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Loret ipsum
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&emsp;

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&emsp;
Loret ipsum
🏰: [[@@Zürich#Villages|Stein am Rhein]]
&emsp;

@ -114,7 +114,7 @@ This section does serve for quick memos.
&emsp;
Rheinfall & Schaffhausen
🏰: [[@@Zürich#Nature|Rheinfall]] & [[@@Zürich#Cities|Schaffhausen]]
🍽: [[Lemon Chicken]]

@ -114,6 +114,8 @@ This section does serve for quick memos.
&emsp;
🏰: [[@@Zürich#Villages|Lenzburg]]
🍽: [[Korean Barbecue-Style Meatballs]]
&emsp;

@ -16,13 +16,13 @@ Stress: 27.5
FrontHeadBar: 5
EarHeadBar: 35
BackHeadBar: 20
Water: 2.25
Water: 3.25
Coffee: 5
Steps:
Steps: 10551
Weight:
Ski:
IceSkating:
Riding:
Riding: 1
Racket:
Football:
Swim:

@ -0,0 +1,134 @@
---
title: "🗒 Daily Note"
allDay: true
date: 2023-04-20
Date: 2023-04-20
DocType: Note
Hierarchy:
TimeStamp:
location:
CollapseMetaTable: true
Sleep: 8.5
Happiness: 75
Gratefulness: 90
Stress: 27.5
FrontHeadBar: 5
EarHeadBar: 35
BackHeadBar: 20
Water: 3.66
Coffee: 0
Steps: 4713
Weight:
Ski:
IceSkating:
Riding:
Racket:
Football:
Swim:
---
%% Parent:: [[@Life Admin]] %%
---
[[2023-04-19|<< 🗓 Previous ]] &emsp; &emsp; &emsp; [[@Main Dashboard|Back]] &emsp; &emsp; &emsp; [[2023-04-21|🗓 Next >>]]
---
&emsp;
```button
name Record today's health
type command
action MetaEdit: Run MetaEdit
id EditMetaData
```
^button-2023-04-20Edit
```button
name Save
type command
action Save current file
id Save
```
^button-2023-04-20NSave
&emsp;
# 2023-04-20
&emsp;
> [!summary]+
> Daily note for 2023-04-20
&emsp;
```toc
style: number
```
&emsp;
---
&emsp;
### ✅ Tasks of the day
&emsp;
```tasks
not done
due on 2023-04-20
path does not include Templates
hide backlinks
hide task count
```
&emsp;
---
&emsp;
### 📝 Memos
&emsp;
This section does serve for quick memos.
&emsp;
%% --- %%
&emsp;
---
&emsp;
### 🗒 Notes
&emsp;
Loret ipsum
&emsp;
---
&emsp;
### :link: Linked activity
&emsp;
```dataview
Table from [[2023-04-20]]
```
&emsp;
&emsp;

@ -0,0 +1,134 @@
---
title: "🗒 Daily Note"
allDay: true
date: 2023-04-21
Date: 2023-04-21
DocType: Note
Hierarchy:
TimeStamp:
location:
CollapseMetaTable: true
Sleep: 8
Happiness: 75
Gratefulness: 90
Stress: 27.5
FrontHeadBar: 5
EarHeadBar: 35
BackHeadBar: 20
Water: 3.83
Coffee: 1
Steps: 11224
Weight:
Ski:
IceSkating:
Riding: 1
Racket:
Football:
Swim:
---
%% Parent:: [[@Life Admin]] %%
---
[[2023-04-20|<< 🗓 Previous ]] &emsp; &emsp; &emsp; [[@Main Dashboard|Back]] &emsp; &emsp; &emsp; [[2023-04-22|🗓 Next >>]]
---
&emsp;
```button
name Record today's health
type command
action MetaEdit: Run MetaEdit
id EditMetaData
```
^button-2023-04-21Edit
```button
name Save
type command
action Save current file
id Save
```
^button-2023-04-21NSave
&emsp;
# 2023-04-21
&emsp;
> [!summary]+
> Daily note for 2023-04-21
&emsp;
```toc
style: number
```
&emsp;
---
&emsp;
### ✅ Tasks of the day
&emsp;
```tasks
not done
due on 2023-04-21
path does not include Templates
hide backlinks
hide task count
```
&emsp;
---
&emsp;
### 📝 Memos
&emsp;
This section does serve for quick memos.
&emsp;
%% --- %%
&emsp;
---
&emsp;
### 🗒 Notes
&emsp;
Loret ipsum
&emsp;
---
&emsp;
### :link: Linked activity
&emsp;
```dataview
Table from [[2023-04-21]]
```
&emsp;
&emsp;

@ -0,0 +1,134 @@
---
title: "🗒 Daily Note"
allDay: true
date: 2023-04-22
Date: 2023-04-22
DocType: Note
Hierarchy:
TimeStamp:
location:
CollapseMetaTable: true
Sleep: 7.5
Happiness: 80
Gratefulness: 90
Stress: 27.5
FrontHeadBar: 5
EarHeadBar: 35
BackHeadBar: 20
Water: 3.91
Coffee: 0
Steps: 8924
Weight:
Ski:
IceSkating:
Riding: 1
Racket:
Football:
Swim:
---
%% Parent:: [[@Life Admin]] %%
---
[[2023-04-21|<< 🗓 Previous ]] &emsp; &emsp; &emsp; [[@Main Dashboard|Back]] &emsp; &emsp; &emsp; [[2023-04-23|🗓 Next >>]]
---
&emsp;
```button
name Record today's health
type command
action MetaEdit: Run MetaEdit
id EditMetaData
```
^button-2023-04-22Edit
```button
name Save
type command
action Save current file
id Save
```
^button-2023-04-22NSave
&emsp;
# 2023-04-22
&emsp;
> [!summary]+
> Daily note for 2023-04-22
&emsp;
```toc
style: number
```
&emsp;
---
&emsp;
### ✅ Tasks of the day
&emsp;
```tasks
not done
due on 2023-04-22
path does not include Templates
hide backlinks
hide task count
```
&emsp;
---
&emsp;
### 📝 Memos
&emsp;
This section does serve for quick memos.
&emsp;
%% --- %%
&emsp;
---
&emsp;
### 🗒 Notes
&emsp;
Loret ipsum
&emsp;
---
&emsp;
### :link: Linked activity
&emsp;
```dataview
Table from [[2023-04-22]]
```
&emsp;
&emsp;

@ -0,0 +1,134 @@
---
title: "🗒 Daily Note"
allDay: true
date: 2023-04-23
Date: 2023-04-23
DocType: Note
Hierarchy:
TimeStamp:
location:
CollapseMetaTable: true
Sleep: 8
Happiness: 80
Gratefulness: 90
Stress: 27.5
FrontHeadBar: 5
EarHeadBar: 35
BackHeadBar: 20
Water: 2.2
Coffee: 2
Steps: 12053
Weight:
Ski:
IceSkating:
Riding:
Racket:
Football:
Swim:
---
%% Parent:: [[@Life Admin]] %%
---
[[2023-04-22|<< 🗓 Previous ]] &emsp; &emsp; &emsp; [[@Main Dashboard|Back]] &emsp; &emsp; &emsp; [[2023-04-24|🗓 Next >>]]
---
&emsp;
```button
name Record today's health
type command
action MetaEdit: Run MetaEdit
id EditMetaData
```
^button-2023-04-23Edit
```button
name Save
type command
action Save current file
id Save
```
^button-2023-04-23NSave
&emsp;
# 2023-04-23
&emsp;
> [!summary]+
> Daily note for 2023-04-23
&emsp;
```toc
style: number
```
&emsp;
---
&emsp;
### ✅ Tasks of the day
&emsp;
```tasks
not done
due on 2023-04-23
path does not include Templates
hide backlinks
hide task count
```
&emsp;
---
&emsp;
### 📝 Memos
&emsp;
This section does serve for quick memos.
&emsp;
%% --- %%
&emsp;
---
&emsp;
### 🗒 Notes
&emsp;
🏰: [[@@Zürich#Villages|Aarburg]]
&emsp;
---
&emsp;
### :link: Linked activity
&emsp;
```dataview
Table from [[2023-04-23]]
```
&emsp;
&emsp;

@ -0,0 +1,136 @@
---
title: "🗒 Daily Note"
allDay: true
date: 2023-04-24
Date: 2023-04-24
DocType: Note
Hierarchy:
TimeStamp:
location:
CollapseMetaTable: true
Sleep: 7
Happiness: 80
Gratefulness: 90
Stress: 27.5
FrontHeadBar: 5
EarHeadBar: 35
BackHeadBar: 20
Water: 3.95
Coffee: 4
Steps: 20081
Weight:
Ski:
IceSkating:
Riding:
Racket:
Football:
Swim:
---
%% Parent:: [[@Life Admin]] %%
---
[[2023-04-23|<< 🗓 Previous ]] &emsp; &emsp; &emsp; [[@Main Dashboard|Back]] &emsp; &emsp; &emsp; [[2023-04-25|🗓 Next >>]]
---
&emsp;
```button
name Record today's health
type command
action MetaEdit: Run MetaEdit
id EditMetaData
```
^button-2023-04-24Edit
```button
name Save
type command
action Save current file
id Save
```
^button-2023-04-24NSave
&emsp;
# 2023-04-24
&emsp;
> [!summary]+
> Daily note for 2023-04-24
&emsp;
```toc
style: number
```
&emsp;
---
&emsp;
### ✅ Tasks of the day
&emsp;
```tasks
not done
due on 2023-04-24
path does not include Templates
hide backlinks
hide task count
```
&emsp;
---
&emsp;
### 📝 Memos
&emsp;
This section does serve for quick memos.
&emsp;
%% --- %%
&emsp;
---
&emsp;
### 🗒 Notes
&emsp;
🍽: [[Big Shells With Spicy Lamb Sausage and Pistachios]]
📺: [[Succession (2018)]]
&emsp;
---
&emsp;
### :link: Linked activity
&emsp;
```dataview
Table from [[2023-04-24]]
```
&emsp;
&emsp;

@ -0,0 +1,134 @@
---
title: "🗒 Daily Note"
allDay: true
date: 2023-04-25
Date: 2023-04-25
DocType: Note
Hierarchy:
TimeStamp:
location:
CollapseMetaTable: true
Sleep: 7
Happiness: 75
Gratefulness: 90
Stress: 27.5
FrontHeadBar: 5
EarHeadBar: 35
BackHeadBar: 20
Water: 2.75
Coffee: 3
Steps: 6802
Weight: 94.8
Ski:
IceSkating:
Riding:
Racket:
Football:
Swim:
---
%% Parent:: [[@Life Admin]] %%
---
[[2023-04-24|<< 🗓 Previous ]] &emsp; &emsp; &emsp; [[@Main Dashboard|Back]] &emsp; &emsp; &emsp; [[2023-04-26|🗓 Next >>]]
---
&emsp;
```button
name Record today's health
type command
action MetaEdit: Run MetaEdit
id EditMetaData
```
^button-2023-04-25Edit
```button
name Save
type command
action Save current file
id Save
```
^button-2023-04-25NSave
&emsp;
# 2023-04-25
&emsp;
> [!summary]+
> Daily note for 2023-04-25
&emsp;
```toc
style: number
```
&emsp;
---
&emsp;
### ✅ Tasks of the day
&emsp;
```tasks
not done
due on 2023-04-25
path does not include Templates
hide backlinks
hide task count
```
&emsp;
---
&emsp;
### 📝 Memos
&emsp;
This section does serve for quick memos.
&emsp;
%% --- %%
&emsp;
---
&emsp;
### 🗒 Notes
&emsp;
📺: [[Succession (2018)]]
&emsp;
---
&emsp;
### :link: Linked activity
&emsp;
```dataview
Table from [[2023-04-25]]
```
&emsp;
&emsp;

@ -0,0 +1,134 @@
---
title: "🗒 Daily Note"
allDay: true
date: 2023-04-26
Date: 2023-04-26
DocType: Note
Hierarchy:
TimeStamp:
location:
CollapseMetaTable: true
Sleep: 7.5
Happiness: 80
Gratefulness: 90
Stress: 27.5
FrontHeadBar: 5
EarHeadBar: 35
BackHeadBar: 20
Water:
Coffee:
Steps:
Weight:
Ski:
IceSkating:
Riding:
Racket:
Football:
Swim:
---
%% Parent:: [[@Life Admin]] %%
---
[[2023-04-25|<< 🗓 Previous ]] &emsp; &emsp; &emsp; [[@Main Dashboard|Back]] &emsp; &emsp; &emsp; [[2023-04-27|🗓 Next >>]]
---
&emsp;
```button
name Record today's health
type command
action MetaEdit: Run MetaEdit
id EditMetaData
```
^button-2023-04-26Edit
```button
name Save
type command
action Save current file
id Save
```
^button-2023-04-26NSave
&emsp;
# 2023-04-26
&emsp;
> [!summary]+
> Daily note for 2023-04-26
&emsp;
```toc
style: number
```
&emsp;
---
&emsp;
### ✅ Tasks of the day
&emsp;
```tasks
not done
due on 2023-04-26
path does not include Templates
hide backlinks
hide task count
```
&emsp;
---
&emsp;
### 📝 Memos
&emsp;
This section does serve for quick memos.
&emsp;
%% --- %%
&emsp;
---
&emsp;
### 🗒 Notes
&emsp;
Loret ipsum
&emsp;
---
&emsp;
### :link: Linked activity
&emsp;
```dataview
Table from [[2023-04-26]]
```
&emsp;
&emsp;

@ -0,0 +1,14 @@
---
title: Angers SCO - PSG (1-2)
allDay: false
startTime: 21:00
endTime: 23:00
date: 2023-04-21
completed: null
CollapseMetaTable: true
---
[[2023-04-21|Ce jour]], Angers SCO - [[Paris SG]]: 1-2
Buteurs:: ⚽⚽ MBappé<br>⚽ Thioub (SCO)

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@ -0,0 +1,15 @@
{
"nodes":[
{"type":"text","text":"<iframe src=\"https://indify.co/widgets/live/weather/CMOfmBCtA1f1TmJRfduo\" width=\"100%\" length=“100%”></iframe>\n","id":"e4889634623a84ae","x":425,"y":720,"width":435,"height":200},
{"type":"text","text":"```dataview\nTable without id \"![](\" + Source.Cover + \")\" as \"Cover\", file.link as \"Title\", Source.Author as \"Author\", Source.Published as \"Publication Date\", Source.Language as \"Language\" \nwhere Source.Type = \"Book\"\nwhere ReadingState = \"🟧\"\n```","id":"419b58907d6d0610","x":-40,"y":720,"width":405,"height":523},
{"type":"text","text":"```dataview\ntable without id file.link as \"Title\", Tag as \"Themes\" from \"00.03 News\"\nwhere contains(Read, \"🟥\")\nlimit 6\n```","id":"21094e4af9cf9502","x":-40,"y":1320,"width":405,"height":640},
{"type":"text","text":"``` tracker\nsearchType: frontmatter\nsearchTarget: Happiness, Steps, Ski, Riding, Racket, Football, Swim, IceSkating\nfolder: /00.01 Admin/Calendars\nmonth:\n mode: annotation\n startWeekOn: 'Mon'\n threshold: 75, 10000, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0\n color: green\n headerMonthColor: orange\n dimNotInMonth: false\n annotation: ☀️,🏃,🎿,🏇,🎾,⚽,🏊🏼‍♂️, ⛸\n showAnnotationOfAllTargets: true\n```","id":"6096454290cfc990","x":920,"y":720,"width":435,"height":420},
{"id":"f7b69542268fdc17","x":-40,"y":2000,"width":405,"height":400,"type":"text","text":"```dataview\nTable without id \"[[\" + file.name + \"|\" + replace(file.name, \"@\", \"\") + \"]]\" as \"Name\", Tag as \"Tag\" , \"Next review on \" + NextReviewDate as \"Date\", choice(NextReviewDate > date(today), \"☑️ On track\", choice(NextReviewDate < date(today), \"⚠️ Review overdue\", \"🚦 Review today\")) as \"Review\" from #✅\nWhere DocType = \"Task\"\nsort NextReviewDate asc\n```"},
{"id":"e0714d5f838497bc","x":920,"y":1200,"width":435,"height":477,"type":"text","text":"### 😴 Sleep Pattern\n\n```tracker\nsearchType: frontmatter\nsearchTarget: Sleep\nfolder: /00.01 Admin/Calendars\nstartDate: 2022-01-22\nline:\n xAxisLabel: Date\n yAxisLabel: Hours slept\n lineColor: green\n showPoint: false\n xAxisColor: grey\n xAxisLabelColor: grey\n yAxisColor: grey\n yAxisLabelColor: grey\n```"},
{"type":"text","text":"```dataviewjs\nconst today = DateTime.now()\nconst endOfYear = {\n year: today.year,\n month: 12,\n day: 31\n}\n\nconst lifespan = { year: 85 } \nconst birthday = DateTime.fromObject({\n year: 1984,\n month: 7,\n day: 7\n});\nconst deathday = birthday.plus(lifespan)\n\nfunction progress(type) {\n let value;\n \n switch(type) {\n case \"lifespan\": \n value = (today.year - birthday.year) / lifespan.year * 100;\n break;\n case \"year\":\n value = today.month / 12 * 100\n break;\n case \"month\":\n value = today.day / today.daysInMonth * 100\n break;\n case \"day\":\n value = today.hour / 24 * 100\n break;\n }\n return `<progress value=\"${parseInt(value)}\" max=\"100\"></progress> | ${parseInt(value)} %`\n}\n\n\ndv.span(`\n| | | |\n| --- | --- |:---:|\n| **Life** | ${progress(\"lifespan\")}\n| | |\n| **Year** | ${progress(\"year\")}\n| **Month**| ${progress(\"month\")}\n| **Day**| ${progress(\"day\")}\n`)\n```\n","id":"7e80f44c67f7a9e8","x":425,"y":940,"width":435,"height":200},
{"id":"6dd9182a1b72702a","x":425,"y":1200,"width":435,"height":477,"type":"text","text":"### 👣 Daily steps\n\n``` tracker\nsearchType: frontmatter\nsearchTarget: Steps\nfolder: /00.01 Admin/Calendars\nstartDate: 2022-01-22\nendDate:\nline:\n xAxisLabel: Date\n yAxisLabel: \"# of steps\"\n lineColor: cyan\n showPoint: false\n xAxisColor: grey\n xAxisLabelColor: grey\n yAxisColor: grey\n yAxisLabelColor: grey\n```"},
{"id":"3eacafacaea81472","x":425,"y":1720,"width":435,"height":477,"type":"text","text":"### ⚖️ Weight\n\n``` tracker\nsearchType: frontmatter\nsearchTarget: Weight\nfolder: /00.01 Admin/Calendars\nstartDate: 2023-01-10\nignoreZeroValue: true\nline:\n xAxisLabel: Date\n yAxisLabel: Weight\n lineColor: red\n showPoint: false\n xAxisColor: grey\n xAxisLabelColor: grey\n xAxisTickInterval: 1w\n yAxisColor: grey\n yAxisLabelColor: grey\n fillGap: true\n```"},
{"id":"469332051f4aac8d","x":920,"y":1720,"width":435,"height":477,"type":"text","text":"### 🚰 Water Consumption\n\n``` tracker\nsearchType: frontmatter\nsearchTarget: Water\nfolder: /00.01 Admin/Calendars\nstartDate: 2022-01-22\nendDate:\nline:\n xAxisLabel: Date\n yAxisLabel: Amount of soft drink (liter)\n lineColor: blue\n showPoint: false\n xAxisColor: grey\n xAxisLabelColor: grey\n yAxisColor: grey\n yAxisLabelColor: grey\n```"}
],
"edges":[]
}

