-20 years, or even longer if you pay to swap the battery pack. Fisker was founded in 2016 and shipped its first Ocean SUV in 2023. The company is now bankrupt:

https://insideevs.com/news/723669/fisker-inc-bankruptcy-chapter-11-official/

Fisker called its vehicles "software-based cars" and they weren't kidding. Without continuous software updates and server access, those Fisker Ocean SUVs are turning into bricks. What's more, the company designed the car from the ground up to make any kind of independent service and support into a felony, by wrapping the whole thing in overlapping layers of IP. That means that no one can step in with a module that jailbreaks the Fisker and drops in an alternative firmware that will keep the fleet rolling.

This is the third EV risk – not just finance, not just charger infrastructure, but the possibility that any whizzy, cool new EV company will go bust and brick your $70k cleantech investment, irreversibly transforming your car into 5,500 lb worth of e-waste.

This confers a huge advantage onto the big automakers like VW, Kia, Ford, etc. Tesla gets a pass, too, because it achieved critical mass before people started to wise up to the risk of twiddling and bricking. If you're making a serious investment in a product you expect to use for 20 years, are you really gonna buy it from a two-year old startup with six months' capital in the bank?

The incumbency advantage here means that the big automakers won't have any reason to sink a lot of money into R&D, because they won't have to worry about hungry startups with cool new ideas eating their lunches. They can maintain the cozy cartel that has seen cars stagnate for decades, with the majority of "innovation" taking the form of shitty, extractive and ill-starred ideas like touchscreen controls and an accelerator pedal that you have to rent by the month:

https://www.theverge.com/2022/11/23/23474969/mercedes-car-subscription-faster-acceleration-feature-price

Put that way, it's clear that this isn't an EV problem, it's a cleantech problem. Cleantech has all the problems of EVs: it requires a large capital expenditure, it will be "smart," and it is expected to last for decades. That's rooftop solar, heat-pumps, smart thermostat sensor arrays, and home storage batteries.

And just as with EVs, policymakers have focused on infrastructure and affordability without paying any attention to the enshittification risks. Your rooftop solar will likely be controlled via a Solaredge box – a terrible technology that stops working if it can't reach the internet for a protracted period (that's right, your home solar stops working if the grid fails!).

I found this out the hard way during the covid lockdowns, when Solaredge terminated its 3G cellular contract and notified me that I would have to replace the modem in my system or it would stop working. This was at the height of the supply-chain crisis and there was a long waiting list for any replacement modems, with wifi cards (that used your home internet rather than a cellular connection) completely sold out for most of a year.

There are good reasons to connect rooftop solar arrays to the internet – it's not just so that Solaredge can enshittify my service. Solar arrays that coordinate with the grid can make it much easier and safer to manage a grid that was designed for centralized power production and is being retrofitted for distributed generation, one roof at a time.

But when the imperatives of extraction and efficiency go to war, extraction always wins. After all, the Solaredge system is already in place and solar installers are largely ignorant of, and indifferent to, the reasons that a homeowner might want to directly control and monitor their system via local controls that don't roundtrip through the cloud.

Somewhere in the hindbrain of any prospective solar purchaser is the experience with bricked and enshittified "smart" gadgets, and the knowledge that anything they buy from a cool startup with lots of great ideas for improving production, monitoring, and/or costs poses the risk of having your 20 year investment bricked after just a few years – and, thanks to the extractive imperative, no one will be able to step in and restore your ex-solar array to good working order.

I make the majority of my living from books, which means that my pay is very "lumpy" – I get large sums when I publish a book and very little in between. For many years, I've used these payments to make big purchases, rather than financing them over long periods where I can't predict my income. We've used my book payments to put in solar, then an induction stove, then a battery. We used one to buy out the lease on our EV. And just a month ago, we used the money from my upcoming Enshittification book to put in a heat pump (with enough left over to pay for a pair of long-overdue cataract surgeries, scheduled for the fall).

When we started shopping for heat pumps, it was clear that this was a very exciting sector. First of all, heat pumps are kind of magic, so efficient and effective it's almost surreal. But beyond the basic tech – which has been around since the late 1940s – there is a vast ferment of cool digital features coming from exciting and innovative startups.

By nature, I'm the kid of person who likes these digital features. I started out as a computer programmer, and while I haven't written production code since the previous millennium, I've been in and around the tech industry for my whole adult life. But when it came time to buy a heat-pump – an investment that I expected to last for 20 years or more – there was no way I was going to buy one of these cool new digitally enhanced pumps, no matter how much the reviewers loved them. Sure, they'd work well, but it's precisely because I'm so knowledgeable about high tech that I could see that they would fail very, very badly.

You may think EVs are bullshit, and they are – though there will always be room for some personal vehicles, and it's better for people in transit deserts to drive EVs than gas-guzzlers. You may think rooftop solar is a dead-end and be all-in on utility scale solar (I think we need both, especially given the grid-disrupting extreme climate events on our horizon). But there's still a wide range of cleantech – induction tops, heat pumps, smart thermostats – that are capital intensive, have a long duty cycle, and have good reasons to be digitized and networked.

Take home storage batteries: your utility can push its rate card to your battery every time they change their prices, and your battery can use that information to decide when to let your house tap into the grid, and when to switch over to powering your home with the solar you've stored up during the day. This is a very old and proven pattern in tech: the old Fidonet BBS network used a version of this, with each BBS timing its calls to other nodes to coincide with the cheapest long-distance rates, so that messages for distant systems could be passed on:

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

Cleantech is a very dynamic sector, even if its triumphs are largely unheralded. There's a quiet revolution underway in generation, storage and transmission of renewable power, and a complimentary revolution in power-consumption in vehicles and homes:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/12/s-curve/#anything-that-cant-go-on-forever-eventually-stops

But cleantech is too important to leave to the incumbents, who are addicted to enshittification and planned obsolescence. These giant, financialized firms lack the discipline and culture to make products that have the features – and cost savings – to make them appealing to the very wide range of buyers who must transition as soon as possible, for the sake of the very planet.

It's not enough for our policymakers to focus on financing and infrastructure barriers to cleantech adoption. We also need a policy-level response to enshittification.

Ideally, every cleantech device would be designed so that it was impossible to enshittify – which would also make it impossible to brick:

Based on free software (best), or with source code escrowed with a trustee who must release the code if the company enters administration (distant second-best);

All patents in a royalty-free patent-pool (best); or in a trust that will release them into a royalty-free pool if the company enters administration (distant second-best);

No parts-pairing or other DRM permitted (best); or with parts-pairing utilities available to all parties on a reasonable and non-discriminatory basis (distant second-best);

All diagnostic and error codes in the public domain, with all codes in the clear within the device (best); or with decoding utilities available on demand to all comers on a reasonable and non-discriminatory basis (distant second-best).

There's an obvious business objection to this: it will reduce investment in innovative cleantech because investors will perceive these restrictions as limits on the expected profits of their portfolio companies. It's true: these measures are designed to prevent rent-extraction and other enshittificatory practices by cleantech companies, and to the extent that investors are counting on enshittification rents, this might prevent them from investing.

But that has to be balanced against the way that a general prohibition on enshittificatory practices will inspire consumer confidence in innovative and novel cleantech products, because buyers will know that their investments will be protected over the whole expected lifespan of the product, even if the startup goes bust (nearly every startup goes bust). These measures mean that a company with a cool product will have a much larger customer-base to sell to. Those additional sales more than offset the loss of expected revenue from cheating and screwing your customers by twiddling them to death.

There's also an obvious legal objection to this: creating these policies will require a huge amount of action from Congress and the executive branch, a whole whack of new rules and laws to make them happen, and each will attract court-challenges.

That's also true, though it shouldn't stop us from trying to get legal reforms. As a matter of public policy, it's terrible and fucked up that companies can enshittify the things we buy and leave us with no remedy.

However, we don't have to wait for legal reform to make this work. We can take a shortcut with procurement – the things governments buy with public money. The feds, the states and localities buy a lot of cleantech: for public facilities, for public housing, for public use. Prudent public policy dictates that governments should refuse to buy any tech unless it is designed to be enshittification-resistant.

This is an old and honorable tradition in policymaking. Lincoln insisted that the rifles he bought for the Union Army come with interoperable tooling and ammo, for obvious reasons. No one wants to be the Commander in Chief who shows up on the battlefield and says, "Sorry, boys, war's postponed, our sole supplier decided to stop making ammunition."

By creating a market for enshittification-proof cleantech, governments can ensure that the public always has the option of buying an EV that can't be bricked even if the maker goes bust, a heat-pump whose digital features can be replaced or maintained by a third party of your choosing, a solar controller that coordinates with the grid in ways that serve their owners – not the manufacturers' shareholders.

