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The recent conversation on anime inspired me to write this review of the best one I've seen so far, not just in terms of Anime, but truly one of the best written stories I've ever seen. I often thought of it as prophetic, but looking back on it for the Nth time, I think a lot the phenomena and trends it talks about were already underway, they just didn't seem so prominent at the time, and so made a good premise for a fanciful sci-fi show.
Spoilers ahoy, although I'm not going to go beat by beat for each and every episode.
Psycho-Pass is set in a post-cyberpunk future, where Japan developed technology capable of looking into our very souls. Thanks to remote brain scans and big data analysis, a hyper-advanced computer system (often referred to by name as the Sybil System) can guide everything, from individual lives to the sociaty as a collective, towards it's optimal path. Various components of the scan form the titular Psycho-Pass (as in: passport) which determines your standing in society. We mostly see the world through the eyes of Akane Tsunemori, a young police inspector, fresh out of the academy. The first 3 episodes are a sort of "tutorial level" for her, where she learns the ropes of police work, and we get to see the basic mechanics of the Psycho-Pass, and how it affects people.
We meet Akane as she's running late for her first assignment: a normie white collar worker got flagged by a street scanner doing a "hue check" - a low resolution vibe check that gets translated into color for readability. The suspect has been determined to be doing a bit too much wrongthink, and was directed by a drone to go to therapy. Not only did he refuse to comply, he grabbed a passerby, took her for a hostage, and ran off to a ghetto full of the homeless and other undesireables. All of this is explained to us by Akane's work partner, inspector Nobuchika Ginoza. Just as he's done with the briefing, they a see a police van arrive, and the rest of the supporting cast disembarks:
The people you're about to meet cannot be considered humans like us.
Their Crime Coefficients all exceed the safety limit. They are people of bankrupt character.
Normally, they would be completely isolated as latent criminals, but they're allowed into the outside world for the sole purpose of flushing out criminals just like themselves.
They're hunting dogs. They're beasts used to hunt beasts. They're what we call “Enforcers”.
They will be your subordinates.
The Crime Coefficient is another component of the Psycho-Pass that measures an individual's propensity towards crime. It's a high resolution measure, that requires specialized hardware, and significantly more compute than a basic Hue Check, so they are not done routinely. Instead, law enforcement are the only ones handling such scanners, which conveniently come attached to a gun called a Dominator, which make the police work rather simple:
- Anyone with a Crime Coefficient below 100 is considered a law-abiding citizen, and is not a subject for any enforcement action. The trigger locks automatically when the gun is aimed at them.
- Values between 100 and 300 mean that the suspect is considered a "latent criminal", and they should be taken into custody. The gun fires in "paralyzer mode" to help facilitate this.
- Above 300 the suspect is subject to a summary execution, and the Dominator switches to "eliminator mode".
- Independently from the Crime Coefficient, there's also a "decomposer mode", which is activated when law enforcement are facing a significant threat, and really need to blast something to kingdom come.
Perhaps I should have said it's the judicial system's work that has been simplified, rather than that of the police, since the police still have to apprehend (and/or execute) criminals, while the entirety of the due process has been replaced with a Crime Coefficient scan. The system is responsive in some ways, but appears very rigid in others. On one hand, we do see update based on incoming data. When they first try to arrest the suspect, it turns out he took stimulants that countered the paralyzer. That act of defiance cost him is life, as the system responded by authorizing his execution. Similarly the hostage moves up and down the scale. First, the trauma of the entire ordeal makes her Crime Coefficient go up to the point where she's considered a latent criminal, and will placed under arrest. Then, upon witnessing the execution (which is done in a particularly gruesome way for no apparent, or explained in-universe, reason) and thinking she's next, she makes a break for it, which causes the Coefficient to go even higher, now authorizing her to be executed as well. Finally, as the resident naive newbie (and young woman), Akane insists on showing her mercy, successfully talks her down from going out in a blaze of glory, and thus the system updates once more, this time downward, and she's merely arrested.
On the other hand, everyone, with the exception of Akane, is acting like once you pass a certain threshold, your life is over. Before he's killed, the kidnapper has a little "what's the punishment for being late?" monologue explaining his actions:
Up until today, I did everything by the book. I spent my whole life walking on eggshells, trying my hardest not to upset or bother anyone.
And yet, I get flagged by one little detector and boom! They already treat me like I'm a criminal.
This is it for me.
Now that it's come to this, it's all over. I'll never be able to get a job, get married, or anything else.
Well, fine then. I've restrained myself all this time. So now, I'll just do whatever I want. I'll take whatever I want. I'll kill anyone I don't like!
You might think maybe he's just an unstable man, failing to see that the system isn't as rigid as he claims, and his life was never over, but even the hostage thinks she's boned, when she's shown her Psycho-Pass. What's more Akane's decision to go easy on the hostage is portrayed as extremely unorthodox. Everyone treats her like she's crazy, and her actions can only be justified by being naive and inexperienced. She spends a good deal of the second episode fighting doubts about her decision, and trying to justify it in the case report*. Luckily for her the hostage ends up improving after being given therapy in custody, but that outcome is implied to be so rare, that the unorthodox nature of her actions are seen as a plausible explanation for it, so she gets to claim it as a justification.
*) You might be thinking "huh, it's a rather ruthless society, if you have to justify not killing a suspect", but "the decision" in question was less about showing mercy to the hostage, and more about shooting one of the enforcers (in paralyser mode) in order to prevent him from carrying out the execution (only has himself to blame, that's what he told her to do). There's also the "blaze of glory" aspect of the situation, where Akane would be putting herself and her subordinates in danger, if things didn't go her way.
The rigidity isn't even limited to the Crime Coefficient. After the kidnapper has been dealt with, the following day Akane meets up with her friends for coffee, and in the course of the conversation it turns out that in the Psycho-Pass universe, Akane has a super-power - the power of choice. One of the blessings of the Sybil System is it's ability predict how well suited each individual is for a given job, and Akane was found to have (top!) aptitude for jobs at all thirteen ministries and agencies, and six companies. Faced with so much choice, she also faces doubts like "what is my purpose in life?" which everyone else finds extremely annoying. One of her friends does manual labor, and the other is an IT worker, and neither has any prospect of ever doing anything else in their lives. Later on she also has lunch with one of the enforcers - Shusei Kagari - who's situation is even more dire. Enforcers are nothing but convicts with aptitude for police work, and Kagari was declared a latent criminal when he was still a child. His only choice in life was to either rot in prison, or work for the Public Safety Bureau in return for better living conditions, and a sliver of freedom (enforcers can even leave the PSB compund as long as they're accompanied by an inspector).
Another one of Akane's "superpowers" that's briefly mentioned, is that her Psycho-Pass tends be good. Why that is, is initially a matter of some speculation, and finally spelled out in the later episodes, but it seems to boil down to her stoic life philosophy. In any case, she seems to be unaffected even by events that would mess other people right up, while everyone else, who isn't already a latent criminal, goes through life stressing out trying to manage their "Hue". The third episode, possibly the first mission outside of the "tutorial level" explores that - and how it can go horribly wrong - a bit more. Akane's division is assigned to investigate suspicious deaths in a drone factory. Originally all ruled accidental, their mere frequency raised suspicions. No direct evidence of foul play is found, but the investigation reveals disturbing dynamics between the workers. For security reasons the entire factory is completely cut off from the interwebs, and they have to make do with what they have around for entertainment, which is not a lot. So, as is perhaps not uncommon in male-heavy environments, the workers as a group tend to periodically pick a victim and bully the shit out of him to blow off some steam. The director of the factory is aware of this, and allows it, as it's good for collective morale. When any particular worker gets bullied too much, and their Hue gets too messed up, he rotates him out and lets another schmuck take his place. However, no one's been rotated out in quite a while, as the most recent designated whipping boy's Hue seems to periodically recover on it's own... and the times of the recovery are curiously aligned with the times of his coworkers' deaths. Plot twist! Turns out the whipping boy has been blowing off some steam of his own.
One of the fascinating aspects of the show is the blurry line between what is meant to be a statement about the impact of technology on society, and what is an allegory for how society already operates. In interviews the show's creators often hint at most of it being the latter, and it makes sense. Psycho-Pass was written in 2014, AI was still a distant dream, and many technologically mediated social trends it talks about were still in their infancy, if they even can be said to have come about at all. Information revealed in later episodes even makes it clear that the Sybil System isn't exactly an AI in-universe, and shouldn't be interpreted to be about the impact of technology on society, at least not exclusively. We'll cross that bridge when we get there, but for now, since the story is leaning in the AI direction, and since so much progress has been made in the field IRL, it's hard not to dwell on it a little bit.
I've had my fair share of rants about Rationalists and how they get AI wrong, Psycho-Pass is how I think you get it right. Stop worrying about agentic superhuman conscious intelligences, and start worrying about systems for mass surveilence and control. Worry less about existential risks coming from misalignment, and more about existential crises people will face when you sucked all humanity out of their daily lives. Remote brainscans might seem fanciful, but between SocMeds, smart watches, and smartphones, do we even need to scan brains to get something like the Sybil System? China already has their Social Credit System that doesn't seem all that different from Sybil, Europe seems like it would like to have one as well, along with a uniquely identifying digital identity, or a (state manged) digital currency And in case we do need to scan brains to get something like the Psycho-Pass, well it's not entirely out of the question. Every time I rewatch the show I end up thinking it's scary how relevant it is.
The conversation between Akane and her friends always makes me smile, because I had one eerily similar to it ages ago, with an old friend of mine facing a similar choice dillema, who ended up pining for a Sybil System to come into existence! "Wouldn't it be great", she said, "if there was a machine that could tell you what job you'd be good at, and would enjoy doing?". It's another thing that I think we're more likely to get than an AGI, and it's a good question if we really want it. The idea that people prefer to have a "human element" in a system instead of everything being decided by a machine has been a trope in sci-fi for a while, but despite being the resident Luddite, I'm starting to wonder if this is true. We're not even that far up the AI tech-tree, and I'm already hearing "but ChatGPT said..." as an argument enough times to make me want to pull my hair out. On the other hand, I'm pretty sure that it's healthier for people have such a human element, as demonstrated by the growing collective unhappiness, the more exposed to technology we become.
Other than all the food for thought, the show has some great character development. Since these are the introductory episodes there's not much to write home about yet, but here's the general run-down.
Akane is still inexperienced and is constantly wrecked with doubts, but over the course of the show we see her grow in skill and confidence. A fairly common trope in anime, but depressingly rare in western storytelling, and it ivariably makes me shake my head to think how much drama about Mary Sues we could have been spared if Hollywood copied a few notes from Japan.
Although I haven't mentioned his name yet, the other main protagonist of the show is enforcer Shinya Kogami, the poor bloke that got shot by Akane in episode 1. He's one of these dark and broody types with a quest for vengence, and set up as the counterpart for the story's main villain (to be disclosed). Though the thing I find interesting about him is his skepticism, if not quiet resentment, of the Sybil System, and how he chooses to process it (in contrast to the currently undisclosed villain).
Inspector Ginoza is dark and broody in his own way, and seemingly disdainful of the enforcers (he's the one that delivered the little speech about them not being entirely human), but it turns out his motivations are understandable, and his intentions relatively noble. We get to see some of the setup for his arc in episode 3, as Akane discovers there's some tension between him, and enforcer Tomomi Masaoka, which is apparently a touchy subject for both. It has a very moving resolution by the end of the show, but that's another bridge we'll cross when we get there. As for Masaoka, he's an "old dog" detective, with his own interesting backstory of how he became a latent criminal.