@ -12,7 +12,7 @@ CollapseMetaTable: true
---
Parent:: [[@News|News]]
Read:: 🟥
Read:: [[2023-04-25]]
---

@ -0,0 +1,161 @@
---
Tag: ["🤵🏻", "🐥", "🌐", "👤"]
Date: 2023-04-23
DocType: "WebClipping"
Hierarchy:
TimeStamp: 2023-04-23
Link: https://www.theringer.com/tech/2023/4/12/23673003/dril-twitter-interview-profile-identity
location:
CollapseMetaTable: true
---
Parent:: [[@News|News]]
Read:: [[2023-04-25]]
---
&emsp;
```button
name Save
type command
action Save current file
id Save
```
^button-DrilIsEveryoneMoreSpecificallyHesNamedPaulNSave
&emsp;
# Dril Is Everyone. More Specifically, Hes a Guy Named Paul.
*“Man is a double being and can take, now the gods-eye view of things, now the brutes eye view.” —Aldous Huxley,* Ends and Means*, 1937*
*“the wise man bowed his head solemnly and spoke: theres actually zero difference between good & bad things. you imbecile. you fucking moron” —*[*Dril, Twitter, 2014*](https://twitter.com/dril/status/473265809079693312?lang=en)
Dril is a real person, or so I had been told. Sitting in the House of Pies in the Los Feliz neighborhood of Los Angeles, I was waiting for him to join me in a booth—but I didnt know who was actually going to show up.
It was the quiet midafternoon hours at the diner, which is a relic of when the area was less upscale, and it still partially attracts an off-key clientele of misfits and bozos, some of whom are alone and in no hurry to leave. (As I sat, an older man in oversized overalls walked by carrying a seat cushion; it was unclear whether he worked there.) This venue was the most readily available approximation of Drils world that I could think of.
While I waited, I pulled up Drils Twitter account and looked at [a recent post](https://twitter.com/dril/status/1631067010355404801): “The fact is,” he wrote, “people arent doing a good job wiping their ass these days. And its attracting all manner of stray dogs and coyotes to our towns.” The likes were ticking up and up in real time as they moved toward their eventual zenith of almost 17,000. By Dril standards, this wasnt even a particularly popular—or deranged—post.
With 1.7 million highly engaged followers, Dril is one of the more powerful Twitter users and, by default, one of the more powerful figures on the internet. Active since 2008, the Dril account—simultaneously known by the profile name “Wint”—with its grainy Jack Nicholson avatar, has been responsible for countless viral posts, just as beloved for the vivid scenes they induce as for the baffling grammatical and spelling errors they contain. Many of his tweets have become part of the permanent online lexicon: “[im not owned! im not owned!!](https://twitter.com/dril/status/134787490526658561), i continue to insist as i slowly shrink and transform into a corn cob”; “[issuing correction on a previous post of mine](https://twitter.com/dril/status/831805955402776576?lang=en), regarding the terror group ISIL. you do not, under any circumstances, gotta hand it to them”; “[i am selling six beautfiul, extremely ill, white horses](https://twitter.com/dril/status/504134967946141697?lang=en). they no longer recognize me as their father, and are the Burden of my life.”
To most people, he is nothing; show the unaffiliated some of his posts, and they will likely just generate confusion and possibly anguish. (“Uh, so, I think Ill stick with gardening. Where bull poop helps good things grow, and the tweets come from birds, not nitwits,” read [one](https://www.washingtonpost.com/technology/2022/11/22/dril-musk-twitter-future/?commentID=424b0bae-efbd-4824-bb52-d5ea64ed85b5) of many upset people in the comment section of a recent [*Washington Post* feature](https://www.washingtonpost.com/technology/2022/11/22/dril-musk-twitter-future/) about Dril, inadvertently adopting their own Dril-esque cadence in the process.) But to a large sect of the Very Online, he is king—the undisputed poet laureate of shitposting, the architect of a satire so effective that it has become impossible to tell when Dril stopped mocking the way people speak online and when we, instead, started speaking like Dril online.
For almost 10 years, he was entirely anonymous. Like a decent number of the people in the so-called [“Weird Twitter” scene](https://www.buzzfeednews.com/article/jwherrman/weird-twitter-the-oral-history) that Dril is still vaguely a part of, he doesnt put his real name on the account—but as time has gone on and his popularity has grown, its become nothing short of miraculous that hes kept up the mystery. Hes a [pyramid](https://twitter.com/dril/status/217087278013616128)\-[obsessed](https://twitter.com/dril/status/1167921495659577346) phantom. Hes [banky](https://twitter.com/dril/status/13408516505075712?lang=en). Still, over the years, some of his digital curtain has begun to part—largely spurred by his [being doxxed](https://www.thedailybeast.com/who-on-earth-would-dox-dril-the-only-good-anonymous-person-on-the-internet) in 2017, when his identity was revealed to supposedly be that of a man named Paul.
Around the same time, Dril started a [Patreon](https://www.patreon.com/dril), released a book, *Dril Official* [*“Mr. Ten Years”*](https://www.amazon.com/Dril-Official-Years-Anniversary-Collection/dp/1724941682/ref=sr_1_5?crid=251ST9WWDUWP5&keywords=dril&qid=1680303126&s=books&sprefix=dri%2Cstripbooks%2C158&sr=1-5) *Anniversary Collection*, and had an Adult Swim television show, *TruthPoint*—a surrealist Infowars parody in which he manifested behind a cheap old man mask and bantered with self-professed [“manic pixie stream boy”](https://youtu.be/7t948ZQfH1g?t=140) cohost Derek Estevez-Olsen. Dril also began doing an interview here and there, but never anything substantial, and always in character. I reached out to him via email, and when he replied, the name attached to the account was “paul d.” But I still wasnt totally sure that he wouldnt walk into House of Pies with his mask on, throw a plate against a wall, and then walk out.
“Im Paul,” he said, once he found me and after I began by asking whom, exactly, I could say I was speaking to.
Paul Dochney, who is 35, does not, in fact, look like a mutant Jack Nicholson. He has soft features and a gentle disposition and looks something like a young Eugene Mirman. Its difficult to say what I expected to find sitting across from me, but it wasnt this. Looking at him, youd never presume that this was the person who made [candle purchasing a matter of financial insecurity](https://twitter.com/dril/status/384408932061417472?lang=en).
He opted to stick with water—not a terrible decision at the House of Pies, but also, I worried, a choice that theoretically allowed him a quick exit at any point. For a while, I got the sense that he might have been deciding how much to reveal to me in real time, based on how the conversation went. But one thing he was clear about from the beginning: It was all right to end this game of living in the digital shadows.
“I mean, my name is already out there,” he said, acknowledging the fact that, after the doxxing, he had at separate points confirmed his name on both [Twitter](https://twitter.com/dril/status/1028250494580404226?lang=en) and [Reddit](https://old.reddit.com/r/IAmA/comments/fuc6ql/i_am_dril_ceo_of_the_dril_account_on_twittercom/fmddeh3/). “Its in my Wikipedia article. Maybe people need to grow up. Just accept that Im not like Santa Claus. Im not a magic elf who posts.”
In some sense, anonymity has served a creative purpose. “Practically, its a good tool,” Estevez-Olsen told me later in a phone interview, “because when you make a post, you dont want to be like, From Paul Dochney, [I fuck flags](https://twitter.com/dril/status/171450835388203008?lang=en) or whatever. You want to have some distance from it.” (He would know: “Estevez-Olsen” is itself a *TruthPoint* stage name that he asked me to use for reasons of privacy.)
But the secrecy has also lingered because of the types of personalities Dril naturally attracts to his orbit. “Most people are normal,” Dochney explained. “But theres, like, three or four weirdos who just ruin it for everyone.” Jon Hendren, a fellow titan of Weird Twitter who is known by his subtle handle, @fart, told me that he had seen some disturbing messages people had sent Dochney in the past—that he wasnt being paranoid or dramatic. “Its gotta be kind of surreal,” Hendren said. “And its got to be kind of difficult to live with.”
Dril may be a phantom, but Dochney, like the rest of us, did come from somewhere. He was raised in New Jersey in a working-class family, he explained to me; his father worked as a FedEx manager “for the longest time,” and his mother was a homemaker who also chased down side jobs. “I was very into the internet from a very early age,” Dochney said, nursing his cup of water. “I was kind of in the background most of the time, just daydreaming about video games and stuff like that. I mean, I had a few friends. I wasnt a total outcast or a weirdo. But I was on the quiet side.”
After dropping out after his first attempt at college, Dochney eventually gave it another shot at Wilmington University in Delaware—“the cheapest college I could find that would still give me a valid bachelors degree,” he said. There, he studied media design: “Like, web design and HTML and the Adobe Suite and all that stuff,” he said. “Graphics.”
In essence, the character of Dril was born on Something Awful, an outsider comedy website that had particularly popular message boards and file-sharing forums in the 2000s. It was where many—if not most—of the essential Weird Twitter personalities came from, and where some, like Hendren, were (poorly) paid moderators or contributors. “Effort was looked down upon for a long time,” said Hendren, who added that he apparently once banned Dochney from one of the forums (although he is friendly with him these days). “And so if youre just naturally funny, and if youre just naturally saying good things, then you did fine there.”
Cynicism and brashness defined the Something Awful aesthetic. Its founder, Richard Kyanka, explained [to *Vice*](https://www.vice.com/en/article/nzg4yw/fuck-you-and-die-an-oral-history-of-something-awful) in 2017 that part of his goal with the site was to produce “parodies of wonks who were saying the internet was the future without saying, Well there could be a possible downside to the internet.’” He went on, “Everybody was talking about how the internet was going to revolutionize everything and everything was going to be great, but nobody ever talked about how shitty the internet could also be.”
Dochney was a regular in the infamous Fuck You and Die forum, and he said that he mostly posted artwork. (“They had this, like, flag system,” he remembered, “where you could post these little images of, like, cartoons or, like, asses that are shitting.”) At that time, Dochney went by “gigantic drill” on the site, a name he came up with when he was still a teenager. “If there was some inspiration behind it, Ive forgotten it by now,” he said.
About two years after Twitter was founded in 2006, a friend told him he should sign up and join the growing group of Something Awful affiliates who were taking advantage of what was then a novelty: a mobile-friendly way to post. The handle “@drill” with two *l*s was taken, so “@dril” it was. Dochneys first post, which has since gone on to have an inexplicable life of its own, was partially a response to a friend who had told him to sign up: [“no.”](https://twitter.com/dril/status/922321981)
“This is in 2008,” Dochney said, “when it was brand new, and everyone was just posting bullshit like, Oh, this is what I had for lunch. It was just, like, tech guys posting inane details about their lives. I posted no because I didnt care for it at the time. I still really dont care for it.”
Dochney posts often, and with seeming abandon. “[For the Pleasure of the Fans](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0BPGQ6YVQ?ref_=dbs_m_mng_rwt_calw_tpbk_0&storeType=ebooks&qid=1680306759&sr=1-1),” he recently released [four versions](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BPT7XJN2?binding=paperback&searchxofy=true&ref_=dbs_s_bs_series_rwt_tpbk&qid=1680306759&sr=1-1) of a book compiling 10,000 of his “finest” posts, the equivalent of roughly two posts per day during the 14 years of time covered. (The font in these books is beyond minuscule, and getting past the line spacing to actually read the tweets is a high-wire act; the format is its own joke.) “I just post whatever bullshit Im thinking,” Dochney explained of the Dril Process. “I kind of have to get into, like, the writing mood. But theres no ritual or anything. Usually when Im driving or Im in the shower, Ill come up with some sort of idea.”
The character of Dril is fluid, but taken as a whole, the blurry image starts to come into focus: Its that of an easily agitated, overly confident, wildly crass, IBS-ridden middle-aged man thrashing away on a computer—probably a PC. He speaks in outlandish non sequiturs and engages with brands with unreasonable love and hate in equal measure. He is the dark, democratic promise of the internet—that anyone can use it to broadcast their opinions at any time—fulfilled. “I just go back to how specific and unique it is,” comedian and actor David Cross told me. “Theres nobody quite like him, and it perfectly encapsulates that Twitter dialogue.”
When I asked Dochney whether the type of person hes satirizing is more common now or merely more visible, he said, “I think theres just so many of those minds out there that we can only see because of the internet. In the 1920s or whatever, there were just as many dumb, crazy people who only met, like, four people in their entire life, and just died in obscurity.” He noted that he appreciates that the site “records this interesting snapshot of all the insane people who exist in the background and just post.” It was one of the only moments when he had anything remotely complimentary to say about Twitter.
Since Dochney moved to L.A. a few years ago, which he did to hopefully “get a job *entertaining* in some capacity,” he has survived mainly on his various Dril-based incomes. He told me hes making a decent living but clarified that he probably makes “as much money as a Kmart manager or something.” (His Patreon, which is now focused on funding the development of a video game and is available in “disgusting” and “Fucked” tiers, is currently taking in $1,468 a month from roughly 500 subscribers.)
There is clearly a market for what Dochney does, but tapping into it hasnt been the easiest process. He recalled talking to a publisher about potentially putting out his book *The Get Rich and Become God Method*, which is a textbook-sized survey of his art and humor and also quite literally a step-by-step guide to getting rich and becoming God. “I sent them the PDF,” he said, “and I did not get a response from them. I can imagine that, like, they turned to Page 11 and saw a Ku Klux Klan member with his blue penis sticking out, and just said, No, thank you. I cant market this for the life of me.’” (The page being referenced is titled “Thoughts of My Son,” and it features said blue, seminude Ku Klux Klan member being defended by his father: “I ask that you PLEASE look BEYOND his Crude Visage before you lay Judgement upon this Man,” the father pleads. “AND read some of his Posts.”) Like his other books, *Method* was eventually [self-released](https://www.amazon.com/Rich-Become-Method-DRIL-collection/dp/B09JJCGM6Y/ref=sr_1_6?crid=251ST9WWDUWP5&keywords=dril&qid=1680308564&s=books&sprefix=dri%2Cstripbooks%2C158&sr=1-6).
The arrival of *TruthPoint* on Adult Swim was an unexpected moment in Dochneys career, not just because it marked his transition from writer to performer—something he said he had never dabbled in before—but also because of the corporate legitimacy of it. Still, *TruthPoint* was one of the more bizarre programs I have ever watched in any capacity, let alone on a channel owned by Warner Bros. (The second episode, which is almost an hour long, [at one point](https://youtu.be/ONBj_5PHzoE?t=2544) features Estevez-Olsen reading a passage from the novelization of the 2001 movie *Lara Croft: Tomb Raider*, which is itself an adaptation of the video game franchise of the same name; Drils review of the book was “This is a thriller from beginning to end, folks.”) The show had promise, but the timing was bad; the pandemic forced them to do episodes over video calls, and new episodes stopped airing in fall 2020.
Dochney and Estevez-Olsen are working to keep the *TruthPoint* enterprise alive—ideally by rebooting it in a more sketch-oriented format, they said. (Estevez-Olsen cited Chris Morriss 90s news parody show, [*Brass Eye*](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1Pr8xnNi7OM), as a partial model.) But part of the difficulty is communicating just what the show is—who, exactly, they are.
“We met with this agent from a big \[agency\]. We were showing him the pitch decks we had put together that we worked hard on,” Estevez-Olsen said. “He was just like, Yeah, I dont know if I can do anything for you. Because its almost like youre saying youre not comedians, really, youre not writers—we cant, like, put you on a sitcom as a writing team. I think in that moment, I felt pretty stupid. I felt like an outsider artist, and were, like, dragging in our misshapen barrels that we were painting in the backyard and being like, You should put this in a museum.’”
In the diner, I asked Dochney whether he thought of himself as a writer, and he said, “I kind of consider myself a lot of things. I do art and writing. But Id rather be called a writer than a social media influencer or something like that. That is vile to me.”
Defining and understanding how social media works in the artistic realm is still a new field. It is also one that will likely be far more important in the grand scheme of things than many would like to imagine. “This is the world young artists and art students live in,” Aaron Betsky, a writer and critic specializing in art and design, noted in a 2014 [*New Yorker* feature](https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2014/02/10/man-and-machine-susan-orlean) about Horse\_ebooks, a bot-imitating piece of Twitter art. “The way we represent our world is more and more digitally based and networked. If art is in any way reflecting our world, it will have to adopt and adapt these techniques and technologies.”
Mark Sample, professor and chair of digital studies at Davidson College, told me that he believes Dril might be understood within the developing field of netprov (as in internet improvisation). Not altogether unrelated to electronic literature, or net art as a whole, netprov is, Sample explained, “the idea of using a social media platform as a kind of improvisational space in which the people on the other side arent really sure, are they seeing something thats really sincere and earnest, or are they watching a performance?” I started to imagine Dril as the Ornette Coleman of the internet, but Sample said he likens it in some way to a living statue street performer “whos just *always* doing it, whether theres even a crowd around or not.”
Darcie Wilder, writer of the tweet-inspired 2017 novel *literally show me a healthy person*, sees something thats similar to performance art: “Its not just the jokes hes doing—its the performance and the actual whole thing,” she told me.
Perhaps no artist has done more to push forward the conversation about how social media can exist in the artistic realm than Jacob Bakkila, who ran Horse\_ebooks as part of a larger artistic collaboration with Thomas Bender. The Horse\_ebooks project was deliberately ended in 2013—“No one wants to work on a painting forever,” Bakkila said at the time—and Bakkila, who now works in advertising in addition to his ongoing work as a multimedia artist, spoke thoughtfully to me over video call about the promise of art in the digital landscape. But of anyone I talked to, he was the most concerned about the risk of overintellectualizing Drils act—of being the type of person who, in his analogy, would study photosynthesis but forget to watch “the leaves change color.”
“Hes a poster,” Bakkila said. “And I think that theres a great beauty to that because its also the native language of the internet. … Its what the internet is designed to do, is to let you post on it. And it goes deeper—in that sense, its more profound than comedy, although obviously hes very funny. And its more profound than art, although obviously hes artistic. But I think first and foremost, hes a poster. And hes the best one we have.”
Often, when people talk about Dril, they use him as a vehicle to talk about Twitter itself—its initial promise, its inevitable demise. The approach is something like using Andy Kaufman to talk about *Saturday Night Live*; its not wrong, exactly, but it is a missed opportunity for something more specific, and more interesting, at any rate. There is plenty to learn about Twitter through Dril, but less to learn about Dril through Twitter.
Dochney described his popularity on the site as “incidental” and his association with it more as a millstone than a gift. “I do find a lot of aspects of Twitter very disgusting,” he said. “It would not be my first choice of websites to get popular on, but thats just the way it goes. And I got to work with that.” (Twitter, for what its worth, seems to value Drils presence, as he is [reportedly](https://www.theverge.com/2023/3/28/23659842/twitter-boost-elon-musk-dril-mrbeast-algorithm-accounts) one of about 35 elite users, along with the likes of LeBron James and Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, currently being “boosted” on the site.)
Posting, in its various forms and locations, is a skill, and Dochney knows how to recognize it as well as anybody. Donald Trump, he noted, is “a very good poster”—a skill that is likely bolstered by the fact that hes also “legitimately probably nuts, a little bit.” (“Sometimes,” Dochney did add, however, “being mentally ill makes you a *worse* poster.”) As for memes, one of the primary forms of posting, Dochney doesnt “respect” them: “I think memes are just jokes you stole, basically,” he said. “I like making shit.”
To my eye, Dochney hasnt lost a step in his second decade of posting as Dril, and more than that, some of his best posts have [been](https://twitter.com/dril/status/1613611545875054592?lang=en) [in](https://twitter.com/dril/status/1551754703632887808?s=20&t=2UktvnaJh2IDNGxUZh6hug) [the](https://twitter.com/dril/status/1628999985445613568?s=21&t=ZbcX4APnXt9vnLt_8L1Q3g) [last](https://twitter.com/dril/status/1625907835623337987?s=21&t=6_HhQaydaKAMVeLGXkWXag) [year](https://twitter.com/dril/status/1638350541440024576?s=12&t=xxsywDoqJRgpVg2pnmf4zw). But the criticisms and half-serious conspiracy theories are constant. One that Dochney is particularly irritated by is the “you didnt *used* to be topical” line: “I was always a product of what was going on around me,” he said, exasperated. “So its kind of weird when people start accusing me of, like, Oh, you sold your account to Waffle House, and now youre posting differently, or some bullshit like that.” If anything, Dochney added, he believes hes been “doing the same shtick almost to a fault, really.”
When *TruthPoint* was first announced in 2019, there was enough of a cynical reaction from some of Drils followers that Darcie Wilder addressed it in [an essay](https://theoutline.com/post/8108/dril-adult-swim-show-selling-out?zd=2&zi=xbxqc2ng) for *The Outline* (a platform that, notably, is now dead): “Twitter and Hollywood are obviously vastly different ecosystems,” she wrote, “but as the time we spend staring into a screen becomes split between traditional entertainment products and crowdsourced online content presented by tech platforms, their value becomes intertwined. But only one of these industries pays its writers.”
“Neither one of us really had in our heart of hearts,” Estevez-Olsen told me, “that we were going to write 140-character, pithy, little, funny, cute things for the rest of our lives. Paul wanted to—like me—write books, make TV shows, do whatever you can to build a world and express all of that.” The way Dochney put it, posting, for him, is “kind of like going to the bathroom, really—just putting something out there.” He seemed a little worn out by the idea of being an old man firing up Twitter. “Posting is not something you want to do forever,” he said.
Contrary to the nature of his comedy—pitch black, often finding a deceptively amusing way to channel some of the most disturbing inclinations that society has—Dochney does not identify as a nihilistic person. The darkness of the internet, he believes, is an illusion that comes from when “youre on Twitter, and youre just exposed to the worst of it, mainlined 24/7,” he said. “I dont want to be like one of those guys, like, You know, war is not so bad if you look at the positive stuff. But its not 100 percent hopeless, Id say.”
This surprised me. If theres one accent in the posting language that could be arguably sourced to Dril, its the disaffected irony so many of us have adopted online—the way we seem increasingly allergic to earnestness and blanketed in a wisecracking despair. I told him his answer was pretty starkly different from the image I had of Dril in my head: sweating, drooling, grinning maniacally, on the verge of a heart attack.
“If I wasnt relatively happy with my life, maybe I could have been that guy,” he said. “Maybe if my posts never took off and I was still working in a mail room at the age of almost 40, I would be just as angry, and posting about my ass and balls with all sincerity.”
In January, I went to see *TruthPoint Cataclysm*, a live reincarnation of the *TruthPoint* show, which functioned as the first substantial time that Dochney had made a public appearance as Dril. The performance was at the Elysian Theater in the freeway-adjacent stretch of L.A.s Frogtown, and tickets for the 135-seat venue were sold out. Inside, however, there were some empty seats, mostly in the front, which was perhaps a sign of an instinctive avoidance of a splash zone that did, actually, become a factor later on.
Presented in 12D—“10 times more than a normal 2D experience,” according to Estevez-Olsen—the shows topic was gambling, with Dril and Estevez-Olsen engaging in a variety of salient debates about best practices when betting money, whether in the casino or with crypto or what have you. Toward the end of the show, there was a raffle to give away a copy of a small book that Dochney had supposedly written called *How to Cheat at Casino Games by Being a Bitch.* In a fit of fury, he tore one of the copies of this book up, and Estevez-Olsen threw the pages into the audience.
On my way out, I made off with a few torn sheets, which I was later amused to find consisted of semi-coherent chapters—filled with actual jokes. (“If you want to make any decent money at the track, theres one thing you must remember,” the section on horse racing reads. “Youve got to get WET, which stands for Win Every Time.’”) Dochney had sat down and written all this out and then had it printed, presumably just for the bit—or for his own personal satisfaction, or both.
The whole event—from the in-person nature of it to the physical prop book—felt very distant from anything I might experience while aimlessly scrolling around on my phone. Still, despite his [live comedy sets](https://www.instagram.com/p/CqYcsmfJgRA/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link) with Estevez-Olsen and [his gigs hosting movie screenings](https://twitter.com/dril/status/1641284631206166529), Twitter remains at the forefront of everything when we talk about Dril. And it most likely will until the platform is out of our lives.
“I think its getting further away from, like, whatever cool thing it was,” said Wilder, who told me she used to think Twitter was its own art but these days finds that belief “embarrassing.” “Now its obviously just, like, data mining and advertising. … Dril is also very different from that. Like, those things dont really apply to his feed. Its really weird that hes still so successful.”
Late last year, as Twitter users worried about the future of the platform amid [new CEO Elon Musks takeover](https://www.theringer.com/tech/2022/11/22/23471923/twitter-elon-musk-layoffs-changes-future), the thought of losing Dril prompted at least one user to [catalog every Dril tweet](https://twitter.com/nickfarruggia/status/1594121736987250688) like he was grabbing the family pets and photo albums from a burning home. But Dochney wondered whether Twitters demise could potentially force him to “grow in ways I never thought possible.” He also considered the notion that it might destroy his career entirely. Either way, he decided, “You gotta commend Elon for doing everything in his power to wipe this nuisance website off the face of the earth.” (Add swapping [Twitters blue bird logo for Doge](https://variety.com/2023/digital/news/elon-musk-twitter-logo-doge-dogecoin-meme-1235572343/) last week to Musks long list of screwups.)
Regardless of Twitters fate, one development thats guaranteed in the immediate future is that relinquishing pure anonymity will change things for Dochney, at least to some degree. If his fans were replying with [“dont do this”](https://twitter.com/TygerbugGarrett/status/1028265972619042816) and [“this account is ruined now”](https://twitter.com/Canama139/status/1028303795913220096) when he posted his name a few years ago, how theyd respond to a gesture far more forthright remains to be seen.
“They want it to be, like, an insane guy who lives in the woods or something,” said Estevez-Olsen. “Or they want it to be just a blurry man. But yeah, its a guy named Paul. Hes, like, fairly normal. … I feel like if people find out about who he is in real life, and then they suddenly dont like the stuff anymore, thats just silly. If you like what hes written, you like it, and thats all there is to it.”
David Cross brought up when Bobcat Goldthwait decided to stop performing in [his outlandish voice](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O0qAfWWQJ5w), even though it was what the comedian was initially known for. “At some point, he was like, Fuck it, I dont want to do this anymore,’” Cross said. “I mean, its Bob Dylan going electric.”
One way Ive processed the idea of Dochneys story undergoing a sea change is to remind myself that he is, by nature, a troll. And more than that, hes a troll who trolls trolls. The most disappointing thing Dochney could become is predictable, even in something as outlandish as perpetual namelessness. Im glad he didnt walk into the House of Pies and throw a plate against the wall. But part of the fun is that I thought there was a chance he might do it anyway.
Before meeting up with Dochney, I wrote down a list of artists and art that I thought he might have some lineage from, and late in our conversation, I began rattling them off to see whether he felt any attachment. I wanted to attempt to understand Dochney within the context of the history of comedy.
*Looney Tunes*? “I was more of a *Ren & Stimpy* child,” he said. Kurt Vonnegut? “Pretty good.” Jack Handey? “I really liked that.” *A Confederacy of Dunces*? “I thought it was funny. I thought it was kind of ahead of its time. … \[Ignatius J. Reilly\] was, like, the first internet nerd before the internet even existed.” Marcel Duchamp—the, uh, [“urinal guy,”](https://www.tate.org.uk/art/artworks/duchamp-fountain-t07573) I stammered. “I dont know if I can respect a man who you refer to as the urinal guy,’” he replied.
Dochney described himself as being “overexposed” to comedy these days and didnt appear to be too enamored of the mainstream comedy scene in general. But there was one moment when he noticeably brightened up about the subject of comedy he was a fan of—and that was when he was talking about posts that he thought were categorically funnier than his. The Dril page often retweets arcane mutterings from accounts with essentially no followers, and Dochney was explaining one way he sometimes navigates Twitter to locate these lonely crevices of social media: Think of something, and spell it hilariously wrong.
The other day, he said, he took “Willy Wonka” and spelled it “Welly Wonka,” and he found a bunch of posts from “the dumbest people ever” talking about the characters from Roald Dahls books. He also found what appeared to be an elementary school classroom that was “taking place on Twitter for some reason.” The class was discussing Wonka, and the teacher had prompted the students to choose three words that they would use to describe the Oompa Loompas in some way. “The responses were some of the funniest shit Ive probably ever seen,” he said. “There was one that was, like, small, clown, smart. The other one was, like, short, dumb, unfunny.’”
I told him that it felt like a demonstration of the fact that, ultimately, theres nobody funnier than someone whos not trying to be in the first place.
“Its very sad for all these professional comedians that theres something there that they can never grasp,” he said. “And I guess me, too, in a way.”
[*Nate Rogers*](https://twitter.com/nate_rgrs) *is a writer in Los Angeles. His writing has appeared in* The New York Times*,* Los Angeles Times*,* GQ*, and elsewhere.*
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@ -68,7 +68,7 @@ Its ironic that Murdochs fortunes would become entwined with Trumps, be
Trump more than delivered. One source with direct knowledge of their conversations told me Murdoch lobbied Trump to punish Facebook and Google for siphoning his newspapers advertising revenue. In 2019, Trumps Justice Department launched an antitrust investigation of Google. In 2021, Google settled and struck a lucrative content-sharing deal with Murdoch. The source also said Murdoch pushed Trump to open up land for fracking to boost the value of Murdochs fossil fuel investments. The Trump administration released nearly 13 million acres of federally controlled land to fracking companies. Murdoch, who sources say has become more pro-life in recent years, encouraged Trump to appoint judges who would overturn *Roe v. Wade.* “Rupert wanted Trumps Supreme Court justices in so they could make abortion illegal,” a source who spoke to Murdoch said. Murdochs alliance with Trump made Murdoch more powerful than ever but carried a personal cost.
F**or many American** families during the Trump years, politics became a third rail. And so it was for the Murdochs. Among Murdochs adult children, Elisabeth and James tilted #resistance, whereas Lachlan was hard-core MAGA. (The eldest Murdoch son was particularly close with Fox News host Tucker Carlson, sources said.) Meanwhile, Murdochs new wife despised Trump—and let Murdoch know it. “During dinners we had with Jerry and Rupert, Jerry wouldnt hold back,” Cashin, Halls friend, said. According to a source, Murdoch wanted to buy a house in Florida to be closer to Mar-a-Lago, but Hall refused. Hall told friends she was alarmed by Trumps lack of qualifications or respect for the office. At a lunch shortly after the 2016 election, Hall asked Trump to reroute the Dakota Access Pipeline away from Native American reservations that were protesting the project. Trump responded by asking if she wanted to serve in his administration as head of the Bureau of Indian Affairs. “It was horrible. I couldnt wait to get away,” she later told friends. 
F**or many American** families during the Trump years, politics became a third rail. And so it was for the Murdochs. Among Murdochs adult children, Elisabeth and James tilted `#resistance`, whereas Lachlan was hard-core MAGA. (The eldest Murdoch son was particularly close with Fox News host Tucker Carlson, sources said.) Meanwhile, Murdochs new wife despised Trump—and let Murdoch know it. “During dinners we had with Jerry and Rupert, Jerry wouldnt hold back,” Cashin, Halls friend, said. According to a source, Murdoch wanted to buy a house in Florida to be closer to Mar-a-Lago, but Hall refused. Hall told friends she was alarmed by Trumps lack of qualifications or respect for the office. At a lunch shortly after the 2016 election, Hall asked Trump to reroute the Dakota Access Pipeline away from Native American reservations that were protesting the project. Trump responded by asking if she wanted to serve in his administration as head of the Bureau of Indian Affairs. “It was horrible. I couldnt wait to get away,” she later told friends. 
Discontent among the Murdochs simmered for the first months of Trumps term. But after the August 2017 neo-Nazi march in Charlottesville, Virginia, tensions boiled over. James and his wife, Kathryn, a former marketing communications professional turned philanthropist, were aghast that Trumps “very fine people on both sides” comment drew a moral equivalency between tiki-torch-wielding neo-Nazis chanting “Jews will not replace us!” and the counterprotesters standing up to them. James confronted Rupert and Lachlan about Fox Newss full-throated defense of Trumps remarks. They rebuffed him. “They were both in denial. They didnt want to see it for what it was,” a source briefed on the conversations said. Stymied, James took his criticism public. Days after the march, he donated $1 million to the Anti-Defamation League and sent an email to friends, which promptly leaked to the press, that denounced Trumps refusal to condemn white supremacy. “I cant even believe I have to write this: standing up to Nazis is essential; there are no good Nazis. Or Klansmen, or terrorists,” James wrote. It was an inflection point for James. He wanted out. At that very moment, Murdoch set in motion a media deal that would give the younger son a graceful and lucrative exit strategy. 