We're going to have to change a lot to survive the coming years. Sure, there's a lot of scary ways that things can go wrong, but there's plenty about our world that should change, and plenty of ways those changes could be for the better. It's not enough for policymakers to focus on ensuring that we can afford to buy whatever badly thought-through, extractive tech the biggest companies want to foist on us – we also need a focus on making cleantech fit for purpose, truly smart, reliable and resilient.

Support me this summer on the Clarion Write-A-Thon and help raise money for the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers' Workshop!

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/2024/06/26/unplanned-obsolescence/#better-micetraps

Image: 臺灣古寫真上色 (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Raid_on_Kagi_City_1945.jpg

Grendelkhan (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Ground_mounted_solar_panels.gk.jpg

CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/deed.en

[max-levchin]

Shamir Secret Sharing

It’s 3am. Paul, the head of PayPal database administration carefully enters his elaborate passphrase at a keyboard in a darkened cubicle of 1840 Embarcadero Road in East Palo Alto, for the fifth time. He hits Return. The green-on-black console window instantly displays one line of text: “Sorry, one or more wrong passphrases. Can’t reconstruct the key. Goodbye.” 

There is nerd pandemonium all around us. James, our recently promoted VP of Engineering, just climbed the desk at a nearby cubicle, screaming: “Guys, if we can’t get this key the right way, we gotta start brute-forcing it ASAP!” It’s gallows humor – he knows very well that brute-forcing such a key will take millions of years, and it’s already 6am on the East Coast – the first of many “Why is PayPal down today?” articles is undoubtedly going to hit CNET shortly. Our single-story cubicle-maze office is buzzing with nervous activity of PayPalians who know they can’t help but want to do something anyway. I poke my head up above the cubicle wall to catch a glimpse of someone trying to stay inside a giant otherwise empty recycling bin on wheels while a couple of Senior Software Engineers are attempting to accelerate the bin up to dangerous speeds in the front lobby. I lower my head and try to stay focused. “Let’s try it again, this time with three different people” is the best idea I can come up with, even though I am quite sure it will not work. 

It doesn’t. 

The key in question decrypts PayPal’s master payment credential table – also known as the giant store of credit card and bank account numbers. Without access to payment credentials, PayPal doesn’t really have a business per se, seeing how we are supposed to facilitate payments, and that’s really hard to do if we no longer have access to the 100+ million credit card numbers our users added over the last year of insane growth. 

This is the story of a catastrophic software bug I briefly introduced into the PayPal codebase that almost cost us the company (or so it seemed, in the moment.) I’ve told this story a handful of times, always swearing the listeners to secrecy, and surprisingly it does not appear to have ever been written down before. 20+ years since the incident, it now appears instructive and a little funny, rather than merely extremely embarrassing. 

Before we get back to that fateful night, we have to go back another decade. In the summer of 1991, my family and I moved to Chicago from Kyiv, Ukraine. While we had just a few hundred dollars between the five of us, we did have one secret advantage: science fiction fans. 

My dad was a highly active member of Zoryaniy Shlyah – Kyiv’s possibly first (and possibly only, at the time) sci-fi fan club – the name means “Star Trek” in Ukrainian, unsurprisingly. He translated some Stansilaw Lem (of Solaris and Futurological Congress fame) from Polish to Russian in the early 80s and was generally considered a coryphaeus at ZSh. 

While USSR was more or less informationally isolated behind the digital Iron Curtain until the late ‘80s, by 1990 or so, things like FidoNet wriggled their way into the Soviet computing world, and some members of ZSh were now exchanging electronic mail with sci-fi fans of the free world.

The vaguely exotic news of two Soviet refugee sci-fi fans arriving in Chicago was transmitted to the local fandom before we had even boarded the PanAm flight that took us across the Atlantic [1]. My dad (and I, by extension) was soon adopted by some kind Chicago science fiction geeks, a few of whom became close friends over the years, though that’s a story for another time. 

A year or so after the move to Chicago, our new sci-fi friends invited my dad to a birthday party for a rising star of the local fandom, one Bruce Schneier. We certainly did not know Bruce or really anyone at the party, but it promised good food, friendly people, and probably filk. My role was to translate, as my dad spoke limited English at the time. 

I had fallen desperately in love with secret codes and cryptography about a year before we left Ukraine. Walking into Bruce’s library during the house tour (this was a couple years before Applied Cryptography was published and he must have been deep in research) felt like walking into Narnia. 

I promptly abandoned my dad to fend for himself as far as small talk and canapés were concerned, and proceeded to make a complete ass out of myself by brazenly asking the host for a few sheets of paper and a pencil. Having been obliged, I pulled a half dozen cryptography books from the shelves and went to work trying to copy down some answers to a few long-held questions on the library floor. After about two hours of scribbling alone like a man possessed, I ran out of paper and decided to temporarily rejoin the party. 

On the living room table, Bruce had stacks of copies of his fanzine Ramblings. Thinking I could use the blank sides of the pages to take more notes, I grabbed a printout and was about to quietly return to copying the original S-box values for DES when my dad spotted me from across the room and demanded I help him socialize. The party wrapped soon, and our friends drove us home. 

The printout I grabbed was not a Ramblings issue. It was a short essay by Bruce titled Sharing Secrets Among Friends, essentially a humorous explanation of Shamir Secret Sharing. 

Say you want to make sure that something really really important and secret (a nuclear weapon launch code, a database encryption key, etc) cannot be known or used by a single (friendly) actor, but becomes available, if at least n people from a group of m choose to do it. Think two on-duty officers (from a cadre of say 5) turning keys together to get ready for a nuke launch. 

The idea (proposed by Adi Shamir – the S of RSA! – in 1979) is as simple as it is beautiful. 

Let’s call the secret we are trying to split among m people K. 

First, create a totally random polynomial that looks like: y(x) = C0 * x^(n-1) + C1 * x^(n-2) + C2 * x^(n-3) ….+ K. “Create” here just means generate random coefficients C. Now, for every person in your trusted group of m, evaluate the polynomial for some randomly chosen Xm and hand them their corresponding (Xm,Ym) each. 

If we have n of these points together, we can use Lagrange interpolating polynomial to reconstruct the coefficients – and evaluate the original polynomial at x=0, which conveniently gives us y(0) = K, the secret. Beautiful. I still had the printout with me, years later, in Palo Alto. 

It should come as no surprise that during my time as CTO PayPal engineering had an absolute obsession with security. No firewall was one too many, no multi-factor authentication scheme too onerous, etc. Anything that was worth anything at all was encrypted at rest. 

To decrypt, a service would get the needed data from its database table, transmit it to a special service named cryptoserv (an original SUN hardware running Solaris sitting on its own, especially tightly locked-down network) and a special service running only there would perform the decryption and send back the result. 

Decryption request rate was monitored externally and on cryptoserv, and if there were too many requests, the whole thing was to shut down and purge any sensitive data and keys from its memory until manually restarted. 

It was this manual restart that gnawed at me. At launch, a bunch of configuration files containing various critical decryption keys were read (decrypted by another key derived from one manually-entered passphrase) and loaded into the memory to perform future cryptographic services.

Four or five of us on the engineering team knew the passphrase and could restart cryptoserv if it crashed or simply had to have an upgrade. What if someone performed a little old-fashioned rubber-hose cryptanalysis and literally beat the passphrase out of one of us? The attacker could theoretically get access to these all-important master keys. Then stealing the encrypted-at-rest database of all our users’ secrets could prove useful – they could decrypt them in the comfort of their underground supervillain lair. 

I needed to eliminate this threat.

Shamir Secret Sharing was the obvious choice – beautiful, simple, perfect (you can in fact prove that if done right, it offers perfect secrecy.) I decided on a 3-of-8 scheme and implemented it in pure POSIX C for portability over a few days, and tested it for several weeks on my Linux desktop with other engineers. 

Step 1: generate the polynomial coefficients for 8 shard-holders.

Step 2: compute the key shards (x0, y0)  through (x7, y7)

Step 3: get each shard-holder to enter a long, secure passphrase to encrypt the shard

Step 4: write out the 8 shard files, encrypted with their respective passphrases.

And to reconstruct: 

Step 1: pick any 3 shard files. 

Step 2: ask each of the respective owners to enter their passphrases. 

Step 3: decrypt the shard files.

Step 4: reconstruct the polynomial, evaluate it for x=0 to get the key.

Step 5: launch cryptoserv with the key. 

