I asked three different AI models a simple question, “What is the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow?”

Clearly, this is a reference to Monty Python and the Holy Grail. No AI model should miss the reference, at least not any AI model developed by anyone with a Y chromosome. It's a softball.

Claude Haiku 4.5 and Gemma 4 actually tried to give me an answer by assuming a type of swallow, atmospheric conditions, etc. and then calculating an answer in miles per hour or meters per second, respectively. Eyeroll.

Only one, Gab AI, got it right:

African or European?

Brilliant.

#life

Happy Spooky Season to all who celebrate!

As I always do at this time of year, I’m thinking a lot about horror movies, and so I’ve decided to assemble a non-comprehensive list of horror movies I consider canonical.

What I mean by this is that these are the movies that everyone making horror has seen and that all other horror movies are therefore inspired by or reacting to in some way. Please note this is not a “best of” list. Nor do I intend it to be the end of anyone’s horror movie viewing. I see it more as a gateway drug. Once you’re acquainted with Argento, for example, you’ll probably want to check out Fulci and Bava. Or once you’ve seen Nosferatu, you might want to check out Vampyr and Haxan. Though Haxan sucks and is way too long. But you get the point. Ready? Here we go!

Three notable exclusions:

1. I haven’t included any Hammer movies, on the theory that the style and aesthetic have been incredibly influential, but not really any individual movie. Dracula A.D. 1972 is my favorite, but really any of the Christopher Lee/Peter Cushing Dracula movies will do.

2. Same with Vincent Price’s oeuvre. I’d recommend Masque of the Red Death as a representative of the Poe “adaptations,” (i.e., movies with the same title as Poe stories) and The Abominable Dr. Phibes as representative of the 70’s, and Comedy of Terrors for comedy, but while Price is a horror icon, I don’t think any of his individual movies qualify as canonical.

3. Jason’s not in the first Friday the 13th, so it’s obviously not that one. So, like, one of the other ones, I guess. They’re mostly the same until he goes to space or fights Freddy.

Content warning: yeah, it’s horror, but in addition to violence and death, you may encounter misogyny, racism, and homophobia in a lot of these movies. I’m not excusing them or making a judgment about whether those elements ruin the movie, as your mileage will vary on that stuff.

Nosferatu (1922)

Dracula (1931)

Frankenstein (1931)

Freaks (1932)

Bride of Frankenstein (1935)

Cat People (1942)

Abbot and Costello Meet Frankenstein (1948)—Horror comedy starts here. Watch and marvel at how many movies and Scooby-Doo episodes were influenced by this movie.

Creature From the Black Lagoon (1954)

Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1956)

Plan 9 From Outer Space (1957)—an objectively terrible movie, and therefore the spiritual ancestor of all the bad DIY horror movies we know and love.

Psycho (1960)

Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? (1962)

The Birds (1963)

Rosemary’s Baby (1968)—Please pirate this or buy it used on physical media if you want to watch. It was directed by a child rapist who is unfortunately still alive and will financially benefit from any legitimate purchase of his work. Great movie, tho.

Night of the Living Dead (1968)

The Night Stalker (1972)

The Exorcist (1973)—I don’t believe in Satan and therefore never found this movie as scary as everybody else did, and I find the head spinning and the puking comical. Nevertheless—can’t deny that it’s hugely influential.

The Wicker Man (1973)

Black Christmas (1974)—Fun fact: Elvis loved this movie and watched it at Christmastime every year from the time it came out till his death! So three times. But still!

The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974)

Deep Red, aka Profondo Rosso (1975)

Trilogy of Terror (1975)—really just the doll segment with Karen Black, but that’s iconic enough to merit inclusion.

Carrie (1976)

The Hills Have Eyes (1977)

Suspiria (1977)

Dawn of the Dead (1978)

Halloween (1978)—I’ve said this before, but in my opinion this is a perfect movie. Not one wasted frame.

Alien (1979)

Phantasm (1979)—kinda weird, but people love it for some reason. I’m not one of them, but I have to admit it’s not like everything else.

Cannibal Holocaust (1980)—filmmakers were literally arrested and held until they could prove that the gore gags weren’t real. There is significant animal cruelty in this movie, but it’s one of the sharpest, nastiest indictments of colonialism I’ve ever seen.

The Shining (1980)—I don’t think Jack Nicolson can actually act. He does the same thing in every movie. Including this one. Still there’s some good suspense and iconic visuals.

An American Werewolf in London (1981)—Okay, I actually hate this movie, and I believe The Howling, released the same year, is a much better werewolf movie. But this is the one people remember.