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# My High-Flying Life as a Corporate Spy Who Lied His Way to the Top
[![](https://narratively.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/04/RuseFinalHighRes.jpeg)](https://www.amazon.com/Ruse-Lying-American-Hollywood-Street/dp/1586423169)
This story is an adapted excerpt from [*Ruse: Lying the American Dream from Hollywood to Wall Street*](https://www.amazon.com/Ruse-Lying-American-Hollywood-Street/dp/1586423169), by Robert Kerbeck, reprinted with permission from Steerforth Press.
Phone to my ear, I listen to it ring the way a stage actor, surging with adrenaline, counts the final seconds to his cue. Eyes closed, I breathe in sync with it.
A woman picks up on the fourth ring. I recognize the voice and feel the tension in my knuckles relax a bit. My eyes pop open and I hit my mark.
“Hey, Zoe, its Kevin in compliance.”
“Hi, Kev,” she says.
“How you doin?” I ask, my Philly accent like a fist tapping at the window.
“The cancer is back.”
It pains me to hear this. Ive been calling Zoe for more than a decade, and shes never been anything less than incredibly helpful. I count on her to help me do my job and do it well. Though weve never met, I like her and feel like we know each other. I hate the idea of her getting sick and leaving the company, one of the largest financial institutions in the world. Among other things, it means my work will get much more challenging.
I need her to look up the name, title and cell phone number for a high-level executive at the bank, plus the names and numbers of everyone who reports to him. Im in kind of a hurry, but Im not an asshole. I need to hear about her illness first.
“Im sorry to hear that, Zoe. Whats the situation?”
“Its not good,” she says.
I can tell she is going to say something else, and Im pretty sure I know what it is. Shes going to share with me how much time she has left. I can hear it in her pauses. After so many years working the phone, Ive learned to pick out the nuances, the things being said behind whats being said, entire life stories even, in a hesitation or vocal inflection, in blank moments in time.
“Hey, I had a friend who was down for the count, and hes still around five years later,” I say. “Theyre coming up with new treatments every day. Youve just got to stick around, and theyll find something.”
“Im on a new chemical now.”
“See? Dont you worry. You and I will be having these chats for years to come.”
I mean it. She knows I do. I can hear it in the whisper of a smile on the other end of the line.
A few years ago, after she got divorced, Zoe tried to initiate a little flirtation. I was game. Among other things, that kind of rapport would help grease the wheels when I needed help with something.
“Are you single?” shed asked.
“I am at the moment.”
“Do you ever visit Dallas?”
“No,” I said. “Working in compliance, I only get to travel to state capitals to meet with regulators. Austin is as close as I get.”
“My daughter has a softball tournament in Austin this weekend. Are you going to still be there Friday? You could stay on. It would be fun to finally meet you.”
“I wish. But Im out of here tonight as soon as we file these docs, then on to the next capital for more of the same.”
“Darn it,” she said. “Maybe next time.”
“For sure.”
Zoe didnt stay single long. Once she remarried, our chats focused on my miserable, lonely days traveling around trying to please uptight state regulators. Zoe often reminds me that my life shouldnt all be about work.
“I hope Ill be around long enough to see you getting out there more,” she says.
“You and me both,” I respond, and my tone cues her that we need to get to the real purpose of my call.
“What do you need, Kev?”
I sigh and give her the name of a senior executive. I need to know his entire organization from top to bottom, every name all the way down to the junior analyst level, plus each individuals location and cell phone number. Zoe knows Im off-site and dont have access to any of this information at the moment.
“Wow,” she says as she pulls up the name on the banks internal database. “He has over 200 people in his group. This is going to take forever.”
Zoe reads me all the names and titles. She gives me precise descriptions of what each team does and offers each individuals cell number and physical location. My hand cramps as I scribble everything down. By the time she finishes, more than an hour has passed. I thank her earnestly.
“Ive gotta take a break after that,” Zoe says. “Im exhausted.”
“You deserve one,” I say.
Zoe knows that what I do is critical for our multibillion-dollar company to continue doing what it does, so she provides what I ask of her, over and over, year after year, even though it has absolutely nothing to do with her job. Even though it eats up hours of her time. Even though she is not authorized to give me any of that information.
And, most important, even though every single thing she knows about me, and everything Ive ever told her, is a lie.
My name is not Kevin, and I dont work in compliance.
I am not an employee of Zoes company, let alone an executive.
Ive never met a state regulator, uptight or otherwise.
I am not sitting in an antiseptic office in a blocky municipal building in Austin. Ive got my feet up on my desk in the converted toolshed that is my home office in Malibu. Shirtless, in board shorts and flip-flops, I gaze out at the Pacific and breathe in its familiar salty musk while I casually manipulate her.
I am not single. My wifes in the house doing yoga.
My friend who survived cancer? That actually is true. Every good liar knows you need to throw in one big truth to anchor the rest of the bullshit.
But all that internal data about reporting structures and titles and top earners? One of the largest executive search firms in the world has secretly hired me to steal it. And those private cell phone numbers? My client is going to target the banks best moneymakers and try to poach them, securing their meaty portfolios as well. Its late 2006, and Wall Street is bursting — year-end bonuses are projected to be 10 to 25 percent higher than last years, netting the top bankers and traders as much as $40 million apiece.
All of which is to say, this seemingly innocuous phone call is taking place in a capitalist ecosystem defined by outrageous, unchecked excess and, yes, rampant deception. The world of corporate spying is shady but lucrative, and I am one of the best.
Zoes intelligence alone has netted me hundreds of thousands of dollars in fees over the years.
“Anything else, Kev?” she says.
“Nope,” I say, “thats everything. Thanks again. Go take that break, yeah? Youve earned it.”
“Aint that the truth,” she says.
We chuckle and hang up.
*The truth.* Funny.
![](data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAAAAACH5BAEKAAEALAAAAAABAAEAAAICTAEAOw==)
It was the late 1980s and Id finally worked up the courage to move to New York City to become an actor, dashing my fathers dreams for me to take over the family car business. Yes, I am the child of a car salesman but it goes *way* deeper than that. My great-grandfather sold horse carriages before cars were invented, then switched over to become one of Philadelphias first automobile dealers. My grandfather had taken over that dealership and my father had taken it over from him. Now it was supposed to be my turn but I found that the trickery of car sales didnt feel right to me, which soon turned out to be pretty damn ironic.
My college roommates brother, Paxton “Pax” Freed, lived in Manhattan and had offered to show me around the city. A 5-foot-6 actor-musician with a mop of wavy brown hair, he was always clad in a black leather jacket like a mini Springsteen. One day, Pax mentioned his new phone job. He got me an interview with his boss, Leona, and I made my way to the Upper East Side, a section of the city Id never visited.
Leona seemed old to me, though she couldnt have been much more than 40. She wore leopard-print pants, a brightly colored blouse with matching silk scarf, gaudy gold jewelry and too much makeup, reminding me of Mrs. Robinson in *The Graduate*. I was playing it safe, wearing a suit and tie and carrying a briefcase with my résumé in it. Im not sure what she was expecting, but she eyed me as if my leading-man looks had made a good first impression.
“Nice outfit,” she said. “You look like you should be selling cars.”
“Actually, I did sell cars,” I said, a little clumsily. “For my dads dealership.”
“Im teasing you. Pax told me.”
She ushered me inside the cleanest apartment Id ever seen. Everything seemed to be in perfect order, as well as white. On top of the wall-to-wall carpeting was some type of fur rug (polar bear, I would later learn). Whatever her business was, it was lucrative.
“I didnt think youd be so . . . tall.” Leona gestured for me to sit in a white, padded chair in the center of the rug. I prayed I hadnt stepped in any dog doo on my trek from the subway.
“Pax tells me you left working for your dad to be an actor.”
I nodded.
“How did he take that?”
I was a bit flummoxed by the question. “Uh, not well,” I finally said.
“Why do you want to be an actor?” she asked.
I launched into a rambling monologue about how Id started acting at the University of Pennsylvania and was cast as the lead in play after play. I explained the first few breaks were what gave me the guts to move to New York.
“Its a hard life,” Leona said. “Hard to make a living. Hard to keep it going. Thats what your dad is worried about.”
“I can take care of myself.”
Leona sighed. “I have no doubt.” She stood and offered her hand to bid me goodbye.
She hadnt even asked for my résumé, which Id forgotten to pull out. Just like that, the Upper East Side fantasia spit me right back out onto the dirty streets of downtown, as unemployed as ever. It was time to pick up a crate of Kraft macaroni and cheese.
Pax called the next day. He said Leona was hiring me at the rate of $8 an hour, and I was to start training immediately. I couldnt believe it. *Coo-coo-ca-choo*, Leona.
“She hires everyone,” he quickly clarified. “Because nobody works out.”
It was only then I realized that Leona hadnt asked about my phone skills or sales skills — or any skills, really. Shed also not said a word about what the job actually entailed.
![](data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAAAAACH5BAEKAAEALAAAAAABAAEAAAICTAEAOw==)
The following day I made my way to the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn to work with Leonas trainer, Deirdre. In the late 80s, Brooklyn was the antithesis of the Upper East Side. The crack epidemic was hitting hard. The subway train I took over the Williamsburg Bridge was still covered in 70s graffiti. I found the building I was looking for and trudged sweatily up four flights of stairs. Along the way, I heard yelling and screaming from inside more than one apartment. I knocked on the door of 4C and a cute young woman with striking green eyes opened it. She was wearing a flowing and flowery Laura Ashley-type dress.
“Top o the morning,” she said with a bright smile. “Im Deirdre OConor. Thats with one *n*, not two, the way true Irish people spell it.”
“I didnt know.”
“Im American but Irish on both sides. What about you? Are you Irish?”
“Nope.”
“Not at all?” She seemed concerned, as if she might not be able to train me if I didnt have some Irish blood.
“Im part Welsh.”
“Oh,” she said, suddenly happy again. “I love the Welsh. Theyre almost as nice as the Irish.”
She laughed and showed me into her apartment, which consisted of two rooms: a bedroom and a living room with a bathtub in the middle of it.
“Youll work in my bedroom,” she said. “Come on.”
*Her bedroom.* What kind of work was she going to have me doing?
Deirdre set me up at a small desk in front of her bed, which was just a mattress on the floor. She pulled up a chair next to me and handed me a writing pad.
“First, youll need a name.”
“What for?”
“For your ploy. You cant use your real name. What happens when you get famous?” Deirdre said this as if it were a given.
“I need a fake name for phone sales?”
“Were not doing sales. Didnt Pax tell you that?”
Pax hadnt told me anything, as if he was afraid to tell people what he did for a living.
“We get non-public information from Wall Street companies.”
“What kind of information?”
“Their org charts, for starters.”
I had no idea what these were. I guess it was obvious by the look on my face.
“Their *organizational* charts,” she said slowly, as if I were developmentally disabled. “You know: Who reports to whom?” Deirdre pulled a giant red book from a cabinet and flipped it open. “Like this.”
It was some sort of directory. At the top of each page was the name of a bank or financial institution and beneath was a list of the executives working at that company, along with their titles.
“We get information like this for Leonas executive search firm clients. Their headhunters use our charts to identify the best people and steal them away to *their* clients.”
“Why do they need us when they have directories like this?” I pointed at the massive book, which had to be more than a thousand pages.
She scoffed. “This is worthless. Its out of date the second they print it. Half of these executives are gone or in different roles. Wall Street is ultra-competitive. People are constantly moving around to better jobs, often thanks to us. But its a good starting point, which is why Leona buys it. We use these names as leads to help get us what we want.”
“Which is?”
“Ill show you.” She grabbed my pad and elbowed me out of my chair. “Always write your name down, so you dont forget who you are.” She wrote *Maeve* on the side of a page, picked up the phone, pushed the speaker button, and dialed a number listed in the directory.
“Shearson Lehman,” an operator answered.
“Hello, how is your day going?” Deirdre-as-Maeve asked. She seemed to have put on a slight Irish accent.
“Its fine. How can I help you?”
“Im an exchange student from Ireland writing a paper. You havent been there, have you?”
“No, I havent, but Id like to go. My ancestors were from Ireland.”
Deirdre looked at me and raised her eyebrows.
“You must come and visit. I live in Galway. Ask for Maeve OShea.”
The operator laughed. Her brusque, business-like tone from the beginning of the call had disappeared. “How can I help you, Maeve?”
“Do you have a Ken Monahan listed?” Dierdre pointed at a name on one of the pages in the directory to clue me in as to what she was doing.
There was a brief pause as the operator looked up the name.
“I do. Hes in investment banking.”
“Can you see which department within investment banking?”
“Hes the head of mergers and acquisitions.”
“Oh golly, thats what Im writing my paper on. Can you see the list of the people in that department?”
“I can. Its very long.”
“Can you read it to me? Please? Im sending out a survey, and if I dont get enough responses my paper wont count. Its part of my citizenship application.”
Her story sounded kooky as well as unbelievable, but sure enough the operator began to read off the names. Deirdre got up and handed me her pen, mouthing *write*. I scribbled down every name, filling seven or eight pages with my sloppy writing, while Deirdre flitted about her bedroom straightening up.
“That was the last one,” the operator said after Xavier Zoydius, or whatever name came last on her alphabetical list.
Deirdre returned to the desk and leaned over my shoulder. She smelled great and reminded me of the commercials for Irish Spring soap. “I almost forgot,” she said. “Does your directory list titles?”
“It does.”
“Can you zip through them real fast? This is the last thing.”
I noticed Deirdre had dropped her accent. I wondered if I should warn her.
The operator ran through the list again, this time giving me titles: managing directors and VPs, associates and analysts. I barely understood what they meant.
When the operator finished, Deirdre popped back to her position over my shoulder.
“Im so sorry, but I need phone numbers, too. I promise, this is it.”
“You said that already.”
“I know, but I promise this time.”
The operator gave me the direct phone extensions for every name on the list.
“Thank you, operator. What was your name?”
“Colleen.”
“A good Irish name,” Deirdre said.
“Im not supposed to do that, you know.”
“I know, thank you. We Irish have to stick together. Have a great day!”
Deirdre disconnected the call and did a jig, complete with Irish step dancing.
“Thats amazing,” I said.
“Pretty impressive, huh? This information is worth a lot of money.”
“No, whats amazing is that she was stupid enough to give you all that. Why? Because youre a student? Oh wait, because youre an *Irish* student? With all due respect, your accent was going in and out the whole time. I dont know how she didnt notice.”
Deirdre stopped dancing. “She helped me because the Irish are kind, something the Welsh clearly are not.”
“Im not trying to be mean. It just doesnt make sense your story worked. You got lucky the operator was Irish.”
Deirdre shook her head, as if Id failed my first test. “Learn this, smarty-pants. The operator is your best friend. I ask every single one if theyre Irish. You have no idea how many of them are. Irish immigrants pretty much built this city — thats why theyre more than willing to help a young Irish girl new to New York. I always look for Irish names when I call people. By the way, once someone starts giving information, they rarely stop. Theyre not listening to your accent anymore. They dont even remember the name you gave them. Theyre under your spell. You should choose an Irish name as your pseudonym.” She pointed a finger at me. “Though you better be nice if you use one.”
I trained with Deirdre for two weeks, taking the subway every morning to her apartment in Brooklyn. Then I discovered that Leona had another worker, an actress and playwright named Andi, who lived two blocks from me. As much as I enjoyed Deirdres delightful Irish frolic, I was eager to give up the commute, and Leona gave me the go-ahead to transfer to Andis place.
On my first morning there, I sat at the kitchen table while Andi made herself breakfast.
“Lets hear what youve got.” She pushed the speaker button on the phone.
Doing a ruse call was hard enough without someone judging me as I did it. Plus, the firm I was calling was Goldman Sachs, by far the most difficult bank to research. Pax said getting information out of them was like robbing Fort Knox.
“Hello, this is, uh, Kieran OShaughnessy,” I said, making a feeble attempt at an Irish accent, which was far worse than Deirdres. “Im a student at NYU.”
“Who?” the operator asked.
I went further with the accent, channeling the leprechaun in the Lucky Charms commercials. “Kieran OShaughnessy. Ive just come from Ireland. I be a student at NYU.”
“NY who? I cant understand you. Who are you calling for?”
“What be your name, operator?” In my head, I was obsessively repeating the tagline from the commercials — *“Theyre after me lucky charms!”* — to help me get the accent right.
“We dont give out names at the switchboard.”
“Ah, but you sound Irish.”
The woman sounded less Irish than any voice Id ever heard. She hung up.
I picked up the phone, made a few more calls using the same lame script, and got nothing. Not a name, not a title, not a direct extension.
What worked consistently for Deirdre and Andi didnt work for me. Id spend hours and hours on the phone, yet often end up with only three or four names from groups that had dozens of people. Even in the beginning, I knew there had to be a better way, a better story, for me to get the intelligence Leonas clients wanted so badly.
I went to pick up the phone again, but Andi put her hand over mine.
“Relax. You need to find your voice.”
It sounded a lot like the advice my acting teacher was giving me.
“Look,” Andi continued. “Deirdre is great at training people because shes a sweetheart. But right now you sound like a poor imitation of her. A couple of times your accent was more Scottish than Irish.”
She laughed, and because it was true as well as funny — I was terrible at accents — I laughed with her.
“Do you know how many actors Leona has hired to do this job? Hundreds. Everyone sees her ad in *Backstage* and thinks how great it would be to have a flexible, part-time job. Do you know how many people have worked out? Three: me, Deirdre and your buddy Pax. You could be the fourth. But youve got to find your own style. Oh, and pick a shorter pseudonym. One-syllable names generally work best.”
Andi picked up the phone and hit the speaker button. She dialed and the same operator Id spoken with earlier answered.
“Im sorry to bother you,” Andi said. “Im the assistant of an executive that does business with your firm, and like an idiot I lost the Christmas card mailing list you guys sent us.” Andis voice slipped as if she might cry. “Im going to lose my job.”
“Sorry to hear.” The operators tone seemed different.
“Me, too. Ive got a kid, you know.” Andis voice cracked now like she actually was crying.
“Ive got two myself.”
“Is there any chance you could check this one name for me? Gus Walraven? I think hes in structured finance.”
“Sure, no problem.” There was a brief pause as the operator looked for the name in her directory. “Got him. Yup, structured finance.”
“What floor is he on? I need that for the card.”
“Hes on seven, but if you are sending something youll need the mail stop. The code for the structured finance group is 7B36.”
“You saved my life.”
“Happy to do it.”
“One more thing. Can you read me the other names in the mail stop?”
![](data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAAAAACH5BAEKAAEALAAAAAABAAEAAAICTAEAOw==)
Over the next decade, my acting career grew in fits and starts. I landed theater roles in New York opposite future stars like James Gandolfini and Calista Flockhart, and when I moved to L.A. a few years later, started booking TV jobs on shows like *Chicago Hope, Melrose Place* and *ER*. It always seemed like my big break was just around the corner. When I was featured in the ads for the *Sisters* episode in which I killed George Clooney, an actor friend of mine called from New York to say he was proud of me for making it in Hollywood. I declined to tell him that my acting income, after commissions and taxes, wasnt much above the poverty line.![](https://narratively.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/04/uitwerking-spot-1-1320x981.jpg)
What *did* pay the bills was rusing. The $8/hour survival job that helped me make rent in New York blossomed into something bigger. As I got good at it, I started hearing from other firms and took on work from multiple clients. I had no idea how they found me since I certainly wasnt advertising my unethical and, ahem, likely illegal services. Still, it was just a job; something to pay the bills in between auditions. Shit, what was the harm in finagling a few names out of unthinkably rich corporations anyway? But it was about to become something bigger and *much* more dangerous.