One design detail here is that each shard file also stored a message authentication code (a keyed hash) of its passphrase to make sure we could identify when someone mistyped their passphrase. These tests ran hundreds and hundreds of times, on both Linux and Solaris, to make sure I did not screw up some big/little-endianness issue, etc. It all worked perfectly. 

A month or so later, the night of the key splitting party was upon us. We were finally going to close out the last vulnerability and be secure. Feeling as if I was about to turn my fellow shard-holders into cymeks, I gathered them around my desktop as PayPal’s front page began sporting the “We are down for maintenance and will be back soon” message around midnight.

The night before, I solemnly generated the new master key and securely copied it to cryptoserv. Now, while “Push It” by Salt-n-Pepa blared from someone’s desktop speakers, the automated deployment script copied shard files to their destination. 

While each of us took turns carefully entering our elaborate passphrases at a specially selected keyboard, Paul shut down the main database and decrypted the payment credentials table, then ran the script to re-encrypt with the new key. Some minutes later, the database was running smoothly again, with the newly encrypted table, without incident. 

All that was left was to restore the master key from its shards and launch the new, even more secure cryptographic service. 

The three of us entered our passphrases… to be met with the error message I haven’t seen in weeks: “Sorry, one or more wrong passphrases. Can’t reconstruct the key. Goodbye.” Surely one of us screwed up typing, no big deal, we’ll do it again. No dice. No dice – again and again, even after we tried numerous combinations of the three people necessary to decrypt. 

Minutes passed, confusion grew, tension rose rapidly. 

There was nothing to do, except to hit rewind – to grab the master key from the file still sitting on cryptoserv, split it again, generate new shards, choose passphrases, and get it done. Not a great feeling to have your first launch go wrong, but not a huge deal either. It will all be OK in a minute or two.

A cursory look at the master key file date told me that no, it wouldn’t be OK at all. The file sitting on cryptoserv wasn’t from last night, it was created just a few minutes ago. During the Salt-n-Pepa-themed push from stage, we overwrote the master key file with the stage version. Whatever key that was, it wasn’t the one I generated the day before: only one copy existed, the one I copied to cryptoserv from my computer the night before. Zero copies existed now. Not only that, the push script appears to have also wiped out the backup of the old key, so the database backups we have encrypted with the old key are likely useless. 

Sitrep: we have 8 shard files that we apparently cannot use to restore the master key and zero master key backups. The database is running but its secret data cannot be accessed. 

I will leave it to your imagination to conjure up what was going through my head that night as I stared into the black screen willing the shards to work. After half a decade of trying to make something of myself (instead of just going to work for Microsoft or IBM after graduation) I had just destroyed my first successful startup in the most spectacular fashion. 

Still, the idea of “what if we all just continuously screwed up our passphrases” swirled around my brain. It was an easy check to perform, thanks to the included MACs. I added a single printf() debug statement into the shard reconstruction code and instead of printing out a summary error of “one or more…” the code now showed if the passphrase entered matched the authentication code stored in the shard file. 

I compiled the new code directly on cryptoserv in direct contravention of all reasonable security practices – what did I have to lose? Entering my own passphrase, I promptly got “bad passphrase” error I just added to the code. Well, that’s just great – I knew my passphrase was correct, I had it written down on a post-it note I had planned to rip up hours ago. 

Another person, same error. Finally, the last person, JK, entered his passphrase. No error. The key still did not reconstruct correctly, I got the “Goodbye”, but something worked. I turned to the engineer and said, “what did you just type in that worked?”

After a second of embarrassed mumbling, he admitted to choosing “a$$word” as his passphrase. The gall! I asked everyone entrusted with the grave task of relaunching crytposerv to pick really hard to guess passphrases, and this guy…?! Still, this was something -- it worked. But why?!

I sprinted around the half-lit office grabbing the rest of the shard-holders demanding they tell me their passphrases. Everyone else had picked much lengthier passages of text and numbers. I manually tested each and none decrypted correctly. Except for the a$$word. What was it…

A lightning bolt hit me and I sprinted back to my own cubicle in the far corner, unlocked the screen and typed in “man getpass” on the command line, while logging into cryptoserv in another window and doing exactly the same thing there. I saw exactly what I needed to see. 

Today, should you try to read up the programmer’s manual (AKA the man page) on getpass, you will find it has been long declared obsolete and replaced with a more intelligent alternative in nearly all flavors of modern Unix.  

But back then, if you wanted to collect some information from the keyboard without printing what is being typed in onto the screen and remain POSIX-compliant, getpass did the trick. Other than a few standard file manipulation system calls, getpass was the only operating system service call I used, to ensure clean portability between Linux and Solaris. 

Except it wasn’t completely clean. 

Plain as day, there it was: the manual pages were identical, except Solaris had a “special feature”: any passphrase entered that was longer than 8 characters long was automatically reduced to that length anyway. (Who needs long passwords, amiright?!)

I screamed like a wounded animal. We generated the key on my Linux desktop and entered our novel-length passphrases right here. Attempting to restore them on a Solaris machine where they were being clipped down to 8 characters long would never work. Except, of course, for a$$word. That one was fine.

The rest was an exercise in high-speed coding and some entirely off-protocol file moving. We reconstructed the master key on my machine (all of our passphrases worked fine), copied the file to the Solaris-running cryptoserv, re-split it there (with very short passphrases), reconstructed it successfully, and PayPal was up and running again like nothing ever happened. 

By the time our unsuspecting colleagues rolled back into the office I was starting to doze on the floor of my cubicle and that was that. When someone asked me later that day why we took so long to bring the site back up, I’d simply respond with “eh, shoulda RTFM.” 

RTFM indeed. 

P.S. A few hours later, John, our General Counsel, stopped by my cubicle to ask me something. The day before I apparently gave him a sealed envelope and asked him to store it in his safe for 24 hours without explaining myself. He wanted to know what to do with it now that 24 hours have passed. 

Ha. I forgot all about it, but in a bout of “what if it doesn’t work” paranoia, I printed out the base64-encoded master key when we had generated it the night before, stuffed it into an envelope, and gave it to John for safekeeping. We shredded it together without opening and laughed about what would have never actually been a company-ending event. 

P.P.S. If you are thinking of all the ways this whole SSS design is horribly insecure (it had some real flaws for sure) and plan to poke around PayPal to see if it might still be there, don’t. While it served us well for a few years, this was the very first thing eBay required us to turn off after the acquisition. Pretty sure it’s back to a single passphrase now. 

Notes:

1: a member of Chicagoland sci-fi fan community let me know that the original news of our move to the US was delivered to them via a posted letter, snail mail, not FidoNet email! 

[bearsinpotatosacks]

The beautiful thing about the Bear is that it's such a high stress show that you can apply it to other high stress environments and the AU works. I can see some kind of hospital/medical AU, or, in this case, a dancer AU.

The Berzattos run a dance school for kids, teens, and adults. They do different styles of dance, teach according to syllabus and some of their best students, like Carmen Berzatto even go on to become professionals. Syd used to go there when she was a kid until her dad noticed her passion, and worked extra hard to get into the Joffrey Ballet, then the New York Ballet before she got disillusioned and tried to start her own dance company and failed.

Carmy joined the Joffrey Ballet in Chicago, being taught by Andrea, as a child before being picked up by the Paris Opera ballet, before moving to the Royal Danish Ballet in Copenhagen, then moving onto the San Francisco Ballet before finally joining the American Ballet Theatre in New York, this is where David abuses him.

Mikey didn't have as much promise, he was a good dancer at many things, but didn't have the drive that Carmy did, so runs the dance school instead. He met Richie at the school, his mother was a dancer and she noticed his inability to sit still and put him in the dance school, his dad didn't approve at first but he started getting roles in musicals, he's a brilliant tap dancer and could've gone far in musical theatre but Mikey pulled him in. He got roles, worked hard for them but always got brought back to the dance school eventually.

Tina got into musical theatre 'too late', she's been in a local theatre outside of work but after getting fired, she's heard singing to herself at the bus stop outside the dance school, Mikey hears and offers her a job as the musical theatre teacher with Richie.

Mikey dies and Carmy's left the dance school. The place isn't doing well, they could be going out of business. Syd, who's been idolising him since she saw him in the Royal Danish's production of the Nutcracker, starts to work there. Carmy becomes strict on uniform and respect to the teacher, Richie's more relaxed, he's dance teacher but wants it to be fun, not a military school.

She and Richie don't get on, she's used to the skill levels of professional ballet studios, not local dance schools. She starts to see how good he is with the students, he can control the room easier and his students have more freedom and are generally happier.

