by Awl Sponsors

The Bacardí family has been in the rum business for a long time. Since 1862, they’ve faced earthquakes, fire, revolution, prohibition, and exile, none of which could tame their irrepressible spirit.

To bring these stories to life, Bacardí has collaborated with two of the most iconic names in the world of graphic novels — writer Warren Ellis and artist Michael Allred — to create The Spirit of Bacardí, a graphic novel that tells the stories behind the iconic brand and its origins in Cuba.

The Spirit of Bacardí focuses on Emilio Bacardí — son of founder Don Facundo Bacardí Massó — and his tireless work for Cuban independence in the late 1800s. Emilio Bacardí was repeatedly imprisoned and exiled for his belief in an independent Cuba, but persevered, eventually becoming the first freely-elected Mayor of Santiago de Cuba.

The graphic novel also touches upon early challenges the Bacardí family faced and overcame — including an earthquake that destroyed their city and a fire that ravaged their distillery — and ends with the creation of the original Cuba Libre cocktail in 1900.

In chapter 21, Emilio Bacardi resigns his position as mayor of post-colonial Cuba in protest over restrictions placed on his role. He promises his next term in office will be as a freely elected mayor chosen by the people. Be sure to check out Chapter 22 as well!

About Warren Ellis

Warren Ellis is an award winning English writer of graphic novels and film. Most recently, Ellis has written The Spirit of BACARDÍ — a graphic novel that tells the stories behind BACARDÍ rum and its origins in Cuba. Prior to The Spirit of Bacardi, Ellis wrote RED and RED 2 which were both adapted into movies starring Bruce Willis, Helen Mirren and Morgan Freeman. Before the RED series, Ellis started British magazine Deadline, worked for Marvel on Hellstorm and then went on to write for DC where he wrote Gen, Transmetropolitan and Planetary. Ellis has also written for Vice, Wired UK and Reuters on technological and cultural matters. Warren has been called “one of the most high-profile comic book writers of the past two decades”.

About Michael Allred

Michael Allred is an American artist and writer. Most recently, Allred has been central in the creation of The Spirit of BACARDÍ — a graphic novel that tells the stories behind BACARDÍ rum and its origins in Cuba. Allred is most famous for his creation, Madman, a superhero that appears in graphic novels published by Image. He has also illustrated numerous characters across Marvel and DC — two of the largest graphic novel publishers. Michael’s work is renowned for its retro 1950s pop art style and he has been nominated for multiple awards including the Harvey’s, the Eisners and the Eagles. Michael lives near Portland with his wife Laura who frequently works as his colorist.

READ THE FULL GRAPHIC NOVEL HERE

Check out the next chapter →

Dear Polly,

I want to be known, and to know other people. I crave intimacy, and not just physical intimacy. I realize everyone wants these things. But I am afraid I will never “be known.” It seems that no matter what I say or do, no one will ever know the REAL me, not in full. When I talk to people I often feel like I’m talking to them through a thin glass wall. I want people to benefit from knowing me, and for me to be able to reach out and help other people, and empathize with them, and build proper relationships.

Part of the reason I can’t seem to is because I always feel so conflicted and complex and hidden — a packet of lies. I am frequently a coward and seem to revert to speaking in cliches whenever I talk to people. It’s as if I can’t ever say anything original or even true, and instead just mirror other people’s energies and opinions back to them constantly. Lately, maybe as a result of growing up a little (I am nineteen), I have begun to move from comfortably cruising along, content to spin a web of fakery, to craving honesty. I am learning almost everything I usually say is just a reaction, and depends on who I talk to and the circumstance. I have started consciously trying to think and be honest, and in fact I’ve swung the other way now; it’s almost as if lately I get a kick out of being blunt and slightly jarring in my vulnerability.

I open my mouth and what comes out is never what I mean. I’m not just talking about a slight lack of eloquence, or slightly jumbled thoughts — rather I seem to have NO brain to mouth coherence. I am honestly surprised every time I hear myself. It’s either a blundering, babbling shadow of what I mean to say or, more frequently, it’s something completely different. I find what comes out of my mouth almost novel. No amount of concentrating seems to help. To make it worse, it is always a lie. Not ever a lie as in a full-on, made-up lie, but rather a bunch of things I’m sure I don’t really think, or if I did, I would not have worded that way. I often sound dumb and fake and shallow, or worse to me, insincere. I don’t think it’s just fear, either. It even happens when I am around people I’m comfortable with, about trivial things. It’s as if I can’t get ever straight what I think, while at the same time it’s somehow crystal clear; and then my mouth ignores both of that anyway and makes its own stuff up. Whenever I sit down to write, the truth seems a lot more apparent and comes readily — but this is real life, and I want to be able to communicate honestly and in the moment more than just, say, online.