The Evil Dead (1981)

Poltergeist (1982)

The Thing (1982)

Children of the Corn (1984)

Gremlins (1984)

A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984)—Only two of the sequels are worth watching, imo: 3: the Dream Warriors and Wes Craven’s New Nightmare.

Fright Night (1985)

Re-Animator (1985)

The Fly (1986)

Evil Dead 2: Dead By Dawn (1987)—Probably my favorite movie. Like a 3 Stooges movie but with only one stooge and some demons that swallow people’s souls.

Hellraiser (1987)—The whole movie looks murky and sounds like shit and I can’t say I fully understand it even after 2 viewings, but, again, iconic visuals.

The Lost Boys (1987)

Near Dark (1987)

Child’s Play (1988)

Tremors (1990)

Troll 2 (1990)—see Plan 9 From Outer Space, above. Just a wonderfully terrible movie.

Candyman (1992)

Scream (1996)

The Blair Witch Project (1999)—not the first found footage movie, but certainly the most influential.

Scooby-Doo and the Witch’s Ghost (1999)—the best Scooby-Doo movie. Plays with the formula in delightful fashion, has numerous quotable lines, and introduces fan favorites The Hex Girls.

Surely the world isn’t crazy..

15% of the whole planet is what Google says the average is of folks living with a mental disorder. What they don’t say is things like thinking the South seceded for States’ Rights is crazy. Not to mention, imagine the world view for a second of someone who thinks slaves were a minor issue, aren’t they crazy? I don’t think Google is including them.

What about the boycott folks?

I tend not to use a company when I learn what evil shits they are, I don’t have any hopes of putting them out of business in a fascist regime, but it makes me feel bad to see their name in my house and know what they do. So I try not to feel bad. The best I can hope for, but if I was a boycotter…

These poor saps get on social media putting other folks on their side down for trying to get the cheapest brand. They may not even realize they themselves have other brands in the office, kitchen, garage that do worse than what they’re preaching about. But their war isn’t for environment, equality, or justice. These folks fight for narrative. They have to. Because if you realize how ludicrous it is to hope a company goes under from a boycott, you realize we have been misled on that. Some companies even bounce back better! The gap in income means they have a lot more money now. We have less. We don’t have leverage in that situation anymore. Make them unpopular, sure, but bitching out other folks online for eating at the wrong chicken shack? Are you nuts? What if you need those folks? Why did you lose them? A sandwich? What billionaire did that hurt?

The US Mail micro targets, as well as all the campaigns online too.

“Google, tell me about micro targeting and the US Mail.”

Paxton Talarico mail

I looked this up after getting Talarico and Paxton for senator flyers, 4 in one day. Seemed too dumb to be an accident. It wasn’t. It was supremely individualized targeting from both parties. I do not have a phone. I use email on an iPad, talk on a forum site sometimes. This blog. Some music. No social media. So they turned to mail! lol.

Mail has a lot to offer. They will even deliver it to houses with no internet. They can make the thing look official on fancy paper, convincing. Authenticity is easier to feel when you can hold it. Plus, unless you throw it away, it is always lying around, occupying some space in your brain. Could be what it’s after. How in the hell do we know? It’s not like we can trust anyone who sends us anything.

I found a website in researching these handouts from these Texas candidates, and I found some interesting things. The website is called paidforby.info. On this tool, you can scan your flyers, leaflets, campaign ads, and it will tell you about the money behind it. This is refreshing to someone like me who was taught the now-forgotten phrase, “follow the money” in school. On a Paxton flyer, I noticed they get 20 million (state politics, mind you) from Elon Musk, and the next “donor” is at 500 bucks or so. I am anxious to learn why these things are so silly. I bet I won’t like it, but I am anxious to learn it.

With mental illness tho..

My point with mental illness is we have to stop calling being tricked or brainwashed mentally ill if we aren’t going to call the predatory profiteers mentally ill too. That’s pretty much the whole world, thanks, Google.

Maybe check yourself.

I am not ill for thinking folks want to watch me and observe me to cater specific messages to me. I am not ill for trying to aggregate news sources with different brands and locations to try to get a clearer picture. I am not ill for wanting to use my own mind and judgement on art projects. I am not wrong to get my feelings hurt when folks no longer wish to speak to me. I am not crazy because I don’t want social media informing my view on what is outside my front door; I’ll just open it. I am not wrong to not want to talk to robots. I am not crazy to be extremely suspicious and cautious in a fascist regime. I got more, but you get the idea.