Carmy decides to up the stakes of the school's usual yearly show, they promise Jimmy a certain amount of profit and a certain number of new uptake of students. They ask Tina choreograph her own section of the show to whatever she wants, she goes with West Side Story.

Sydney looks at some of the previous shows, and some of the previous work of the teachers to see if there's anything they could possibly do and stumbles upon some of Richie's work in musical theatre. She mentions it to Carmy, they talk to Richie, who's unsure as it's been a while.

She's there late one night when she hears something and sees Richie dancing to Singin in the Rain, which he performed on tour. They talk about dreams and goals, she encourages him to perform, but he's hesitant as it's been so long

Syd and Carmy are going to do a duet, but when it comes to the night, Carmy gets locked in one of the dressing rooms getting something for one of the kids. Syd's scared, so Richie improvises and steps in, he's seen them rehearsing and does his best (is this all because I want to imagine Richie lifting Syd like she weighs nothing? yes).

She joins him in doing 'Moses Supposes' from Singin in the Rain (minus the singing), something he used to perform with Mikey, because she makes him feel confident enough to perform again. They get through, make a fair bit of money and get some sign ups. Richie also gets an invitation to audition for another musical, with Syd's encouragement, he does.

Also added on: Eva being in Richie's dance class, Richie and Syd are in suits when they dance together to 'Moses Supposes', Syd and Richie teaching a class together and reluctantly getting along

[stitchdfox]

Cross posting from my Twitter fan account!

Eddie’s on Tour pt 1

Eddie can’t remember the last time he tapped out first from a night of celebrating with the band post show. Sure, they were only on the third show of the tour they, by some miracle, booked to open for A Day To Remember. It felt like a fever dream.

His head was swimming with excitement from the exposure of playing with a legit band. They had only ever played at local bars like the Hide Out and that one time they played Battle of the Bands in Indy. It’s crazy the last show of tour will be at the House of Blues in Chicago.

Eddie had to figure out a way to make it through the tour without vibrating out of his skin.

So, here he was, half drunk and spiraling in the van. Thanks to his favorite crop top his back stuck to the vinyl of the middle bench he deemed the best place to suffer.

“Goddamnit,“ he sighs as he shoves his hand into his pocket, pulling out his phone. He opens his contacts and selects /Uncle/ and clicks the speaker icon before dropping the phone on his chest.

As it rings Eddie realizes how late it must be in Indiana and thinks about just ending the call when—

“Hellooo?” The voice says on the other end.

“You’re not Wayne” he sputters out.

“You’re right.” The voice is deep but sweet somehow.

“Why are you on my uncle’s phone?” Eddie is so confused.

“I’m not, actually.”

“Shit.”

Wayne had a new number from when he moved out of the old trailer.

“I’m an idiot,” Eddie whispers. The new number was under /Wayne/. He’d have to write the old man, like he promised, and tell him about the mix up. He’ll find it funny—

“You okay over there, stranger?” The voice asked.

Eddie had gone silent, lost in his thoughts.

“That’s a loaded question, sweetheart.” Eddie drummed his fingers on his bare midriff.

“That’s fair. Why don’t you start with why you were calling Wayne?” The man on the other end of the phone urged him on.

“Why the hell not?” Eddie hums. “I guess, I’m just feeling a little overwhelmed.”

“Hmm.” There’s a sudden clatter of dishes. “Shit.”

“You okay over there?” Eddie holds in a laugh.

“Fine. It’s fine.”

“Are you doing dishes? Oh my god. I’ve called a complete stranger and I’ve interrupted his chores. You were probably busy cleaning up after you made dinner for you and your lady friend. She’s patiently waiting for you to join her for the movie you settled on but you’re that weirdo that insists on doing the dishes right away.” Eddie rubs his hands down his face.

A sharp laugh comes through the phone. “You think you’ve got it all figured out, don’t you?”

“Hardly.” Eddie sighs. “Look man, I’m sorry I interrupted. I’ll let you go.”

“Wait.” The response was quick and Eddie could swear there was a pinch of desperation. The man continues. “I mean… uh. I don’t mind. See I just… um. I wouldn’t mind the company is all I’m saying.”

Eddie couldn’t help the stupid grin on his face anymore than the butterflies fluttering in his stomach.

“Well then… Hi.”

“Hi.” The man chuckles on the other end. “Wanna tell me why you’re overwhelmed then?”

“It’s kind of a long story.” Eddie isn’t sure he’s ready to dive into this deep rooted fear of failure with a complete stranger. Nice enough as he seems, it would be weird, right?

“I’ve got the time.”

There’s silence from both of them for a three count.

“Fine. I’m in a band.” Eddie pauses.

The man on the other end hums.

“We have only really played dive bars and Battle of the Bands type shit before, right? And I’m convinced one of the other guys made a deal with the devil to get us here, touring as the openers for one of our favorite bands. We’re three days into this tour and I can’t even enjoy it because I’m waiting for the fallout or to wake up from this dream and I can’t stop wondering when they’re gonna pull the rug out from under us. You know?”

“Sounds like you don’t see how amazing you really are then.” The man’s voice is so soothing, motherly almost. “Clearly this favorite band of yours saw something in you. They probably started out just the way you did. Give yourself some credit here, man.”

Eddie swallows back tears. “You don’t even know me though. I’m the freak, the fuck up. I…” he sighs. “Why do they think I can do this?”

“I dunno. It’s not just you though. You’ve got your bandmates with you. Don’t you believe in them?”

“Of course!”

“Don’t you trust them?” The man asks.

“With my life.”

“Then reel it in a bit. I’m sure they need you as much as you need them right now.” The man’s tone goes low. “Trust it.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

“Oh, I know I’m right.” There’s a smile in the man’s voice.

“Cocky, cocky. Wish I had your confidence.” Eddie rolls his eyes.

“Shit. I’ve got call.

“I can let you go, man.” Eddie couldn’t mask his disappointment in letting the stranger off the line.

“No! No. Sorry. It’ll be a quick call. I’ll be back.” There’s a lull. “I promise.”

The phone beeps and Eddie is left with a faint static sound and his buzzing thoughts. This is absolutely not where he thought he’d be after the show tonight. There’s something about being on stage and the confidence he has in himself when he’s performing, but the second the lights go down and their gear is packed up, he feels like an imposter. Maybe the stranger was right, maybe he just can’t see what everyone else does. Maybe–

“You still there?” The man comes back on the line.

“Yeah. I– Still here.” Eddie covers his face, embarrassed.

“My friend needs a ride and I’m the designated driver it seems. I gotta go, but I…” there’s a soft huff, Eddie can almost feel the warmth of the breath, “I’d like to chat again. I mean, uh, if you’d like to. I figure the tour could get lonely? But now that I say that I realize you have so much happening and so many people there and fans to meet and this is probably dumb and–”

“Hey now. I’m the one that’s supposed to be spiraling tonight. You can spiral the next time, okay?” Eddie chuckles.

“Next time?” The hopeful sound of the man’s voice was all Eddie needed.

“Yes, sweetheart.” Eddie coos. “Next time.”

“I’m Steve, by the way.”

“Eddie.”

“Can’t wait. I’ll talk to you soon, Eddie.”

The line dies before Eddie can make a bigger fool of himself.

There’s a ruckus outside and he jumps as the rest of the band topple into the van.

“Are we sleeping in the parking lot tonight, fellas?” Eddie asks.

They all grumble. —

Part 2 on the way. You can catch up on Twitter if you’re impatient enough. Ha!

[an-otterly-adorable-being]

Hey there! This is a Rocky Rickaby x fem! Or gn! Reader hc req so i hope you don't mind the specifications for the reader i have lol. This is gonna be similar to the Rocky Rickaby hc with the socialite but its more independent.

Reader probably grew up in poverty but then like, moved to america to start and worked there. Basically a fresh start, things were rocky at first but they got the hang of it. But then somehow, for some reason, reader managed to be the most successful kitty cat in america. But despite being very rich and very successful, that doesn't mean they won't have envious people or rivalries. (Or admirers, bcus y not?).

But since this is fiction, reader is girlboss and managed themselves and is still financially stable, mentally? Probably not. But that's why reader LOVES Rocky right? Even if Rocky is this poor, stupidly deranged and insane, sad cat living in his (well, the lackadaisy funded it) own car. He still treats reader as he would to anyone. Even more so if reader is an artist like him.

I also feel like reader would secretly fund the lackadaisy and be best friends with Wick or sumn (i can hear Rocky's maniacal laughing rn). Btw, sorry if this was a lot for you to take in. When i see a fanfic writer saying they're alr with specifications yk damn well im jumpin on that req button. Hands n everythin. And since this was very long you can do this later or delete it if you wanna. Oki- BYEEE <33333

Ooooo, first request. And don't worry about the length, I've got you. Anyways I present to you...