If I can’t communicate with any consistency or honesty, then how can I have any real, valid relationships with anyone? And the worst part is I am not really exceedingly awkward or shy. People think they know me. How do I deal with the guilt that they don’t know me and that I’m constantly presenting them with an instinctive half-version? Trying to be more real seems impossible and complicated for the above reasons, and then I start over-analyzing to what extent I am meant to be open with them anyway, where do I stop, and how to say it, and do they REALLY understand what I’m saying, and why don’t I understand THEM. Then I just give up and start thinking that I am just a more complex person with too many different shades of thought and opinion and history, and maybe it would be better to ignore everyone and embrace that and blah blah blah.

I know how ridiculously self-centered I am being. There are more important things to be focusing on than whether people know me. But I want them to know me fully so badly, and I can’t help thinking it would make me a better person. I guess I’m asking: How? What can I do? Why can’t I seem to be real?

Thanks so so much.

Miss Perceived

Dear Miss Perceived,

Your letter feels a little sad up to the point where you mention, in passing, that you’re nineteen years old. At that point, I’m pretty sure most of the people reading your letter rolled their eyes and clicked over to a video of a puppy falling asleep. But the three nineteen-year-olds who read that thought, “Oh my god. Why don’t I remember writing and sending this letter?!”

At first glance, in other words, your current difficulties are very age-specific. That’s not a way of discounting your feelings. It’s simply a way of saying that you are not alone. What you describe exquisitely well in your letter is the sensation of recognizing, for the first time, that the self you present to the world is an amalgamation of emotions and circumstances — a mix of calculated, self-conscious reactions that doesn’t seem to bear any relation to what you carry around inside of you. I remember that feeling so well. When I was very young, I wanted to show my REAL SELF to someone, anyone, but instead I was always skimming the surface, saying stuff that felt insincere or untrue. When I did break through with a bold statement, even that felt like a lie. It was like I had to build up a big head of steam to tell the truth, and that head of steam itself undercut what I was trying to say so much that it all came out jumbled and disingenuous.

Here’s something that people don’t admit very often, or don’t remember very often: Talking and listening is really fucking hard when you’re very young. When you’re smart and complicated and you’re just getting to know yourself, putting all of that into words without feeling like a self-involved asshole is pretty much impossible. And if you REALLY want to be known, if you REALLY want to be accurate, and genuine and real? Well, it takes a long time to get there. It takes a lot of recalibrating. How much do you want to say, and to whom? Who are your real friends? Who will understand? Even if you ONLY factor in the self-consciousness of talking to people you’re not sure will get it, that alone is enough to make you feel sick to your stomach half the time. And I say this as a fellow introverted extrovert.

I need to write a book about being a fucking extrovert. Because it’s an illusion, the notion that people who like to show off and speak up feel any more comfortable or genuine or at ease with themselves than the introverts. Sometimes knowing exactly how to “seem” and how to behave is more of an albatross than anything else. You’re so good at being what people want you to be that it’s a serious struggle to be what YOU want to be.

And that’s a lonely formula. I was pretty good at being liked by other people when I was younger, but I wanted someone to appreciate the REAL ME, the worried, sad, scared, fragile, messy me. I couldn’t imagine how to make this person known to other people, particularly the sorts of people who already strongly preferred the plucky, carefree freak I pretended to be. It’s tough to drag out your messy inner self when you get a lot of love — and praise, and, you know, boyfriends — with your skin-deep charm and your empty swagger.

And we ALL fall back into our old tricks over the years. So your letter is valuable, not just to other nineteen-year-olds who are struggling to calibrate how much they reveal and keep to themselves (see also: all of them), but also to people, old and young, who unexpectedly ask themselves, “How much of what I say is genuine and heartfelt? How much is pure habit? How much is pure bullshit?” Because it’s easy enough, on a bad day of imperfect interactions, to look back and think, “Everything I say is either the habitual, knee-jerk flavor of bullshit I’ve been spewing for over a decade, churning out the same old watery talking points repeatedly, or it’s self-involved drivel that no one could possibly care about. I’m either engineering responses that maintain people’s comfort levels, or I’m returning to crusty old ‘opinions’ that I’m not even sure I still hold.”