Id met my girlfriend, Gardia, a few years earlier. She worked for Madonnas record company, Maverick, and in addition to being brazen, she was Southern California through and through. Shed even been part of an all-girl punk rock skateboard gang called the Hags. Gardia wasnt fazed by the ethics of what I did. She had seen music business dealings that made lying on the phone seem quaint.
She was also sick and tired of being an undervalued and underpaid assistant, so after a blowup with her boss she decided to come work with me. Gardia quickly helped turn my survival job into a thriving enterprise. She bought filing cabinets and developed a detailed filing system. She began typing up the research to make it look professional, as well as legible, since my handwriting was atrocious. By taking over the parts of the business I sucked at, Gardia enabled me to focus on what I did best: rusing.
Instantly, our revenue increased. *A lot.*
Gardia and I moved into a rented house in Santa Monica together and set up an office in the basement. She even tried to make some ruse calls herself, but like nearly everyone before her, she wasnt able to handle the constant lying.
As we approached the turn of the millennium, the computer bug Y2K was projected to wreak absolute havoc on computer systems and networks across the globe, when electronic calendars failed to comprehend the transition from the year 99 to 00.
Id like to say I was the one who recognized the potential in using the computer bug to our advantage, but it was my old buddy Pax who was the genius. Though I lived in Santa Monica now and he still lived in New York, we spoke on the phone regularly and remained competitive about our rusing techniques like we were fighting to be salesman of the month at my fathers old dealership.
“Ive got a wicked new ploy for the millennium,” he bragged one morning. “I say Im in IT working on Y2K, and all anyone wants to know is whether were going to make the deadline. I tell them were working night and day, and that we have to input every single piece of information manually. Ive never had people more willing to give up intel. They feel sorry for me!”
Pax was right. The impending “disaster” of Y2K was a gold mine. We were able to obtain more valuable intelligence than ever before, which also enabled us to raise our rates. In 1999, I made more than $100,000 for the first time.
Even after an expensive wedding and honeymoon on the Big Island, Gardia and I still had money to sock away to buy a house. I shouldve been happy, but I was depressed about the state of my acting career, which was in its death throes. Id arrived in L.A. with big dreams that were starting to fizzle. Those plum TV jobs were drying up and now I was lucky to get roles on B-grade shows such as *Renegade* and *Pacific Blue*, which seemed to solidify me as a second- or third-tier TV actor.
Beyond the wrenching disappointment of my artist dreams slipping away lay the cold reality that all I was left with was the ruse. Yes, I was doing better than ever with it, but the situation had started to feel like whoring either way.
But now that I had a mortgage, I no longer cared about legal or moral implications, and I resented my old classmates who had gotten MBAs from Wharton and bragged about their millions. Exclusively targeting executives making ridiculous money felt like poetic justice. So I left Leona and started my own spying firm; I figured if I got in and out of each call carefully, the odds of any corporation coming after me were manageable, or so I prayed late at night.
Wall Street assistants were paid by the hour and left the second the clock struck 5. After that, most executives answered their own phones. Youd think theyd be tougher to squeeze for intel, but I found them to be far easier marks than their assistants.
“Jim Cassel,” one executive answered. Wall Street guys didnt go in much for greetings or small talk when they answered the phone.
“Hey, Jim, its Tom Chirico in tax,” I said, using the real name of the tax department head. “One of the partners from Price Waterhouse was in here this week. As you know, they do the audit for us. Theyve got tickets for the Knicks and the Rangers and have some openings for upcoming games. You guys in institutional sales have been killing it, so I figured you deserved first crack. You into it?”
“Its a suite, right? With booze and food?”
As if the free tickets werent enough.
“Come on,” I said. “Its a luxury suite.”
“Hell, yeah! What games?”
“Im not sure yet. Ive got to put together a list first to send to them. Read me the roster of the people on your desk, but give me the top producers first. We dont want one of your junior guys getting a front row seat, now do we?”
Jim told me the names of his team members with the heaviest hitters first, which would be incredibly valuable information for my client since now they would only be stealing the best executives from their top rival.
“Anyone else? Dont be shy. The more names you give, the more tickets I can get.”
“You want the traders, too?”
“Sure, why not? The more the merrier.”
Jim read me the names of the traders, the sales traders, the research department and the junior analysts. He wouldve given me the names of the janitorial staff and told me which one cleaned the windows best had I asked.
“Perfect,” I said. “Ill be in touch with dates.”
I felt a twinge of guilt and even a bit of fear about what might happen when those tickets didnt arrive, but I reminded myself that the guy on the other end was raking in an unconscionable amount of money, as were most of the names hed given me.
They could pay for their own damn tickets.
By this point the ruse was providing a powerful stream of revenue, and it only continued to grow. From 2002 to 2008, my annual income increased rapidly — from $204,000 to $352,000 to $498,000 to $916,000 to well over $1 million to, eventually, nearly $2 million. Clients were so desperate for the non-public intelligence and other dirty little corporate secrets we provided that they kept offering more and more money. One even paid double and overnighted me the entire fee in advance when I told him I was too busy.
There was such demand for top Wall Street talent that multiple clients often tasked us with extracting the exact same intelligence, enabling me to make double or even triple for one job. It had never occurred to me that I could make this kind of money.
In 2005, we started getting a ton of work in the financial derivatives space. I didnt even know what a derivative was, not that it mattered. And soon I came up with the most nuclear ruse yet: the compliance ploy.
As I was to learn, individuals working in compliance were feared by others within the firm. This made even surly assistants hesitant to take a stand. No one wanted to be on the bad side of compliance, the corporations version of Orwells Thought Police, who were constantly on red alert for any whiff of risk or malfeasance. This put me in a strategically powerful position. The flip side was that because almost all compliance officers were lawyers from top schools, they were exactly the types that could, would and did come after me. Before these super lawyers had moved to Wall Street to make the big money, most had worked in the public sector doing fraud enforcement for the Securities and Exchange Commission or the Federal Reserve. Now that I was actively *impersonating* them, they had more than enough incentive and resources, both professional and personal, to track me down and bust my ass. Departments with names like Insider Threat Protection, Surveillance Unit, and Financial Crimes Compliance scared the hell out of me.
I once received a letter from a Swiss investment bank after Id foolishly given out my fax number in a fit of desperation. A kind secretary had offered to send me what I needed, but instead a cease-and-desist letter came through from the deputy head of the firms U.S. legal department warning that if I ever called again he would alert the authorities.
One of the most terrifying encounters happened when Pax and I were working on a particularly challenging assignment from opposite coasts. He called me in a panic.
“Theyre after me!” Paxs normally strong voice was shaky. “They came to my apartment.”
“What? Who?”
“The police. My neighbor said they were banging on my door. They told my landlord theyre looking for me. Im going to be arrested.” He sounded like he was hyperventilating.
“Whoa, calm down,” I said. “Where are you now?”
“In my apartment. They were here an hour ago. They just missed me.”
“Hang up right now and call me from a pay phone.”
Suddenly, preparing for the audition I had that afternoon was no longer a priority. If the authorities had found Pax, it meant they were listening to his calls. If theyd tapped his phone, they had my number, too. For all I knew, the police — or the feds — would show up at my place any second. Before I could start hyperventilating, too, the phone rang again and I answered it.
“Im going to turn myself in,” Pax said.
“Dont be stupid, just hang on a second. Lets think this thing through.”
I recalled the attorney who once warned us that what we did was in a “dark gray” area of legality. He said it was conceivable that an aggrieved corporation, sick of losing its top executives to rival firms, which could cost it tens of millions, even billions, of dollars, might take action against us for the theft of names that led to those losses. Since Pax and I were using the telephone (as well as fraudulent pretenses) to obtain the information, we were susceptible to federal wire fraud charges, punishable by a hefty fine or up to 20 years in prison. If the violation affected a financial institution, the potential penalties went up to $1 million and 30 years. Apparently each ruse call our stupid asses made could be considered a separate crime! Pax and I had made *thousands* of those calls. We could be in prison for the rest of our lives.
While Pax was packing his stuff to flee, he got a voicemail message. It wasnt from the police, but from investigators with Sprint, a phone company hed been targeting recently.
“They said they know what Ive been doing.”
“Do not call them,” I shouted. “You must have pissed somebody off and they called their internal security. Those investigators have no authority to talk to you,” I said, “let alone arrest you. Ignore them. Theyre just trying to scare you.”
I had no idea if that was the truth, but I needed Pax to believe it was. For his sake and, possibly, mine.
The following days I was on edge as I waited to hear from Pax. In the shower, I noticed clumps of hair coming off in my hands.
One week later, I returned from an audition and the phone was ringing incessantly.
“Dude,” Pax said when I answered. “They think Im that computer hacker, the one being hunted by the Secret Service and the FBI.”
“Who?”
“Kevin Mitnick.”
I recalled reading an article about him the prior summer. Mitnick had been described as the Darth Vader of the hacking world — aka the “Darkside Hacker” — and a threat to national security. Mitnick got passwords and codes so he could hack into corporations to gain access to trade secrets worth billions. Im sure one wire-tapped phone call with my panicked friend had made it clear to the investigators that Pax didnt possess the skill set — or the balls — to escape a parking ticket, much less run a worldwide hacking operation. Mitnick was eventually caught, arrested as a domestic terrorist and placed in solitary confinement. I got to keep rusing from the beach in Malibu, and I never took an assignment researching phone companies again.
But taking the ruse to new heights was a perpetually tempting gamble. I went so far as to impersonate the CEOs and COOs of some of the worlds largest publicly traded companies, and not just on Wall Street. Tech, pharma, consumer products, industrial behemoths, even defense contractors across the globe all fell victim to the ruse. Many of the men I pretended to be were regular talking heads on CNBC and Fox Business. Some were even on presidential commissions and advisory committees. I called them and listened to their outgoing voicemail messages to study their inflections and the timbre of their voices. None of the men had accents, which was extremely fortunate for me. Indeed, they all pretty much sounded (and looked) the same. Risky as it was, their elevated public status was why I chose them. If people believed I was the top dog, there was no secret they wouldnt divulge: unreleased product intel, future plans and strategies, internal rankings of top employees — I could learn anything and everything my clients wanted to know. Indeed, most people were blown away that they even had the CEO on the phone, like theyd been gifted a rare audience with the king. They fawned, they flattered, they gave it up. More times than I can remember theyd say, “I cant believe Im actually talking to you.” And I wanted to respond: “Youre not.”
I kept rusing for years, and I kept making great money — until some tech industry folks created a little thing called LinkedIn that made publicly available much of the information I charged a lot of money for.
![](https://narratively.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/04/uitwerking-spot-2-1320x1320.jpg)Still, there continues to be highly sensitive and extremely valuable information that firms simply cannot obtain on social media. And if they want it badly enough, they hire a corporate spy like me. All these years later, I still have many of my moles, including my longest-running one, Zoe. I gave her a call not too long ago.
“Hey, its Kevin, hows it going?” I said when she picked up.
“Oh, hi, Kevin, this is Debbie,” said a woman I didnt recognize, and my stomach plunged. Before I could dwell too long on the likely reason for Zoes absence, Debbie added, “Ill get Zoe. Shes right here.”
Whew. But now I shifted to a different concern. No one else had ever answered her line before. I prayed Zoe wasnt leaving the firm.
“You again,” Zoe said when she came on the line.
“Missed me?”
“Not a bit.” She laughed. “I have my own job, you know.”
“Please. You love these calls.”
“I do?”
“They make you realize *your* job isnt so crappy.”
“Thats true,” she said. “I could never do what you do. I couldnt handle the pressure.”
“You dont want to do what I do, trust me.”
It occurred to me that despite myself I had just uttered a factual statement.
Zoe got quiet, and all at once I knew she had bad news.
“The cancer has spread,” she said, choking up. “Its in my bones, in my liver.”
“Hey,” I snapped. “Youve had cancer since Ive known you. Youre not going anywhere, so dont even think about it.”
She seemed to regain her composure. “Im on an experimental oral chemo now. The doctors say its working.”
“What did I tell you? Does Debbie there know?”
“Yes. Shes kind of filling in. Ive been missing a lot of work so they hired her to work with me.”
It all came together. Here I was worried that Zoe was quitting and what that would mean for my easy access to her prime intel when she was actually training a replacement *because she was dying*.
“She knows about you,” Zoe said, now trying to reassure me. “I told her youd be calling now and then for information, that whenever she sees an anonymous number its probably you. I said youre one of my favorite people at the firm.”
It was my turn to choke up.
Zoe and I had never met. How could she care so much about me? I was such a talented liar Id somehow convinced Zoe I was a person worthy of her friendship, her praise. But then I was also a professional listener, something I did earnestly and thoughtfully. Perhaps unlike others Zoe had confided in, I was actually present in our conversations, as if we were scene partners. I actively searched for ways to comfort her. I genuinely tried to help. I always made her laugh. I desperately wanted our play to have a happy ending, not this hackneyed third-act fatality.
“Im going to give you her direct number,” Zoe said. “In case Im not here.”
I mumbled something indecipherable. There were no words I could say this time. Zoe was getting her affairs in order. And part of that was supplying me with a new mole, a small gesture for her that would have a great impact for me. Any comfort I would offer her now would ring as false as the name Id given her all those years ago.
She read me Debbies number. “Im going to miss you, Kev.”
Either way, I knew this would be our last call and that Id soon be dialing Debbies number, since I couldnt handle carrying the knowledge of Zoes impending death — which I truly cared about — while pretending to be someone I wasnt.
Its hard to be sincere when youre lying about everything else.
“What do you need?” Zoe asked.
Since this was going to be my last call with her, I decided to go big.
“I need the names of every person in investment banking.”
“U.S. only?”
Might as well go out with a bang. “Globally.”
This was likely close to — no joke — a *thousand* names. I waited for Zoe to freak out and say this was finally just too much, even for her.
“Well,” she said, “we better get started then.”
***Want the full story? Order your copy of [Ruse: Lying the American Dream from Hollywood to Wall Street.](https://www.amazon.com/Ruse-Lying-American-Hollywood-Street/dp/1586423169)*** 
[![](https://narratively.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/04/RuseFinalHighRes.jpeg)](https://www.amazon.com/Ruse-Lying-American-Hollywood-Street/dp/1586423169)
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# The Dead Ringers Story: The Strange Death of the Twin Gynecologists
## A patients notes.
![](https://pyxis.nymag.com/v1/imgs/5b2/835/88ae0e4d2b64a24fa299aefdcfb675b662-twin-gynecologists-lede.rhorizontal.w1100.jpg)
Photo: Matthew Klein
**Editors note:** *New York*s issue of September 8, 1975 included a cover story about two gynecologist twin brothers who had died under strange circumstances on the Upper East Side. The brothers story eventually inspired a novel, [*Twins*](https://www.amazon.com/Twins-Bari-Wood/dp/0434877859?tag=vulture-20&ascsubtag=[]vu[p]clg432equ002u0id5kg0xcee3)*,* by Bari Wood and Jack Geasland, and a film adaptation, *Dead Ringers,* directed by David Cronenberg and starring Jeremy Irons in both roles. In April 2023, [*Dead Ringers*](https://www.vulture.com/2023/03/dead-ringer-rachel-weisz-amazon-prime-clip.html) was remade as a Prime Video TV series, this time with Rachel Weisz as the doctors.
Like so many other people I spoke with this summer, I found myself uncharacteristically haunted by the deaths of Stewart and Cyril Marcus, the twin gynecologists found gaunt and already partially decayed in their East 63rd Street apartment amidst a litter of garbage and pharmaceuticals. The story of their deaths had, for me, even in its barest bones, that element of stupefying reality that Philip Roth calls an “embarrassment” to the writers imagination; here was a reality that could make the capabilities of even the most imaginative writer seem meager.
Several aspects of the deaths contributed to my stupefaction. One was the very fact of the mens twinship, the doubleness which had given them a mutual birth date and now a mutual death date as well. Another was the mens prominence. When beggars die in a state of bizarre deterioration in New York, there are no comets seen; when two doctors still on the staff of a mighty New York hospital die in a state of bizarre deterioration, the heavens themselves blaze forth questions of responsibility. Had these men actually been seeing patients — perhaps even performing operations — while already on their route to disintegration? (Such was the case, as it turned out.)
Had none of their learned colleagues noticed, if not a mental alteration then at least the clear signs of physical change that had come over them? (They had, and, in fact, New York Hospital decided to dismiss the Marcuses — but only weeks before their deaths.).
![package-table-of-contents-photo](https://pyxis.nymag.com/v1/imgs/264/570/0c61d6adbf9f79f68901383cbf63f68820-twin-gynecologists-cover.2x.rvertical.w330.jpg)
But I had a special personal reason for curiosity about the deaths of the Marcuses, for I had once been a patient of Stewarts. At least, it was Stewart whom I called for appointments and whose name appeared on the bills I received, although the friend who had recommended him to me told me she sometimes had her doubts about which twin she was actually getting. Yes, they were that much alike. She was convinced that from time to time they had played classic twin jokes, one substituting for the other. Another woman with whom I spoke had had the same impression recently, and said, “Of course, they never told the patients they were doing this. But I got so I could tell which was which. Stewarts neck was thicker.” Other patients could tell which twin was which because they detected a difference not in anatomy but in personality. Their doctor, kindly on one visit, would be strangely inaccessible on the next. Thus, the story grew that one was a “good twin,” the other a “bad twin.” But there was widespread disagreement as to which was the good one, which the bad. And it was never quite clear whether the personality change was a result of the twins pinch-hitting for each other, or whether because within each twin there was a split and ranging personality. I tended toward the latter belief, and was convinced I always saw the same doctor, but that he had dark and darker moods.
Eventually I left off seeing him. This was about eight years ago. I had found him/them distant, remote, incapable of or unwilling to engage in discussion or explanation. Hardly what one wants in a doctor. His/their reputations were good. They were among the few surgeons to have perfected the “purse string,” an operation that helped women who had difficulty carrying a fetus to full term. They were said, also, to be the best gynecologists in town — in those days — at inserting with a minimum of pain the then still new IUDs — intrauterine devices. But communication with him/them was so often difficult that I finally realized that reputation was, for me, less important than responsiveness.
Perhaps because of having felt so strongly *my* Dr. Marcuss distance from life, I wasnt really surprised when I read of his and his brothers deaths. The initial police reaction was that they were victims of a suicide pact. There were no signs of anyones having forced entry into their apartment; no signs of external violence to either body. Stewart was found face up on the floor, nude except for his socks; Cyril was found dressed in his shorts and face down on a big double bed. Stewart had died several days before Cyril. There was no note — the usual accompaniment to suicide — although according to Bill Terrell, the building repairman who called the police and, with them, was the first to enter the apartment, there was a piece of paper in a typewriter with the name and address of the woman whom Cyril had married and divorced.
