Now, Taylor didn't just hand over money to a previously thought-to-be scammer. After some back and forth, Taylor learned the man, Joel, did in fact live in Liberia and was reaching out to people for help with business advice. Ben Taylor decided to dig a little deeper into a suspected scammer that contacted him, but instead of just doing a Google search, Taylor responded to the man. But not every email in your spam folder is from someone attempting to scam you.Īt least that's what one man discovered. The scams are intricate and sophisticated, often savvy enough to fool someone who has grown up with the internet. Just about everyone gets those scam emails, whether it's a Nigerian prince promising you hundreds of thousands of dollars if you just send him money first or someone asking you to click a link to claim a prize you didn't actually win. Had to flip the cassette." – CrunchyTeaTime That's before continual playback machines existed. Having the first side be tempting enough that they'd flip the other side to continue listening. People who make digital recordings do not have to worry about 'running out of tape.' How about making cassette-based mix tapes, trying to figure out to the second, how many and which types of songs in which order, that would still fit perfectly on the length of tape per side. "Haha yeah and trying to tell others so they don't make random noise or knock on the door. "'Shut up, shut up, shut up!!! I'm trying to record my song!!!'" – tearsonurcheek Trying to make sure to not get the DJ/presenter talking sh-t or an ad" – Gankstajam And they will never, ever know the frustration of the DJ yapping right up until the lyrics start. I don't think kids these days fully grasp how revolutionary Spotify and the like are for those of us who spent hours in front of the radio with our cassette tape recorder queued up at just the right spot waiting for the song we wanted to record to come one. The art of the mixed tape-especially from the radio IA Stories is an account where "TV/Film workers share stories about our work environments to build solidarity across crews/crafts." Hader directed every episode of the recently released 4th and final season of the critically-acclaimed show. It should also give hope to anyone interested in working in film that not all sets are toxic.Īn anonymous post on the IA (International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees) Stories Instagram account said that Bill Hader was a true professional who cared about people working on their set, no matter their job. But does it have to be?Īn anonymous employee from the set of HBO's “Barry” has some refreshing news that’ll delight anyone who’s a fan of the show created by its star, Bill Hader, and Alex Berg. This type of behavior feels like a given in a high-pressure creative field with a lot of egos and money on the line. You can fuck all the rest.It’s common to hear anonymous dispatches about Hollywood sets where an actor or director created a toxic environment for the cast and crew. To become zealous, indecent, as we bleed out at sunrise. (What worries me most about the absolute is that it has no depth, but is all surface.) We need to scribble an x on the walls of our collective resurrection. The scene reminds me of Landscape of a Man Killed by a Snake, but, on further reflection, the verses seem more intimately bound up with the Koran as read by Malcolm. As Césaire knew-only too well-modern revolt needs a black clarity of vision.)Īs for the wonder communicated by metaphor-I have spent many mornings watching a monkey open a cowrie shell. What matters most is not invention, force or calculation, but what it means to suffer the fate of failure, and to learn from it. Indeed, I’ve been destroyed so many times my probationer, in anger and disgust, had to void each letter so as to weigh down what is meant by free on appeal. The following notes were written in prison, under forced labour, that is, in the dismal intervals and caesuras in which, to proclaim my virtue, I had to consent to being bludgeoned to death by pigs. In these wee early hours, know that it has become very hard for me to tell apart the odds on fornication from a staggering, and at times quite foolish, feeling of abjection as such, my sex might as well have been written down in algebra columns. Be a mirror to these movements of bourgeois frustration. O my thousand delicate microaggressions, bound up with a hunger I can never grasp. I’m making a fetish of everyone dead, my electrons black with heat and sound. And every time I listen to your poetry, nausea becomes a river in me in which I swim naked, dispossessed. O these bonds packed with zeroes-harmony, grief, regrets.
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