Now, clearly, there are those who will read this and think, “What kind of a mixed up motherfucker are you, anyway?” But here’s the good news: You’re the kind of mixed up motherfucker who will have extremely honest, intense, probing conversations with other people in your life. You’re the kind of mixed up motherfucker who will meet like-minded souls and REALLY get to know them well. You’re the kind of mixed up motherfucker who will evaluate and reevaluate where you stand in relation to others, who will work hard to grow, who will try very hard not to hide behind the standard rationalizations of personality and social convention.

When I was a few years older than you, I fell into a strange place where I felt like everything I said was overbearing and abrasive and maybe even untrue. I noticed that I had a bad habit of making bold statements that I didn’t necessarily believe, simply for the sake of not prattling along and satisfying other people’s expectations of me. Maybe I was trying to get attention. Maybe I was lonely and in pain and I was trying to find someone who would support me, and it was coming out all wrong. But around that same time, I noticed that my then-boyfriend mostly said things that he decided a decade prior and had been repeating ever since (“Every boy should own a dog”). Occasionally, he’d also make statements about superficial aspects of the future. (“I am going to fill my house with mahogany furniture,” “The bar I own will have red leather booths.”) Because I was (and still am) kind of an asshole, I soon fell into the habit of challenging everything that came out of his mouth (“You don’t even like working at a bar, what makes you think you’re going to like owning and therefore living in one? You think just because you picked out the red leather booths, that’s going to make it all feel like a dream come true?”)

Eventually my comments formed a direct assault on what I saw as the superficial, unexamined nature of his personality. I was tortured (by my own nature as a mixed-up motherfucker) and unhappy (because I truly didn’t know myself yet and therefore didn’t know what “me” I really wanted to present and share with the world) so I couldn’t stand to see him skip along, happy as a clam, burbling on about bars and mahogany and red leather booths. He wanted to pick out a nice red wine and talk about its subtle hints of cherry and spice, and I wanted to take his feeble ego, freeze it, and then slice it into very very thin slivers and examine it under a microscope.

This didn’t go well for either of us. I still remember the day that I found his journal — an honest attempt to comply with my demands that he examine his longstanding assumptions instead of persisting on such a shallow path studded by empty distractions — and I read one mundane entry after another. There was no self-examination. There were no personal insights. There weren’t even colorful anecdotes. There weren’t any subtle hints of wit and spice. It was just “Spent the morning folding clothes. Sort of dreading work tonight. Went on a long walk to clear my head.” Would someone this concrete ever want to hear about my tangled thoughts and complicated emotions?

Apparently not; he dumped me a few weeks later. “We’re too different,” he told me. “Thinking too much the way you do makes me crazy. If that’s shallow, then I guess I want to keep being shallow.” Even though I had been a condescending asshole to him a lot of the time, I cried my eyes out. “I’ll never date a guy who’s this hot again!” I thought. (He wasn’t the only shallow one.)

The point here is that it’s really tough to be authentic and genuine when you’re around people who aren’t well suited to appreciate your particular flavors of authenticity. My authentic self is wordy and vague and emotional and second-guessing and concept-focused and digressive and pretty goddamn exasperating to your average bear. You average bear just wants someone to smile and sip the wine and giggle and eat up the shit about the red leather booths. Your average bear does not have much interest in mixed-up motherfuckers like me and you, Miss Perceived.

And let me tell you something else I’ve learned since then: My authentic self comes out on the page in a way that it doesn’t in person. That doesn’t mean I’m a big liar in my interactions with other people. But because I’m not a total sociopath, I do cater to other people’s needs. I listen. I adjust. I play a lot of different roles and not every role is compatible with mixed-up motherfuckerdom. That’s called being a fucking adult. Not everyone needs to know about everything. I’m not lonely, so I don’t feel compelled to tell everyone everything. I don’t even feel compelled to tell many people all that much.