More mysterious than the question of whether their deaths had been intentional or accidental was the fact that the *cause* of death remained unknown for days. Despite the fact that Cyril, a man close to six feet tall, had weighed just over 100 pounds at the time of his death, and Stewart had been gaunt as well, no sign of serious physical ill­ness was found in either man. No cancer: no heart condition.
Ultimately, extensive tests conducted by the Medical Examiner revealed that drugs — barbiturates — had caused their deaths, but not because they had suddenly taken a large quantity. Rather, they had been taking large quantities for a long period of time, and it was when they stopped — and had the fatal convulsions typical of barbiturate withdrawal — that they had died.
It is not easy to portray the Marcuses. The relatives are loath to talk about them, for obvious reasons. The wife from whom Cyril was divorced has children whom he sired. She feels an enormous, brooding compassion for her ex-husband. Colleagues of the Marcuses and those in an administrative capacity at New York Hospital were even less willing to talk, although three weeks after all my attempts at interviewing them had been defensively rejected, the *Times* was able to shame them into finally addressing the press. Because of these difficulties, I had to follow another direction and it took me closer to a resolution of the personal questions troubling me.
I went first to the building in which the Marcuses had been found dead. Cyril had lived there — in apartment 10H at 1161 York Avenue — for some five years, apparently since the time he had separated from his wife and children; Stewart had moved in with him sometime in the last few months. To the doormen and building employees, the two doctors were always distant, remote, too arrogant for a “Good morning” or even a “Hot weather, isnt it?”
Because the two doctors eschewed small talk. no one talked to them much after a while. Thus it was that on a Tuesday, the Tuesday on which, presumably, the second twin was to die, his brother having done so several days earlier, doorman George Sich — who had worked in the building for 25 years — saw one of the twins leave the building sick and depleted and yet was unsure about how far to carry an offer of help. The twin — we now know it was Cyril — neared a table in the lobby on which packages were occasionally placed and began to stagger a bit. “I thought he looked ill,” says the doorman: “I thought he was going to faint, and I hurried over to help him.” But when Sich reached his side, the twin recovered his balance and said in an icy tone. “Im all right.”
Inside the apartment that day, the other brother — Stewart — already lay dead. He had become just another part of the debris and decaying organic matter that had been collecting around the twins for a lengthy period of time. The newspapers described the apartment in which the bodies were found as “messy.” Stronger words were used by building employees and policemen who went into the rooms. In the room in which Cyril died there was no inch of floor space that was not covered with litter and garbage, not just in a single layer, but almost a foot and a half high. Bits of unfinished TV dinners and chicken bones, paper bags and sandwich wrappers from Gristedes were heaped around the bed, a collection of plastic wraps from the dry cleaners entirely filled one closet, and human feces rotted in a handsome leather armchair of the type so many doctors favor.
Bill Terrell, the building repairman, says that he knew from the first that there was a dead body within. Neighbors had been complaining for two days that there was a smell emanating from 10H. Terrell says, “I knew what the smell meant. I was in combat, you see. The real conflict.”
But Terrell had reasons beyond the nose on his face to suspect that there was a dead man — or two dead men — in the apartment. Once before he had been called upon to break open the door to 10H. It is his story of this event that makes the death of the Marcuses seem not just a sudden inexplicable tragedy but a tragedy with long, concealed roots. That other time, about three years ago, Terrell had been passing by 10H on his way from a repair job in a nearby apartment when he heard a buzzing sound within. It sounded like a phone off the hook. He thought nothing of it until, several hours later, he had cause to be on the tenth floor once again, passed 10H, and once again heard the buzzing. This time he rang the doorbell and began to pound loudly on the door. When no one answered his noises, Terrell says, he got the phone number of Cyrils brother Stewart and telephoned him at his office. Terrell said to Stewart, “Theres something not quite kosher at your brothers place. I think your brother needs help.”
What happened next amazed and intrigued Terrell. There was, he says, a long silence. He got the feeling that Stewart was somehow consulting the air waves, communing with his brother, because he said nothing for a long, long time and then, quite abruptly, said, “Yes, Youre right. He does need help. Ill be right over.” In Stewarts presence, Terrell took apart the door lock. When they entered the apartment, they saw Cyril lying unconscious in the foyer. Stewart turned pale. Terrell said, “Give him artificial respiration.” “I cant touch my brother. You do it.” “I cant,” said Terrell. “Youre the doctor. You do it.”
But in the end, neither of them did it. Stewart was too shaken and Terrell went to call help and an ambulance. It arrived within minutes, and one of the doctors who came rushing in saw Cyril and said, “Boy! Hes just about had it.”
There is still, I think, some primitive terror of twins that lurks in us. It is so strong that, although we have come eons away from the kinds of superstitions that drove the Aborigines of Australia to murder one or even both of a twin set at birth, or some West African tribes to kill not just twin infants but the woman who had given birth to them, we are nevertheless mysteriously stirred and frightened when twins, born on the same day, die — or worse yet *choose* to die — at the same shared time. It arouses in us an almost primordial anxiety. *How* can it happen? It cant, and yet it does. It happened here in 1952 when two ancient twin sisters were found withered from malnutrition in a Greenwich Village apartment, only to expire within hours of each other and their discovery. It happened in a North Carolina mental institution in 1962 when twin brothers, hospitalized for schizophrenia, were found dead within minutes of each other in separate ends of the hospital. The simultaneous or nearly simultaneous death of twins happens rarely, but when it does, it seems like some mysterious arithmetical proposition far beyond the ordinary computation involved in life and death.
And yet sometimes there was humor connected with the Marcuses twinship. Once, when they were interns at Mount Sinai, they had participated in a hospital show, one twin exiting stage left just as his brother entered stage right, dressed alike, moving alike, trick photography in the flesh; it brought the house down. But for the most part, the stories that have accrued around the Marcus brothers are neither humorous nor focused on their attractive looks, nor even on the outstanding gynecological textbook they wrote in 1966.
The words used to describe the Marcuses by even the most psychologically unsophisticated — words like “remote,” “distant,” “icy” — are the classical language used in psychiatric textbooks to describe schizoid personalities. Although some years ago Cyril, when married, displayed photographs of his children in his office, and Stewart was known to talk admiringly of their doctor-father, in the last few years of their life they seem to have felt connected to no one, except, perhaps, to each other. They had always been extraordinarily close and had shared, in their adolescence in Bayonne, New Jersey, and their college days at Syracuse University, the same aspirations, achievements, and goals. Sometimes this caused distress in people around them.
One woman — a physician — recalls the Marcuses well because they were gynecological residents in the hospital where she delivered her first child 20 years ago. She remarked to me: “Having the Marcuses was a horrible experience; one would check with his fingers to see how far I was dilated — standard procedure, but never very pleasant — then he would call his brother, and have him check too. They did this twice. It was painful enough to have two people do it. And unnecessary. I finally had to have my husband demand that they stop this. It was as if one couldnt have an experience without sharing it with his brother.”
At the same time, the brothers seem to have feared alienating each other. Or at least Stewart feared alienating Cyril. A woman who was Cyrils patient and grew to dislike his personality nevertheless felt that the Marcus twins had an expertise with women who had previously miscarried and now wanted to give birth. On one occasion she recommended such a friend to Stewart, explaining to her friend that she was sure she would not be able to bear Cyrils icy mannerisms. The friend called Stewart and said she had been recommended to him by a patient of Cyrils. Stewart refused to see her. “I cant take patients away from my brother,” he explained. The woman argued with him. “I am not Cyrils patient; my friend was Cyrils patient and she has recommended you.” Stewart, this woman recalled, “grew apoplectic and he said he would never see my friend or me.”
The Marcuses seem to have found in their twinship a proof of specialness, of their unique importance in a world of singletons. Sometimes that feeling was expressed in harsh, cruel ways. I know this because of a conversation I happen — eerily — to have had two weeks before the announcement of their deaths, with a woman who was explaining to me how it had felt to have twins. In retrospect, it seems amazing to me and to Arlene Gross that she and I had been talking about the Marcuses on a rainy Sunday as one of them already lay dying. Mrs. Gross had said to me that afternoon, “I didnt know I was going to have twins. Still, I suspected it. There are twins in both my husbands and my own families. But no one believed me. The obstetrician — a Dr. Marcus — certainly didnt. On one of my visits I told him I thought maybe I was carrying twins, and he got peculiar, hateful and cold. Ill never forget it. He stared at me and he said, You pregnant women are all alike. Just because you overeat and get fat, you think you are going to have twins. He spoke to me with such contempt. It was as if Id said I thought I was going to have the Messiah, as if giving birth to twins was something too special for the likes of me. Which was funny, since *he* was a twin.”
There is one essential of personality that emerges in all these accounts, whether they deal with the twins closeness, their feelings about their twinship, or their awe of each other. It is that they were frequently hostile, even hurtful, to their women patients. Curiously, in view of their ultimate gaunt condition, they often seemed to insult women about their weight. The woman who gave birth to twins had been told she was fat; still, she was heavy at the time and she felt that the insult had been just, if cruel. But another woman who was five feet, eight inches tall and weighed, toward the end of her pregnancy, 155 pounds — a gain of only 20 pounds over her normal weight — was told by Cyril, “Youre disgustingly obese.”
And there is another common thread in the accounts patients give of the Marcuses. It is that they could not abide disagreement. They seem to have grown paranoid and angry whenever they were questioned. One woman I spoke with tells an anguished story of being scheduled by Cyril for an operation three years ago, only to have had him fail to keep the appointment. She was in the hospital and already being prepped for the operation when she received a phone call from him. He explained to her in ordinary tones that the operation would have to be delayed till the afternoon because the doctor who was using the operating room at present was running late. The woman accepted the explanation. Afternoon came and once again the nurses started prepping her and once again there came a telephone call from Dr. Cyril Marcus. Again, still reasonable, he explained with some solicitude that he could not perform the operation. He would do it the next morning. When he called her the third time — the next morning — he suddenly announced that he had decided to postpone the operation and do a biopsy. “And this was the odd part,” said the woman. “I had always before found him pleasant, nice. When he told me — and later my husband — that now he had decided to do something different with me instead of operating, we felt it was certainly our right to know why he had changed his mind. But once we began questioning him he flew off the handle, became overwrought. He couldnt brook being questioned. And he spoke so strangely that my husband decided I should just leave the hospital and seek another gynecologist. I did. I had the operation. It was fine. And I never went back to Cyril.”
Jean Baer, writer and author with her psychologist husband, Dr. Herbert Fensterheim, of the recent book on assertiveness training *Dont Say Yes When You Want to Say No*, was a patient of Stewarts until just a year ago. “Most of the time I saw him, I was working full time as well as writing. My time was very important to me. Id developed the habit — when it came to doctors and dentists — of always calling their offices prior to setting out from my home for appointments, just to be certain they werent running late. Several times when Id call before an appointment with Marcus, the secretary there would tell me, Yes, he will be free in 15 minutes, and so Id leave my office and get up there, but when Id arrive, hed be nowhere to be seen. And it wasnt as if the secretary had made a mistake. I could see she was embarrassed. She had no idea where he was. Shed just been told to answer calls that way. Id have to wait and eventually hed show up. But worse, once I needed him in an emergency and the secretary told me he never left a number where he could be reached.”
Despite these provocations, Ms. Baer continued seeing Stewart Marcus. She even continued seeing him after a time when, just before she was to leave on a vacation, Stewart failed to keep his promise to see her, and Cyril — telephoned for advice — lashed out at her over the wires.
“All I wanted was to know whether Stewart was going to be able to see me before I left and, if not, what to do about a certain problem I had. Cyril started screaming. I mean *screaming*. No one has ever spoken to me that way in my life.”
In my own experience, I can think of almost no other occupation but medicine in which explosive, paranoid, peculiar behavior is so long tolerated. In an office, in a shop, even in political life, there are checks and balances and interactions which eventually serve to inform and protect and dissuade the public. This is not true in medicine with its private-practice secrecy and the unwillingness of doctors to criticize their peers. Patients can, of course, leave doctors. But there IS almost no way they can communicate to other, less-wary patients what their own ex­periences may have unveiled.
Nor had the kind of excitable, angry behavior which Ms. Baer describes arisen in the twins only recently. One quite medically sophisticated woman who had used Cyril as her obstetrician ten years ago reported to me that he had grown violently angry with her when she had told him that, because she was an older woman and feared she might give birth to a mentally retarded child, she wanted him to arrange with the hospital pediatrician to administer to her newborn a PKU test — a test for mental retardation now required by law and automatically given to all infants born in New York State. The test was not yet law at the time, however, and Cyril Marcus was enraged at the request. He told the woman the idea was ridiculous, that he had not even had the test for his own children, and that she was being grossly demanding. Shortly before she gave birth, the test did become standard procedure, but, if anything, this made Cyril even more angry and hostile to her.
What of their colleagues? While they speak less freely than do the patients, they too reveal a dark side of the doctors. Dr. Myron Buchman, a prominent New York Hospital gynecologist and longtime colleague of the Marcuses, says, “No one really knew them well.” Another doctor at New York Hospital with whom I spoke said, “No one was shocked at their deaths. They were isolates and had always kept to themselves.” A third gynecologist, Dr. Stanley Birnbaum, said, “There was no one they were really friendly with at the hospital,” and explained, “everybody felt they were sick, somehow, but just what was the nature of their illness, if any, I have no idea.”
In general, the picture that emerges of the Marcuses is of two men who shared a psychological disturbance that antedated their extreme barbitu­rate addiction and eventual death. It is common for identical twins to share psychological traits and capabilities as well as physical similarities. Thus we have had many sets of twins who enter the same professional field as one another and achieve almost equal prominence — the playwrights Anthony and Peter Shaffer, the painters Raphael and Moses Soyer, the doctors Alan and Manfred Guttmacher. Identical twins tend to resemble each other — even when reared in different households and economic settings — in such things as IQ, mathematical ability, musical talent, degree of self-confidence, and even in mental disease and the rate at which it develops. They do not show a greater incidence of such disease than do other members of the population, but when one twin develops a mental illness, the risk of its development in the other is very high. Illustrations of this are so dramatic and convincing that twin re­search has become the backbone of the growing psychiatric conviction that such mental illnesses as schizophrenia and manic-depressive disease are genetically transmitted.
It is therefore not unlikely to as­sume that both the Marcuses deteri­orated from the same mental illness at the same rate. Nor is it necessary — or even sensible — to ask, “What made them die?” if the implication of the question is, “Who did it? What woman or man? What disappointment?” For many years the brothers had been withdrawn, isolated, suspicious. At some point they intensified their isolation by seeking the increased withdrawal and somnambulism that barbiturates offer, and in the end they opted for — or simply grew too weak on drugs to consume any more and thus ward off — the ultimate somnambulism of the grave. Theirs is a story of a slow groping toward death on the part of two men who already had but a tenuous connection with people — and that connection, after all, is life.
Thus, in the operating room one day last year, one of the Marcuses pulled the anesthesia mask off a patient and placed it over his own face, longing for unconsciousness and extinction. It was for this — and other similar reasons — that so many of those who knew the Marcuses said they were not surprised by the brothers death, and seemed even to have anticipated it. But why hadnt they shared their suspicions, blazoned them about town? And why had New York Hospital waited so long to initiate the twins dismissal, when years ago the brothers were already showing signs to patients of dangerous mood shifts and impersonality?
These days, I find I am disillusioned with all the colleagues of the Marcuses who knew how sick and unreliable the twins were, but who felt it necessary, out of medical solidarity and a self­-serving sympathy for troubled peers, to keep silent — up to and even after the bitter end. I find I keep asking myself, Who was that woman whose anesthesia mask was removed? It might have been me or you.
- [Seeing Double: 16 Essential Identical-Twin Movies](https://www.vulture.com/article/the-16-best-identical-twin-movies.html)
- [Rachel Weisz Plays God (Twice Over) in *Dead Ringers*](https://www.vulture.com/2023/03/dead-ringers-trailer-release-date-cast.html)
- [Grab a Bite With Two Rachel Weiszes in This Exclusive *Dead Ringers* Clip](https://www.vulture.com/2023/03/dead-ringer-rachel-weisz-amazon-prime-clip.html)
[See All](https://www.vulture.com/tags/dead-ringers)
Dead Ringers: The Strange Death of the Twin Gynecologists
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# What Was Twitter, Anyway?
![A color photograph of a nest filled with trash, including cigarette butts, a soda tab, wire, chewed-up bubble gum and a blue feather in the middle.](https://static01.nyt.com/images/2023/04/23/magazine/23mag-twitter1/23mag-twitter1-articleLarge.jpg?quality=75&auto=webp&disable=upscale)
Credit...Photograph by Jamie Chung. Concept by Pablo Delcan.
The Great Read
Whether the platform is dying or not, its time to reckon with how exactly it broke our brains.
Credit...Photograph by Jamie Chung. Concept by Pablo Delcan.
- April 18, 2023
### Listen to This Article
Audio Recording by Audm
The trouble began, as it usually does, when I saw something funny on my computer. It was the middle of the morning on a Wednesday, a few years back, and I came across news that Le Creuset, the French cookware brand, had made a line of “Star Wars”-themed pots and pans. There was a roaster made to look like Han Solo frozen in carbonite ($450) and a Dutch oven with Tatooines twin suns on it (“Our Dutch oven promises an end result thats anything but dry — unlike the sun-scorched lands of Tatooine”; $900). A set of mini cocottes had been decorated to resemble the lovable droid characters C-3PO, R2-D2 and BB-8.
I was also looking at Twitter that day, something that I can say for sure not only because of what happened next, but also because I look at Twitter just about every day. (This is not terribly unusual in my profession — I am an editor at The New York Times Magazine — but I think it should be stated clearly upfront that I have something of an acute problem with it.) I took a screenshot of the cocottes and uploaded it to the site. I wrote, as an accompanying caption, “The Star Wars/Le Creuset pots imply the existence of a Type of Guy I find genuinely unimaginable...” — just like that, ellipsis and all. I hit send. I guess I went back to work after that. My email records show that I sent a big edit memo to a writer. Then, around lunchtime, things started happening.
If you dont use Twitter — which is perfectly normal; about three-quarters of Americans dont — you should know that the platform has a function called quote-tweeting, which was introduced in 2015. It allows users to show a tweet theyve encountered to their own followers, while adding their own text or image to comment on it. You often see people use this function to respond to some contrived prompt that crosses their feed (“Whats a great song that features an impressive horn section?”). Less often, though often enough that the practice has its own name, quote-tweets are used to roast and clown on people — to trot them out in front of a new audience, drop their pants and spank them. This is referred to as “dunking.”
