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Volkswagen unveils the I.D., a long-range electric car due in 2020

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Within the first few weeks of Volkswagen's diesel shenanigans becoming public knowledge, the company's board decided that electrification would have to be the way of the future. And earlier this year, the company got more concrete about those plans, forecasting that 20 to 25 percent of its sales in 2025 would be electric vehicles. While we'd already seen veiled production EV concepts stalking horses for production EVs from Audi and Porsche, at the Paris Motor Show on Wednesday VW  the company revealed the I.D. concept, a battery electric vehicle that VW says will go into production in 2020.

The I.D. features a 125kW motor, batteries battery pack, good for 250 to 375 miles' range (400 to 600km) according to VW, and it's the first car to use VW Group's Modular Electric Drive (MEB) platform. (The Audi e-tron and Porsche Mission-e concepts linked above both predate MEB.) The I.D. will be launched as a model parallel to VW's very successful Golf, and the dimensions look roughly similar based on the provided images of the car.

VW also tells us that the car is our first look at the marque's plans for autonomous driving. A self-driving mode will apparently be available from 2025, and when in automated mode, the steering wheel recesses into the dash.

Read on Ars Technica | Comments

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glenn
23 hours ago
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Then in 2025 it's discovered that VW adjusted the odometer settings so you were actually only getting 150 miles per charge
Waterloo, Canada
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Tycho’s 2016 Burning Man DJ set

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An unexpected gift from Tycho this morning; he just uploaded this year’s installment of his annual Burning Man sunrise set. Check out the sets from last year and 2014 as well.

Tags: music   Tycho
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glenn
2 days ago
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So good
Waterloo, Canada
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YES "UNFATHOMABLE" IS A PUN, OF COURSE IT IS

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archive - contact - sexy exciting merchandise - search - about
September 26th, 2016next

September 26th, 2016: This is real science facts!! We HAVE revised our species estimate downwards lately, because we've seen less biodiversity there than we expected. ALMOST AS IF SOMETHING IS KEEPING THE LIFE THERE IN CHECK, PERHAPS THROUGH DARK MEANS??? SCIENCE LITERALLY CANNOT SAY

– Ryan

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glenn
3 days ago
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The ocean: delicious nightmares without end
Waterloo, Canada
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The Day I Became a Bird: A Tender Illustrated Parable of Falling in Love and Learning to Unmask Our True Selves

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Imaginative assurance that we are worthy of love just as we are.


The Day I Became a Bird: A Tender Illustrated Parable of Falling in Love and Learning to Unmask Our True Selves

In what remains the greatest definition of love, Tom Stoppard described the real thing as “knowledge of each other, not of the flesh but through the flesh, knowledge of self, the real him, the real her, in extremis, the mask slipped from the face.” And yet the grandest paradox of love — the source of its necessary frustration, the root of the inescapable lover’s sulk — is our insistence on crafting and putting on ever more elaborate masks under the mistaken belief that these idealized selves, presented to the object of our infatuation, would render us more desirable and worthier of love. We tuck our messy real selves behind polished veneers, orchestrate grand gestures, and perform various psychoemotional acrobatics driven by the illusion that love is something we must earn by what we do, rather than something that comes to us unbidden simply for who we are.

The deconditioning of that dangerous delusion is what French children’s book author Ingrid Chabbert and Spanish artist Guridi explore with imaginative subtlety in The Day I Became a Bird (public library).

The protagonist of this minimalist, maximally expressive story is a tenderhearted little boy who falls in love for the first time the day he starts school.

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Because love always sneaks in through the backdoor of our awareness before it makes a home in the heart, not until a few pages into the book do we find out that the object of his affection is a classmate named Sylvia — a passionate bird enthusiast who seems to only have eyes for feathered creatures.

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In order to gain her attention, the little boy decides to construct a costume, a sort of enormous mask that would transform him into a bird — a giant, trembling, clumsy bird incapable of flight, which is surely how one feels when faced with unrequited love. Still, enveloped by the shiny feathers, he feels handsome — he feels worthier of Sylvia’s attention and affection than in his own creaturely self.

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The costume makes the daily duties of his school life even more awkward — other kids stare and snicker in the classroom, soccer is a struggle, tree-climbing a physical impossibility, and rain makes for a soggy nightmare.

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And then, one afternoon, Sylvia notices him. They come face to face and their eyes meet — her eyes meet his, that is, and not the masks’s. For what is love if not the gift of being seen for who one is?

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Sylvia steps closer to me and takes off my costume.

I don’t know what to do.

My heart is beating a hundred miles an hour.

In the sky, I see a flock of birds take flight.

Sylvia puts her arms around me.

I stand perfectly still. I can’t think.

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Complement the immeasurably wonderful The Day I Became a Bird with The Lion and the Bird, a very different but equally tender and touching parable of relationships, and The Conference of Birds, an illustrated story of belonging based on an ancient Sufi poem.