I already mentioned enforcer Kagari, he's more aloof and tends act like a goofball most of the time, but has these nice moments of depth, like his conversation with Akane that I mentioned above.
The final enforcer of the team is Yayoi Kunizuka who... well, doesn't really do that much, but gets a pretty good backstory episode later on. And last but not least is analyst Shion Karanomori a somewhat manic superhacker that supports the team back from HQ.
To be continued...
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The trip to the states was mostly uneventful, but I will document it here for posterity and to get my own head around it.
My wife and I decided to visit my hometown briefly to see my parents’ graves, and to let our boys experience a bit of where I am from, before there is no longer any reason to go back there. There barely is now, but that is another story. We left Japan on a mild but chilly Christmas day, arriving on Christmas night, and returned via Los Angeles on New Year’s Eve, though our arrival was such that in Japan on touchdown it was already January 2nd. So the day of January 1st we lost somewhere in the air. This is an account of that journey and the impressions that I got. Please opt out now if this sort of post is not your thing.
People don’t seem as fat as in previous visits. Admittedly we did not get out to Wal Mart, though Target still has the bizarre posters in the women’s clothing section that have women who are not just fairly overweight (at least by my standards), but deformed. By that I mean that at least one model had visible stretch marks and even scars from what appeared to be poorly healed abdominal injuries, possibly from a stab or bullet wound. I’m not kidding. I will admit that I just don’t get it. Compare that to your typical similar ad in Japan. In any case, apart from the advertisements, in the few restaurants we visited, people just weren’t as obese as I remember. Maybe semaglutide is doing its thing. All hail Ozempic.
So the fatness seemed reduced. Trimmed. My southern home state was overcast and gray and the trees dun-colored the whole time we were there. Not even southern gothic, more like something out of Steinbeck, enough to drive any sane person in-. Generally the weather was not as warm as I remember this time of year, though by no means freezing, with temperatures in the 50s (F). All in all it felt like something out of the film version of The Road, without the roving bands of cannibals. Maybe if I had driven to Gadsden.
Drivers drove fast. I was given a big black Chevy Tahoe by Hertz because they had no SUVs. The Chevrolet Tahoe is a large vehicle with controls in the form of a dial you twist from R to P to D to N. There is no gearshift on the column or floor. Is this a normal thing now? Dials and buttons. At least there was a steering wheel and the gas and brake pedals were as expected. It is also a large vehicle, at least for me. I felt like I was driving a computerized and de-weaponized tank. But drive it I did.
From the airport I drove us a half hour or so to my aunt’s. She scolded me for not phoning her from the airport. At her home were pictures from my past, and baubles on the shelf that I remember having been at my grandmother’s house when I was a boy. My aunt is old and frail and said she fell and can’t lift her arm above around here. She had some devilled eggs and cold ham for us, both dishes that I hate and would rather be shot than eat. I said we weren’t hungry, which was a lie. I dislike lying but apparently I am willing to do it. The next morning I made us all pancakes from some batter my aunt had, to which you just add water—no milk or eggs or anything, just water then you pour it onto butter on a hot skillet and flip, and there are your pancakes. I felt like I was eating something Captain Kirk might eat on the Enterprise. She put bacon into her oven on some sort of special grease-catching pan. “It’s healthier this way,” she said, though I have never wanted or expected bacon to have any health benefits, nor have I cared if it did. Because it’s bacon, ffs. She cooked it to hell and back and if you held up a piece it stood erect like a long, fried pig crackling instead of the floppy bacon I am now familiar with in Japan. I crunched and swallowed it down anyway. Her coffee machine had no filter. “I ran out,” she said. Somehow we made coffee anyway, but it was decaf, because of her heart. Outside she has a dog, a rescue mutt that will bite you if you offer it your hand. I heard but did not see it. Somehow she feeds it. It dislikes her boyfriend, whom her crazy daughter dislikes. I want to shake the daughter, my cousin, until, as they say, she comes to her senses. My aunt is 82 and has a boyfriend. What sort of derangement would want to deprive her of this?
The next day we said bye to my aunt and hugged her, and I drove an hour to my hometown through the overcast gray depressing weather. “Is that a dead deer?” asked my wife. It was, on the side of the road. There would be more than one, as well as other, less identifiable roadkill, but she stopped asking after the first time. Some of the road signs on the way were different, the towns having shrunk or others grown so that the relevant placenames people presumably want to turn off the exit to had changed. Once I arrived, the roads that I used to know well seem to have been diverted at key points. In one instance I was going in the opposite direction from where I had intended, on a road I thought I was familiar with. The best restaurants of my youth were all closed forever, but there seemed to be more Mexican places. The indoor mall from my childhood looked as if it had been bombed out. The new indoor mall from my teenage years we did not visit. But there is an outdoor area with lots of shops and a Planet Fitness and a large Barnes & Noble and Panera and some ramen shop called FUKU ramen, a name which amuses me. This outdoor mall-type place seems to be the new place people go. I had a poor meal at a diner there, though the mashed potatoes were good. I used my phone’s GPS to find at least one address in my own hometown, something I never used to have to do. The university is still quite striking, and the stadium has reached gargantuan proportions, though, from what I understand, college football is now fucked.
One general point of interest was that we did not have any particularly bad interactions with service personnel, which is usually something that happens almost immediately upon landing, if not in the cabin of the plane, once we have switched to an American carrier. No, this time everyone was pleasant and even efficient. Possibly because of the time of year. I was called “baby” by the first woman I interacted with at a coffee shop, but this possibly because I put on my friendly affect in my southern accent (though this was in LAX), which seemed to cause her to warm to me. I don’t mind this familiarity and in fact I welcome it. In Japan I’m treated with smiles and fawning courtesy, but as often as not this is complete tatemae and can give one a feeling of being in an episode of The Twilight Zone. Assuming anyone here knows what the hell that even means. It can be weird, that’s my point. In the US there’s more of an authenticity—I don’t expect the woman behind the counter to lend me money or ask me to dinner at her house, but I know that should I say something off-script, her reaction will be genuine. I do not know if I am getting my point across clearly. My southern cadence is also coming out.
At one point my youngest son, who had seen something on Youtube about Papa John’s (the pizza place), asked if we could get a pizza there. I said sure. It was raining and I was already tired of driving us everywhere, but there on the corner was a Papa John’s so I pulled over. I walked in and immediately saw the sign: “No walk-in orders. Online or phone only.” I asked the bespectacled, tired-looking dishwater blonde woman if that meant I could not order there. She affirmed that this was true. Playing along with this bizarre policy, I walked outside and tried to make a call. For some reason my phone wasn’t working, so my oldest son got out of the car with his iPhone, which was, and I tried to go online and order through the website. Due to the Japanese phone settings possibly, the phone would not take us to the web location we wanted. I tried calling again, and this time was met with a computerized voice instructing me to press 3. Which I did. Then it hung up on me. This story is far longer but the gist is we did not get the Papa John’s pizza.
We stayed at a friend’s house, which he now rents. Back in the day he lived in the house, and in fact it is the house in which he (a priest) married my wife and me. Now the house is professionally decorated, with original art, and, on some flat surfaces, three stacked books upon which fake plants sit. I did not like this touch—books are for reading or for being on shelves, not for supporting fake plants. But the beds were nice, and it was of course generous of him to offer us the stay.
We visited my best friend, and his father and large family for their Christmas to-do. His father is 92, and far more jovial than I remember from my youth. “Take your boys in there to my trophy room,” he suggested. I did. There were many deer antlers on the wall--racks, he called them--and a scoped rifle in a glass case. I do not know what kind of rifle. There was a bunch of food including a tray of buttered corn kernels and what I seem to remember being a tray of meatballs, which seems odd, but none of us ate because our times were all messed up still. I was offered a Miller Lite in a can and drank it gratefully even though I was about to drive us all to the airport. Because hey, such behavior is legal there. My friend’s son showed us pictures on his phone of various dead animals that he had killed over the years. In one there was a giant wild boar on the back of a truckbed, which he kept calling a pig. I was told there was a wild black bear somewhere in Alabama that was caught on some security camera in city limits. “What happened to it?” I asked. No one seemed to know.
In Houston on layover, we were stuck on the tarmac. For eight hours. Again, I am not kidding. Apparently, there was lightning in the vicinity and every time there is a lightning strike, takeoff is delayed 8 minutes. Or something like that. There was a very pretty Mexican girl in a red sweater and jeans next to me who apparently also spoke French. We talked several times over the eight hours, though I did not try to pursue extended conversation. In my younger, unmarried years, I would have. They deplaned us once, then re-planed us. They kept delaying us with excuses, and apologies. At one point the crew was replaced with a new crew, who were mildly more smiley. A very tattooed man with his cat in a cat carrier sat a few rows in front of me, but opted out of the flight when they offered, and left the plane, delaying us further. One woman was forcibly ejected for acting out, and we watched her storm out the plane door, to a fate I can only guess (staying in Houston is a good bet). Eight hours is a damn long time to sit in a plane that isn’t moving, especially when there isn’t even a terrorist with a gun or bomb keeping you there. Anyway we eventually took off (to applause, which I led) and got to LA. When I disembarked, the Mexican girl had gone ahead of me and was standing at the gate waiting for her boyfriend, and when I tried to catch her eye in hopes that maybe there would be a smile of recognition, she did not look at me. Women are interesting creatures and I love them.
In LA because of the 8-hour arrival delay when we were dropped at the Remote Rental Car place it was dark and there was no one there. Metro buses and cars whizzed by dispassionately. When I called the company I got a machine. My wife kept saying it was cold. I called our hotel, and they suggested an Uber, which we ordered, and took us about 30 minutes. The driver, a guy named Marvin, did not speak except in low murmurs but he got us where we wanted to go. We ate at Denny’s beside the hotel and I had the best burger I have had in years there. The waitress brought me a small carafe of coffee and I had four servings in a very satisfying heavy white mug, despite the hour (it was now 11:15 pm). The hotel itself was shabbier than in the photos when I had booked it, and you could look at the carpets and tell thousands of people had trod over them, probably with dirty ass shoes. But the room was roomy and the beds comfortable and the shower powerful and hot. The staff were all very friendly and helpful and female.
The next day across the street to the hotel we saw our first crazy homeless person, a man in what appeared to be velvet overalls who kept screaming at something. My sons were very interested, like whale-watchers who see their first sounding. I managed a refund from the rental and got yet another Uber (driver: Luis, born in Portugal, spent many years on fishing boats) to drive us to a new agency, where we were given a mini-Van, with more dials and buttons.
In LA we did Universal Studios. The backlot tour featured lots of old movies my sons had never seen, and the driver touted television shows I have never watched. The Harry Potter ride is the same as the one in Universal Studios Japan, but Hermione speaks English in the Hollywood version. The Jurassic World ride is splashy and made me colder than I already was. In the provided photo I have my hoodie up and am looking off camera. The lines were painfully long. I ate a hot dog and my sons had tacos with carne asada where the meat to my taste was rather gamey. When I considered buying a Griffindor necktie my wife made several comments that caused me to reconsider not only buying the tie (I did not) but also my maturity level and general life choices. We ate at Bubba Gump shrimp where the gumbo was good though my wife found it overly salty. The table next to us celebrated the birthday of a boy who had long frilly hair and whose brother was extremely ugly and also had poofy hair. Someday perhaps they will identify as female, though perhaps by then the world will refuse to acknowledge this. We were not assigned one waiter but several, which seemed odd. They all introduced themselves by name so I called them by these names, which my son thought was rude of me. My wife had a margarita at every restaurant that served them. The best, she announced, was the pineapple jalapeño one, which I tasted and it was cold and strong.