At some point in the early afternoon, someone dunked on me by quote-tweeting my observation and adding, in The Onions headline style: “Area Man Has Never Heard of Women.” My post was now in front of a new audience, and that audience was now reading it framed by what I would consider an uncharitable interpretation of my point.
New quote-tweets started to pour in, each one putting me in front of another audience of followers, some minuscule and others quite large. “I enjoyed that this tweet manages to be sexist on multiple levels”; “#newsflash WOMEN cook and like Star Wars”; “Imagine a woman”; “Hi, have you met women?”; “Women like Star Wars. Men cook.”; “My husband is a huge Star Wars fan and is the cook in the house. He bakes too. Sorry to blow your mind.”; “i luv a good dose of homophobia and toxic masculinity in the year of our lord 2019 🙄.” My notifications flooded for the next 24 hours as the tweet continued to find its way into new corners of the site. Some people replied directly: “... are you aware that girls can like star wars too”; “Willy, get a better imagination, and cut it out with the gatekeeping”; “Men cook. Women like Star Wars. If you cant imagine those things, thats about you, not other people.”; “Showed my son, hes trying to find them to order them now. Btw, hes a Marine.” Other replies cant be printed here.
None of these people were *wrong*, exactly. It was true that in the split second between learning of the pots and posting about them, I had imagined a stereotypically geeky and slovenly guy as the customer, and Le Creuset as the kind of thing you put on your wedding registry — that is indeed why I thought the products were funny. Its not as if this was a terribly original thought; I didnt wake up and introduce to our culture, on a random Wednesday, the idea that male nerds like to buy “Star Wars” memorabilia. Nor had these broader gender corollaries — that men dont cook, that women dont like “Star Wars” — so much as crossed my mind. In any event, I no longer have any trouble imagining what “Star Wars”-Le Creuset customers are like.
I was wrong on another level, too: The pots and pans were, as many Twitter users would find time to inform me, wildly popular, and are now available only on the secondary market, in some cases for multiple times their retail value. Still, wrong as I may have been, the responses I managed to provoke were stunning to me — for their volume, their woundedness, their consistency and the way the “Star Wars”-liking issue was so salient that I was called sexist for *not* associating cookware with women. Luckily, the sheer inanity of the topic offered a measure of safety you dont typically get when you bring negative attention to yourself on Twitter. I could afford to take the anthropological view. I felt like Bill Paxton at the end of “Twister” — strapped in and able to see down the barrel of this thing and admire its beautiful, treacherous contours.
Twitter is both short-form and fast-moving, which together make it feel conversational. Like all conversations, its highly context-dependent, and like all *good* conversations, its guided by the pleasure principle. Thats what makes it fun: Who doesnt want to be the person who can make everyone laugh at a dinner party? But Twitter also puts your dinner-party remarks in front of people who were not invited to the dinner party, showing them exactly how little you considered them before chiming in. And, of course, no one involved is having fun at a dinner party at any point in this process; everyone is, like you, probably alone, on the computer, experiencing the feeling we used to know as boredom.
Though it didnt feel this way at the time, as I look back now, its clear that no one was actually *upset* about the “Star Wars” thing, not in any meaningful sense. A couple of people tried to draw a connection between my retrograde outlook on novelty Dutch ovens and my employer — always an alarming development — but mostly it was low-effort clowning that felt charged only because it was traveling along such high-energy vectors (sexism, homophobia, “Star Wars” fandom). The platform can coax this exact sort of response out of its users with an incredibly small amount of effort. Its only on the receiving end, where all these messages collect in one place, that it feels oppressive.
This sort of thing is happening to dozens of people at any moment on Twitter, routinely enough that its more than some unfortunate externality, though not so often that youd say its the *point* of the platform. (It, too, has a name: “getting ratioed.”) You have a few options when this happens. In theory, you can just log out and wait for it to end, but no one does that, because who knows what might happen when youre not watching. You can go private, which basically ends it, though in a way that looks like admitting defeat. (I did this, briefly, so I could go to sleep that night.) You can delete the tweet, or even delete your whole account. But you can also do what I chose to do the next morning, which is to continue posting about it, because its fun, and because it really doesnt take much effort at all. Thats basically the whole problem right there.
This all happened on and around Dec. 4, 2019. Though none of us knew it at the time, a mysterious new respiratory disease had just begun circulating in central China. This would set in motion a spectacular series of events that would make Twitter the focal point of pitched battles about freedom of speech, community health, racial justice and American democracy. At the same time, the pandemic and the federal response to it would create bizarre macroeconomic dynamics that would help one man grow his net worth *tenfold* in two years, transforming him from a high-profile but middle-of-the-pack billionaire into the wealthiest man in human history. For a time, anyway. It appears that [Elon Musk was troubled enough by Twitters role](https://www.nytimes.com/2022/10/27/technology/elon-musk-twitter-deal-complete.html) in the discourse battles that he felt he should control it himself, and $44 billion later — nearly double his entire net worth at the outset of the pandemic — he has his wish.
> ## What exactly have we been doing here for the last decade and a half?
Musk has done many things to Twitter, both the app and the business, during his six months as chief executive and owner. He has laid off more than half the staff, changed the interface and functionality of the product and aggressively pushed users to sign up for a paid subscription version of the service. He says that usage has gone up, but because he has taken the company private, we only have his word on that. According to most estimates, ad spending has plummeted. Musk himself has reportedly estimated that the company is now worth about $20 billion, a negative 55 percent return. He has, meanwhile, enlisted a small group of journalists — many of whom have taken a political journey similar to Musks in recent years — to sift through company emails and Slacks in an effort to reveal overreach on the part of the old regime in its management of the global conversation. They published reams of lightly redacted emails, showing regular correspondence between Twitters trust-and-safety team and the F.B.I., and other organs of the state, which apparently spend a considerable amount of time scrutinizing individual Twitter accounts.
Musks takeover of the platform has not only strained the dinner-party metaphor (a new host comes in and dominates the conversation, demanding money from you and accusing the hosts from before of being F.B.I. stooges?); it has also strained the sense of conviviality that made Twitter feel like a party in the first place. The site feels a little emptier, though certainly not dead. More like the part of the dinner party when only the serious drinkers remain. Whiskey is being poured into wineglasses, and the cheese plate has become an ashtray. Its still a great time — indeed, its a little looser — but it also feels as if many of us are just avoiding the inevitable. Eventually, well scrape the plates, load the dishwasher and leave the pans to soak (“Hey, cool Dutch oven — are those the twin suns of Tatooine?”). Its possible the party will stretch on until sunrise, when the more sensible guests will return. But for now, someone just turned up the lights, and its probably time to ask ourselves: What exactly *have* we been doing here for the last decade and a half?
**A number of** narratives have developed over the years to explain what Twitter has been doing to us. There was, in the wake of Trumps election, the focus on Russian “bots” and “trolls” — two words often used interchangeably, though they mean totally different things — sowing discord and amplifying divisive rhetoric. As the Trump years progressed, this evolved into a broader concern about “disinformation,” “misinformation” and whether and how Twitter should seek to stop them. And behind all this lurked vague concerns about “the algorithm,” the exotic mathematical force accused of steering hypnotized users into right-wing extremism, or imprisoning people in a cocoon of smug liberalism, or somehow both.
Those narratives all express fears about what happens when people *consume* information online, but they have little useful to say about how or why all that information is produced in the first place. After all, everything you read on Twitter, whether it comes from the president of the United States or your local dogcatcher, is a result of the process known as posting. And only a small proportion of users post. There is a lot of research on this topic, and it can be bracing reading for the Twitter addict. In 2021, the Pew Research Center took a close look at about 1,000 U.S.-based accounts, plucked out of a bigger survey of the site. This sample was split into two — the “most active users,” who made up just 25 percent of the group, and the rest. Statistically speaking, no one in the bottom 75 percent even posted at all: They produced a median of zero posts a month. They also checked the site far less frequently and were more likely to find it uncivil.
Theres also some data about the heavy users, and though Pew would not approve, lets pretend, for our purposes, that it can be used to make a composite sketch of one. Well call him Joe Sixpost. Joe produces about 65 tweets a month, an average of two a day. Only 14 percent of his output is his own material, original stand-alone tweets posted to the timeline; half of his posts are retweets of stuff other people posted, and the remainder are quote-tweets or replies to other tweets. None of this stuff travels far. Joe has a median of 230 followers, and on average his efforts earn him 37 likes and one retweet a month. Nevertheless, it is heavy users like this — just the top quartile — who produced *97 percent* of the larger groups posts.
Let me be frank: These are pathetic numbers. Over the last 48 hours, I have made 14 posts. Five were “original” posts to the timeline. I also retweeted a writer I work with, my twin brother and Grover Norquist, and replied to tweets replying to my own. Thus, in two days, I put myself on track to make 210 posts a month. (I wont mention the like and retweet numbers, but suffice it to say I had individual posts that absolutely *rinsed* Joe Sixposts monthly counts.) And this was a period during which I took care of my young child, did garbage duty in my building, tried to go grocery shopping but discovered I had a flat tire, walked to a different store, cooked dinner (thats right), read, watched “Party Down,” slept, got my kid to day care, changed the flat tire and worked on this article. I didnt even think I was on Twitter very much. But because my posts go out to so many more accounts than even an “active user” like Joe Sixposts do — by a factor of 100 — Id still do more to shape reality on the platform even if I posted less frequently than he did. Which, as weve established, I dont.
People afflicted with this unyielding desire to post are rare enough that we probably arent easily captured in studies like Pews. If you pick a thousand people at random, you might not find many of us, and if you do, our derangement will be smoothed out into averages and obscured by medians, blinding you to the fact that the bulk of your Twitter reading comes from a tiny minority of the population that shares this peculiar deficiency with me. When we talk about the problems created by Twitter, we focus on what happens when people read the wrong sort of post, like disinformation from a malign actor. If we consider the posting side of things at all, it is to lament the excesses of cancel culture — typically from the receiving end. But if we really want to understand what Twitter has done to us, surely it would make more sense to account for the millions and millions of more ordinary posts the platform generates by design. Why has a small sliver of humanity taken it upon themselves to heap their thoughts into this hopper every day?
Part of answering this question involves realizing that a tweet isnt just a matter of one person speaking and others listening. Kevin Munger, an assistant professor of political science and social data analytics at Penn State — he also happens to be an acquaintance of mine — thinks of this confusion as the overhang of the “broadcast paradigm” in an era when it is no longer relevant. Many people conceive of tweets as analogous to TV or newspaper or radio — that “there are people who tweet, there are people who read the tweets,” as Munger puts it. “And the tweet is just text, right, and its static.”
But there is no such separation between creator and consumer, and thats not what a tweet is. “If you look at a tweet, its always already encoding audience feedback,” Munger points out. Right beneath the text of the tweet is information about what the network thinks of it: the numbers of replies, retweets and likes. “You cant actually conceive of a tweet except as a synthetic object, which contains both the original message and the audience feedback,” he explains. In fact, a tweet contains layers of information beyond that: not just how many people liked it or replied, but who, and what they said, and how *they* present themselves, and whom they follow, and who follows them, and so on. Every post contains within it a unique core sample of the network and its makeup. And whether they admit it or not, Munger says, all of this helps users build mental models of the platform.
Munger is highly pessimistic about our ability to use Twitter to debate or deliberate anything of importance. Instead, he suggests, we use the site as a “vibes-detection machine” — a means of discovering subtle shifts in sentiment within our local orbits; a way to suss out, in an almost postrational way, which ideas, symbols and beliefs pair with one another. (If this sounds fanciful to you, ask a heavy Twitter user what set of political commitments is signified by using a Greek statue as an avatar.) But its hard to detect vibes unless you put a signal out there first; theres no way to grasp the thing from outside looking in. “In order to understand how it works,” Munger says, “you have to act on it and allow it to act on you.” You have to post.
Image
![A color photo illustration of a blue bird holding an extinguished match in its mouth.](https://static01.nyt.com/images/2023/04/23/magazine/23mag-twitter2/23mag-twitter2-articleLarge.jpg?quality=75&auto=webp&disable=upscale)
Credit...Photo illustration by Jamie Chung. Concept by Pablo Delcan.
**Nick Biltons 2013** book, ****Hatching Twitter,” was disorienting reading for me, because it took me back to a place I thought I knew well: San Francisco, 2006. I was in college at the time, but I grew up in the city and went back for all my breaks. The summer he founded Twitter, Jack Dorsey was hanging out in the Mission and working South of Market. So was I. We both had recently learned how to send text messages and enjoyed visiting Dolores Park. The difference between us was that Dorsey was about to take a central role in the industry that would remake our city and convulse the entire planet in the bargain, and I was mostly just hanging out with my friends.
Back then, the social internet was a more naïve and hopeful place. Just look at Dorsey, whose Flickr account from the era is still up and public. You can see all sorts of relics from Dorseys prebillionaire social life in and around the city: trips to Coachella and Point Reyes, arty photographs of street signs. And in the mix, you can find [screenshots of early Twttr,](https://www.flickr.com/photos/jackdorsey/188430472/) as it was known. The logo is green, bubbly and sweaty; it looks like a new flavor of SoBe. [The very first layout](https://www.flickr.com/photos/jackdorsey/182614595/) looks nearly identical to Craigslist. “Whats your status?” it asks at the top, and below you can see Dorseys colleagues responding. “Preparing a pizza,” writes Florian Weber, one of the projects first engineers. “having some coffee,” offers Biz Stone, another founder. “so excited about new odeo ideas,” writes Evan Williams, whose start-up Odeo employed Dorsey and was helping develop this new concept that would swallow it whole.
Dorsey had nurtured the basic idea of Twitter for years — a site that would be like AOL Instant Messengers “away message” for anywhere, or “a more live LiveJournal,” as he put it in a post on Flickr. He wanted to call it Status, and it was important to him that the service be principally social. In his book, Bilton recounts how Dorsey initially considered and dismissed using audio as a medium because it would be impossible to use at a nightclub. That was, in Dorseys mind, a key use case. But Williams, who created Blogger and sold it to Google for millions, came to see something else in Twitter: To him, its potential lay in its ability to create a running record of what was going on in the outside world. The book recounts a somewhat absurd, but revealing, philosophical argument between the two founders. If one of them were to see a fire on Market and Third, in downtown San Francisco, and tweet about it, would he be tweeting that there was a fire on Market and Third? Or would he be tweeting that he was witnessing a fire on Market and Third? Dorsey was insistent that it was the latter: “Youre talking about your status as you look at the fire.”
To Dorsey, the fact that Twitter creates a record of the world would be an incidental byproduct of all this status-sharing. But as time went on, and more people joined, the Williams view came to look prophetic. It would be vindicated on a January afternoon in 2009, when an Airbus A320 taking off from LaGuardia collided with a flock of geese over the Bronx, losing power in both engines and forcing the quick-thinking pilot to ditch the plane in the Hudson. A businessman named Janis Krums was on a ferry to New Jersey when the boats captain announced that a plane was down in the water, and they were going to see if they could help. Krums figured it was a small single-engine craft, and was stunned when they pulled up to a commercial airliner. He had an iPhone, and he took a picture of the plane in the icy water, with passengers crowding onto life rafts. He posted it to Twitter with a brief caption. Krums handed the phone to one of the rescued passengers, who wanted to call his loved ones, and forgot about it amid the rescue efforts. By the time he and his phone were reunited, about 30 minutes later, it had exploded with messages and missed calls from news agencies. “The tweet had gone around the world,” he told me. “And I had no idea.” The biggest story of the day had been broken by some random guy with a smartphone. Reporters called it so many times that they drained Krumss battery within an hour. He was finally able to make it back to Jersey by nightfall, at which point he was being interviewed on morning radio in Australia.
Later that year, Williams, having ousted Dorsey to become Twitters chief executive, would change the sites prompt from “What are you doing?” to “Whats happening?” as it remains to this day. But if that seems like a clean victory for Williams, it wasnt quite. Because what Krums wrote was exactly what *Dorsey* had imagined; it was about not just the plane but also the fact that he, Krums, was looking at it. “Theres a plane in the Hudson,” [he wrote](https://twitter.com/jkrums/status/1121915133?lang=en). “Im on the ferry going to pick up the people. Crazy.”
Twitter could never be just about the outside world or about our internal ones; it would always have to be both. Dorsey and Williams were correct to identify this as a conflict, even if they could not design or engineer it away. These two repellent magnets were fused together and left under the platforms floorboards. More and more people joined, hoping to learn what was happening in the world and to share what was happening in theirs. Eventually, the situation that obtained was altogether stranger than Williams or Dorsey could have imagined.
**Twitter took off** first with geeks in San Francisco, and then with people in the tech-media-music orbit at South by Southwest in 2007. From there, it continued to annex populations prone to graphomania (reporters, rappers, academics) and those that just had more things to say than opportunities to say them (comedians, editors, TV writers, lawyers). Twitter quickly figured out that its value lay in its ability to surface conversations: What was the world talking about? In 2008, it began plumbing its depths to identify trends. These were the early days of the Big Data era, and the idea was that within all the chatter could be found some hidden rhythm, a form of crowd wisdom. It wasnt long before people got the idea that they could harness Twitters firehose of information to do things like trade stocks — one hedge fund, started in 2011, promised 15 to 20 percent returns based on its algorithmic ability to divine market movements. It shuttered after a month.
Twitters takeover of the media class was rapid. In April 2009, Maureen Dowd [interviewed Williams and Stone](https://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/22/opinion/22dowd.html), telling them that she “would rather be tied up to stakes in the Kalahari Desert, have honey poured over me and red ants eat out my eyes than open a Twitter account”; she signed up three months later to promote her column. Later that spring, [a Time cover story](https://content.time.com/time/subscriber/article/0,33009,1902818,00.html) noted that Twitter users had begun using the site as a “pointing device” and sharing longer-form content. (“Its just as easy to use Twitter to spread the word about a brilliant 10,000-word New Yorker article as it is to spread the word about your Lucky Charms habit.”) This would make it an incredible way to keep up on the news — and absolutely irresistible to journalists. By the next year, the Times media reporter David Carr was writing [an ode to the site](https://www.nytimes.com/2010/01/03/weekinreview/03carr.html), correctly predicting it was more than a fad and lauding it for both its relative civility and its “obvious utility” for information-gathering. “If all kinds of people are pointing at the same thing at the same instant,” he wrote, “it must be a pretty big deal.”