The real knot here, for you, is that you want to feel genuine and real but you don’t know who can stomach it. You want to be known, and know other people, and you just don’t know how to go about that yet. You may not know anyone, yet, who can handle knowing all the things you want them to know. You may not know anyone who WANTS TO BE KNOWN.

A lot of people don’t want to be known. A lot of people would very specifically prefer NOT to be known. A lot of people would like to stick to the facts, to concrete plans, to preferences, to something they read in a book or in the paper. Originality is not the goal for many, many people. Unique, independent perspectives don’t necessarily interest them. Liquid intelligence is nothing to them. They want to hear facts and figures. They don’t want imaginative rambling. They want you to shut the fuck up, mostly. They won’t say so. You’ll just feel all queasy and weird when you talk to them, and you’ll quite naturally start lying whenever they’re around.

That is not abnormal. That’s healthy. That’s you trying to figure out how much to share, and with whom.

You are a very expressive writer and thinker, particularly for a nineteen-year-old. I want you to write at least two pages, every day. None of it should be polished. Let yourself ramble. Explore new ideas. Express mixed emotions. My guess is that you’re not going to feel known by others, and you’re not going to feel satisfied with the way that you SEEM to other people, until you master the art of expressing who you are in words, on the page. You don’t have to aim high at all. You just have to write down your thoughts and emotions in plain language, as you did in your letter to me. You have to do that often. You need to get to know yourself through your writing. You need to get to know what’s true and what’s a lie, and you need to work on appreciating and feeling proud of who you really are. You have a lot to feel proud of. Practice that. Make it a part of your day, every day.

Then go out into the world and try to be genuine, but stay in the background a little more. Focus on listening to what other people say more. Pull your focus away from how they perceive you. This is one of the most freeing things you can do, and I didn’t learn to do it for a long, long time. Try presenting a slightly flat person to the world — experiment with that. Just be another person in the room. Try to become comfortable with showing only small hints of who you are to other people. Stop trying to explain yourself and stand for something all the time. Stop trying to swim against the tide. Run the risk of boring people with your silence. Women often find that challenging when they’re young. They feel like they have to make a mark, they have to be CLEAR in what they believe and feel, they have to be SEEN AND KNOWN AND RECOGNIZED AND APPRECIATED.

What if you just showed up and remained an enigma? That might feel pretty refreshing, actually. To appreciate other people, breathe them in, without asserting yourself. To take in the camaraderie of the moment in a simple way, without reminding yourself that you’re really alone, that no one will ever understand you, that everyone is different from you. Most people ARE very different from you. Once you know yourself and love yourself and find a few people who are very, very similar to you, that will be OK with you.

Have faith that someone will understand. You’re lucky, because you express yourself really well in writing. In time, you’ll find complicated people who are EXCITED to know you, and to be known. Trust that this will happen. In the meantime, just be with people, and write. You don’t have to choose to be an introvert or an extrovert. You can be both. You don’t have to choose between the truth and lies. It’s not actually that black and white. We all say some things that feel incomplete and not totally accurate — every single day, we say things out of habit or out of some compulsive, emotional reaction. It’s okay to be messy and experiment with what you want to say and who you are; it’s ok to be inaccurate and blustery and flat-out wrong sometimes.

I learn a lot about how I feel by writing. The more I write, the more genuine and relaxed and happy I feel, out in the world. If I couldn’t write, even now, it would be harder for me to be pleasant and appropriate around people who are very different from me. And if I didn’t have some close friends who really appreciate my nasty sense of humor and my bad ideas and my overly critical notions and my mean streak and my occasional blasts of insecurity, I would struggle. I would feel lonely. Instead, I feel KNOWN. I feel known because of the things I write, and I feel known because I am free to be myself in some circles. I have people to call when I’m feeling confused, or tired, or intolerant. It’s nice to feel known.

You are the kind of person who will be known — and seen and appreciated and deeply loved — by other people. Trust that. You will get there, and you can give that to yourself right now. Every day, you have to step back and take a second to say, “I am one mixed up motherfucker.” Say it with pride. You are someone who’s naturally committed to tapping into the richness and complexity of life. Your mind contains colorful, violent, ever-changing galaxies. You will honor who you are, no matter what. You will walk among the cliché-spewing creatures of habit, wearing a peaceful Mona Lisa smile.

Polly

Have you been waking up in a steaming mess of your own filth every single day, and you can barely walk? Write to Polly, and she’ll reassure you that you’re only five months old!