Illustrations courtesy of Kids Can Press; photographs by Maria Popova


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glenn
3 days ago
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Waterloo, Canada
marmalade
3 days ago
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Sussex, UK
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The Four Donald Trumps You Meet On Earth

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Donald Trump has said repugnant, insulting things about women—over and over and over again—for as long as he’s been in the public eye. He has called various women crazy, flat-chested, pigs. He refers to them as “pieces of ass.” He said pumping breast milk was “disgusting.”

“Women,” he told New York magazine in 1992. “You have to treat them like shit.”

Trump’s misogyny is shocking because it’s so brazen, but it’s infuriating because it’s so familiar. Chances are, if you’re a woman in 2016, you’ve heard it all before.

* * *

The first time you meet Donald Trump, he’s an older male relative who smells like cigarettes and asks when you are going to lose that weight. You’re nine years old. Your parents have to go out and buy a bottle of vodka for him before he arrives. His name is Dick. No, really, it is. At dinner one night, he explains to you that black people are dangerous. “If you turn around, they’ll put a knife in your back.” Except Bill Cosby. “He’s one of the good ones.” Turns out he’s wrong about Cosby and everything else, but the statute of limitations on Dick’s existence on Earth will run out before that information is widely available.

The next time you meet Donald Trump you’re in high school. You’re on the Academic Decathlon team because those are the kinds of extracurriculars a nerd like you gets down with. Model U.N., Thespians, Scholar Quiz, getting those good report cards with no boyfriends anywhere, girl! The teacher who’s volunteered to cover the Lit portion of the Decathlon is also the tennis coach, and he’s going over Ezra Pound’s poem, “Portrait d’une Femme,” with you and your teammates. He’s the first person who looks at you a certain way that will happen again and again for the rest of your life, as if he simultaneously can’t see you and would like to kill you. He tells you the woman in the poem is “clearly a prostitute;” which is very, very wrong.  You explain to him that this part…

Your mind and you are our Sargasso Sea,

     London has swept about you this score years

And bright ships left you this or that in fee:

     Ideas, old gossip, oddments of all things,

Strange spars of knowledge and dimmed wares of price.

…doesn’t mean that men literally pay her. Sure, she’s someone stuck in a time when she can have nothing of her own; someone who assembles her life from the odd bits she collects from others, choosing a catch-all existence over a suffocating marriage—made second-rate perhaps by her time, not by her self—but the “fee” doesn’t mean she is being paid for sex. He tells you that you just don’t get it. What he doesn’t get is that she’s a person. He is aging and bald and enjoys saying “whore” to a roomful of children. A few years later, he gets fired for having sex with a student. Him? Him. Of course him.

The next time you meet Donald Trump, he’s your boss. Well, he’s your boss’s boss. A vice president in marketing who seemingly literally cannot stop talking. He’s on his third wife, and that’ll be over in a few years. He can’t believe your mother is his age. He thinks you are friends. He asks you if you’ve changed your hair every time he sees you. Sometimes during meetings he’ll turn away and open a magazine while someone is presenting. One time he comes to a halt in the middle of his own sentence to stare at a woman’s boobs for somewhere from seven to 27 uncomfortable seconds. (It’s hard to gauge time accurately during a truly aggressive boob-stare.) When he finally gets fired years later, his HR file as fat as a pig knuckle, the rumor is he’s caught stealing his own office furniture on the weekend. They don’t even stop him. They just let him go. It’s like the building itself sighs with relief.

And then you get out of your more corporate job and become a television comedy writer on a good show, a show that keeps going. You go from staff writer to producer to co-executive producer in the space of seven years. You work with your sister, which is like a dream, and your co-workers are cool, and your boss is very, very cool. It’s almost as if the fact that you’re a woman doesn’t matter at all. At all. It’s like you finally escaped.

The Trumps are vanquished. They’re dead, or arrested, or fired, sobbing quietly into their stolen office furniture, wondering where it all went.

But then, it starts happening. The actual Trump—the real Donald Trump—starts making a bunch of noise about the birth certificate of a black man. It’s racist. It’s so racist. But it’s just background noise. Then he starts winning in the primaries. You say “no fucking way,” under your breath a lot when you read the headlines.

There he is, implying that people of color are dangerous, that women are whores, that you just don’t get it, opening a magazine while someone else is talking. There he is, all the worst people you ever had to meet, and tolerate, and fight, or at least ignore. There is the villain at the end of the horror movie rising up again with his knife and you are like: “This motherfucker again? No way, I’m tired.”

And it makes you deranged, like almost actually deranged. You engage his followers on Twitter for awhile and then decide to just tweet fart sounds at them because arguing with them is pointless. They think there is actually a discussion to be had about whether racism is okay.

You can’t believe these people and you can’t believe this guy, Donald Trump. It makes you insane to look at him, to see that look on his face that you’ve seen before when he talks about women who aren’t supermodels. When he talks about black people, or Mexicans, like he simultaneously can’t see them and wants to kill them.