Rocky x Fem!Successful!Reader Headcanons

For context, reader is a fashion designer. Hope this is good enough. Enjoy!

---------------------------------------------------

• You grew up as a poor girl living in the streets of a small town in Italy, and it shaped a lot of your life.

• Your mother was a low paid seamstress, your father a soldier.

• When the Great War broke out, it left your family shattered.

• No deaths, but your father was never the same, and your mother followed suit after seeing how terrible he was doing.

• Throughout your life, there had only been one constant, one tiny thing that kept you afloat in the sea of misery that was your life.

• Fashion.

• You took after your mother, however you wanted to create your own designs, your own outfits.

• And so, that's exactly what you did.

• When your parents shut down, you took a needle, some thread, and whatever fabric you could scrounge up and got to work.

• Though you didn't receive much notoriety yet, you did manage to get enough money to go somewhere else.

• America was your decision.

• You moved from place to place for a while, setting up shop in Boston, New York City, Buffalo, and even Savanah, Georgia.

• All the while you kept at it.

• Your English wasn't great at first, and neither was the money you were making, but you could see it start to snowball as America's prosperity continued to ramp up.

• You moved around more, Los Angeles, Salt Lake City, Chicago, Houston, Philadelphia, all these places you called home once.

• And while you moved your designs spread. Once seen only on the back pages of a local paper, your designs were beginning to feature on the fronts of national news.

• Catalogues and catwalks galore, you built a fashion empire on your blood, sweat, and tears, and the American people loved it.

• Eventually, after a few years of back breaking work, getting citizenship, getting a company started, etc etc, you became one of, if not the most, successful cat in America.

• Sure, you didn't have as much money as the heirs of old monopolies and tycoons, but damn were you close.

• You had your admirers across the nation, as well as your enemies.

• There were more than a few men who thought they could get one over on you, and while they still despise you and your work, you got the last laugh.

• After so many years of moving from place to place, it became second nature. And that's when you made it to St. Louis, Missouri. The plan was to only stay for a year, maybe more, if it was a decent place.

• You even managed to land yourself an invitation to a local speakeasy from an admirer.

• One night, you finally made your way down to the Lackadaisy, and you got to talking with a businessman, Sedgwick Sable.

• The two of you had a pretty good conversation, becoming fast friends over a mixture of success and hating most rich guys.

• And then a cat ran through the door, panting as he tried to carry about a dozen bottles of booze.

• After getting a bit of assistance, he made his way to the bar and sat at the stool next to you.

• It looked like he had been running for most of the night, and you could swear you smelt something burnt.

• Naturally, you talked to him. If his entrance was one thing, his normal conversations were about ten times that level of chaos.

• He didn't recognize you, too, or atleast pretended not too.

• You ended up finding out his name was Rocky Rickaby, and when you told him who you were, he was rather indifferent.

• That was certainly something new, and it intrigued you further.

• You asked him why he was being so...casual.

• "Well, maybe I don't know you, and maybe I do. Either way, artists like us are still people too."

• The rhyme was an unexpected, but not unwelcome response.

• Honestly, you wish more people had his attitude.

• From then on, you became friends. But eventually things changed.

• You ended up continuing your stay in St. Louis, partly because you grew to love the place, and mostly for Rocky.

• You ended up falling for him, and you know what, you had every right to.

• When you were younger you wished for attention, especially as your family crumpled around you.

• However the love and even hate you got from your work never truly satisfied that.

• Rocky did, though. He was sweet, a little insane, sure, but overall he was amazing.

• So, you crafted the ultimate plan.

• You made sure Rocky got a good amount of sleep the night before, offering up your bed for the night.

• It was way better than the car.

• Then, you spent the day together. You got him new clothes, took him out on a joyride around the city, and ended the night on a bridge over the Mississippi River.

• There, as the moonlight shone overhead, and Rocky played the night away.

• You heard him play many times before, but you loved hearing every new improvised song he came up with.

• You told him how you felt, and he happily returned your feelings, a massive grin on his face.

• The two of you have been happy together since then, and still are now.

[bumblebeeappletree]

In Los Angeles, Dulé Hill meets deaf dancer Shaheem Sanchez. As a dancer himself, Dulé never considered it would be possible for someone to move to a beat they could not hear, but Shaheem is showing the world that the “deaf can dance.” Shaheem is a self-taught dancer who went deaf at the age of four. He always loved to dance, and his inability to hear music was not enough to stop him. Shaheem physically connects to songs by placing his hands on a speaker and memorizing the beats. He even choreographs by studying the music’s lyrics.

Shaheem is on a mission to ensure that deaf people aren’t limited by their disability. By combining dance with American Sign Language (ASL), he entices hearing people to learn how to communicate with the deaf community. He also teaches deaf people how to dance, allowing them to express themselves through movement.

Shaheem is also a member of the dance company Infinite Flow, which celebrates dancers with disabilities and empowers children to take part in creating a more inclusive world. Dulé discovers a renewed faith in art’s capacity to reshape lives and create space for everyone in society.

The Express Way with Dulé Hill

Multi-talented actor and performer Dulé Hill (“The Wonder Years,” “The West Wing”) and director Danny Lee (“Who Is Stan Smith?”) take audiences on an emotional and celebratory road trip across the nation to explore the transformative power of the arts. Along his journey, Hill travels to California, the Appalachian region, Texas and Chicago to connect with local visionaries, activists, changemakers and pioneers who are using their artistic passions to foster connection, deepen empathy, and create meaningful change within their communities.

[justforbooks]

Bob Newhart

US standup and sitcom star who exuded calm assurance in a career that spanned more than 50 years

Bob Newhart, who has died aged 94, employed a deadpan delivery, marked with a sometimes stammering hesitation, that made him an unlikely candidate to become one of America’s most successful comedians. It was in keeping with his character that his successes often went overlooked.

Newhart burst on to the scene with the 1960 release of The Button-Down Mind of Bob Newhart, a recording of his first-ever standup performance just months earlier. It shot to No 1 on record charts, followed six months later by The Button-Down Mind Strikes Back!, which rose to No 2, behind its predecessor. His debut won the 1961 Grammy as album of the year, the sequel won best spoken comedy album, and Newhart was named best new recording artist.

Newhart’s preferred format was the one-sided telephone conversation, where the audience’s understanding of what the speaker cannot see makes Newhart his own straight-man. Abraham Lincoln’s PR man in Washington tries to stop him from changing the Gettysburg Address (“You changed four score and seven to 87? Abe, that’s a grabber!”). An official of the West India Company listens to Walter Raleigh singing the praises of the 80 tonnes of leaves he’s shipping to London (“Then what do you do, Walt? You set fire to it! You inhale the smoke, huh! You know, Walt … it seems you can stand in front of your fireplace and have the same thing going for you!”).

In 1961, Newhart made his debut at Carnegie Hall in New York, appeared in Don Siegel’s war film Hell Is for Heroes (doing a variation of his routine on a walkie-talkie) and starred in his first TV series, The Bob Newhart Show, a variety and comedy sketch show following Perry Como’s Kraft Music Hall on NBC. Though it lasted only one season, it won an Emmy and a Peabody award.

The key to Newhart’s immediate success was suggested by his “button-down” persona. This was the beginning of President John Kennedy’s “new frontier”, where what the British fashion critic John Taylor demeaned as the “simulated negligence” of the unpadded grey flannel suit signified a certain comfort and style, as well as sober conformity. Newhart’s probing of the accepted everyday was entertaining but sharp; a form of subtle satire.

It was a casual approach that he had refined carefully. Born George Robert in the Chicago suburb of Oak Park, Newhart grew up called “Bob” to distinguish him from his father, George David, who was part-owner of a plumbing and heating business. His mother, Pauline (nee Burns), was a housewife. He attended Catholic schools, and graduated from Loyola University in Chicago with a degree in business management in 1952. After two years in the army working as a clerk, he entered the law school at Loyola, but soon left and began working as an accountant.

In one job, he and a colleague, Ed Gallagher, began recording dialogues in the style of Bob and Ray, an innovative comedy duo. Gallagher left for New York, and Newhart moved to writing ad copy for a Chicago production company, while circulating his own tapes.

Local radio personality Dan Sorkin played some, and Newhart began appearing on local morning TV. Tapes reached the record producer George Avakian, who in 1958 had left Columbia Records to form an equivalent company for Warner Brothers. Avakian wanted to catch Newhart’s standup act immediately; the February 1960 show at the Tidelands Club in Houston – which became his first record – was at the first venue that Newhart’s quickly acquired agent could find to book.