Heather Havrilesky (aka Polly Esther) is The Awl’s existential advice columnist. She’s also a regular contributor to The New York Times Magazine, and is the author of the memoir Disaster Preparedness (Riverhead 2011). She blogs here about scratchy pants, personality disorders, and aged cheeses.

Photo by Leo

“It’s springtime on Saturn, and the hexagon is out.”

It’s way too late to suggest getting rid of “disrupt,” so all that’s left now is to figure out what it’s supposed to mean. We are stuck with it, and it will be used; it is stuck with us, and it will suffer many shapes. Jenji Kohan created Weeds, then moved to Netflix to make a show about women in prison: Fairly disruptive. “I’m easy to work with, unless you piss me off,” she says in a cover quote: Neither disruptive nor non-disruptive.

Nic Pizzolatto did a show on HBO about two difficult men whose most memorable lines he may or may not have cribbed from a book about difficult men: Not very disruptive. Or is a disrupter someone who does something, anything, notable? “There’s this assumption that television people must be all things to all people. And I would rebel against that. I don’t think that’s the role of art in society,” says Pizzolatto. Strictures about the role of art in society? Not very disruptive!

And then the issue of the e, the er:

@robotopia It was discussed and we basically flipped a coin. And frankly, I think @ShantiMarlar liked the way the “e” looked better.

— Janice Min (@janicebmin) August 6, 2014

It does look better. Is this disruption? I think so.

Notes from a Crab Massacre

1. No neutral observer would recognize the human as anything but the villain, here.

2. Who first attempted to eat a crab and more importantly who didn’t stop them?

3. Crab meat. Crab… muscles?

4. Uses for shell fragments? Maybe grind them. Crab flour. Crab paint. Check Etsy.*

5. Uses for green goo? Wikipedia says another name for this is crab mustard, and another name is hepatopancreas. Even if you use it as sauce there’s too much of it. Check Pinterest.**

6. What secondary urge does this ritual satisfy? It’s much more intimate than just eating together. So then what tertiary urge? It is pure dominance and SUPREME othering of a species with eyes and arms and legs. Hm. Eat more crab; switch to the claws.

7. Starship Troopers, the movie, was badly misunderstood. There’s sort of a critical consensus about this now but… idk, it didn’t really get a fair shake the first time around and there’s certainly been no large scale rehabilitation. The insectoid enemies are essential to both the jingoism of the book and the cynicism of the adaptation — war is still nonsensical even IF the enemy is the unfeeling crab as which he has been represented.

8. “Cockroach meat.”

9A: Sudden crush of realization that each decontextualized bite of crab meat in your life was in fact an entire crab until about month before you ordered that dip

9B: No way the machines separate the slime and organs from the meat THAT well. Make note not to Google crab processing.

10. What if superintelligent large crabs ate us? Would we protest, being unable to conceive of their process of moral judgment? Surely.

11. How would the crabs make fun of our bodies? Would they laugh at our creases and protrusions or would they be more respectful than we are?

12. Certainly they would be better at tearing us apart than we are them. And less discriminating about which parts go into the Crab Mouth.

13. Would they even eat us in the first place, being so much more morally developed? The answer to this question is not obvious, which is terrifying.

*Crab Shell Powder, $5.99: “Protection, Removes hexes, Reversing, Conjure Bag, Reversing Return to Sender Spells”

**Hmm.

Update: A reader points out that the crab-eating event is not usually called a “boil,” which is true. “Massacre” is the customary and correct term. We regret the error.

by Tyler Gillespie

On Father’s Day in Tampa, Florida, a toned woman in a thong bikini backflipped off the party boat “Sea Cowboy” as club music blasted out of Hogan’s Beach, a twenty-thousand-square-foot restaurant and bar. Connected to the Best Western Bay Harbor Hotel, Hogan’s Beach is a hotspot, at least according to the radio ads for the venue. Owned by Terry Gene Bollea, it is perhaps the final resting place of the spirit of his Hulk Hogan persona. “I get to come in here and act like I own the place and run it 24 hours a day,” he told a Florida newspaper. “I’m just posing.”