I drove us by El Coyote, the last restaurant Sharon Tate visited before she was brutally murdered in 1969 by Tex Watson and his crazy cohort. I had planned to go in and eat there, but it seemed ghoulish and I suddenly had a change of heart. I’ve always had a thing for Sharon Tate. We drove up to the Griffith Observatory which reminded me but no one else of Rebel Without a Cause. Natalie Wood died before she reached the age I am now. I remember the morning when I discovered she died—Good Morning America or whatever was announcing it as I got ready for school. I was 13, and it rattled me greatly that she was gone. I still suspect Wagner had something to do with it, that fucker. We had, at last, In and Out burgers, which I had always wanted to try. The fries were underwhelming but the burgers were fine. We walked on the Santa Monica pier which was full of foreigners speaking non-English but was otherwise exactly how I remembered it. I taught my sons the smell of marijuana, which we smelled on a continual basis the entire time we were in LA. I took a photo of Mark Hamill’s star on the walk of fame, a photo I will probably never look at again. Some guy in a terribly put together Chewbacca get-up walked past us. I bought a bright red MAGA hat off a guy on the street for my Harris-supporting friend back in Japan, because I am an asshole. When I told the guy selling the hats this, he threw in a flag of Kamala Harris for free. The man selling the hats was black, and fist-bumped me as I left. Sometimes I love America to the point I feel like weeping. I wish other Americans did. Or maybe my testosterone is waning in my age.
We heard many languages in LA. Many women had far too much plastic surgery, which, for me, is any at all. In one of many lines we stood in, a girl behind us was probably one of the most exquisitely beautiful creatures I’ve ever seen in person. Blonde hair, blue eyes, perfect teeth, a natural, unaffected beauty. She wore some sort of sweater and black yoga pants and sneakers and was with her aunt, probably. I am sometimes reminded in moments like this that really pretty blonde women have an amazing power at that age (mid-20s probably) that will fade eventually, but is mighty when and while they have it. A gift from God. What must it be like in Scandinavia, where blondes are a dime a dozen? Anyway they’d all be taller than me there. On the KTLA news the announcers were also strikingly pretty, but in a too done-up way. Like if you saw them in reality you’d think Wow you spent a lot of time getting ready. At the Lakers/Cavaliers game the Lakers lost, but Austin Reaves sunk 32 points. He looked average height from our seat but is 6’5”. My sons were happy to watch Lebron James and Rui Hachimura. Beers cost 22 dollars. Damn right I bought one.
We saw no celebrities, though my sons thought they saw a famous Japanese person in a donut shop. Speaking of doughnut shops my wife had her first “Hot Now” Krispy Kreme in my hometown. She said it was the best doughnut she had ever had and was outraged that they did not have these in Japan (the hot now versions). I remember a time before they had the Hot Now sign and you just sometimes got freshly made ones. I grew up with a Krispy Kreme next to my elementary school and used to go watch the doughnuts move on the conveyor belt through the glaze. They’re good with hot coffee and very, very sweet. I remember eating a few at a time when younger but couldn’t eat more than one now without feeling diabetes set in.
My parents graves were clean, and the gravestone legible and newish, with both their names and everything filled in. It was, again, an overcast day the day we went, but the small town had only changed slightly--many of the old two-story beautiful homes were still there, probably inherited and for some reason still maintained. I hadn’t bought any flowers as everywhere was still closed on December 26th. So I just stood there. I always wondered and dreaded, before they died, what it would be like when my parents were gone, and now I can’t help thinking that my own sons will have to lose their parents as well, meaning me, me and my wife, who hopefully will outlive me by many years. I wish for a quick death, sudden, shocking maybe but without the long drawn out heaving and gasping that was the fate of my own parents, whom I judge in my adult mind but unquestionably still loved. We are all so careless with one another, really.
There is more to this, but I’m not going to write it. Thanks for getting this far.
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The Psychiatrist Goes To a Pub
Serendipity is a grossly underrated factor in life. I've been in Small Scottish Town for about 6 months now, and trawled the local bars about as many times.
Said Small Scottish Town has had a trajectory roughly representative of the whole. All the kids fled for the Big City at the first opportunity, the High Street had seen better days if not better highs. It was kept running mostly by pensioners, and middle-aged couples returning to their roots now that they wanted kids away from the hustle and bustle of urban life. It had about a ratio of 1:2000 bars per capita, down from a ratio of closer to 1:400 that was its absolute peak before Covid culled the herd. It was pure survival of the fittest, 27 bars brought down to four, or enough of the pensioners retired from drink by virtue of death. You can't buy a new set of clothes, but you sure can get still get drunk there. This is a story of how I did.
I've been a good little boy for the duration of my stay in Scotland, and very rarely has the desire to haunt the local watering holes overtaken me. I had a shitty day at work, and the weekend beckoned, so I decided to stop by and have a drink. Perhaps two or three, as the mood took me.
I wandered up to a new pub, notable only in that a pint of Tenet's was half a pound cheaper than the last one I visited. As I approached the doors, I was greeted by a gaggle of regulars who had clearly popped out for a smoke. Notable among them were a lady who was well past inebriated and into loud drunk territory, and a bald and well-built gentleman, who if slightly past peak bouncer age, wasn't at the point it was unbelievable.
There I came, lugging a backpack full of random junk, NHS ID card flapping in the wind. I was just about to walk through the doors, when the lady accosted me and demanded that I show her my ID before I could enter.
This was eyebrow raising to say the least, the last time I was carded was back when I was 16, but I'm nothing if not long-suffering. I was just about to produce my government issued residency permit, a fancy piece of plastic that proclaimed with holographic probity that I was an alien with temporary reprieve in the nation, when she guffawed, embraced me in a bear hug, and explained that she was having me on. I laughed, and said that it's been a good while since I was asked to show ID, my haircut must have done wonders.
Piss-takes are nothing unusual to me, and this town is isolated enough that it's avoided the transition of Britain into a Multicultural Nation, exotic would just about cover the handful of Polish expats and the odd Ukrainian refugee dwelling there. My color and complexion would scream not from around these parts regardless of whatever I said, and I didn't particularly care either way. I'm just here to do my job, and potentially have a stiff drink when it's done.
I went through, relishing the temporary warmth and refuge from the chill. A pint of Tennent's please, to keep me warm and comfy in a country where the sun had just about deigned to stay visible in the sky when the clock struck five.
I'd gotten halfway through my sorely needed drink when the lady who had had a laugh at my expense came in, and took her seat at the counter. She apologized for having me on, and when it was clear I'd handled it with good humor, began grilling me about who I was and what I was up to.
I was happy enough about answering her endless queries. I'd been there for about 6 months and change. I was working in the psychiatric department of the hospital twenty minutes away, and was just about finished with that placement. She expressed surprise at the knowledge I was a doctor, but was interrupted by a friend of hers, another middle-aged lady with as many piercings and tattoos as she had years on me.
It turned out that they all had the same bug-bear, namely the lack of doctors in the area. To translate further, a lack of GPs, the steadfast and underpaid bedrock on which the NHS stands. I commiserated with her, mentioning that I could certainly empathize with her, even with collegial congeniality and pulled strings, I had faced months long wait-times for my own medical concerns, and was aware that years was the norm when it came for waiting times for things that wouldn't kill you outright.
Some more explanation followed, as I explained that no, doctors are allowed to sneak away for a drink at the end of the week, especially as I wasn't on the on-call rota for this weekend.
This was met with hearty cheers, as an eminently sensible decision. I downed my first pint in pleasant company. I would have been content to watch the game show on the telly and nurse my drink, but the lady at the door decided to strike up further conversation. I had nothing better to do, with only time spent grinding textbooks waiting for me back at home.
Eventually, the conversation took unexpected turns. Tattoo Lady revealed that she was a born-again Christian, and expounded on her conviction that there was demonic influence running in the background, which compounded existing trauma and was a likely explanation for why several of her friends had been the victims of sexual violence. Not just once, but multiple times.
This was a heavy subject, to say the least. I wisely opted for not challenging her beliefs in favor of a quick treatise on Internal Family Systems, a psychological framework for explaining mental illness that I, quite truthfully, explained believed in literal demons, unacknowleged trauma and personality shards (for a more prosaic explanation) being culpable. She helpfully drew up a PDF of an ebook she'd been planning to read on the topic, and even more helpfully, explained that she hadn't read it yet, except for the cover blurb.
At this point, Bouncer Lady wanted to know more about me and what I was up to, I explained that I was a psychiatry trainee at the hospital further down the road. She began talking about her son, a Nurse Practitioner down in London, and how overworked the poor guy was, having to hold two bleeps at night. I commiserated, and said I hoped he was holding up well. She opened his Facebook profile, and showed a picture of him to me. I quite truthfully said he was a handsome guy, and that he took after his mum in that regard.
With the bottom of her glass now visible, she went on to confide in me that he was gay. I didn't visibly react, beyond an oh, but did go on to ask if that had been difficult for him, given he'd grown up in Small Town.
She said it had, though she and her family had been nothing but supportive. He'd been bullied quite badly in school, but had pulled through and was doing much better since he went to uni. She went on to complain that he no longer told her about the men he was seeing, especially since a solicitor boyfriend had rung her up when they'd broken up, and had threatened to commit suicide if he didn't come back to him. Then came an anaesthesist, who had sounded lovely, but had worried the lady sick when she fretted about him dosing her darling boy with all kinds of knockout drugs.
I really ought not to have brought up a recent news story about an anaesthesist who had gotten into deep shit after being caught pilfering sedatives from his hospital, for the purposes of getting it on with his girlfriend.
I did however, have the sense not to divulge what I knew enough of the gay lifestyle down south, especially the fact that party poppers and all kinds of other illicit substances were commonplace. I told her that I hadn't actually met any gay doctors since coming here, but she grumbled that it seemed to her that half of them batted for the other team, at least according to her son.
She told me about the flat he had gotten a killer deal on, in London, and asked me where I was staying in town. I told her that I was renting, and that I lived with X and Y, a couple, expecting them to be recognized since the town was small enough that everyone knew everyone else.
Her face shriveled up like a prune, like she'd bitten a lemon. "They're bad people! You need to move away!"
I expressed surprise. They'd been quite nice to me, and besides, I was moving in a month or so to the big city (by local standards).
She sounded relieved to hear that, but then went on to ask me about my rent. 700 pounds a month, I said.
And what did I get for that, she asked? The front half of the property?
Nope, just a room. A large bed, a now defunct mini-fridge, a closet and a TV the size of my palm that I'd never used. She gasped in shock, and went on to explain that at the price I was paying, I could have had a whole house! She began calling over to the other denizens of the rapidly filling bar, asking them if they agreed I was being ripped off. A chorus of ayes came back.
At this point, she was drunk enough that she began saying that I was clearly a student, like her son, and it was terrible I'd been taken advantage of in that manner. I tried to explain that while I'm a trainee, I actually am a fully qualified doctor and that I do, in fact, get paid. Not as much as I'd like, but I have little in the way of expenses. These words fell on deaf (and drunk) ears.
She began offering that I move in with her, she told me she had a large house with 5 empty bedrooms, and that it was a sheer waste to have them lie empty while I paid out my arsehole elsewhere for nothing. I said that was far too kind of her, but I was locked in anyway, and would have to move.