After the success of The Bob Newhart Show, he was immediately busy on the standup circuit. His intelligence and easy-going demeanour made him a popular guest on other talkshows, and eventually he was a regular replacement for Johnny Carson on Tonight. Although he was accused by the comic Shelley Berman of plagiarising the telephone gimmick from him, it had already been a longstanding format used by performers including George Jessel and Arlene Harris. It was his demeanour, knowing but hesitant (which he sometimes said was influenced by George Gobel), that made him such a versatile performer.

The comic Buddy Hackett introduced Newhart to Ginnie (Virginia) Quinn, the daughter of the character actor Bill Quinn. They married in 1963, and the enduring alliance became a running joke when he appeared with the thrice-wed Carson.

Newhart’s film roles were infrequent but often telling: as Major Major in Mike Nichols’ adaptation of Joseph Heller’s Catch-22 (1970); as Gene Wilder’s pal in the Odd Couple-like TV movie Thursday’s Game (1974); and as Papa Elf alongside Will Ferrell in Elf (2003). He also did voices, notably the rescue mouse Bernard in The Rescuers (1977) and its sequel, The Rescuers Down Under (1990).

Unusually, he starred in two long-running TV series. In The Bob Newhart Show (1972-78) he played a psychologist: the perfect manifestation of his standup routine’s listening and commenting. It grew from an appearance on The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour, and was produced by Mary Tyler Moore and Grant Tinker’s MTM Productions. With Suzanne Pleshette as his schoolteacher wife and Peter Bonerz as the dentist with whom he shares an office, the show was an immediate hit. As ratings dropped and Newhart tired of it, he at one point refused a script that introduced children. “It’s very funny,” he told the producers. “Who’s going to play Bob?”

He returned in 1982 with Newhart, playing Dick Loudon, a writer who moves with his wife (Mary Frann) to a rural Vermont inn. With a cast including Tom Poston, who would win three Emmy nominations as the eccentric handyman George, Newhart became the centre of a world whose chaos stretched the kind of calm understanding for which he was known.

In 1985, Newhart was diagnosed with a blood disease, polycythemia, caused by smoking. Having made comedy from tobacco and appeared, with Poston, in Norman Lear’s comedy Cold Turkey (1971), where a town tries to win $25m from a tobacco company by quitting smoking for a month, he now quit himself.

As Newhart drew to a close after eight seasons, a classic final episode, which played off the famous “who shot JR?” finale of Dallas. It was kept top secret by the cast and crew. Struck by a golf ball, Newhart wakes up in the Bob Newhart Show bedroom, next to Pleshette, complaining of a crazy dream he’s had about Vermont.

Two more series were less successful. Bob (1992-93) saw him as a cartoonist trying to adjust to a corporate world when a character he created is revived. George and Leo (1997-98) was another Odd Couple-type scenario, in which his bookstore owner shares a flat with his son’s father-in-law (Judd Hirsch), who’s running from the mob. Newhart joked about the title: “We had used every variation of my name; all that was left was ‘The’.”

Newhart’s three-part guest appearance on ER in 2003, where Sherry Stringfield’s Dr Lewis helps Newhart’s suicidal Ben Hollander adjust to his oncoming blindness, earned him his fifth Emmy nomination. He was nominated again in 2009 for a supporting role in The Librarian, but finally won in 2013, playing Arthur Jeffries in the comedy The Big Bang Theory. Jeffries was Professor Proton, host of the science TV series (based on Watch Mr Wizard) watched by the genius Sheldon. He was nominated twice more, and reprised the role three times in Young Sheldon.

Newhart’s lifelong comedic chalk-and-cheese friendship with Don Rickles was the subject of Bob and Don: A Love Story, a short documentary made in 2022 by Judd Apatow.

Ginny died in 2023, and Newhart is survived by his sons, Robert and Timothy, and daughters, Courtney and Jennifer.

🔔 Bob (George Robert) Newhart, comedian and actor, born 5 September 1929; died 18 July 2024

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[chrisbitchtree]

All For You

This is my contribution to the @harringrove-relay-race!

The day Billy’s life changed forever was a Sunday in May. He’d never forget that for the rest of his life. He’d never forget how brightly the sun shone as he packed up his car and drove east, as his father kicked him out, refusing to pay for any more of Billy’s college tuition after finding him in bed with his friend Matt a week after they arrived home for summer vacation.

His was given the option to stay and continue to have his dad pay for his college education, but the conditions were that he move home and live there while finishing out his last two years of school, and that he give up his friends and his “lifestyle” as Neil called it.

Billy refused. He couldn’t live under Neil’s roof again. And suddenly the whole state of California, not just San Francisco, seemed too small, so he got in his car and drove. He hadn’t been aiming for the Midwest, had originally planned on Boston, but that’s where he’d landed, after his car had broken down on the side of the highway just outside of Chicago. Finding he liked the pace of the city more than he thought he would, he decided to stick around for a bit.

He applied anywhere he could, and the first place to call him back for an interview and offer him a job was a catering company. He’d worked as a waiter on and off through his first couple years of college, for extra spending money, so he was confident that he could do the job well.

He made friends easily, people who accepted him for who he was, falling in with a group of fellow servers, Heather and her girlfriend Robin, and their friend Steve, gorgeous, funny, goofy Steve, who could make Billy weak in the knees with one smile, and thoughts of whom filled Billy’s every waking hour, and most of his dreams too. They would work long hours, day after day, serving at all sorts of upscale events, and when they were done their shifts, they’d hit the clubs or bars, or go see a movie, then head to the diner for late night shakes and fries.

When Billy decided to stay long term, applying for and getting a transfer slot at a local university, he had to find a place to live. Heather had been nice enough to offer up her couch for the summer, but that couldn’t be a long term solution, so Billy put out feelers for a potential roommate. It turned out that Steve was looking for one as well, so it worked out perfectly.

It seemed like a match made in heaven. They were the same age, both out on their own with no ties to family, working hard to make a name for themselves in the world. Steve was an especially hard worker, going to school for culinary management by day, and working as a server by night and on weekends. He’d also pick up shifts in the prep kitchen when he could, telling Billy that it was important for him to know how all aspects of a food business worked if he wanted to own his own restaurant or catering business some day.

Billy really admired Steve’s drive, and it only added to his attraction to the other boy. He tried to fight his feelings for Steve, but it was hard when he was so sweet and kind, funny and thoughtful, and looked like he did to boot. He had long legs that seemed to go on forever in his black server’s pants, a lean, toned swimmer’s body, and soft looking, wild brown hair that curled up in some spots and flopped over in others.

Billy wanted nothing more than to kiss Steve’s plush pink lips while running his hands through it. It felt like he and Steve were maybe building to something, but it was always hard to tell. One minute, Steve would be flirty, touching Billy’s arm as they talked, and the next, he’d be moving to the other side of the couch, keeping a safe distance between them.

In the face of this, Billy tried to tamp down his feelings, doing his best to just enjoy his friendship with Steve. They would help each other study, make sure the other ate, they worked and partied together, and it was really starting to feel to Billy like he had a family again, between Steve, Heather, and Robin.

Then, Billy had to go ahead and combine his bad habits of jumping to conclusions and opening his big mouth without thinking about what he was going to say first. He and Steve had both been scheduled to work a massive Christmas party for some regular clients of theirs, the Harringtons. They hired the catering company almost every single Saturday evening, for small dinner parties, and they were Billy’s least favourite events to work, because the Harringtons were so awful.

They were rude to the staff, telling them that they were slow and lazy, and constantly made up stupid white lies, like saying that they’d asked for white win when they were poured a glass of red, even though the servers knew that they’d asked for red, or saying that their steaks were overcooked, even when they were a perfect medium rare. The only thing that kept the catering company coming back was how well the jobs paid, and the generous tips that the Harringtons would give them at the end of each event.

Nobody ever wanted to work a Saturday night, but Billy would be fine with working every single Saturday if it meant he never had to serve those awful people again, so he was deeply frustrated to see his name on the list of servers for their Christmas event. He knew there would be a huge payout for it though, so he decided to just grin and bear it, and hope the night would go by quickly.

Thankfully, it did go by relatively fast, and at the end of the shift, he went looking for Steve, hoping that they could ride back to the warehouse space that the catering company ran out of in the same big white food service van. As he rounded the corner towards the Harrington’s front hall, he heard Steve speaking in hushed tones with a woman. That was weird. The female voice didn’t sound like anyone from work.

Curious, Billy froze in place and listened. “Son,” the woman said. “You know you’re welcome home at anytime. In fact, we hope that you’ll join us for Christmas dinner. You just need to stop that. And in case you need help making your decision, here you go.”