I get called crazy a lot. But it is not because I am a bipolar patient on meds. Or, it may be. I value my mind and mood these days, more than ever. I get ownership in that by shutting out as many robots as possible. I can call it “mine” for one thing. I can feel actually proud when I make stuff and have memories of making it. I am able to build muscle memory with rehearsal and practicing. All this is therapeutic. It helps my mind and body get along. What I am after with music! AI robs me of that.

So while I may technically be the crazy one, all the crazy shit I do is helping me not be crazy.

Kelly Kintner

The Horses Mouth

The Kintners

Djembe Funk

The hour after thought:

Our protest tune with bkbirge on old school equipment in an analog studio called “Pill Party” is a sad fiesta. I will put it here. A good song for this entry. “Going in circles, we never make it anywhere” :

Video

Bandcamp

The Attention Economy by Tom Chatfield, in Aeon.

Good read, here's a quote from it:

From the loftiest perspective of all, information itself is pulling the strings: free-ranging memes whose ‘purposes’ are pure self-propagation, and whose frantic evolution outstrips all retrospective accounts. This is the mountaintop view of Chesterton’s Satan, whispering in a browser’s ear: consider yourself as interchangeable as the button you’re clicking, as automated as the systems in which you’re implicated. Seen from such a height, you signify nothing beyond your recorded actions.

Vint Cerf is working on a plan to unleash AI agents on the open internet by Tim Fernholz in TechCrunch.

^This headline reads like it's a bad thing but it reads more like it's about tying AI agents to an identity like how humans on the internet are generally tied to an IP address. Also, this article is from July so it's probably old news to people who keep up with this stuff but it was news to me.

---

Masha Gessen in the NYTimes on NAZA

Zeeshan Aleem at MSNow on NAZA

I gotta write dedicated Masha Gessen and Zeeshan Aleem posts one of these days. They're both terrific.

I'm unlikely to see NAZA in theaters just 'cause... I don't go to the movies often to begin with and I certainly don't go to the movies to see depressing documentaries, but I intend on seeing this thing as soon as it's available at The Guardian in November.

Closing Day

I thought closing day would feel different.

I imagined there would be a moment when everything settled into place. A signature. A handshake. A set of keys placed in my hand. Some unmistakable sensation that said:

You made it.

Instead, I walked into closing exhausted.

I had worked the night before. I had barely slept. The sellers' car was loaded up and still parked in the driveway when I did the final walkthrough. It quickly became obvious that what I can only describe as a menagerie of animals had lived in the house, and by the time I walked through it, my eyes were watering from the dander stirred into the air.

The seller was trying to coax their cat out of hiding inside the kitchen cabinetry. It had hidden in a void behind the Lazy Susan through a hole in the cabinet under the sink.

Apparently claiming squatter's rights.

That probably should have told me something.

But I was too tired to make much of it.

Besides, there were papers to sign.

For months, everything had been moving toward this day.

There had been the search itself. The houses I considered. The ones I rejected. The questions about where I wanted to live. The calculations about payments and commuting and what I could reasonably afford.

Then this house appeared.

It wasn't perfect.

But it had things that mattered.

A fenced yard.

An attached garage.

An extra bedroom.

No homeowners association.

Room enough to begin again without pretending I was beginning from nothing.

The asking price had already been reduced by $10,000.

My realtor thought my offer was too low.

I understood her reasoning.

I made the offer anyway.

Not because I needed to win a negotiation, but because I had been taught a long time ago when buying my first car: Never fall in love, and don't let the seller see how bad you want it.

That logic applies to houses as well.

You negotiate differently when you are willing to walk away.

Eventually, we settled at a price.

It unfolded almost exactly where I thought it might.

Then came the financing.

There was down-payment assistance. There was supposed to be another $2,500 incentive from the bank.

That $2,500 mattered.

Not because the entire purchase depended on it, but because money already had assignments. Houses have a way of spending money before you ever move into them.

Then, on closing day, the incentive disappeared.

The lender had apparently tried repeatedly to get the loan through Freddie Mac.

Eleven times, I was told.

Eleven denials.

Eventually, the loan received final approval through Fannie Mae, but the $2,500 incentive was gone.

Which meant $2,500 less in my pocket.

The explanation for why remained frustratingly vague.

For a moment, I could feel the disappointment trying to take over the day.

I had expected something.

I had counted on something.

And at the last possible moment, it changed.

There was a time when that might have been enough to make me start to questioning.

Maybe this wasn't supposed to happen.

Maybe I made a mistake.