At this point, she had another half a pint down the gullet, and began elaborating on why my landlords were bad people. Did I know they were swingers?? Had they ever propositioned me??
I reacted by straightening up, a dozen things I'd paid no need to clicking into place in my head. But no, I said, I hadn't known, and I don't think they ever asked me to join in their bed!
She sniffed, saying she was surprised. Then she asked me if I was married. I said, not yet. No kids either? Not that I know of!
Well.. Her son might well be single and coming by soonish..
Uh.. I'm straight as an arrow, last time I checked. I told her that I appreciated the offer, but I'm sure I'd be lynched by all the girls in town who languished in a state of dejection after they'd found out he was gay. She still demanded I move in, as she felt personally affronted by the violation of Scottish Hospitality that my landlords had engaged in, preying on a foreigner who hadn't known better.
I told her I hadn't had much in the way of choices, as the only other listing on Spare Room had been a dingy attic room halfway to nowhere, for 550 pounds to boot. When weighed against the competition, I felt like 700 for a property closer to the center of town wasn't too much of an ask.
I'd been bought a round of drinks, and then bought one round for the table myself. I found myself palpating Tattoo Lady's nose after she complained it always felt congested, and asked her if she'd ever been checked for a deviated nasal septum. No, came the answer, but she had poked a hole in it by doing too much coke in her teens. The grass was greener and the coke was whiter back in the day, she sighed wistfully.
In those days, the stuff wasn't cut and didn't have a decent chance of killing you. Or leaving you K-holing when you'd hoped for a quick buzz. I agreed, and revealed sotto voce that I'd once done a bit of Bolivian Nose Candy in a nightclub bathroom. I'd already been challenged on if it was alright for me to drink and vape as a doctor, and this went by uncontested. Who hasn't had a dissolute youth?
The tattooed lady said she'd been clean for decades, and tried to keep the local kids straight, not that they'd listen. She then went on to talk about her struggles with bipolar disorder, and how she felt that she was often treated in a very dismissive way by women, with particular opprobrium for the typical nosy receptionist types who demanded to know more clinical details before begrudgingly doling out an appointment, just for the sake of gossip. Remember, this is a really small town. She went on to praise a few of the local doctors, though half of them had seemingly retired by the time I came into the picture. She bemoaned the fact that these days, nobody really had the time to talk, and I tried to explain that the NHS, in its wisdom, tries to screen aggressively in an effort to avoid being overwhelmed, and the higher you go, the less time you'll have with progressively more qualified people.
At about this point, I find out that the lady who just took over tending the bar works at the local medical practice. I ask her not to divulge my drinking habits, and she winks and say she won't tell if I don't. I go on to tell tall tales about how, when I'd visited the pub close to the nearest care home, I'd almost been confident that a few of the people drinking merrily were residents with dementia who really ought not to have been consuming alcohol alongside their meds. This was mostly an exaggeration, as the only confirmed sighting was a gentleman who had been seen as an outpatient with early dementia, and his meds were only cautioned when drinking.
I made more smalltalk, enjoying a rare opportunity to observe the locals in the natural environment. I even learned a few things about cultural norms, such as how in those parts, overt displays of affection had been considered unseemly until quite recently. One of the ladies complained about how her elderly father only replied with a gruff that's nice when she told him she loved him. A shame, but the younger generations were better about these things.
I preened internally at some rather effusive praise. I was told I was a model doctor, and that the ladies had gotten a "good vibe" off me from the start, and felt they could open up. I'm not sure how much of that was due to my usual politeness and ability to seem like I was intently hanging on to every word people tell me while my mind wanders, and how much of it was the beer. But I'll take what I can get.
The lady who had offered to take me in wouldn't let up. I asked if she had a partner, experience in these parts telling me it was a more polite approach as compared to assuming someone was married. She told me her husband was a darling and wouldn't say a word if she insisted. I politely reiterated that I'd be quite happy to pay, and any sum below 700 quid was fine by me. She wouldn't hear it. I insisted that she at least talk to the gentleman, and reconsider it when sober, but this hurt her pride, and she puffed up and told me that her word was her bond, regardless of blood-alcohol content. Her tattooed friend nodded reassuringly.
At this point, she insisted it was time to go home, though her friend cajoled her to stay for another round. I snuck in the opportunity to pay for it. In response, she perked up and said that even if I didn't pay a penny, I could cover drinks and make tea as a way of paying my way. I said I was more than happy to do the former, and already was, as a small token of appreciation for letting me know how badly I was being ripped off, but as to the latter, if she expected me to cook she'd better lower her standards and be ready for food poisoning.
She assured me I couldn't be that bad, could I?
At any rate, she said she was going home, and invited me to come with, so that I could scope out "my" room. I said that the gentlemanly thing to do would be to walk her home, and I would be happy to have a word with her husband if he was in.
Along the way, she stopped at a nearby convenience store and asked if I wanted anything to drink. I demurred, but she insisted on picking something, and I said I'll have whatever she's having. There was a bit of a faff at the counter as her phone's contactless payment app asked her to scan her face first, something she was too far gone to manage. I was about to pull up my own card when she figured something out, and I grabbed the bag loaded with wine and soft drinks. It was evident that cashiers were well accustomed to handling the drunk and rowdy, I asked if another Indian I'd met there still worked at the place, but was informed he'd moved to Spain. Lucky bugger.
We went the same route I'd normally take, her house was just a street over. It's a good thing I came along, because she was far from steady on her feet. Along the way, she said something that explained her distaste for my current hosts better than just her dislike of their lifestyle could. It turned out that my landlord's brother had knocked up her sister, and that her family had been embroiled in a lawsuit to establish paternity. This had been before quick and easy DNA testing, and they hadn't been able to win. The father's family had never accepted the kid, but he was older than me now and doing perfectly fine for himself. The rest of the walk was otherwise uneventful, barring her rehashing previous conversation while drunk to the gills.
We came to her property, which I must say is lovely. She let us in, and I was greeted by a small shih tzu, wagging its tail away as I scratched him under the chin. She called over and asked if liked dogs.
Love them, I said. And it's absolutely true, though my preference leans towards larger breeds. This one seemed nice, if yappy, and was happy to do laps around his mistress while she called it all kinds of incredibly derogatory names in a most endearing fashion.
She showed me around, introducing my putative sleeping space with the same enthusiasm as a stage magician or the show runner in a Monty Hall problem. It wasn't terrible, nary a goat nor a super car in sight. A little cramped, but for the price of free this beggar isn't choosy. I was offered the run of the place, though if my present habits are any precedent, I hardly come out of my room.
She produced a bottle of wine and began pouring us a glass each. I asked her where her husband was, and she said he was down the street, visiting his mother, who wasn't doing too well. She tried calling him, but he didn't pick up, so she ended up FaceTiming another woman.
A quick recap followed, and when she turned the phone over to me, I genuinely thought I was talking to her daughter and asked the same. She laughed, saying she was her best friend, but I could tell she was pleased. Accidental flattery will get you anywhere, I say.
She had some kind of role in the educational system, and expressed her frustration at the severe issues she ran into trying to get several kids assessed for learning difficulties. I mentioned that I had ADHD myself, and part of my interest in psychiatry arose from a desire to help out people in a similar boat. I explained that it had taken me three months to get assessed even with other medical professionals pulling strings out of collegiality, but that it dismayed me that kids could go years and grades without assessment and much needed help.
At this point, my would-be host asked if we'd like to step outside for a smoke. I accepted a cigarette, too drunk to particularly hold myself to my usual abstinence, and we went out into their large, but dimly lit garden. She had music playing, and I began to feel growing consternation as she began dancing with me, drawing my hand to her waist and then tugging it lower. She was drunk enough that I didn't face much issue in carefully avoiding it, and once cigarettes burned out, came back in her wake, making sure to close the doors and keep the draft out.
She excused herself, and ran to the toilet and proceeded to relieve herself with the door open. This was awkward, to say the least, and I settled for standing a good distance away and politely pretending I didn't hear her coughing either. I eventually got concerned enough that I asked if she was okay, and was told she was fine, it's just that cigarettes hadn't agreed with her.
She came out, properly dressed, thank god. She asked me if I'd like a coffee, and I agreed, but insisted on making it for the two of us. At this point in time, her phone rang, and I could hear her husband on the other end, saying he was walking home.
I'd just about finished up the coffee when he came in, heralded by the dog's barks, and didn't seem too surprised by my presence. I believe that at some point she'd mentioned that they'd had a guest over. I introduced myself, and he seemed like a decent sort, turning out to be a manager of several offshore oil rigs.
She revealed that she ran a wedding boutique, one I'd walked past while on my way to my last haircut. I take back what I said about purchasing clothing not being an option in Small Scottish Town, at least if you're a bride-to-be.
I apologized for the rather irregular situation, explaining that while I greatly appreciated the kindness his wife had offered me, I felt that I couldn't take advantage of her in her current state, and certainly not without running it by the other relevant stakeholder, her husband (the dog seemed pleased with my company). He seemed entirely fine with it, or at least was too polite to tell me to scram. I guess his wife did have a point about him going along with her suggestions.
His wife interrupted my excuses by saying that it was fine, she wasn't just bringing someone in from the street, was she?
I pointed out that she had, in fact, brought me in from the street. This was duly ignored as a mere technicality unworthy of undermining the spirit of her claim.
At any rate, I think I had been polite enough while trying to decline the offer, and said I'd give the two of them time to think it over. I assured them that there would be absolutely no hard feelings if they changed their mind, and I would probably figure something out in terms of a place to live regardless. If I'd been paying 700 a month for this long, it was clearly within my budget.
I walked back home, and that was that. I probably might take them up on it, assuming that the passage of time and the elimination of liquor doesn't prompt second thoughts on their end.
Inside, I was more than a tad bit thankful that four pints hadn't addled my senses, and that her husband hadn't walked in to find us in flagrante delicto, not that I had been interested.
Nice people, the Scots, and at their best when you and they have comparable amounts of alcohol in your system.
Posting the full text from a recent article on my Substack, about Internal Family Systems, the idea of integrating different parts of ourselves, and the classical Christian conception of demonic influence. Can't figure out how to paste images so... might be a tad confusing. Sorry!
I made a post on twitter about how the negative voice in the head can be considered “demonic” and man, it was polarizing!
(text): When I first started realizing that the "negative voice in my head" was demonic in origin, it was pretty terrifying
As I've gotten more used to the idea though, it's actually extremely helpful! Not identifying with that voice is crucial to positive growth
Ultimately a lot of people just said the basic “yup” but quite a few folks that I respected chimed in to tell me that no actually, this voice was “me.” Thinking it’s demonic is stupid and wrong:
And most of the language used to rebut me was, of course psychological in nature:
I'm sorry but this is a terrible idea. Firstly because it isn't true. Secondly you're doing the same thing that people do when they set up some kind of discrimination between their ego and their heart or their thoughts and their feelings or whatever mental apartheid; all of these will from then on impede their thoughts from thinking together as a team. Because all that is neuronal activities, mental events, all of the same type and they can work together better if they realize this. And I didn't see how an extra helping of manichean supernaturalism is going to do anything except make it worse.
It’s fascinating to me because I do think modern psychology has made great strides. Personally I’ve benefited quite a bit from various psychological frameworks, especially a focus on loving emotions, not shaming them, and learning to feel the things we shove down.
loving those voices vs demonising them may be more effective.
you can lovingly release them into light . vs struggle of resistance
Which is why I’m frustrated that Delia here is basically telling me that I’m wrong because I’m not loving myself enough!