Mom,” Steve replied, his tone stern. “I don’t want this. And I told you and dad that I’m not changing my mind. Take this back. I don’t want it. We’ll see about Christmas.”

“I’ll throw it in the trash if you don’t keep it,” the woman said, before walking away, her heels clacking on the tile floor. She rounded the corner, followed by Steve, who was stuffing an envelope into the pocket of his black pants.

Holy shit. Steve was the Harrington’s son. He wasn’t like Billy at all. He flattened himself against the wall, trying to remain unseen. Thankfully, he did, both Steve and Mrs. Harrington too wrapped up in the argument they’d just been having to pay attention to anything else.

Billy was fuming. All this time, Steve had been acting like he was just a regular guy, trying to scrape by, with no one to care for him, just like Billy, but in reality, he was richer than Billy could ever dream of being, and he had a family, right there in town, that seemed to care about him and want him around, even if they were assholes to almost everyone else. And here, Billy had thought he and Steve would spend Christmas together. Sure, he’d never actually asked, but it seemed to make sense. Where else would either of them go? Billy had already been trying to see if he could fit a small turkey in their apartment sized oven, and Steve was planning on spending the day with his rich family in their mansion!

He tried to act normal on the ride back to work, and on the car ride back home, but by the time they got back to their apartment, he couldn’t hold back anymore. “So, I hear you have big plans for Christmas day, huh? Gonna go over to mommy and daddy’s and let them spoil you? I can’t believe you never told me that the Harringtons were your parents, Steve. You just sat back and let us complain about what assholes they are, and it turns out you’re their fucking spawn! Did you think that was funny, asshole? I hope you enjoy your fancy meal while I sit here all alone eating a frozen dinner and getting drunk off cheap wine.”

Steve, who’d been in the middle of taking off his coat when Billy started his little rant, stood frozen, his eyes wide, his face ashen, his jacket half on and half off. Billy could see the bulging envelope in his pocket. It probably had a giant wad of cash in it.

“Billy, I…” he started, but Billy cut him off, too mad to listen.

“I just don’t understand how you could do this. All the months we’ve known each other, and we’ve lived together for almost four months, struggling to make rent and pay the bills, and you’ve got an endless supply of cash right there. I heard your mom give you the envelope of money. I saw it in your pocket.” He pulled off his coat, throwing it towards the hall closet, and stomped to his room, slamming the door shut.

He hoped that Steve would leave him alone so he could cool off, but no such luck. Not a minute passed before Steve was yanking Billy’s door open. Hands on his hips, he looked like he was about to lay into Billy, so Billy grabbed his headphones, turning on his music and cranking it up loud. He closed his eyes and laid back on his bed, doing his best to ignore Steve.

It worked for a little while, but then Steve was snatching the headphones off his head. “Hey, asshole!” he shouted. “Did you ever think for one fucking second about asking me why exactly I’m struggling to pay for stuff if my parents are loaded?”

Huh, yeah, Billy hadn’t really thought to ask. “Because you’re a massive idiot who doesn’t know how to be happy with what he has?”

“No, dumbass, because, exactly like you, I was kicked out of my house for being queer. But unlike you, I don’t have the benefit of being halfway across the country from my parents. They hire the catering company almost every week, just to keep an eye on me, and remind me of the lifestyle I left behind, and I don’t want to say anything about it to anyone because they bring in good money for the business, and despite my repeated requests for my parents to leave me alone outside of work, they’re constantly trying to bribe me to come back, with the conditions that I take something they choose in school and marry a woman.

But I don’t want that. I want to own a restaurant. I want to make a name for myself. I want to date guys. I actually wanted to date you, you fucking prick. Until tonight, that is. I really liked you, but it turns out you’re just as awful and judgemental as everyone else in my life. I was going to ask you if you wanted to spend Christmas together, and I took the money from my mom so I could afford to buy you a Christmas present, but I really hope that you enjoy that frozen dinner and boxed wine. I’ll talk to Heather and Robin about going there.”

Billy sat speechless as he watched Steve walk out of his room, slamming the door behind him. He was such an idiot. He had to make this better somehow, but he had no clue what the fuck to do. It wouldn’t be enough to just say sorry. His big mouth had pushed them way beyond that. No, he needed to make a grand gesture, something that would really show Steve how much he meant to Billy.

It came to him the next morning as he was hiding out in his bedroom, listening to the sounds of Steve getting ready to go to work, a shift he and Billy thankfully didn’t share. Steve had mentioned that he was going to spend Christmas with Heather and Robin, since Billy had gotten himself ex-communicated.

Robin and Heather, from a small town in Texas, couldn’t afford to go home for the holidays, so they were staying in Chicago. If that was the situation the two of them were in, there were probably others, at work and school, that couldn’t afford to make the trip home, or didn’t have family to spend the time with. Maybe Billy could offer to host a potluck dinner at the apartment, to show Steve that he wasn’t alone, and that he had a lot of people, most especially Billy, who cared about him.

As soon as he heard the front door shut and the key turn in the lock, Billy sprang out of bed and raced to the living room, scooping up the phone, cord stretching across the floor, and dialed Robin and Heather’s number.

He’d been so caught up in how to make this better that he’d never considered that Steve would have already told them what happened. He sat through a full half hour of both women trading the phone back and forth as they took turns berating him for his behaviour the previous evening. He knew he deserved it, but it didn’t make it any less embarrassing to hear all the stupid shit he’d done repeated back to him.

When they were done, and he had apologized profusely, promising to never hurt Steve again, he told them his plan. After another round of promises to never intentionally hurt Steve again, they agreed to get him back to his and Billy’s apartment on the evening of the 25th.

When Steve got home that day, he reluctantly listened to Billy’s apology, and just as reluctantly accepted it, telling Billy that he knew he hadn’t meant it, and was just being a hot headed asshole, which Billy deserved, but since they were out of school for the semester now, any time they weren’t working over the next two weeks consisted of Steve mostly avoiding Billy by going right to his room when he got home, or leaving the apartment altogether for long stretches of time.

A small part of Billy hoped that anger wasn’t the only reason that Steve was avoiding Billy, that maybe he still had feelings for Billy too, and just felt awkward about addressing those feelings now. He didn’t want to get his hopes up too high though.

Billy tried to spend that time working on himself, seeking out a therapist who could help him work through his feelings of jealousy and resentment towards anyone who he perceived as having an easier time than him in life, and help him work through his abandonment issues, both things he’d spent way too long shoving down inside himself until they bubbled up to the surface, out of his control.

He also contacted everyone at work and his school friends that said they didn’t have anywhere to go for the holidays, making them all promise to keep it a secret from Steve. His invitations had an overwhelmingly positive response, which both saddened and heartened him. He’d never thought of how many other people felt alone as he did.

Steve spent the night of the 24th at Robin and Heather’s apartment, so Billy worked to prep the apartment as best as he could. They didn’t have much furniture in their apartment, and there wouldn’t be much room for extra tables and chairs anyway, so he decided they would all eat on the floor. He bought bright red and green tablecloths at the dollar store and draped them all across the living room floor after pushing the couch and armchair against the wall, and a few of tomorrow’s guests have loaned him Christmas lights and decorations, and one even brought over a tiny tree.

He was actually pretty happy with it by the time he was done. Now he just had to wait. He made cookies to fill the time, ten different kinds, from his mother’s handwritten recipes, one of the only things he brought with him when he moved to remind him of her. By the time he stopped for the night, the counters were full of baked goods.

The next day, as the guests started to arrive, Billy grew more and more worried that Steve wouldn’t show up. He didn’t know what kind of plan Robin and Heather had concocted to get Steve to go back to his apartment, he’d left that to them and trusted that they’d follow through with it, but he was starting to second guess whether they’d be successful.

They said they’d have Steve at the apartment by 6pm, but that ticked by, and then 6:15, and 6:30, and Billy was starting to give up hope, resigning himself to failure. He had an apartment full of friends, but no Steve, the one who mattered the most. Then, just as the clock struck 6:45, the door flew open, and Billy could hear Steve’s voice, even from back in the kitchen, where he was grabbing more napkins.

“I still don’t get why…” the words died on Steve’s lips just as Billy rounded the corner to their living room. There stood Steve, with Robin and Heather behind him. Steve looked as beautiful as ever, hair flopping in his eyes under his hat, and a startled look on his face as he took in the space, packed full of their friends and coworkers. He locked eyes with Billy, who suddenly found himself at a loss for words.

“Billy, can I talk to you? In my bedroom?” Steve asked.