And then you write a tweet about how Donald Trump is making you a loon because you’ve had to deal with him over and over again in your life, and someone from The Atlantic asks you to write a personal essay about it. You don’t write essays, you write fart jokes, but you give it a try. You write it in second person, which is a kind of writing that you are pretty sure people look down on, but screw it, you’re old now, and you’ve got money in the bank and kids and you are too tired to care what anybody thinks about your second-person narrative voice. “Who cares what readers of The Atlantic think about my second-person narrative voice,” you whisper to your cats, while secretly deeply caring.

Screw it because you aren’t that lady in that poem whom Ezra Pound can only see as a collecting bin for dribs and drabs left by men. You’ve got money and a job. You made yourself. All those other Trumps are dead, or fired, or pleaded no contest to the charge of sex with a minor, or all of the above. Because they are disasters. (Hell, even Ezra Pound wound up in an open-air cage because he was an anti-Semite and fascist sympathizer.)

Hillary’s still ahead in the polls and she looks like a comer. You bought a house in the Valley with your own dough where you found the exoskeleton of a praying mantis in the yard this morning and placed it in a Tupperware for safekeeping. An artifact, an old skin.

“There’s no one like him,” people say, “He’s unprecedented.” Maybe so, but I swear I’ve been dealing with this douchebag all my life, and let me tell you something: It doesn’t end well for him.

Because black people aren’t dangerous, and because their lives matter; because not every woman is a prostitute; and honestly because that furniture just isn’t yours, dude. The world is always watching, and you can’t get away with it forever. Go ahead and slip out of your skin into a different form. We’ll fight you again, then. Go ahead.

And by the way, Dick, if you’re reading this from Ghostville, I never lost that weight, Bill Cosby is an alleged serial rapist, and Hillary Clinton will be the next president of the United States.

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glenn
4 days ago
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“There’s no one like him,” people say, “He’s unprecedented.” Maybe so, but I swear I’ve been dealing with this douchebag all my life, and let me tell you something: It doesn’t end well for him.
Waterloo, Canada
superiphi
4 days ago
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Idle, Bradford, United Kingdom
tingham
4 days ago
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Cary, NC
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jhamill
7 hours ago
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Fuck Donald Trump
California

Oculus Rift inventor Palmer Luckey is funding Trump’s racist meme machine

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(credit: Tony Webster)

The stream of racist, sexist, and economically illiterate memes appearing in support of Donald Trump during this years' interminable American presidential election are being bankrolled in part by the 24-year-old inventor of Oculus Rift.

Palmer Luckey, who came into a personal fortune worth $700 million (£535 million) when his VR headset firm was bought out by Facebook, has admitted to resourcing an unofficial pro-Trump political non-profit called Nimble America that's powering the tsunami of unsavoury Pepes and white supremacist image macros that have plagued Reddit.

According to research by the Daily Beast, Luckey is intimately involved with the group, and with r/The_Donald, the subreddit community that acts as a partially comprehensible ground zero for endless election-related memes. Posting with the handle “NimbleRichMan,” the Oculus founder seems to have participated in a brief, now-deleted attempt to fund-raise from the group, which has fortunately been preserved by the Google cache. Various posts pertaining to the group on Reddit have latterly disappeared, according to the Beast.

In its launch post, Nimble America said it had proved that “shitposting is powerful and meme magic is real,” continuing:

We believe that America has been lead by poor leaders who have abandoned American principles and sold out all Americans. With the right leadership America will reverse its course towards mediocrity and globalism, becoming great again.

A digital billboard has meanwhile appeared in Pittsburgh for some reason—which the group is claiming marks its first step from online into meatspace. It features a warped image of Trump's rival Hillary Clinton's face with the words “Too Big to Jail.”

(credit: Nimble America)

It's unclear how much Luckey has actually put into the group. A financial statement document published on Nimble America’s site shows the group has received just over $10,000 (£7,600) in donations, including one lump sump of $9,800 (£7,500).

“I came into touch with them over Facebook,” Luckey told the Daily Beast. “It went along the lines of ‘hey, I have a bunch of money. I would love to see more of this stuff.’ They wanted to build buzz and do fundraising [...] I thought it sounded like a real jolly good time.”

As NimbleRichMan, he apparently wrote: “The American Revolution was funded by wealthy individuals. The same has been true of many movements for freedom in history. You can’t fight the American elite without serious firepower. They will outspend you and destroy you by any and all means.”

The entire account has now been deleted.

Luckey isn't the only rich tech guy with a bee in his bonnet. The venture capitalist Peter Thiel bankrolled Hulk Hogan's legal case against Gawker, in an apparent vendetta that stretched back to reporting on Gawker.com that he hadn't enjoyed years previously.

Bill Gates, more nobly, is spending his money on a host of good causes, including the fight against AIDS, TB, and malaria. Oracle's Larry Ellison meanwhile bought the most expensive private island ever sold, with 87,000 acres and 380 cats in Hawaii. And Yoshiro Nakamatsu, who invented the floppy disk, has a bathroom tiled in 24-carat gold.

This post originated on Ars Technica UK

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fxer
6 days ago
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The last two paragraphs are gold
Bend, Oregon
glenn
6 days ago
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What a piece of shit
Waterloo, Canada
acdha
6 days ago
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Washington, DC
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