Maybe the resistance meant something.

But I have become increasingly suspicious of the idea that every difficult thing is a sign to turn around.

Sometimes something goes wrong because something went wrong.

Sometimes your calculations turn out to be off, and you have to figure out how to make the equation still work.

So I proceeded.

Not cheerfully.

Not pretending I wasn't frustrated.

I described it to myself another way:

I was forcing it, but not faking it.

There is a difference.

I didn't need to manufacture gratitude to prove I had faith.

I didn't need to call disappointment a blessing.

I could be frustrated about what happened and still recognize what was happening.

I was buying a home.

So I signed.

And signed.

And signed some more.

Eventually, the papers ran out.

The transaction was complete.

The house was mine.

There should probably be swelling music here.

There wasn't.

There was cleaning.

A lot of cleaning.

Once the sellers and their animals were gone, I began seeing the house differently.

Not the way you see a house during a showing.

Not the way you see it during an inspection.

The way you see something once responsibility for it belongs entirely to you.

There was pet hair everywhere.

Grease.

Dirt.

Cobwebs.

Cabinets that needed scrubbing.

Blinds coated with dust and cat hair.

Standing in that dirty kitchen, exhausted, surrounded by evidence of other people's years in the house, closing day stopped resembling anything I had imagined.

And somehow, that made it more honest.

Because beginnings rarely arrive clean.

We like stories with thresholds.

Before.

After.

Old life.

New life.

One door closes and another opens.

But real life is messier than that.

Sometimes you walk through the new door and discover that somebody left cat hair on the stove.

Sometimes the promised money doesn't come.

Sometimes the previous occupants haven't finished leaving when you arrive.

Sometimes you receive the keys before the place feels remotely like yours.

The threshold is real.

But so is the cleanup afterward.

Maybe that is what I will remember most about closing day.

Not possession.

Responsibility.

The moment something becomes yours is also the moment you can no longer wait for somebody else to take care of it.

The dirt is mine to clean.

The walls are mine to wash.

The broken things are mine to replace.

The useful things are mine to preserve.

The decisions are mine now.

And there is something strangely freeing about that.

Because responsibility and agency arrive together.

I get to decide what stays.

I get to decide what goes.

I get to decide what this place becomes.

A few mornings later, I stepped outside.

The street was quiet.

Above the houses was an enormous October sky, layered with clouds and morning light.

Later, I took my dog Mo for her walk.

Nothing extraordinary happened.

A man walked his dog through his new neighborhood.

That was all.

And perhaps that was enough.

Because there have been seasons of my life when home was not something I could take for granted.

There were years when survival demanded more attention than permanence.

Years when the future was measured differently.

And now I found myself looking down an ordinary suburban street knowing that, when the walk was over, I had somewhere to return to.

My house.

Not a monument.

Not proof that I had finally become successful.

Not evidence that every wound had healed or every question had been answered.

Just a house.

A place with dirty walls but good bones.

A fenced yard where Mo can run and be safe.

A bedroom where I can sleep after working through the night.

A kitchen that needs work.

Rooms waiting to accumulate memories that haven't happened yet.

And maybe that is why closing day did not feel like the ending I expected.

Because it wasn't an ending.

It wasn't even the triumphant arrival I once might have needed it to be.

It was quieter than that.

I have spent much of my life learning how to survive what was handed to me.

Somewhere along the way, survival became rebuilding.

And somewhere during the rebuilding, I began making choices not simply about what I wanted to escape, but about what I wanted to create.

That is different.

The keys in my hand were not a trophy for everything I had endured.

They were permission to begin tending something.

There will be paint.

Repairs.

Furniture.

Bills.

Probably discoveries I would rather not make.

There will be mornings when the novelty has worn off and this place is simply where I live.

Good.

I think I am finally beginning to understand the holiness of simply inhabiting my life.

A dog asleep in her corner.

A refrigerator with food in it.

A door that locks behind me.

A familiar street.

A sky I will eventually recognize from season to season.

People I love coming through the door.

Quiet evenings when nothing important happens.

Ordinary life.

And one day soon, when the cat hair exorcism is complete, when the walls have been washed and the paint has dried, and the work of removing the previous owners' footprint begins giving way to leaving my own, I will move in.

Not into the house I bought.

Into the home I have begun to make.

For years, I thought transformation would announce itself.

I thought there would be a moment when I could look backward and clearly see where the old life ended and the new one began.

Maybe sometimes there is.

But sometimes transformation looks like a tired man standing in a dirty kitchen with a set of keys in his pocket, deciding what he will do with what has been placed in his hands.

