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News 02.05.22 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets

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News 02.05.22 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets
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News 02.05.22 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets
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News 02.05.22 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets
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In the summer of 2018, my friend Julia learned that her mother had a new boyfriend. Julia’s mom, whom I’ll call Rachelle, was a septuagenarian nearing retirement who had been amicably divorced from Julia’s father for nearly three decades. She had signed up for a dating site called Our Time, which catered to an older clientele. (“At last!” the Web site reads. “A dating site that not only understands what it is to be over 50, but also celebrates this exciting chapter of our lives.”) I’d known Julia for more than twenty years—we met during our freshman year of high school—and for that entire time her mom had been single. Though she had casually dated, she’d never found anyone to be serious with, until she met Nelson Roth.

Their first date had been at the Surrey, a luxury hotel on East Seventy-sixth Street, not far from where Rachelle lived on the Upper East Side. She took to Nelson instantly. He was handsome, with a slim build and a full head of hair despite being in his mid-sixties. He started cracking jokes and asking thoughtful questions as soon as they sat down. He was well dressed, in jeans and a crisp white shirt, an outfit suggesting both means and easy confidence. He was in business and, at the moment, in the middle of a major deal. He also told Rachelle that he was an art dealer. She noticed that he wore a showy watch with a red band on his left wrist, which he flashed frequently. This lack of subtlety wasn’t exactly a turn-on, but she found Nelson impressive, charming, and, above all, tremendously fun.

Read the rest of this article at: The New Yorker

News 02.05.22 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets

News 02.05.22 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets

When the producers of the HBO series “Barry” asked Henry Winkler to audition for the role of Gene Cousineau, they assured him that he was on a short list. Winkler said he was willing, as long as the list didn’t include Dustin Hoffman. “Because he’s a movie star. He’d get it. If Dustin was on the list, I wasn’t going in. They said no. I said OK.”

There was no particular reason to think the two-time Oscar winner would be up for the same part, but Winkler can be forgiven for indulging in a little paranoia. Across the span of his 50-year career, he has had some highs — 1970s pop-culture saturation to rival “Star Wars” and the music from “Jaws” — and lows, including a long stretch where he couldn’t get hired, filled with the sense that he’d been typecast into oblivion.

“Barry,” co-created by and starring Bill Hader, is about acting or, more specifically, about a depressed hit man who comes to Los Angeles to murder someone and decides to give acting a try. He joins a class taught by Gene, a washed-up name-dropper — he makes restaurant reservations as “Neil Patrick Harris” — who has covered the walls of his acting studio with posters of plays he produced, directed and starred in, including a gray-haired turn as Peter Pan. Inside his classroom, he’s a legend, a sometimes-gifted teacher, ragingly sincere as he spurs his students to find their voice. In the real world, he’s just another out-of-work actor, one with such serious anger-management issues that he was barred from attending Patrick Swayze’s funeral.

In a scene that Winkler performed for his audition, Gene is running a class in his black-box studio, instructing his star student, Sally, played on the show by Sarah Goldberg, to dig deeper. Hader and his co-creator, Alec Berg, watched Winkler work his way through the scene. “The part had originally been written as some kind of drill sergeant, but Henry had this instinct to console her,” Berg explained. “And even when he tried to be mean, he has such an inherent warmth.”

Berg and Hader started pushing Winkler himself to dig deeper.

“You need to really go after her,” Hader told him. “Like if you’ve ever been really angry at a person and you just want to hurt them. You want to take her down so you can build her up. It’s how you manipulate these people.”

“Oh,” Winkler said. “So this man is an asshole.”

“Yes, Henry,” Hader said. “You’re playing an asshole.” With that, Winkler locked in on the character, and the scene became more interesting.

In the episode as it was finally broadcast, Gene is in a fury, and Sally is onstage. Sensing a false performance, he shouts an expletive. He says it again, cutting her off as she stumbles through her monologue. She tries to defend herself. “Excuse me,” he says, “I don’t give a [expletive]! Even your excuses are false. You’re up there, you’re stinking up my stage, babe. What the [expletive] do you want?”

Read the rest of this article at: The New Yorker

In the early 90s, the artists who used these Amigas didn’t know it yet, but their experimentation would become central to the burgeoning hardcore, jungle and drum’n’bass scenes, and pave the way for the accessible home electronic music production of the future.

Today anyone with a laptop can make music, but, at the dawn of home computing, music production was prohibitively expensive. Back in 1985, Atari released its ST home computer, which instantly became a hit with gamers and DIY producers. Rival Commodore quickly followed up with the Amiga 1000, but things really changed in 1987 when the company released the Amiga 500. It may only have had 512 kilobytes of memory – that’s 0.0128% of what an iPhone 13 has – but the Amiga was transformational due to its four-channel stereo sound. “It went much further into that bass register than any computer of the time,” says Ben Vost, former editor of Amiga Format magazine, who praises simple music sequencer programs, such as OctaMed, that allowed users to compose their own beats.