Perhaps the best way to frame this issue is that there are two major religious worldviews clashing here: that of the Christian, and that of the Psychological.
The ‘Self’ as a Recent Invention
The modern idea of the ‘Self’ as we currently understand it is likely quite new, historically speaking. Threading back to the Greek polymaths Socrates, Plato and Aristotle, there’s a line often drawn between their ideas, the Renaissance, and the Enlightenment, where the rational part of humanity slowly grows larger, and the individual, rational, atomized self becomes ascendant in the modern world.
If you want to look into this further, I recommend The Dream of Enlightenment: The Rise of Modern Philosophy by Anthony Gottlieb.
Of course given that this change in worldviews all happened in Western Europe, it means that the Psychological view has many elements that are quite reminiscent of (Western) Christianity, such as dividing everything into ‘good’ versus ‘sinful’, especially people!
In the psychological worldview, the valence is just switched where ‘good’ becomes ‘healthy’ or ‘functional’ and ‘sinful’ becomes ‘unhealthy’ or ‘dysfunctional.’
When you have this framework, anything that turns you ‘against yourself’ is ‘unhealthy.’ We should strive to be fully integrated beings, loving every part of ourselves.
Except this sort of mental exercise requires a LOT of gymnastics to get it to actually work. Like, for instance, let’s say there’s a part of me that wants to smack a friend in the face. I could take the approach of saying “oh ok, that’s just a part of me that is hurt and it lashing out, I should love that anger because it just wants to protect me.”
On the flip side, I could say “no this is an evil temptation, striking my brother in anger is wrong, and I will refuse the call of the Evil One.”
Both of these paths are valid, and in my opinion useful in different scenarios. Sometimes you will find it useful to go down the path of your past trauma, analyze why your emotions are reacting the way they are, and try and “solve” whatever part of you is triggered.
Other times, this process will just lead you through a funhouse hall of mirrors, where you constantly analyze and re-analyze every tiny change in emotion, sift through all your memories for anything with the slightest hint of similarity, and drive yourself mad trying to cobble together some just-so story that explains your “trauma.”
In the latter case, it’s better to just say it’s demonic, and move on. If anything, it’s a far more practical way to live your life.
Part of the problem with the Psychological mindset is that, similar to the Protestant mindset, every new generation feels the need to reinvent the wheel. You can’t just use the concepts Freud, Jung, Reich, and the other early psychologists did, you have to create an entirely new paradigm!
Seriously - mainstream psychology has, just in my lifetime, gone from Cognitive Behavior Therapy being flavor of the month, to Dialectical Behavioral Therapy, to Exposure Therapy, to Emotion-Focused Therapy, to Internal Family Systems… etc etc.
To put it more succinctly:
When you’re constantly reinventing words and concepts like this, it stalls out overall progress in the field. Not only that, it makes it hard for different generations to relate to each other because their terminology is changed.
I can read a Saint from over a thousand years ago talking about the temptations of demons, and understand what he or she means, at least to some degree. I highly doubt psychologists that far out will make any sense whatsoever.
So Why Demons?
Well, let me link you a great book review from Scott Alexander on the IFS book, The Others Within Us. The TL;DR is:
What I gather from the manuals: IFS is about working with “parts”. You treat your mind as containing a Self - a sort of perfect angelic intellect without any flaws or mental illnesses - and various Parts - little sub-minds with their own agendas who can sometimes occlude or overwhelm the Self. During therapy, you talk to the Parts, learn their motives, and bargain with them.
…The second assumption is that everything inside your mind is part of you, and everything inside your mind is good. You might think of [a negative part] as some kind of hostile interloper, ruining your relationships with people you love. But actually she’s a part of your unconscious, which you have in some sense willed into existence, looking out for your best interests. You neither can nor should fight her. If you try to excise her, you will psychically wound yourself. Instead, you should bargain with her the same way you would with any other friend or loved one, until either she convinces you that relationships are bad, or you and the therapist together convince her that they aren’t. This is one of the pillars of classical IFS.
The secret is: no, actually some of these things are literal demons.
Now ironically, I actually think this framing is TOO strong! The Orthodox Christian framing doesn’t tend to see demons as this extremely powerful, terrifying force that must be avoided at all costs. In fact, as St. Porphyrios says:
Show contempt for the devil. Don’t meet him head on. When you struggle against the devil with obstinacy, he flies at you like a tiger or a wild cat... Don’t look at evil. Turn your eyes to God’s embrace and fall into His arms and continue on your way.
Just because demons are real, doesn’t mean we should focus on them and fear them. Doing so is a mistake. At the same time, the psychological worldview is not sufficient for all the strange things that can go on in our minds. Sometimes the thing whispering in your ear really isn’t you. And pretending it is can make you crazy.
Not every impulse needs to be analyzed, integrated, or lovingly massaged into wholeness. Some things you’re safe to look at, say “this isn’t Good,” and promptly ignore them.
That’s the thing, calling these thoughts demonic ideally isn’t about fear or hatred, towards yourself or even the demon. It’s about clarity & practicality. It’s about denying evil the ability to worm its way inside your head, and pretend to be you.
Again, the core problem critics of this view of inner voices as demons seem to have is that you’ll be “turning against yourself.” I just want to clarify strongly, that is NOT my position. We should not be afraid of the depths of our souls, or feel we are turning against and having to crush a part of us. Living in fear is not the way, and hating ourselves is not the way either.
I’ll leave you with the words of a beautifully pious holy man, St. John Chrysostom, who says it better than I ever could myself:
Why do you fear the Devil, O Christians? He cannot force you to do anything. The Devil should, rather, fear you, not you the Devil, for you are clad in the armor and panoply of God; you have as a sling the sign of the Precious Cross, with which, and from a distance, you can smite all of the demons; you wield, as a two-edged sword, the Name of our Lord Jesus Christ, which the demons fear and at which they tremble.
Thanks for reading me ramble about demons. If you want more, you know what to do.
This is effectively a reply to @Corvos at https://www.themotte.org/post/1829/tinker-tuesday-for-april-8-2025/316753?context=8#context , but I invite anyone to discuss the topic.
Ask me anything. I love talking about this subject but rarely have the opportunity.
How long ago did you get started?
I started in 2013, and was very active until the lockdown and my subsequent life changes put me out of commission. When I started out, it was basically five core guys reading a medieval manuscript in a university hallway and trying to do what it said with nylon swords. By 2020, we were one of Germany's top clubs, with dozens of members, a proper gym, several courses and a very good tournament track record. I was mostly just along for the ride while others did the heavy lifting, though I like to think that I contributed to that growth, a little. The club, while occasionally dabbling in other weapons systems (dagger, sickle, half-pike, sword and buckler) and eventually establishing a recurring grappling class and a permanent rapier class, mostly teaches longsword, and that mostly based on the Liechtenauer system as documented by Peter von Danzig. We occasionally took a look at other styles as well, but mostly stuck to this, though in latter years the focus transitioned from historical reconstruction to maximizing tournament-effectiveness. I don't have as much as insight into what happened since 2020, or rather since the lockdowns were lifted, but from the looks of it it's been going steady since. If anything the mood seems a little worse than it used to; I feel there's not as much of outright joy and camraderie on display as used to be, but that might just be my own grumpiness coloring my perception. Nowadays I very rarely make it to regular practice, low single-digits per year, since it's an almost 2h drive both ways, and the practice sessions are late in the evening and I'm more of an early bird. Weekend events are more convenient, but somehow there are fewer instructive events than there used to be in my larger area. Tournaments still exist though, and I do like those. I'm just entirely out of shape, and growing old, on top of never having been all that good to begin with.
What do you practice?
Mostly longsword. I tried to get more into rapier, which is reportedly the preferred weapon for old men, but one lucky day I managed to break my thumb and my rapier and since then that's been on ice. The rapier-fencing, I mean - the thumb is fine by now. I used to just do absolutely everything and had lots of fun, but that's just not possible with my severely reduced practice time, so by now it's all longsword. Obviously I started out with the formally correct Liechtenauer style the club in general leaned on, learning the correct stances, master-strikes, infighting techniques, and I think I can say I achieved an acceptable level of technical proficiency across a wide spectrum of skills, though I never quite built up the physical fitness to leverage them properly.
Liechtenauer, compared to Meyer, the style we most love to disrespect, is less flashy and more energy-efficient, and relies more on geometry and less on psychology. You learn a handful master-strikes that efficiently threaten or hit the enemy while preventing him from striking you directly, and the rest is mostly learning which of those techniques to use in a given situation. You can even condense it down further; one very successful fencer (top 5 globally at the time) once told me that he pretty much just practices one strike and one thrust and applying those skillfully enough covers all his needs. So as long as you can avoid becoming too predictable, I think you needn't stress yourself about obtaining an encyclopedic knowledge of dozens of highly situational techniques with hard-to-memorize German names.
Nowadays, being a lot weaker yet and having unreliable knees and a propensity for injury on top, I try to compensate for my physical inadequacy with a more defensive style: Always keep the sword between me and my opponent, keep the range open, use strikes very sparingly and try to go for thrusts from the bind instead. I like to fight from the left, point forward, which takes several powerful striking options off the table for my opponent, so that they have a harder time just battering through my guard. And defensively that works; I can often work out an opening...but fail to exploit it because I lack the explosiveness to generate forward momentum on demand. Something to work on; just plain physical exercise would do me good.
Any tips/advice?
The following will be colored by my tournament-centric view. Obviously it's also possible to just enjoy the archaeological aspects, or the methodical technical exercise, but I mostly speak as someone who wants to go to tournaments and perform as well as possible.
In no particular order:
- Ignore any clubs or schools that don't have their people go to tournaments.
- Gear is expensive. If your club doesn't have any to borrow, you'll be looking at 500€-1000€ for a set of protective equipment and a Federschwert (steel practice sword). When you get a sword, make sure it suits your build - not too short, not too long - and that it complies with your regional tournament regulations.
- Dry technical practice and instruction are valuable for learning the basics. Don't ignore it early on, you need to get the foundational knowledge, skills and vocabulary from somewhere. But over time it will become less important, as you need to find your own way.
- Outright drill - repeating the same motions over and over - is great for increasing the quickness and reliability with which you deliver a specific technique, but it's effectively an isolation exercise and should not occupy the majority of your practice time.
- On the other hand, don't neglect relaxed, playful sparring. At 100% pressure, you'll stick to what you know. With less pressure, you can experiment. It pays to spend some time trying new things.
- Throw yourself into sparring fights and then tournaments as early as possible. Don't get stuck in endless dry practice sessions thinking you aren't good enough. You never will be, if you don't go out and get your mistakes highlighted by adversarial competition.
- HEMA is overall very woke. Ignore it though - it's superficial. Once you get into the competitive scene, nobody takes that seriously anymore. And have a laugh whenever women go into mixed-gender tournaments. Hell, let me tell you about the one time I fought a pregnant woman...
- Everyone fights differently. There is no standard HEMA fighter, not even within clubs or schools, and there is no singular example to aspire to. You too will need to find ways of fighting that suit your personality, build, weapon of choice, the opponent you face, and whatever other factors come into play.
- Don't waste your practice time chatting. If you need information, then get it and immediately get back to practice. There will be social events at other times.
- That said, talk to more experienced people, as often as possible before and after practice. Don't stick to the kiddie pool, get with the big boys. There's too much ignorant pseudobabble at the entry level.
- Most beginners quit. It's normal. Don't assume that this reflects poorly on a club.
- If your club isn't a commercial school, take over responsibilities to keep it running as soon as possible. Somebody's got to do it.
