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News 06.26.19 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets

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News 06.26.19 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets
@orionvanessa
News 06.26.19 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets
@morgylh
News 06.26.19 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets
@by_krog

Digital Hygiene

In September 2017, Firefox launched their “farm to browser” ad campaign on Instagram, partnering with influencers and food bloggers for a series of embedded posts that juxtapose sleek, luxury devices — MacBooks and iPhones, often encased in on-trend rose gold marble phone cases — with meals and ingredients associated with “clean eating”: kale, chia seeds, açai berries, avocado toast, charcoal lattes, and smoothie bowls. Videos on their own account feature smiling millennials holding handfuls of dirt, farm-raised chickens, and heads of lettuce. The campaign compares using Firefox to other values-based decisions, like buying organic fruits and vegetables, shopping at farmer’s markets, and practicing yoga. “So we don’t have organic heirloom tomatoes inside our code,” one caption reads. “We are the only major browser backed by a non-profit, though, and that matters.”

Read the rest of this article at: Real Life

News 06.26.19 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets

He Cyberstalked Teen Girls For Years—then They Fought Back

News 06.26.19 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets

For years, Belmont, New Hampshire, had only one detective: Raechel Moulton. An old mill town of 7,200 people, Belmont is surrounded by lakes and forests but isn’t itself much of a draw for the tourists who flock to the region every summer. A hardware store and salon are about all Main Street has to offer; the biggest employer in town is a Shaw’s supermarket. At the police department, where Moulton works, a donation box for Vito, the department’s K-9, is stuffed with change and dollar bills. As Moulton describes it, “We don’t have a lot of people that are rolling in the dough.”

Moulton, who is 41, grew up about 20 miles away, in Concord, the state capital. Her mother managed a Walmart and her father repaired power-line transformers. She was a bold kid, the oldest of three, and would stride up to uniformed police officers to ask them about the things on their belts. When she was in the fifth grade, an officer came to her school to run a drug-awareness course. That’s when she decided she was going to be a cop.

In high school, Moulton enrolled in a law-and-policing course, where she was assigned to ride along in a patrol car with a male officer. He told her that women shouldn’t become cops. That cemented her ambition. In 2005 she was hired onto the Belmont police force, too. “This job picks you,” she said, sitting straight-spined in the police department, her brown hair pulled back in a tight bun.

Read the rest of this article at: Wired

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Can a Dance Sensation’s Viral Moment Last Forever?

INSIDE HER TWO-STORY HOME in Lawrenceville, Georgia, 30 miles northeast of Atlanta, 56-year-old Anita Redd has decorated the walls of her entryway with calendars, doctor’s instructions, and balance sheets scrawled on notebook paper. On a pantry door in the kitchen hangs a typed-up vision statement for her youngest son, Russell Horning: “For Russell to be internationally recognized talent in: acting, comedy, music, dance.”

Dance ranks last on Anita’s list of Russell’s future achievements because her 17-year-old son already has that part mostly figured out. Starting in first grade—or second, seventh, or ninth; he’s changed his story several times over the past few years—Russell created his now-signature move, originally called “The Russell,” in which he hypnotically swings his arms and hips back and forth. In summer 2014, Russell, then 12, posted a video of himself to Instagram trying out different dance moves in his bedroom—including his signature arm-and-hip swing. This is a kid who could just as easily have been trying out new moves in front of a mirror, as a past generation did with their favorite video stars, but instead, he made a video of himself to share on social media. After posting the video under his handle, @majesticcatlover, which had less than 400 followers at the time, Russell went to bed. The next day he woke up with at least 5,000 new followers. Over the next two years, Russell continued to post videos of himself and his friends flaunting their best moves, which sometimes included “The Russell.” His follower count grew—first in the thousands, and then in the tens of thousands.

Read the rest of this article at: topic Magazine

News 06.26.19 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets

When We Stopped at the Water

News 06.26.19 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets

Before leaving Jersey City that sultry August morning, we had to go buy these short-brimmed khaki hats that someone had seen in the window of an Army-Navy store up on Central Avenue. After all, they looked like the cap worn by Jack Kerouac on one of his book covers. And this was going to be our Kerouacian adventure: north to Vermont, living like drifters, camping under starry heavens, burning up the last of summer before starting our freshman year of college.

Forty-eight years ago, we hadn’t so much planned the junket, as decided on it. Charlie got his mother’s Buick Special; Peter, Pat, and I squeezed in with our sleeping bags and other gear.

And it would be great! Going wherever we wanted, just as Kerouac chronicled his own wanderings in On the Road and other beat writings that hooked our middle-class souls. I loved the raw energy coursing through those books – the sense of busting loose and moving, in quest of distant sights and wild characters. When Kerouac’s alter-ego, Sal Paradise, rolls into L.A. and comes across ‘the beatest characters in the country,” he says immediately, “I wanted to meet them all, talk to everybody.”

So did I. Sure, they were just books but their rhythm at our wide-eyed age in 1971 set us on our journey even before it began. Peter, Pat, and I had gone to grammar school together and high school, where we met Charlie in freshman year. Pat and I were also friends from the same neighborhood; he lived around the block from me on Virginia Avenue, a minute’s walk from my door.

Read the rest of this article at: The Delacorte Review

At Work, Expertise Is Falling Out of Favor

News 06.26.19 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets

In the faint predawn light, the ship doesn’t look unusual. It is one more silhouette looming pier-side at Naval Base San Diego, a home port of the U.S. Pacific Fleet. And the scene playing out in its forward compartment, as the crew members ready themselves for departure, is as old as the Navy itself. Three sailors in blue coveralls heave on a massive rope. “Avast!” a fourth shouts. A percussive thwack announces the pull of a tugboat—and 3,000 tons of warship are under way.

But now the sun is up, and the differences start to show.

Most obvious is the ship’s lower contour. Built in 2014 from 30 million cans’ worth of Alcoa aluminum, Littoral Combat Ship 10, the USS Gabrielle Giffords, rides high in the water on three separate hulls and is powered like a jet ski—that is, by water-breathing jets instead of propellers. This lets it move swiftly in the coastal shallows (or “littorals,” in seagoing parlance), where it’s meant to dominate. Unlike the older ships now gliding past—guided-missile cruisers, destroyers, amphibious transports—the littoral combat ship was built on the concept of “modularity.” There’s a voluminous hollow in the ship’s belly, and its insides can be swapped out in port, allowing it to set sail as a submarine hunter, minesweeper, or surface combatant, depending on the mission.

The ship’s most futuristic aspect, though, is its crew. The LCS was the first class of Navy ship that, because of technological change and the high cost of personnel, turned away from specialists in favor of “hybrid sailors” who have the ability to acquire skills rapidly. It was designed to operate with a mere 40 souls on board—one-fifth the number aboard comparably sized “legacy” ships and a far cry from the 350 aboard a World War II destroyer. The small size of the crew means that each sailor must be like the ship itself: a jack of many trades and not, as 240 years of tradition have prescribed, a master of just one.

On most Navy ships, only a boatswain’s mate—the oldest of the Navy’s 60-odd occupations—would handle the ropes, which can quickly remove a finger or foot. But none of the three sailors heaving on the Giffords’s ropes is a line-handling professional. One is an information-systems technician. The second is a gunner’s mate. And the third is a chef. “We wear a lot of hats here,” Culinary Specialist 2nd Class Damontrae Butler says. After the ropes are put away, he reports to the ship’s galley, picks up a basting brush, and starts readying a tray of garlic bread for the oven.

Read the rest of this article at: The Atlantic

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