I am told by my superiors here at The Times that there was a time when journalists would talk about what theyd been reading at the bar, or at cocktail parties. One of these people told me, and I dont think he was kidding, that an article of his went viral by *fax machine*. Ill have to take his word for it, because Ive never known a life in journalism free from the gravitational pull of Twitter. In fact, I probably owe my career to it. In 2011, I wrote an essay for a website called The Awl, and the very thing that Carr described happened: The article, which was [about the McRib](https://www.theawl.com/2011/11/a-conspiracy-of-hogs-the-mcrib-as-arbitrage/), went viral on Twitter, putting my work in front of editors at places like The Times. A few months earlier, I was at the precipice of giving up on writing; within about a year, I would be regularly freelancing. After a while, I had a full-time job as an editor.
There was, around this time, an enormous expansion in web media, with BuzzFeed, Vice and others pouring truckloads of venture capital into the field. And though Twitter never drove much traffic, it was nevertheless important for journalists to be there, because everyone else was there; this was where your articles would be read and digested by your peers and betters (as well as, theoretically, the reading public). It was doubly important because of how precarious these new jobs were. Your Twitter profile was also your calling card, potentially a life raft to a new job. The platform was an extremely fraught sort of LinkedIn, one you would use to publicly waste company time.
Looking back, its hard not to see this as a tragic bargain. Twitter took the wild world of blogging and corralled the whole thing, offering writers a deal they couldnt refuse: Instant, constant access to an enormous audience, without necessarily needing to write more than 140 characters. But they would never again be as alone with their thoughts, even when they were off the platform. Twitter follows you, mentally, and besides, anything can be brought back there for judgment. Perhaps worst of all, they would be gently cowed into talking about whatever it was everyone else was talking about, or risk being ignored, and replaced by someone who would.
But this journalistic swarming instinct made Twitter an ideal place for activists to get a message out. If there is one good thing that can be said about Twitter, its that it really was democratizing: It allowed the previously voiceless to walk right up to the powerful and put stuff right in front of their faces, at any time of day. The Green Revolution in Iran, the Tahrir Square protests and Occupy Wall Street — all of these made use of Twitter in creative ways. Two of the biggest social movements of the last decade are often rendered as one word with a hashtag attached to it. The real action of Black Lives Matter may have taken place in the streets, and the long-delayed consequences of Me Too delivered in boardrooms or courtrooms, but these movements couldnt have begun if they could not corral and excite latent political energies via social platforms.
Really, Twitter was good for getting *any* sort of message out there. Governors and senators, Shaquille ONeal and Sears; Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, the American Enterprise Institute and Chrissy Teigen; the Dalai Lama, Rachel Maddow and the guy who does “Dilbert” — all could use the same exact tools to be heard, and to hear, at all hours of the day. For some, it was their job to get a message out; for others, an ancillary goal; for others still, a reluctant undertaking done in the name of relevance. In any event, the barrier between work and goofing around grew dangerously thin, especially as more influential people and entities arrived.
Because as soon as Twitter began bringing all these people together, it amounted to an irresistible target. Twitter was an exceptional tool, above all else, for making jokes. Some groups elevated it to an art, profoundly transforming the folkways and language of the platform — “Black Twitter” chief among them. There was also “Weird Twitter,” an unfortunate label that refers as much to a specific group of people as to the sensibility they shared. What Weird Twitter posters had in common, beyond being (mostly) funny, was a special brain damage that granted them access to the hidden frequencies of the internet.
In 2010, a young Canadian named Stefan Heck joined Twitter in search of Vancouver Canucks news but soon fell in with what would become the Weird Twitter crowd. Lots of corporations had come to Twitter to offer quick customer service, and Heck and his friends enjoyed messing with them. (Like tweeting at PetSmart: “if my turtle stops moving after i smoke it out its just sleeping right?”) One hashtag that often trended in those days was `#tcot`, the “Top Conservatives on Twitter,” and Heck and his friends often found their way there in search of a good time. Heck recalls it being full of “you know, 70-year-old guys, like, retired boat salesmen and dentists.” He cant remember for sure, but he believes this is where they eventually found the 1980s TV star Scott Baio, who was and remains a conservative culture warrior.
Unlike other celebrities on the platform, Baio would actually respond to people. “He felt like a real guy who posted,” Heck says. “He was in it for the love of the game.” In 2011, when Heck and friends started asking him if he was an adult-diaper fetishist, Baio snapped, blocking everyone who asked him about diapers and tweeting to complain about it. Heck and others started posting “#RIPScottBaio,” and apparently did so with enough volume that it became a trending topic, persuading some untold number of people that the actor had died. Someone reportedly edited Wikipedia to certify his death from “diaper-related illness.” By the next day, NBCs “Today” show was debunking the claim on its website.
To Heck, the Baio episode showed how small and wide-open the site was — how it could be gamed. (The incident was brought to my attention when I asked Mike Caulfield, a research scientist at the University of Washingtons Center for an Informed Public, if he could think of any watershed moments in Twitter history; he thought it was interesting for more or less the same reasons.) A small conspiracy could capture the platforms homuncular version of reality and tickle it until it shouted nonsense. Indeed, Twitters own insistence that it could connect the whole world and surface the most engaging conversations amounted to an enormous “KICK ME” sign on its back. It had grown from a place where people shared *what they were having for lunch* to one that was either changing the world or purely self-contained, a pearl of heightened reactions accreting around a tiny grain of provocation. No one was ever really sure which.
But if you were good at the game, it could be good for you, both on Twitter and off. People got commissions and book deals — not many, but enough. Some people lost their jobs — not many, but enough. A couple of people got TV shows out of it. Once, someone told a story so wild it was turned into a feature film. Hell, one guy even went and got himself elected president.
Image
Credit...Photograph by Jamie Chung. Concept by Pablo Delcan
**The election of** Donald Trump made Twitter an extremely fraught environment. Did you hate the way the media reported on him? They were all there to tweet at about it. Did you blame everything that was happening on people slightly to your left? Slightly to your right? A random podcaster? Someone you didnt know existed until five seconds ago? They were there, too. And, of course, so was the president. Some of his opponents suspected his election might be the fault of the platform itself. This idea gave us a solid six years of discourse on Russian bots and trolls and disinformation, though none of this, according to a recent study in Nature, had any meaningful effect on voters 2016 decision-making. In all the bickering, it was easy to lose track of what was keeping us on Twitter in the first place.
One compelling theory comes from Chris Bail, a sociology professor at Duke, who began studying Twitter in the years when these debates were raging. Bail was especially curious about the “filter bubble,” the idea that social media platforms encircle users with opinions they share, causing them to be less amenable to arguments from the other side. Bail had read research showing that social media has actually given people a more diverse information diet. “Even convincing people that thats true is really hard,” he told me, because there is an enormous apparatus of talking heads telling them otherwise.
So Bail and his colleagues designed an experiment to test the filter bubble: They exposed partisan Twitter users to a bot that would retweet counterpartisan speech 24 times a day, for a month, and interviewed participants before and after. In the end, they showed that the reality was stranger than the theory: The more attention respondents paid to the bots, the more entrenched they became in their beliefs. These results were especially true of conservatives. Bail even saw some participants yelling at the experiments bots. “This happened so often that three of the most extreme conservatives in our study began following each other,” Bail writes in his book “Breaking the Social Media Prism.” “The trio teamed up to attack many of the messages our liberal bot retweeted for an entire week, often pushing each other to make increasingly extreme criticism as time passed.”
Bail argues that Twitter is a “prism” that bends both the depiction of reality you see through it and your own efforts to show who you are to the world. The platform, Bail writes, taps into the human desire to “present different versions of ourselves, observe what other people think of them and revise our identities accordingly.” People like to think of social media as a mirror, he told me: “I can see whats going on, and I can see my place in whats going on.” But Twitter is not a random sampling of reality. Almost all the feedback you receive on the site comes from its most active users. “And the most active social media users,” Bail says, “are a weird group of people.” Somehow this fact doesnt override our desire to fit in, which is then pointed in strange directions: “We see this distorted reality,” Bail says, “we understand it as reality, and we react accordingly.” As we all do this, together, we create feedback loops that further warp the projection of reality. (You could see this dynamic especially clearly at the height of the pandemic, when Twitters feed was some peoples primary porthole to the outside world.)
One thing Kevin Munger pointed out to me is that Twitter users are running Bails experiment on one another constantly. Pervasive quote-tweet dunking, for example, is often used to highlight the most galling ideas coming from ones political foes, feeding users outrageous caricatures of the other side. There are also numerous accounts — Libs of TikTok most notorious among them — that exist for this sole purpose: to drag speech out of its intended context in another gamified discourse, across the partisan divide, to make people mad. Bail ran his experiment for only a month; imagine doing this for about a decade.
Bail told me that before he settled on the prism, he considered sonar as his central metaphor, because of the way Twitter allows users to send out a message and see what bounces back. This is a helpful way of thinking about Trump, whose Twitter habit was largely seen as a sideshow, a means of circumventing the press or just evidence of his terrible impulse control. It was all those things, of course. But this is also the man who discovered, lurking within the rot of the two-party system, a strange new shape in the electorate. Should we regard it as pure coincidence that he spent all those years on Twitter, with an enormous following and the sonar capabilities of an Ohio-class submarine? Even Trumps campaign rallies and governing style had this highly provisional, posting-like rhythm to them: He tried things out, saw what worked and pocketed those moves. Is it so hard to believe that the image-obsessed salesman, up in his gilded cockpit in the vibes-detection machine, was learning something about what people wanted to hear?
We could ask similar questions about Musk, whose increased exposure to the site has coincided with his transformation from beloved entrepreneur to substantially less beloved culture warrior. One of Bails chief observations about Twitter is that its prismatic qualities generate a strong effect on users: Its feedback makes very clear who your friends and enemies are. This can act as a sort of centrifugal force, pushing people deeper into the belief structures of their “team,” and pushing moderates out of the conversation entirely. We cant know exactly why Musk seems to have become so engaged with culture-war topics, but Bails ideas suggest one explanation: Through the prism, he saw the most disingenuous arguments from both sides over the most contentious issues of the day, his own behavior very much included. And one side welcomed him while the other rejected him.
Now that Musk owns the site, he has repeatedly stated that his goal is to bring back “free speech,” and he has tweeted several times about the “woke mind virus” that he believes threatens civilization. It seems he thinks it might live within his new plaything, and can be dislodged if he turns it upside-down and shakes it just right. But its not clear he knows where it is: Was it in the staff? He has laid off most of them now; many others have left of their own volition. Was it in their content-moderation team? He has treated Twitters San Francisco offices like Stasi HQ, revealing the inner workings of the previous regime. Is it in the algorithm or the UX? He has changed all that too, and continues to tinker with them, seemingly based on passing whims and grudges — or sometimes inscrutable urges. He added more metrics to every tweet, briefly changed the sites logo to a shiba inu and obscured the “W” on the sign that hangs from the companys Market Street headquarters. (Musk did not respond to a request for comment; Twitters press email autoreplied, as it apparently does to all incoming messages, “💩.”)
The net effect of all of this has been a buggy site — and one that feels less alive. Not just because so many influential people have departed but also because Musk broke the spell. You can no longer believe that this platform offers an unobstructed view to the outside world, if you ever did, now that his hands have so thoroughly smudged up the glass.
Its hard to look back on nearly a decade and a half of posting without feeling something like regret. Not regret that Ive harmed my reputation with countless people who dont know me, and some who do — though there is that. Not regret that Ive experienced all the psychic damage described herein — though there is that too. And not even regret that I could have been doing something more productive with my time — of course theres that, but whatever. Whats disconcerting is how easy it was to pass all the hours this way. The world just sort of falls away when youre looking at the feed. For all the time I spent, I didnt even really put that much into it.
There is a famous thought experiment in thermodynamics called Maxwells Demon, named for the Scottish physicist James Clerk Maxwell. Musk certainly knows it; hes a big admirer of Maxwells. (He once tweeted “[Maxwell was incredible](https://twitter.com/elonmusk/status/1443268776930119680?lang=en),” but that was right around the time a cricketer named Glenn Maxwell did something impressive in an Indian Premier League match, so he just ended up confusing much of South Asia.) Maxwell proposed a means of circumventing the second law of thermodynamics, which basically states that in a closed system, disorder will increase naturally unless energy is used to stop it; heat will always dissipate into cold. What if, Maxwell asked, you had a box split in two by a wall, and a tiny being sitting atop the wall, operating a little door, and this being was clever enough to track individual molecules and know how fast they were moving? If he let only faster-moving molecules go from Chamber A to Chamber B, and only slower-moving molecules pass the other way, then, without any new energy being introduced, Chamber B would become very hot.
This is basically a thought experiment about information overcoming the limits of the physical world, so it naturally found fans in the world of computing. The “mailer-daemon” that returns bounced emails to your inbox, for example, is one of many background processes that takes its name from Maxwells concept. Dorsey was enamored of the idea; he had a tattoo that read “0daemon!?” and once wrote a poem about a “jak daemon,” a cyberpunk hacker type who manipulates “the background process in small ways to drive various aspects of the world.”
I thought about Maxwells Demon as I reconsidered the “Star Wars”-Le Creuset thing, and how clear it was that no one involved had even been especially angry. Its in episodes like this that Twitter manages to violate the discursive law that, until quite recently, prevented random Australians from yelling at you when youre trying to go to bed. In the real world, you can go 30-some years without ever encountering the sensitivities of the “Star Wars” cookware community. But Twitter can, if you tell it just the right thing, shoot every last one of them at you through a little door, creating a pocket of extreme heat without anyone having meant to do much at all. This is perhaps the central paradox of Twitter: It can produce enormous outcomes without meaningful inputs.
I happen to know about Maxwells Demon only because it makes an appearance in Thomas Pynchons “The Crying of Lot 49,” a 1966 novella centered on a clandestine communications network that is used by a baffling array of people (anarcho-syndicalists, tech geeks, assorted perverts and cranks) and seems particularly popular in San Francisco. Instead of mailboxes, it operates through a system of containers disguised to look like trash cans; the only one of these the protagonist finds is somewhere South of Market, just blocks from where Twitter would be born. Its a book I read 20 years ago. If Id come to it more recently, I doubt the mention of Maxwell would have stuck in my mind, thanks to either normal aging or some irreversible damage Ive done to my brain by staring at Twitter.
But Im glad I remembered it, because what I read when I pulled my copy down off the shelf was the best way of thinking about Twitter Ive encountered. In the novella, an East Bay inventor named John Nefastis has designed a box, complete with two pistons attached to a crankshaft and a flywheel, that he claims contains the molecule-sorting demon. It can be used to provide unlimited free energy, but it doesnt work unless there is someone sitting outside, looking at it. There was, Nefastis believed, a certain type of person, a “sensitive,” capable of communicating with the demon within as it gathered its data on the billions of particles inside the box — positions, vectors, levels of excitement. The sensitive could process all that information, telling the demon which piston to fire. Together, the demon and the sensitive would move the molecules to and fro, creating a perpetual-motion machine. The box was a closed system, separate from the outside world, but it could nevertheless do work on anything it was connected to.
Pynchons protagonist tries, and fails, to operate the Nefastis Machine. But when I open Twitter, I see a lot of people who *can* talk to that demon; who can process, intuitively, the positions and attitudes of unimaginable numbers of others; who know just what to tell the demon to make things move; who are happy, or close enough, spending hours sitting with the box, watching the pistons pump. Activists, politicians, journalists, comedians, snack-food brands and Stephen King — all have taken their turn at the box. Union organizers, venture capitalists, grad students and amateur historians — they could make the flywheel turn. No one even has to do much of anything to make it move. But none of us have the power to stop it, either. And at some point — back before we really knew what we were doing — we hooked those pistons up all over the place.
And though it seems unlikely that Twitter itself will disappear, the powerful mechanism it became over the years — the one that made an often unprofitable company so valuable in the first place; the one that allowed a collectively conjured illusion to transform the real world — seems to be sputtering and squealing, and all the noise is making it hard to communicate with the demon within. The platform could continue to operate in some form, even as the mechanism slowly rusts or eventually grinds to a halt. If that happens, the world would feel exactly the same — and utterly transformed. And I, and others, and maybe you, too, would have to contend with what wed really been doing the whole time: staring into a box, hoping to see it move.
---
Prop stylist: Ariana Salvato.
**Willy Staley** is a story editor for the magazine. He has written about the effort to [count the countrys billionaires,](https://www.nytimes.com/2022/04/07/magazine/billionaires.html) the [TV show “The Sopranos,”](https://www.nytimes.com/2021/09/29/magazine/sopranos.html) the [writer and director Mike Judge](https://www.nytimes.com/2017/04/13/magazine/mike-judge-the-bard-of-suck.html) and [the professional skateboarder Tyshawn Jones.](https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2019/08/29/magazine/tyshawn-jones.html) **Jamie Chung** is a photographer who has worked on nearly a dozen covers for the magazine. He won awards this year from American Photography and the Society of Publication Designers. **Pablo Delcan** is a designer and art director from Spain who is now based in Callicoon, N.Y. His work blends traditional and modern techniques across mediums like illustration, print design and animation.
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&emsp;
- [w] :birthday: **[[Quentin de Villeneuve|Quentin BV]]** %%done_del%% 🔁 every year 📅 2023-04-21
- [ ] :birthday: **[[Quentin de Villeneuve|Quentin BV]]** %%done_del%% 🔁 every year 📅 2024-04-21
- [x] :birthday: **[[Quentin de Villeneuve|Quentin BV]]** %%done_del%% 🔁 every year 📅 2023-04-21 ✅ 2023-04-21
- [x] :birthday: **[[Quentin de Villeneuve|Quentin BV]]** 🔁 every year 📅 2022-04-21 ✅ 2022-04-21
&emsp;