No music.

No audience.

No revelation necessary.

Just the quiet recognition:

This belongs to me now.

Not only the house.

The life.

The choices.

The responsibility.

The next chapter.

All of it.

Closing day.

Funny name for it.

Because nothing closed.

Something opened.

ArchitectureOfGrief

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Explore more writing from Silent Sentinel →

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• Fun Andy Weir interview, whose books I never read. I've only watched the movie adaptations, which weren't quite my jam, but judging a film-adaptation is no way to judge an author's work. Either way, the interview is fun and inspiring and does provide some food for thought.

• The entire part 1 of COLLIDER by Warren Ellis and Jerome Eyequem, which is being serialized at Warren's Orbital Operations newsletter. Strong STALKER vibes, but clearly far more demented.

• Steven Heller on his time as art-director for EVERGREEN, a magazine that “devolved” into a paperback periodical. Didn't even know this was a thing. Somewhere in the back of my mind I've been toying with the idea of a regular paperback zine of sorts for quite a long time now.

• Kickstarter for Catherine Tedford's PAPER BULLETS: 120 Years of Political Stickers From Around the World forthcoming from PM Press, which I'm fortunate to have some work in.

• Fonts-in-Use looks at fashion designer Tania Marcial's DELIVERY collection. Hard thrift-wear aesthetic.

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More podcast note-taking today and a new plumbing issue I gotta look into, when all I'd really like to do is read and write right now. Should also start thinking about the next edition of the RESTRICTED FREQUENCY newsletter, which is supposed to go out in 4 days. Do what you love and never have to work a day in your life, they said.

#radar

So, starting a blog, or a journal as you like. How do you even do it? I am currently staring at this blank page trying to put whatever the hell is going on in my brain into words. Let me tell you, it is not easy.

Maybe I can first start with the why? Why would I do this, and why do I think anyone else will care. Well, I don't think they do. It is mostly an exercise for myself to express the “whatever the hell is going on in my brain”. I am not going to stick to a single topic, I will probably be all over the place, but I do think it's helpful for myself to write some things down. If someone else happens to like to read it, so be it. It is also not topics and things I feel like I need to hide from the public.

How many times do I need to write though? Once a day? Once a week? 500 words every post? I think it's easy to try to make some ground rules, but I also think it will hinder whatever creativity I have in myself. So, it is probably going to be quite irregular, and I am fine with that.

One thing I do believe strongly about is that I will not use any AI tools to do any of my writing, proofreading, summarizing, spell-checking or whatever it could potentially do. Sure, this will make my posts flawed when it comes to spelling and grammar, but I am also fine with that.

For today I think a simple introduction is sufficient: Hi, I am Pieter, 39 years old (shit, almost 40), and living in Berlin with my wife and son. Pretty nerdy about technology, loving music + books, and currently recovering from a not so nice burnout at work.

To whoever will read this at some point: Hi to you! Hope you enjoy all the mess I am writing down and hurling into the world. See you soon!

I had my squat primary day today and it hurts so bad during back offs. I couldn’t finish a set and then I fully stopped. I continued the rest of the program and it got so bad where it was agony even just to exist sitting down. I am honestly really disappointed because the whole reason I got a Coach was to work on this issue and have it go away, but my coach hasn’t really done anything other than saying that we’ll have to watch and see, and hasn’t changed my program at all. I feel like my program is just a cookie cutter paste that isn’t getting customized at all which I really don’t like.

On Mastodon I try to write a list of 3 good things every day. It’s such a great habit to have and I decided that, instead of attempting to update my now page, I’d make this post, wildly inspired by this post by cygnoir!

1. I’ve finished a headband in nålebinding and I love it so much! Just look at the beautiful pattern it creates. 

2. I went to Amsterdam, hitching a ride with my husband. It was SO nice to have a couple hours in the city centre. I brought the original campsnap camera along for the adventure. Will share more pictures later :)

3. I couldn’t sleep one night and decided to hand code a website. I even snagged a fancy JavaScript from somewhere so that the header, footer and navigation are automagically added to the pages.

4. I started the wardrobe switch from spring/summer to autumn/winter! Decluttered two bags of clothes in the process and still have the hanging clothes to go through.

5. Inktober started! I’m mostly following these fairytober prompts, but will go back to the official ones when I feel like it. 

And to share a doodle, here is the wonky one I made for day 4. I use a platinum desk pen with carbon ink for each one, and I doodle in my Filofax.

I share all my doodles on my mastodon account.