- Visit other clubs as often as you can. Swim in as many different kinds of water as possible.
- More practice, no matter whether technical, drill, sparring or competition, is always better. The more you do, the better you'll get. Take every opportunity you can.
- When you get hurt in a fight, fight on if you can by any means. If you aren't used to getting repeatedly bruised and battered, any injury will feel much worse than it is.
- The judge is always right. Make your peace with it.
- There is no substitute for physical fitness.
This thread is for anyone working on personal projects to share their progress, and hold themselves somewhat accountable to a group of peers.
Post your project, your progress from last week, and what you hope to accomplish this week.
If you want to be pinged with a reminder asking about your project, let me know, and I'll harass you each week until you cancel the service
Imagine a scenario where a young woman, with an undergraduate degree in economics from the U.S., secures a medical doctorate (MD) from China’s top medical institution without prior medical training or rigorous entrance examinations. She then proceeds to perform surgeries at a national hospital. Her doctoral thesis spans merely 30 pages, allegedly incorporates data from a hearing-impaired student, and her family holds prominent positions across China’s scientific community.
What if I told you that a girl who studied economics in the U.S., with no prior medical background and minimal entrance exams, obtained an MD from China’s top medical school in just four years and went on to perform surgeries at a national hospital?
And what if I added that her thesis was only 30 pages long, her experimental data came from a hearing-impaired student, and her family held numerous high-ranking positions in China’s scientific community?
The story began with a whistleblower letter from Gu, the ex-wife of Dr. Xiao Fei (hereafter referred to as “Xiao”), a physician at China-Japan Friendship Hospital. In her letter, Gu accused Xiao of extramarital affairs with several hospital staff members, including a training resident named Dong Xiying (hereafter “Dong”). Beyond the personal scandals, the letter highlighted a significant medical incident.
On July 5, 2024, at 3:17 PM, during a thoracoscopic lobectomy under general anesthesia, Dong made an error in passing surgical instruments (reportedly handing over the thoracoscopic forceps in the wrong orientation). A nurse pointed out the mistake, leading Dong to remove her sterile gloves and exit the operating room in an emotional state. Xiao, the attending surgeon, also left the OR, leaving the patient exposed without medical supervision for over 40 minutes.
This incident quickly gained traction online, drawing attention to Dong’s educational background and career trajectory, which left many in the Chinese internet community feeling disillusioned and perplexed.
How did Dong secure a position at the prestigious China-Japan Friendship Hospital?
She entered through the “4+4 Program” at Peking Union Medical College (PUMC), China’s premier medical institution. This program allows students to pursue a non-medical undergraduate degree for four years, followed by four years of medical education at PUMC, culminating in an MD. Unlike traditional medical paths in China, which require five years of undergraduate medical study followed by three years of postgraduate training, this program was designed to attract interdisciplinary talent.
However, several aspects of Dong’s admission have raised concerns:
1.Academic Background: Dong transferred from a community college to Barnard College, majoring in economics. Due to Barnard’s affiliation with Columbia University and a loophole in China’s Ministry of Education’s system, her degree was registered as a Columbia University degree.
2.Admission Process: In 2019, the year Dong applied, the 4+4 Program’s selection process involved only document review and expert interviews, with no written examinations. Admission criteria included:
•Graduation from a university ranked in the top 50 globally by QS or Times Higher Education.
•A GPA of at least 3.60 or ranking in the top 30% of the class.
3.Family Background: Dong’s family holds significant positions in China’s scientific and academic circles:
•Grandfather: Dong Baowei, Director of Ultrasound at the PLA General Hospital. •Maternal Grandfather: Mi Yaorong, Foreign Academician of the Chinese Academy of Engineering.
•Father: Dong Xiaohui, General Manager and Deputy Party Secretary of China Metallurgical Construction Research Institute.
•Mother: Mi Zhenli, Deputy Director of the Institute of Engineering Technology at the University of Science and Technology Beijing.
•Uncle: Mi Zhenqiang, Associate Professor in the Department of Communication Engineering at the same university.
•Aunt: Ban Xiaojuan, Professor and Doctoral Supervisor at the University of Science and Technology Beijing.
4.Thesis Controversy: Dong’s doctoral thesis was only 30 pages long. It was alleged that she used data provided by Zhao Jihuai, a hearing-impaired student mentored by her aunt. Zhao’s graduation was reportedly delayed by a year due to this. This situation is seen as emblematic of systemic exploitation, where the labor of lower-tier researchers is appropriated to bolster the academic credentials of elite offspring.
Following these revelations, several other students from the 4+4 Program were found to have gained admission through familial connections, including at least six individuals directly related to prominent professors, mentors, or academicians.
Why did this incident spark widespread public outrage?
1.Erosion of Meritocracy: China’s university admission system is notoriously competitive, with the “Gaokao” (National College Entrance Examination) serving as the primary pathway to higher education. In 2025, it’s projected that 14 million students will take the Gaokao, but only about 4.5 million will secure undergraduate placements, leaving approximately 9 million without a spot. The 4+4 Program’s design allows certain students to bypass this rigorous process through overseas degrees and expert recommendations, undermining the perceived fairness of the system. For many, the Gaokao represents the most equitable opportunity for social mobility—a belief deeply ingrained in the collective psyche.
2.Trust in the Medical Profession: Doctors in China are held in high esteem, entrusted with both moral and technical responsibilities. Beijing’s PUMC Hospital is often seen as a last resort for patients. Discovering that some surgeons may have advanced through nepotistic channels, rather than merit, shakes public confidence in the healthcare system.
Personal Reflection:
A quote from the anime character Ai Haibara resonates deeply: “The son of a politician becomes a politician, the son of a banker becomes a banker. At this rate, Japan will never change.” This sentiment mirrors the current reality. While I was aware of the potential for class solidification in China, I didn’t anticipate it happening so swiftly. It’s been only 47 years since the 11th Central Committee’s Third Plenary Session marked the end of the Cultural Revolution.
Previously, terms like “academic nepotism” were abstract concepts, hinted at by trusted adults or buried in official jargon and social media gossip. This incident is the first time I’ve truly seen and understood how these elements interconnect to form a systemic structure.
Note: The English translation of this post was assisted by ChatGPT-4o. If you have differing opinions or perspectives, please feel free to discuss them with me. If you find my viewpoints naive or immature, I’m open to dialogue.Appreciate that a lot. <3
Sources: • Xian Xiaomeng: https://weibo.com/6154203482/5160907391108257 • Han Jiashu: https://weibo.com/6154203482/5161155836775000 • Chai Yuanhao: https://weibo.com/6154203482/5161145581961241 • Jin Shanmu: https://weibo.com/6154203482/5160858884249534 • Sheng Xicheng: https://weibo.com/6154203482/5160925682468181 • Qiu Yuchong: https://weibo.com/6154203482/5161120588106331
https://weibo.com/6154203482/5161284081288399 https://weibo.com/6154203482/5160520346505406
The next day, we start off with a Yechuan-style breakfast with the party member aunt. I'm not quite sure how to differentiate it from other styles; the food is starting to blur together. Too much new stuff all at once. I don't even crave Western food exactly; what I miss is the Western-style meal structure where I pick personal choices and eat them all myself. This might be less the case if I were more able to participate in conversations. The Chinese style is way more conducive to talking while eating, which is why meals last for at least an hour.
Every meal is a kind of frantic context-switching between grabbing food off the lazy Susan, responding to toasts, and talking with neighbors or the whole group. Somehow, aunties universally find time in this frenzy to insist you eat more, invariably when what's available to grab is jellied duck tongue or intestines. I power through, though. They mean well, and it's more a lack of hunger after spending six hours a day at a meal table than the food being unpalatable. My wife is understandably pretty exhausted, and the translations come less frequently. My sister-in-law is picking up some of the slack.
Next, we stop by the Nanjing Museum. Not too much to say about the museum itself. If you've been to a museum, then you can guess what to expect. My sister-in-law and I got the English digital audio tour, everyone else Chinese. The voice is text-to-speech and quiet but good enough. I use this time to relax a bit; it's been nonstop all week. One thing I'll mention is that mainland Chinese people are comfortable bumping into each other and having very little personal space. The museum is packed, and you'd never get near any exhibit if you weren't comfortable with boxing people in or being boxed in.
After the museum, it's lunch again. This time, the baijiu is a green bean variety. We're seated next to a cousin who was at MIL's grandpa's ceremony. I didn't have an opportunity to talk to him much then. He's a few years older than us. He reportedly was TikTok famous for workout videos and now sells used cars through TikTok. According to him, the Chinese used car market is only about 20 years old, and there are big counterfeit and fraud issues.
After lunch, we head to the Confucius Temple. One shouldn't confuse this with a Confucius temple, which may have something to do with Confucianism. This is a very large shopping and amusement district. Supposedly, at one point, it also contained the red light district. My wife spent the first eight years of her life before moving to the US a few blocks from here. MIL claims she took her through the shopping district every evening to calm her down before bed.
We take a quick detour to Laodongmen, or the Old East Gate, at her parents' insistence. It's much the same market-type district as the Confucius Temple, but the architecture is from the Ming and Qing dynasties, and they go to great lengths to keep it that way. Everything is ornate dark wood or carved stone. The storefronts are impressive, but the merchandise is not very compelling. It's all the same baubles from Yu Gardens, and this is much the same as we get back to the Confucius Temple area.
We run into kids in the same uniform as the top school in China again at the market, furthering doubt that this isn't some universal high school uniform. The party member aunt independently confirms their identity as the number one school. It starts to rain, and there is some confusion about what our actual plan is. The party member aunt has some connections, and it's not clear we've actually paid for any of the attractions we've been to since arriving in Nanjing. We take separate lines, plausibly for lack of Chinese ID.
After the sun sets and some confusion, we end up in a museum dedicated to keju, or the merit-based test originally established during the Sui Dynasty circa 600 AD, which spiritually survives today in the form of the gaokao that consumes the childhoods of many Chinese people. There was a small section dedicated to the military version established a century later, where a man would need to pass several tests, including archery and the ability to deadlift a stone. They had some stone examples available, but to my disappointment, there were no opportunities to try or even a standardized weight listed.
The test apparently was originally a series of essays written over three days. I only got vague answers as to what the actual questions were—something about understanding Confucius' ideas or writing about proper government structures. But when asked how cheating and corruption were combated, answers came readily. Your essay was to be transcribed by an official before being judged to prevent handwriting from being used to allow bribes. It was administered every three years in tiers, starting locally and then finishing in the imperial exam, in which only 300 people got top marks.
FIL answered a question I'm sure many have had: What's up with those weird hats with wings on either side? He claims it's to keep officials from being able to whisper to each other in secret, making it one of the earliest pieces of anti-encryption technology. The Chinese surveillance state has deep roots.
After we finish the exhibit, we go straight to another. This one is a lantern festival at the actual Confucius Temple. My wife's feet are hurting, so she sits down, and I wander about without translation aid. There's not much to say about the lanterns; they're impressive in large numbers but really just paper or cloth over lights—very similar vibes to a Christmas light display.
We don't stay long, and next up is a boat tour on the river. It's nice, and there are some displays about a drunken poet that normally I'd be amused by. There were huge advertisements for some baijiu that nearly entirely obscured one statue of him. But we're a little burnt out on sightseeing at this point. My wife recounts a quote by her mother that after a proper trip, one should collapse in misery at the end of the day, and I'm starting to think she wasn't exaggerating.