Billy followed silently behind him.

“You have a lot of nerve, having all of our mutual friends over for a Christmas party at our apartment while I’m over at Robin and Heather’s, sulking. You’re really trying to hurt me as much as possible, aren’t you? We just came to get the bottle opener. Robin broke theirs. If you don’t need it for your party guests, I’ll just take it and get out of your hair, so the festivities can continue.”

Oh god, this really wasn’t going according to plan. “Steve, I didn’t plan a party for while you were gone. This party is for you. Well, for you and for everyone who didn’t have anywhere else to go for Christmas. But mostly for you. I wanted to show you how many people you have in your life, that you don’t need your parents. We’re your family now. I’m really, really sorry about what I said to you that night, but you mean more to me than anything, and I just wanted to make you happy. I don’t think you’re a spoiled brat. I think you’re the most amazing, hardworking, kind, special person I’ve ever met, and I hope you’ll give me a chance to prove that to you.”

A small smile started in the corner of Steve’s mouth, the first thing even close to Steve’s usual grin that Billy had seen in weeks. “Ok, I’ll think about forgiving you. On one condition.”

“Anything. I’ll do anything for you, Steve.”

Steve opened his bedside table and pulled out a sprig of something green. “I was going to use this stupid mistletoe to finally try to make a move on you tonight, but I’m gonna leave the move making to you now.” He handed the sprig to Billy, who held it over their heads.

He leaned in close to Steve. “Can I kiss you, you beautiful goof?”

Steve didn’t respond, and instead just pressed his lips to Billy’s own. They stayed like that for a long while, until someone knocked on the door, letting Billy know that his kitchen timer was going off for the hors d’oeuvres.

“Come help me in the kitchen?” Billy asked, holding out his hand. Steve took it, following him out of the room.

The spent the rest of the party glued to each other’s sides, and Billy could tell from the soft looks Steve gave him, and the giant grin plastered to his face that this had been the right move. Billy was beyond happy that the plan had worked. Laying in bed that night, holding Steve in his arms, Billy thanked whatever higher power had decided he was worthy of a second chance at happiness.

*** From that year onwards, every single Christmas, no matter where their lives took them, through the opening of their first, then second restaurant, marriage, and the adoption of both of their children, one thing never changed. Every single December, they put the word out to anyone and everyone they knew that they were welcome in their home for a celebration of friendship and found family come Christmas day.

Please look forward to the amazing work from the next contributor, @oopsiedaisiesbaby!

[terriwriting]

Possible locations for Gotham, Metropolis, & Smallville

A non-exhaustive list of places to put Gotham, Metropolis, or any other fictional city.

Notes:

Cities need reliable fresh water, transportation, and food.

Wonder Woman doesn't need a city. She already has Paradise Island.

Gotham

I'm more of a Superman fan, so my notes on Gotham are relatively short. Plus Metropolis comes in two variations, while Gotham just needs to be a city that is old enough to have old infrastructure and deep-rooted generational wealth.

Illinois/Indiana:

The Chicago-Gary area is the easiest place to put Gotham if you want to move it away from the East Coast. Hello Kitty Unpretty's Gotham is a Great Lakes city.

New Jersey:

The classic. There are two good places for a fictional city, but the one in the southern area of the state will be noticeably different from canon-Gotham.

The Camden-Rehoboth Bay corridor could be unified by an old canal system. Place Gotham one one end of the canal and Bluehaven (Bludhaven to cynical locals) on the other, according to your preference. Note that the Rehoboth Bay end is mostly mud and silt layered over more mud and silt, so you're probably better off placing Bludhaven here as a smaller city with few major towers. Either end will need extensive drainage (canals, storm drains, aqueducts, and reservoirs), so that's great for the crumbling infrastructure. Remember that if you place Gotham here, Batman's costume needs to be light, not armoured, or he'll be dead in a week from heat stroke.

The New Brunswick-Newark metropolitan area fits the climate we usually see in comics. Maybe throw in Staten Island as a little treat for New jersey.

In either case, the rest of the Justice League calls Batman Tony Soprano behind his back.

New York:

The NYC metro region with no city unification. Gotham is probably Manhattan, plus maybe Staten Island for rich people like Bruce.

Ohio:

A unified Cleveland-Akron-Canton metropolitan area with a higher population, maybe?

Rhode Island

My preferred headcanon: The Newport-Providence metropolitan area as a unified city. Bruce Wayne is old old money, some of the Wayne cousins were involved in the witch trials, and this fits the map published by Mayfair games.

Metropolis

Metropolis comes in two flavours: The more common one where Metropolis is a stand-in for an old East Coast US city, or; The Superman: TAS version where Metropolis is a new city, built under the influence of tech billionaire Lex Luthor. I like both.

If you like Clark and Lex as high school friends, that's not really compatible with a New Metro built by Lex Luthor. There's just not enough time for Lex to build anything more than a small suburb. But Lex could be manoeuvring to take control of Metropolis from his family, or from some other DCU billionaire like Simon Stagg.

Connecticut:

There are two good regions in Connecticut to place a fictional city: The Bridgeport-New Haven region, or; The area between the Connecticut River and Thames River.

The Bridgeport-New Haven version better fits the Old Metropolis version, but can also be used for the New Metro version. If you're going for Old Metro, in reality this area did industrialize before the NYC area (Which was dominated by shipping before it picked up light manufacturing), but the early industrialists didn't invest enough in the trade schools or financial institutions that would have let them keep that early advantage. Have a few mill owners and canal companies invest in engineering schools, have later industrial barons invest in office equipment manufacturing and chemical engineering, and you have your Old Metro. For your New Metro, genius tech billionaire Lex Luthor plants a few factories in the major population centres, buys up golf courses to turn them into company towns with inexpensive mid-density housing, and then uses his political and economic influence to pressure the municipalities to merge into his new Metropolis. This version of the New Metro will have more old architecture, but that's not a bad thing.

The Connecticut River-Thames River region fits either version. For an Old Metro, just have the area invest in trades and technical schools as with the Bridgeport-New Haven region. There are old whaling towns in this area so the region could move into shipbuilding, marine alloys engineering, and later railcars and elevators and escalators. This is an easy place to plant a fictional new city, with a low urban population and lots of farms, golf course, and camp/resort sites to buy out. An ambitious billionaire or group of wealthy investors could start a new urban centre with relative ease.

Delaware:

Most of the Delmarva region is mud. You're not going to build many skyscrapers here. But you could fit some in along the Chesapeake and Delaware Canal.

A Metropolis on the Chesapeake and Delaware Canal would probably be smaller than Metropolis is usually shown as, with maybe two million inhabitants instead of six-eight million. But this is comic books, so go with what feels right to your heart.

This works equally well for New or Old Metro.

New Jersey:

Have Bayonne & Newark industrialize early, deliver Staten Island unto New Jersey, invest heavily in education and financial institutions, unify Bayonne-Newark-Staten Island, and bada-bing bada-boom Lois Lane sounds like Carmela Soprano.

Staten Island isn't necessary, but you gotta put the fancy houses and big parks somewhere.

Works best with the Old Metro approach, but you could also have investors take over the urban area and push a lot of redevelopment.

New York:

There are a couple of good places in New York state for Metropolis.

For a New Metro, try the Chaumont Bay-Guffin Bay region. Access to rail, road, air, and sea shipping, and lots of tradespeople and professionals in nearby cities who are desperate for inexpensive housing.

For an Old Metro, you can't go wrong with a thinly-disguised NYC. Just file off the serial numbers, maybe some new rims, and drive it like you stole it.

Smallville

Generic East Coast:

If you're like me and prefer the feel of Bronze Age Smallville, you might want to keep Smallville as an East Coast town. This is easy. There's no reason for Smallville to be in the same state as Metropolis, so it can be anywhere from Maryland to Massachusetts. Towards the end of the Bronze Age it was generally described as vaguely New Jersey or Pennsylvania. East Coasters can entertain themselves imagining Clark Kent, MetU freshman, trying to order a pork roll and water ice in the Metropolis version of Eisenberg's Sandwich Shop.

Kansas:

The Flint Hills region matches modern continuity and the look of both the Smallville series and Bronze Age comics. Lawrence is a good model.

Special Mention: Susquehanna River

BludBluehaven: Great place for Nightwing to relocate to, regardless of where your Gotham is.

Gotham: Replaces Baltimore and/or Philadelphia as a rail and sea hub.

Metropolis: Great for the New Metro.

Opal City: Gotta go somewhere, and this matches the map DC published.

Smallville: Depends on what version you prefer.

What About The Teen Titans?

Fuck Marv Wolfman, that's what.