@ -223,7 +223,9 @@ Paris, Zürich, London
- [ ] :gift: :books: Livre
- [ ] :gift: :books: mon bel oranger
- [ ] :gift: :books: tistou les pouces verts
- [ ] :gift: :books: The Seven Sisters, Lucinda Riley
- [ ] :gift: :books: Parabel of the Sower, [[The Spectacular Life of Octavia E. Butler|Octavia E. Butler]]
- [x] :gift: :books: Kindred, [[The Spectacular Life of Octavia E. Butler|Octavia E. Butler]] ✅ 2023-02-25
- [x] :gift: :books: [[How Noah Baumbach Made White Noise a Disaster Movie for Our Moment|White Noise]], Don Delillo ✅ 2022-12-17
- [x] :gift: :books: [[Say Nothing]], Patrick Madden Keefe ✅ 2022-10-07
- [x] :gift: :books: The Second Sex, Simone de Beauvoir ✅ 2022-02-20

@ -73,7 +73,7 @@ style: number
&emsp;
### Master Navigation
[[#^Top|TOP]]
&emsp;
&emsp; &emsp; [[@Restaurants Zürich|🍽]] &emsp; &emsp; &emsp;[[@Café Zürich|:coffee:]] &emsp; &emsp; &emsp; [[@Sport Zürich|:soccer:]] &emsp; &emsp; &emsp; [[@Bars Zürich|:cocktail:]]
@ -84,8 +84,69 @@ style: number
&emsp;
### Day trips
&emsp;
#### Around Zürich
- [x] Uetliberg ✅ 2022-04-17
- [x] Dolderberg (+bahn) ✅ 2022-04-15
&emsp;
#### Cities
- [x] Lucerne ✅ 2023-04-23
- [ ] Berne
- [ ] Winterthur
- [x] Zug ✅ 2023-04-23
- [x] Konstanz ✅ 2023-04-23
- [ ] Basel
- [x] Vaduz (FL) ✅ 2023-04-23
- [x] Schaffhausen ✅ 2023-04-10
- [ ] Sankt Gallen
&emsp;
#### Villages
- [x] Stein am Rhein ✅ 2022-12-29
- [x] Lenzburg ✅ 2023-04-16
- [ ] Einsiedeln
- [x] Aarburg ✅ 2023-04-23
- [ ] Grüningen
- [ ] Bremgarten
- [x] Arbon ✅ 2023-04-23
- [ ] Rheinfelden
- [ ] Laugenburg
- [ ] Eglisau
- [ ] Steckborn
- [ ] Diessenhofen
- [ ] Gersau
- [ ] Lichtensteig
- [ ] Schwellbrunn
- [ ] Triesenberg (FL)
&emsp;
#### Nature
- [x] Mount Rigi ✅ 2022-08-13
- [x] Jungfrauhoch ✅ 2022-08-07
- [x] Rheinfall ✅ 2023-04-10
- [x] Bodensee ✅ 2023-04-23
- [ ] Mount Titlis
- [ ] Lauterbrunnen
&emsp;
---
&emsp;
### Search
[[#^Top|TOP]]
&emsp;
```button

@ -0,0 +1,115 @@
---
Alias: [""]
Tag: ["🍴"]
Date: 2023-04-23
DocType: "Place"
Hierarchy: "NonRoot"
TimeStamp:
location: [45.06265,7.7009129]
Place:
Type: Restaurant
SubType: Modern
Style: Italian
Location: Torino
Country: Italy
Status: Recommended
CollapseMetaTable: true
Phone: "+39 011 8399893"
Email: ""
Website: "[Bistrot Cannavacciuolo Torino: vieni a provare il menù dello Chef](https://www.cannavacciuolobistrot.it/torino/)"
Instagram: cannavacciuolobistrotorino
---
Parent:: [[@Italy|Italia]]
&emsp;
```dataviewjs
let tempPhone = dv.current().Phone ? dv.current().Phone.replaceAll(" ", "") : '+000'
let tempMail = dv.current().Email ? dv.current().Email : ""
let tempCoorSet = dv.current().location ? dv.current().location : [0,0]
dv.el('center', '[📲](tel:' + tempPhone + ') &emsp; &emsp; [📧](mailto:' + tempMail + ') &emsp; &emsp; [🗺️](' + "https://waze.com/ul?ll=" + tempCoorSet[0] + "%2C" + tempCoorSet[1] + "&navigate=yes" + ')')
```
---
&emsp;
```button
name Save
type command
action Save current file
id Save
```
^button-CannavacciuoloBistroSave
&emsp;
# Cannavacciuolo Bistrot
&emsp;
> [!summary]+
> Note Description
&emsp;
```toc
style: number
```
&emsp;
---
&emsp;
### 📇 Contact
&emsp;
> [!address] 🗺
> VIA UMBERTO COSMO, 6
> 10131 Torino
> Italia
&emsp;
☎️ `= this.Phone`
📧 `= this.Email`
🌐 `= this.Website`
&emsp;
---
&emsp;
### 🗒 Notes
&emsp;
Loret ipsum
&emsp;
---
&emsp;
### 🔗 Other activity
&emsp;
```dataview
Table DocType as "Doc type" from [[Cannavaciuolo Bistro]]
where !contains(file.name, "@@Travel")
sort DocType asc
```
&emsp;
&emsp;

@ -237,7 +237,8 @@ sudo bash /etc/addip4ban/addip4ban.sh
#### Ban List Tasks
- [ ] 🖥 [[Selfhosting]], [[Configuring UFW|Firewall]] Get IP addresses caught by Postfix %%done_del%% 🔁 every week on Saturday 📅 2023-04-22
- [ ] 🖥 [[Selfhosting]], [[Configuring UFW|Firewall]] Get IP addresses caught by Postfix %%done_del%% 🔁 every week on Saturday 📅 2023-04-29
- [x] 🖥 [[Selfhosting]], [[Configuring UFW|Firewall]] Get IP addresses caught by Postfix %%done_del%% 🔁 every week on Saturday 📅 2023-04-22 ✅ 2023-04-21
- [x] 🖥 [[Selfhosting]], [[Configuring UFW|Firewall]] Get IP addresses caught by Postfix %%done_del%% 🔁 every week on Saturday 📅 2023-04-15 ✅ 2023-04-15
- [x] 🖥 [[Selfhosting]], [[Configuring UFW|Firewall]] Get IP addresses caught by Postfix %%done_del%% 🔁 every week on Saturday 📅 2023-04-08 ✅ 2023-04-07
- [x] 🖥 [[Selfhosting]], [[Configuring UFW|Firewall]] Get IP addresses caught by Postfix %%done_del%% 🔁 every week on Saturday 📅 2023-04-01 ✅ 2023-04-03
@ -249,7 +250,8 @@ sudo bash /etc/addip4ban/addip4ban.sh
- [x] 🖥 [[Selfhosting]], [[Configuring UFW|Firewall]] Get IP addresses caught by Postfix %%done_del%% 🔁 every week on Saturday 📅 2023-02-18 ✅ 2023-02-17
- [x] 🖥 [[Selfhosting]], [[Configuring UFW|Firewall]] Get IP addresses caught by Postfix %%done_del%% 🔁 every week on Saturday 📅 2023-02-11 ✅ 2023-02-11
- [x] 🖥 [[Selfhosting]], [[Configuring UFW|Firewall]] Get IP addresses caught by Postfix %%done_del%% 🔁 every week on Saturday 📅 2023-02-04 ✅ 2023-02-04
- [ ] 🖥 [[Selfhosting]], [[Configuring UFW|Firewall]]: Update the Blocked IP list %%done_del%% 🔁 every month on Saturday 📅 2023-04-22
- [ ] 🖥 [[Selfhosting]], [[Configuring UFW|Firewall]]: Update the Blocked IP list %%done_del%% 🔁 every month on Saturday 📅 2023-04-29
- [x] 🖥 [[Selfhosting]], [[Configuring UFW|Firewall]]: Update the Blocked IP list %%done_del%% 🔁 every month on Saturday 📅 2023-04-22 ✅ 2023-04-21
- [x] 🖥 [[Selfhosting]], [[Configuring UFW|Firewall]]: Update the Blocked IP list %%done_del%% 🔁 every month on Saturday 📅 2023-04-15 ✅ 2023-04-15
- [x] 🖥 [[Selfhosting]], [[Configuring UFW|Firewall]]: Update the Blocked IP list %%done_del%% 🔁 every month on Saturday 📅 2023-04-08 ✅ 2023-04-07
- [x] 🖥 [[Selfhosting]], [[Configuring UFW|Firewall]]: Update the Blocked IP list %%done_del%% 🔁 every month on Saturday 📅 2023-04-01 ✅ 2023-04-03

@ -211,4 +211,76 @@ alias f=expenses:Food
2023/04/19 PPZ - deposit for the key
expenses:Sport:CHF CHF50.00
liability:CreditCard:CHF
liability:CreditCard:CHF
2023/04/18 Tak & saddle: Sally
expenses:Horse:CHF CHF1010.00
assets:Cash:CHF
2023/04/19 Juan: birthday shoggi
expenses:Horse:CHF CHF35.00
liability:CreditCard:CHF
2023/04/20 Migros
expenses:Food:CHF CHF6.95
liability:CreditCard.CHF
2023/04/20 Box (Mars, April)
expenses:Horse:CHF CHF1153.92
assets:Cash:CHF
2023/04/20 Migros
expenses:Food:CHF CHF18.90
liability:CreditCard:CHF
2023/04/21 Masque - Sally
expenses:Horse:CHF CHF25.00
assets:Cash:CHF
2023/04/21 Wincasa
expenses:Housing:CHF CHF22.70
assets:Cash:CHF
2023/04/21 Petrol
expenses:Car:CHF CHF80.01
liability:CreditCard:CHF
2023/04/22 Curry wurst
expenses:Food:CHF CHF9.80
assets:Cash:CHF
2023/04/22 Drinks
expenses:Horse:CHF CHF17.80
liability:CredutCard:CHF
2023/04/22 Beers
expenses:Horse:CHF CHF14.94
liability:CreditCard:CHF
2023/04/23 Mövenpick
expenses:Food:CHF CHF5.10
assets:Cash:CHF
2023/04/24 Cash
expenses:Current expenses:CHF CHF200.00
assets:Cash:CHF
2023/04/23 Coop
expenses:Food:CHF CHF38.45
liability:CreditCard:CHF
2023/04/24 Migros
expenses:Food:CHF CHF7.75
assets:Cash:CHF
2023/04/23 Indian takeaway
expenses:Food:CHF CHF41.90
liability:CreditCard:CHF
2023/04/25 Coop
expenses:Food:CHF CHF0.95
assets:Cash:CHF
2023/04/24 Migros
expenses:Food:CHF CHF8.80
assets:Cash:CHF
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