Read the rest of this article at: The Guardian

News 02.05.22 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets

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News 02.05.22 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets

Just after seven in the morning on June 9, 2015, Misty Carausu joined a group of police officers lining up outside a dark green cabin with white trim. The blinds inside were drawn. Jeffrey pines cast thick shadows across the driveway. The air was still but for the scrape of boots on asphalt and the occasional call of a bird.

Carausu, 35, was at least a head shorter than the other officers, and the only woman. She wore iridescent eye shadow and pearl earrings along with a tactical vest. As she gripped her gun, she felt as if she’d stepped into one of the true-crime documentaries she binge-watched at night. It was Carausu’s first day as a detective.

En route to the scene, she’d been filled in on the case. Around 3:30 a.m. the previous Friday, a 52-year-old nurse named Lynn Yen, who lived at the edge of Dublin, the suburb east of San Francisco where Carausu worked, had called 911. Minutes earlier, Lynn and her 60-year-old husband, Chung, woke to a flashlight and a laser shining in their faces. A masked man dressed in black stood at the foot of their bed. “We have your daughter, and she’s safe,” the man said. Kelly, 22, had been in her bedroom across the hall.

Using what Lynn described as a “calm, soft voice,” the intruder told the couple to turn over and put their hands behind their backs. Then he announced that he would tie them up. When Chung felt the man touch him, he took a swing. Lynn grabbed her phone from the nightstand, locked herself in the bathroom, and called for help. She told the dispatcher that she heard fighting, then her husband yell, “Honey, go get the gun,” even though they didn’t own one. A few minutes later, the intruder fled downstairs and out the back door, which opened onto miles of rolling hills and open fields.

When officers arrived at the scene, Chung had bruises on his arms and face and was bleeding from a cut above his ear—he said the intruder had hit him with a metal flashlight. A window near the back door was open, and the screen had been removed. In the couple’s bedroom, police found a black wool glove and three plastic zip ties. On a gravel path behind the house, near a cluster of foxtails, officers recovered another zip tie and a six-inch shred of black duct tape. Kelly, who was unharmed, handed a sergeant something she’d found on a hallway cabinet near her room: a cell phone she didn’t recognize.

Police later traced the phone number to the cabin Carausu and her colleagues were now preparing to enter. It sat on a residential street in South Lake Tahoe, a ski resort town 130 miles from Dublin. As the raid began, Carausu heard the cabin’s front door splinter. Officers barked “Search warrant!” as they shoved through a barricade of chairs. Carausu maneuvered around clutter on the living room floor: a set of crutches, license plates, clothing, electronics, a massage table. Empty boxes were piled against a window; open bottles of wine and cans of spray paint littered the kitchen counters.

Carausu’s job was to process evidence. She snapped photos of a black ski mask, black duct tape, and mismatched black gloves. A stun gun sat on a rocking chair. In a banker’s box she found more duct tape and gloves, along with walkie-talkies, a radar detector, zip ties, rope, and a device for making keys. In a bathroom were makeup brushes and a partly empty bottle of NyQuil. An open tube of golden brunette hair dye lay on the sink, near a disposable glove stained with the dye’s residue. In one bedroom were three more gloves, yellow crime-scene tape, and, on the bed, a spiked dog-training collar; in another was a bottle of Vaseline lotion, used paper towels, and a penis pump. “This is creepy,” Carausu recalled thinking as she stuffed items into paper bags. “Something crazy happened in here.” The police also collected flashlights, cell phones, hard drives, and several computers, including an Asus laptop that had been stashed under a mattress.

Read the rest of this article at: Atavist Magazine

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News 02.05.22 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets

When the russian army first began shelling Lukashivka, a village in northern Ukraine, dozens of residents fled to the Horbonos family’s cellar. Children, pregnant women, bedridden pensioners, and the Horbonoses themselves headed down below the family’s peach orchard and vegetable patches, and waited. For 10 days, they listened as shells whistled and crashed above several times an hour. The attacks left huge craters in the land, incinerating the Horbonoses’ car and destroying the roof of their house. Finally, on March 9, they heard the sound of heavy weaponry and tanks entering the village: The Russian army had taken Lukashivka.

Soldiers ordered the terrified villagers to the surface, and then threw a grenade into the cellar, targeting any hidden Ukrainian soldiers. The Horbonoses—Irina, 55; Sergey, 59; and their 25-year-old son, Nikita—spent the next night in a neighbor’s cellar, but it was so wet and cold that they returned to theirs. Upon arrival, they found five Russian soldiers living inside.

“Where are we meant to live?” Irina asked. “This is our home.” The soldiers told the Horbonos family that they could return home—they could all live there together. And so the Horbonoses moved back in.

They would spend about three weeks with those five Russian soldiers, eating together, walking together, talking together. The Russian soldiers would make nonsensical declarations about their mission and ask alarmingly basic questions about Ukraine, yet also offer insights into their motivations and their morale; the Horbonoses would push back on their claims, angrily scream at them, and also drink with them, using that measure of trust to prod at the soldiers’ confidence in Vladimir Putin’s war.

Read the rest of this article at: The Atlantic

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