The boat tour ends at 10 p.m., and we were told to expect a light dinner. So we spend a mere two hours in a nearby restaurant. No baijiu, fortunately. The next day, her parents are going back to visit both grandmas, giving our generation a free day.
We plan to hike Zijin Mountain, the same one with those mausoleums, with Syracuse and his technically-not-girlfriend. She pulls up in a green Jeep analogue with "TANK" written on the back in block letters. She brought her dog Dan-Dan, or Egg-Egg, a one-year-old English Sheepdog. Despite all these signs, she seems to get along well with our nerdy cousin. The two gifts he got her were makeup, which was a mistake. It's an understandable mistake—girls use a lot of makeup, and it can be expensive. Boys, buying a girl makeup is like her trying to buy you a video game without consulting you or having any idea what makes a game good or in your tastes. Just don't do it. She's merely annoyed with him.
The hike up is relatively uneventful; the path is nearly deserted. Hiking doesn't seem as popular in China as other activities. At the top, we stop for KFC. They have hamburgers and grilled chicken but no actual fried chicken—a sad state of affairs that may have cost them their lives in the States, but it is still crowded. The burgers were... weird, kind of loose and almost wet.
On the hike down, we talk about what to do for the evening. I suggest goinf to a Chinese bar, pub, or basically any Chinese drinking establishment that isn't a club. These are probably not the right people to ask but the suggestion turns into a plan. Syracuse has never seen the inside of a bar anywhere, and his girl acquaintance doesn't seem to understand the question. But nothing else is suggested and no one comes up with anything better.
Dinner is another lazy Susan with Cantonese-style roast duck and a birthday cake for Syracuse, as he'll turn 29 American and 30 Chinese the next day. In China, you come out at one year old. He makes a wish, and the girl says she already knows what it is: to finish his PhD. He comes back with, "That is one of my three wishes." From the reaction, he won the exchange. Chinese people generally think everything in America is too sweet, and their cakes tend to be lighter and covered in fruit.
After dinner, we reiterate anything but a club. We make our way to a place they found online. It's up an elevator, and as soon as we arrive, we confirm that it is indeed a club. Without a reservation, they only have a back table with a 1,500 yuan cover. I might have been willing to eat the cover even though we only planned to be out an hour or two, but even the waitstaff is giving me the stink eye.
We make our exit, and part of me wants to just cut and hang out at the hotel, but they're committed. We end up finding our way to a James Bond-inspired cocktail bar with a vibe that I would describe as schizophrenic. The lights are dim with what seems to be essentially a random playlist of Western songs that go from upbeat country to emo while The Big Bang Theory, subtitled in Chinese, plays on the back wall. Despite the relative clown-show nature of the bar, the bartenders could not be more serious, adopting severe expressions and using exclusively the English names of the cocktails. I don't think it was representative of the Nanjing drinking scene, but I approve of it nonetheless.
After we get into our first round, the mood improves. My wife tells stories of her patients. We find out Chinese working people get practically no paid time off—five days a year to start—but are able to take unpaid time off without too much hassle and have longer holidays.
We have to be up early for our train back to Shanghai the next morning, so we head back to the hotel at midnight. The parents have retrieved a few more gifts for us while we were out. We now have a thick silk quilt with a long list of prohibitions that are surprisingly similar to how one should treat a Mogwai in order to avoid creating a gremlin, along with a number of trinkets and a pair of little red books. I'd have preferred to find them myself but accept the help.
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I just found this place and it almost feels like an internet version of a toastmasters club which is kinda fun. I have a rather unexciting job that gives me hours to fill in the day so I figured I will spend the end of my shift here talking about a thing I am passionate about, and if I don't get chased out with Pitchforks maybe I'll do it again sometime. I did not grow up in an Outdoorsy household my Dad used to say he did enough sleeping outside in the Army before I was born so I suppose it is a little odd that from a young age I have always had an interest and passion for all things outdoors. Hunting, Fishing, Shooting, and camping are all things that I love. I am not particularly sure where it came from maybe I watched Jeremiah Johnson at too young of an age I am unsure.
Anyways the one I do know specifically for a fact where I learned it from is my passion for Antique firearms, as a teenager I was very active in the Boy Scouts and worked on the Rifle Range teaching merit badges every summer. The man who ran the range was a hobbyist with muzzle loaders and had a few Hawken rifles he built from kits. The thunderous whoosh and smoke a 50 cal Hawken makes was mesmerizing from the first time I saw it. He also cast his own bullets for it a concept I had never even thought was possible at 14 it amazed me that someone could make something like that themselves without the help of anyone else. He taught me everything one needed to get started, how to load, how to shoot, how to cast bullets, I was hooked then and there. A few years later I was able to pick up a 1861 Springfield rifle like those issued in the Civil War.
What I think the really satisfying part of shooting old firearms is that you really sort of are on your own. Yes there are a few places that may sell Burton Balls or Paper Cartridges still you will absolutely pay through the nose for them so if you are to shoot anything more than once a year on your birthday you better learn quickly how to do it yourself. I think it really forces you to get a better understanding for how efficient our modern world really is too, if I want to load and shoot 40 rounds in my musket it will take me the majority of a afternoon between melting lead, cutting paper, melting beeswax, and rolling them up to get them set. If you want to shoot your AR-15 you can grab two 20 round boxes and be on your way. Another thing about them is they will humble you and they will do it quickly it's about the only thing about an old muzzle-loader that is fast sure you might be able to stack rounds all day with a .270 at 150 yards but try it with a old caplock. I think this is fun because it forces you to really slow down and learn to become a better shooter there really is nothing like it I would say. Shooting them really does feel like bringing something back from the dead in a way. There was a time when the best of the best could muster 3 shots a minute on a man size target it almost seems like a tall tale anymore like Paul Bunyan but once upon a time it meant you were one of the deadliest in the world.
I regularly shoot matches with some of these old warhorses it normally does not lead to many laps in victory lane as I am simply outgunned but there is nothing more fun than taking a rifle last issued when Garfield was president out to the range, and who knows you might even have the occasional upset. I suppose I will close in saying that if you find yourself bored this weekend try and get out there and make some smoke I bet you'll like it.
We arrive at Slender West Lake. It's a kind of garden carefully designed so that every few steps there is a scenic vista. The story goes that the park was owned or managed or something by a salt merchant and the park was visited by the emperor. The emperor liked the park but commented it would be better if he could see the White Tower from within it. The white tower is a famous tower in Beijing. Over the next night, the salt merchant had a miniature white tower constructed out of salt to the delight of the emperor. It was later reconstructed with proper materials. Pillars of salt are poor choices for long-term construction, as Coldplay once noted in their seminal work, "Viva la Vida." The emperor in question was Qianlong, known for having the largest harem and nearly the longest reign. He would have had the longest reign had he not resigned and passed on the post in order not to take the title from his grandfather, whom he respected.
The park is quite nice and seems unknown or unreachable by Western tourists, as I saw zero non-Chinese people. At first, I was surprised to see so many women in traditional garb getting their pictures taken until we passed the shop renting out the outfits and selling photo shoots.
The other ubiquitous guests were many groups of around 20 high school-aged kids in matching tracksuits. These were the school uniforms of what I was informed was the top high school in all of China. A field trip. I'm a little skeptical of the claim, but the others insisted it was true that the school in question had the highest standardized test scores in the country. Top school or not, the kids were all over the park. Later, each group had a large sheet of paper and seemed to be doing a collaborative watercoloring assignment.
We brought MIL's grandmother along and borrowed a wheelchair where able. There is no Chinese with Disabilities Act, and nearly nothing is designed to accommodate wheelchairs. Many places, especially historical places, have a practice where thresholds are intentionally about a foot off the ground. It's bad luck to step on the elevated threshold, as one should get over and not dwell on their problems, or something. If possible, one should avoid being disabled in China.
Fortunately, Grandmother can handle even stairs on foot given a little help, so we could navigate her around the park well enough. There's a steep and narrow bridge called the 24 Bridge because it has 24 posts and 24 maidens danced on it or something; also, it's 24 meters long. I'm not totally sure this wasn't all made up on the spot, but it's definitely called the 24 Bridge. That was on a sign in English, so it must be the case. We got Grandmother to the top of this bridge, which is maybe 2 meters wide and flat for a meter. Of course, we need to take a picture here on this high-traffic bridge. Somehow, the people around us accommodate this madness, and we get the shot.
MIL has a kind of insistent energy when traveling that drives my wife a little crazy in too high of doses. She likes to maximize every moment of a trip. Take a picture here, move on to the next place to take a picture, repeat. Even resting is done in a kind of purposeful way, explicitly to prepare for the next action. I have a rather opposite approach but appreciate that with her, we cover a lot more ground.
The sun goes down as we reach the end of the park, and it's time to head to dinner. Today is the simplest meal yet. We stop by Grandma's apartment and drop off my sister-in-law, who has a headache, and then just walk around the block, past a small group of locals just hanging out and a new conveniently located grocery store, to a hole-in-the-wall that looked from the outside as much like a restaurant as a crafts space. The walls were plain, and supplies were stored next to the tables. It's just the four of us; Grandma and Uncle left. I'm not sure how ordering worked; we're the only ones in the place, and they just start bringing out dishes to place on the lazy Susan.
If my wife wrote this, the log out would be about 60% descriptions of food. I'd write more about it, but the descriptions themselves are fairly vague. There were meatballs in a kind of brothy soup, fish in a sauce covered in a local corn, the good kind of intestines (my wife has strong feelings on this subject), the standard Chinese chicken where the meat is cut such that you must fight and nibble around bones for every bite, along with a few local vegetable dishes.
I grew up a picky eater but have gradually overcome that status and have resolved to eat almost anything my wife eats on this trip. Still, when I plucked the chicken head from the plate, I passed it over to her; she appreciates it more than I possibly can. Willingness to try anything had garnered me some goodwill among the extended family. I even tried "stinky tofu" at the FIL's grandma's place that even my wife didn't eat. I don't recommend it; it may actually be a prank, like when someone from Chicago convinces an out-of-towner to drink Malört. If it was, then they were committed to the bit, going back in for seconds. Then again, some of my city fellows swear by the terrible liquor. FIL actually liked Malört when he tried it.
After dinner, Uncle drives us back to our hotel. He talks about how he's been driving for fifty years. When he was young, delivery driving was a great career in China. The government would train you up, and there was always work. He had driven big trucks, chemicals, and during one war or the other, cannons. He was almost sent to Vietnam, but fortunately, instead, they sent him elsewhere during the war to guard against the Soviets. It seems there wasn't a lot of trust between the two countries during the time, and China feared there might be trouble.
It is insisted that we are ready to be picked up by precisely 7:15 a.m. the next morning. This won't be a problem; we've been waking up at 5 a.m. at the latest. My inclination to sleep in when able is still less powerful than the jet lag. But the reasoning—that we're going to get picked up, ride the 5 minutes to Grandma's, eat breakfast, and leave by 7:30—sounds very optimistic. We've not yet completed a meal in less than an hour and a half.
It's 7:45 the next morning; my wife is splitting our third pastry as Auntie taps a hard-boiled egg on the table to peel. There are all sorts of Chinese breakfast pastries. The fried dough sticks are my favorite and come in sweet or savory variants. Also on offer are fried balls stuffed with a sweet bean paste and covered in sesame seeds, something like hash browns but using gelatinous rice, and finally, a flaky thing meant to be eaten with congee (a type of rice soup that is the single most common breakfast offering) that I can best describe as flaky pizza crust filled with a slim layer of buttery sweet spread. The car is packed, and we leave at 8.
