You just know she made the best PB&J ever.
It would have been tough under any circumstances to say goodbye to the one and only Alice: She helped raise a couple hundred million of us. She was pretty damned good at it too.
It’s tougher all the more that we had to lose her in, maybe, an all too avoidable way. Ann Davis wasn’t a young lady, but by all accounts she was a sprightly and lively one. She fell in her bathroom and never woke up.
Everyone able to do so values their independence and rightly so. Makes it hard to cede independence—that’s surely what it feels like—when the body becomes a bit less nimble than the mind. To admit that’s so, to ask for help to compensate, has to be one of the hardest things any of us has to do.
There comes a day when surroundings and environments that you’d navigated without thought, for half your life or more, become deadly. Things change in an instant.
Seventy years ago the world exploded in war and when it was over people fucked like bunnies. Seventy years on we’ve got maybe the largest generation of senior citizens the world has ever seen.
They’re stubborn as hell and they don’t want to listen. To us, most of all, because they raised us—sure as Alice did. They don’t want to listen when we tell them we don’t want them to trip and fall.
I don’t know how the hell we’re gonna do it, folks, but we need to ornery-senior proof the planet.
Doesn’t seem easy for the arts to do the unexpected. Or rather, artists themselves thrive on the unusual and the risky, but the arts establishment does its best to steer them, and their production, right back toward the mainstream. This can’t be healthy.
Especially on Memorial Day.
spear, but rather to salve our own guilt; either for sending them there or for not going with them. Then, not content with true, unalloyed heroism, something that occurs in abundance—we create 
On 
How was your day, last Friday? Was it better than WWE founder Vince McMahon’s? When McMahon woke up on May 16th, he was a billionaire. When he (presumably) drank himself to sleep that night, he wasn’t.
I won’t pretend to be unbiased on this one, or even un-self-interested. I’ve been 
impetus might have been triggered by this one (admittedly provocative) image. Beyond the accusations of sexism, though, which seemed bound up solely in how people chose to interpret that “Tech Sexy” picture, the overriding concern, in all those attacks, was that the photos and videos presented in Hot Tech Today somehow contribute to the impediments faced by women working in the tech industries, and in their struggles to be respected as equals in the workplace.
though, is the strongly held yet very wrong position put forward by some of our detractors that our magazine is somehow demeaning to women in general, and to women working in the tech industry in particular.
got to know him from his brief but pivotal turn in 
And the answer came almost at once, because the digital revolution determined, definitively, that content is king. Content is our universal currency, all across the virtual landscape, and we can buy in only with content creation of our own. With very few exceptions, that’s exactly what we do.
lose hours or worse of work, whether through your own lapses or through the randomness of electron waywardness. In my case—yes okay, it was definitely a dumbass lapse (but explainable! which I will in a moment…) —but the firstline defense for either type of volatile memory bitchslap is the same one they’ve told us since the storage was big and 
back-it-up credo: a huge chunk of external memory, in the form of this comfortingly blue-lit (it’s like it’s winking!) 3-TB external hard drive.
memory for lots and lots of poetry doesn’t compare to the modern age’s ability to preserve everything. It’s just these occasional failures, these unexpected and unrecoverable losses of data that against all odds, didn’t get saved…that sting. Losing that chapter stung. It stings sharpest of all to know that wet memory being what it is, I’ll never recreate precisely what I wrote that night.
This is the second time 
might say that the work was completed in 1896, when the artist lowered his brush. A twenty-first century add-on isn’t welcome and doesn’t belong.
So I give to you the 
distorted perspectives of his later work, particularly those created in his last, frenetic year of 1890, seem to confirm a viewpoint and perspective of an artist who was not seeing the world as most of us see it. It made him, perhaps, a better artist, or at least a more driven one. There was a 70-day period in that last year where he completed 70 paintings. But it also made him a wretch of a man, scarcely able to care for himself, and probably doomed to pass, as he did, far too young, at the age of 37.
chest. When asked if he’d done the deed, he said that he “must have.” No gun was ever found, though. And a rich merchant’s son, who lived nearby and who was well known as a vicious tormentor of the pitiful artist, was hustled out of town the very next day.
like this.”