We drop off our bags at a downtown Nanjing hotel where we'll stay for the next three days and head to the Zhongshan Mausoleum. Or as I might call it, Mount Nanjing Government History. But first, a brief overview of recent Chinese history according to FIL:
First, the dude the whole park is named after, Sun Yat-sen, establishes the Republic of China (ROC) by uniting the people of China against the Qing dynasty. It lasted for like 4 seconds before the warlords were like, "Nah, bruh, we want to control fiefs actually," and as they had most of the military power, the nascent ROC got rocked, maybe got rocked twice, possibly three times. Sun Yat-sen then goes and establishes a military school, finds allies in Russia, the US, and all freedom-loving Chinese farmers. Then WW2 happens, and the Japanese come into the picture. Everyone hates that. There's a three-way bloodbath for a while. The ROC + commies + Americans + farmers were led by a Chiang Kai-shek. Eventually, the Japanese and warlords lose, and the major question of whether to make an American (really more British in practice) style democracy or a more Soviet-style state is the next big topic. This is resolved by "look over there!" /hand-waving motion/ oh look, the CPC runs the mainland, and the ROC runs Taiwan, and both claim to run the whole thing, great.
We board a long golf cart. Along with us is the Syracuse grad student who likes Shadow Hart, an auntie, and two younger biology grad students that I'm not sure how we're connected to.
The first stop is the home of Chiang Kai-shek, the second ROC leader. It's very Western-styled inside. There is a small chapel. His wife, a Soong sister, is Christian. There's also a small 6-person barracks in the basement. The two slept in separate beds, which was apparently common at the time for wealthy people in China.
There's a whole exhibit on the three Soong sisters. Another one married Sun Yat-sen. They were all born in China but educated in the US. All throughout the park, I'm struck by how often there are connections to America mentioned. Roughly a third of the plaques in the park have English translations on them. I still don't see any Westerners all day, but I appreciate the accommodation.
We board our golf cart again and take a break from history to visit a cherry blossom garden. We are fortunate enough to be here while they were blossoming. The blossoms are white and come down in waves whenever the wind blows. These ones were gifts from a sister city in Japan. If you've seen cherry blossoms in anime it's basically like that.
While we were taking our pictures, we learn of Syracuse grad's lady troubles as he is distracted by her texts. He's seeing but not official with a girl set up through a family friend. She has an upcoming ski trip in Japan during her birthday and is upset that he plans to give her a gift after the trip rather than before it. We pry for details and learn that she is something like a medical sales rep. We'll be introduced to her later in the week.
Back in the golf cart and next stop is the mausoleum of the first Ming emperor. I'm beginning to notice that there aren't a lot of golf carts as we zoom past gates. I'd find out later that the two grad students in the party were justifying a VIP package. Everyone in the cart besides me and FIL has or is pursuing a PhD. MIL runs a research lab, and these two grad students were potential collaborators or something, so some grant or another is paying for this ride.
There's not too much to say here; the Ming dynasty started in the 1300s and is known for simple and less ostentatious rule. The tomb itself is buried somewhere and hasn't been opened. There is or was an order of hereditary guards to protect his tomb that still live in the area today. On the way back to the VIP-mobile, we stop and get some drinks. It's almost 90 degrees out, and we could use a cool-down. The rest of the group gets ice cream, my wife opting for a corn-flavored treat. I get a Coke Zero. Syracuse informed me that in China, Coke is called "happy drink for fat people," fair enough.
Next is lunch at the Buddhist temple. It's all vegetarian "monk noodles." Basically like if those big ramen bowls from anime had spaghetti in them along with soft tofu, mushrooms, an egg, and a few other veggies. Good and pretty cheap at 28 yuan for the premium bowl.
Hunger satisfied, we check out the Buddhist temple. The first shrine is the shrine of wealth, which doubles, appropriately, as the gift shop. There's something almost pure about a literal shrine to wealth. No circumlocutions here; you want wealth? Say no more, we've got just the place for you. Also, can I interest you in little Buddha statues? Although the girl manning the register isn't doing a good job selling the merchandise, slumped over snoozing on a display.
We stopped by the fertility shrine to have a word with that Buddha in particular, left a yuan coin on the rooster shrine that represents our zodiac, and said hi to a pale white cat that Syracuse says is always napping in the same position every time he's been here. Maybe the most zen creature in the whole temple. Finally, we visit the jewel of the temple. In a cool stone cavern beneath the main shrine is a piece of the cremains (what remains after cremation) of Tang Sanzang, the main character in "Journey to the West" who traveled to India to retrieve the original Buddhist texts. The remains are stored within an intricate golden miniature structure.
Having seen enough, it's time to return to the electric chariot. There is a 9-story pagoda, essentially a Chinese tower, that we stop in to get a good view of Nanjing.
Walking up all those steps turned out to be a preview as our final destination was the mausoleum of Sun Yat-sen. It's a huge structure, and you need to walk many steps up to the tomb. The steps supposedly represent the further effort needed by the people to complete the revolution. At the top, we pick up some lemonade and waters. Hydration has been a major struggle. The Chinese seem to broadly not care for water that isn't boiled and infused with herbs. Up at the top, though, they have the rare ice-cold water. I cherish the cold liquid, reminded of home.
MIL is very impressed with the scale of the structure, noting only emperors and kings had mausoleums this grand. I can't help but think that wasn't what Yat-sen was going for. There is something about the Chinese worldview that is still hard for my American brain to grok. They speak about ROC and CPC much the same as they speak of the Ming and Qing. Yat-sen may as well have been an emperor. We're living through another era in a long history. Of course, I have a very small and biased view into the Chinese mindset.
There's an exhibit after we finish at the mausoleum going through Sun Yat-sen's life. I'm not going to tell it better than Wikipedia. We're pretty exhausted; it's been a bit of a death march.
We have one last ride to the exit and walk to a restaurant located between a small lake and the imposing wall of Nanjing. This dinner is attended by a family friend who is also the boss of someone else in the family. His kid is studying in the US, a junior in college getting ready to apply for med school. My wife advises him on the process and will probably review his son's application. We drink through the two bottles of moutai he brought. During dinner we learn that Syracuse has come to a resolution with his not quite girlfriend that after the trip is fine but she expects two gifts.
We leave the restaurant feeling good. The temperature is dropping down to tolerable levels, and we walk a short distance to a bus stop, which we take back to the hotel.
This weekly roundup thread is intended for all culture war posts. 'Culture war' is vaguely defined, but it basically means controversial issues that fall along set tribal lines. Arguments over culture war issues generate a lot of heat and little light, and few deeply entrenched people ever change their minds. This thread is for voicing opinions and analyzing the state of the discussion while trying to optimize for light over heat.
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This made me reflect that I hadn't actually thought critically about the phrase (at least, commensurate to how often it's used). For fun, if you think the purpose of a system is what it does, write what you think that means, before reading Scott's critique, then write if you've updated your opinion. For example:
(Spoilers go between two sets of "||")
Transnational Thursday is a thread for people to discuss international news, foreign policy or international relations history. Feel free as well to drop in with coverage of countries you’re interested in, talk about ongoing dynamics like the wars in Israel or Ukraine, or even just whatever you’re reading.
Transnational Thursday is a thread for people to discuss international news, foreign policy or international relations history. Feel free as well to drop in with coverage of countries you’re interested in, talk about ongoing dynamics like the wars in Israel or Ukraine, or even just whatever you’re reading.
Transnational Thursday is a thread for people to discuss international news, foreign policy or international relations history. Feel free as well to drop in with coverage of countries you’re interested in, talk about ongoing dynamics like the wars in Israel or Ukraine, or even just whatever you’re reading.
The Wednesday Wellness threads are meant to encourage users to ask for and provide advice and motivation to improve their lives. It isn't intended as a 'containment thread' and any content which could go here could instead be posted in its own thread. You could post:
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Requests for advice and / or encouragement. On basically any topic and for any scale of problem.
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Updates to let us know how you are doing. This provides valuable feedback on past advice / encouragement and will hopefully make people feel a little more motivated to follow through. If you want to be reminded to post your update, see the post titled 'update reminders', below.
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Encouragement. Probably best directed at specific users, but if you feel like just encouraging people in general I don't think anyone is going to object. I don't think I really need to say this, but just to be clear; encouragement should have a generally positive tone and not shame people (if people feel that shame might be an effective tool for motivating people, please discuss this so we can form a group consensus on how to use it rather than just trying it).
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Post your project, your progress from last week, and what you hope to accomplish this week.
If you want to be pinged with a reminder asking about your project, let me know, and I'll harass you each week until you cancel the service
So there's an Australian federal election today (the polls in the Eastern states close in 20 minutes), and apparently we have top-level posts for Five Eyes federal elections.
So, here's a top-level post for the Australian federal election. Polls are predicting a Labour landslide (thanks Obama Trump, we really needed all that friendly fire), but we live in the age of Shy Tories so one can never be 100% sure.
I just voted; below the line all the way (I would have voted above the line, except for the whole "I like the Nationals a lot more than the Liberals" thing), and I didn't even get to eat democracy sausage afterward. So now I'm cranky and miserable, though that might also be because I've been up for 24 hours or so.
One Nation didn't actually show up at the polling place I went to, which was odd; they did last time, though it moved a few streets over.
I think I voted lower on the Libertarian Party than I otherwise would have due to not realising they were the Liberal Democrats and/or vaguely recalling something about a joint ticket with Clive Palmer. Whoops.
I rate myself as like a 3/10 on engagement this election; I'm usually more active about pushing civil defence, even if it's basically yelling at a brick wall.
This weekly roundup thread is intended for all culture war posts. 'Culture war' is vaguely defined, but it basically means controversial issues that fall along set tribal lines. Arguments over culture war issues generate a lot of heat and little light, and few deeply entrenched people ever change their minds. This thread is for voicing opinions and analyzing the state of the discussion while trying to optimize for light over heat.
Optimistically, we think that engaging with people you disagree with is worth your time, and so is being nice! Pessimistically, there are many dynamics that can lead discussions on Culture War topics to become unproductive. There's a human tendency to divide along tribal lines, praising your ingroup and vilifying your outgroup - and if you think you find it easy to criticize your ingroup, then it may be that your outgroup is not who you think it is. Extremists with opposing positions can feed off each other, highlighting each other's worst points to justify their own angry rhetoric, which becomes in turn a new example of bad behavior for the other side to highlight.
We would like to avoid these negative dynamics. Accordingly, we ask that you do not use this thread for waging the Culture War. Examples of waging the Culture War:
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Shaming.
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Attempting to 'build consensus' or enforce ideological conformity.
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Making sweeping generalizations to vilify a group you dislike.
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Recruiting for a cause.
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Posting links that could be summarized as 'Boo outgroup!' Basically, if your content is 'Can you believe what Those People did this week?' then you should either refrain from posting, or do some very patient work to contextualize and/or steel-man the relevant viewpoint.
In general, you should argue to understand, not to win. This thread is not territory to be claimed by one group or another; indeed, the aim is to have many different viewpoints represented here. Thus, we also ask that you follow some guidelines:
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Speak plainly. Avoid sarcasm and mockery. When disagreeing with someone, state your objections explicitly.
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Be as precise and charitable as you can. Don't paraphrase unflatteringly.
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On an ad hoc basis, the mods will try to compile a list of the best posts/comments from the previous week, posted in Quality Contribution threads and archived at /r/TheThread. You may nominate a comment for this list by clicking on 'report' at the bottom of the post and typing 'Actually a quality contribution' as the report reason.