While Hogan may not have many daily responsibilities in his namesake venue, the Hulkster was set to host the day’s “shitshow” stop of international DJ Cedric Gervais’s “Summertime Sadness” tour. The event also promised an opening DJ set by Hogan’s son, Nick, who was sentenced to eight months in jail in 2008 for a reckless driving charge that left his passenger with brain damage.

My friend Emily and I walked in to Hogan’s Beach through the Shining-esque hallway that connected it to the Best Western. It was lined with glass cases filled with “Hulkamania” memorabilia: lunchboxes, figurines, keychains, stickers and Pogs. Mounted in the corner, a TV played a loop of old wrestling footage. For no discernible reason, the video’s announcer kept repeating “America.” A statue of Hogan stood near the hostess station; its clenched mouth and wide-eyes gave it the look of a blow-up doll.

The hostess seated my friend Emily and I in a corner booth. A couple took a selfie close to a gold championship belt behind the main bar; there were no boas, a signature piece of Hogan apparel circa 1996. Posters celebrating Hogan in various stages of undress/career were framed against walls painted in Hogan’s signature yellow-spandex: one of him next to Andre the Giant, another chest-to-chest with Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, and a black-and-white photo of Sylvester Stallone, because Hogan appeared in Rocky III. My favorite, though, looked very “We are the World” and shows him standing with Muhammad Ali, Cyndi Lauper, and Liberace.

I knew what to order without looking at the menu. Yelp reviewers almost universally trashed the fish tacos, one of the most popular menu items. “Do yourself a favor and don’t order them,” wrote one user. “Worst fish tacos ever.” Other food items include a buffalo chicken sandwich, Cobb salad, and the All-American Burger. Nothing named after wrestling moves — no “Leg Drop Soup” or “The People’s Chicken Wings.” The price of the food seemed average, but the cocktails — Rum Runners and Mojitos, served in plastic cups — seemed too expensive. The Yelpers were right: The fish tacos were bland, even though they were coated in a “zesty” sauce.

Outside, two sand pit volleyball courts — nets conspicuously missing — constitute the main area. Emily and I made our way through groups of people clustered around two long bars while we waited for Nick Hogan to begin his DJ set. People smoked from hookahs made out of Grey Goose vodka bottles, which are only sold on Sundays. No one used the pool table. The “Beach” in the restaurant’s name comes from a barely-there-strip of sand. I couldn’t figure out how to get to it. The website also promises a mechanical shark, which I also couldn’t find.

The crowd could’ve been from a casting call for MTV’s True Life: I look like a buff Macklemore. They wore disparate shades of neon, American flag bathing suits, and low-cut tank tops that said things like “sky’s out, thighs out.” A stranger named Gia approached Emily for a cigarette. “These skinny bitches gotta go,” she said. “They all need to eat a hamburger.” Gia was the first person other than our server to acknowledge our presence. She moved to Florida to live with her girlfriend, whom she mentioned often. “I’m glad I found the other gay people here,” she told us. I wasn’t sure why she assumed this. “Maybe she thought we were gay because of how conservative we dressed,” Emily said. (I wore an actual, fully there t-shirt and shorts.) In an effort to move away from Gia, Emily and I sat at a wood table that looked like it came from someone’s backyard. Within a few minutes, a security guard told us to move. “Reserved.” So too, apparently, were the quasi-upscale looking cabanas. Banned from sitting, we stood at the crowd’s edge as Nick made his way to the stage.

“Raise your hands if you’re a father and got a kid at home,” Nick Hogan yelled to the crowd a little while after he came on. “Thank you for coming out. I see you.” Nick pointed to the crowd a lot. He looked older than his twenty-four years. I thought I spotted his sister Brooke trying to follow the beat, but I couldn’t tell if it was actually her or Hogan’s new wife.

I was transfixed by the maybe-Brooke’s bleached-blond ponytail until Nick spoke again. “I love you dad,” he said, turning to high-five his father, providing my first glimpse of Hulk. He flexed, pumped his fist and air guitared. His tan is even darker in person. Hogan addressed the adoring crowd, and I waited for him to say something awesome. “Here’s the deal for all the brothers,” said the man who created a nation of middle-American brothers. “There’s a lot of fine talent out here, but you outnumber them. My man Cedric Gervais is bringing the rest of the talent from the 305.”

Yes, talent.

As Hogan spoke, the crowd erupted. On his VH1 reality show Hogan Knows Best we saw the “Terry” side of Hulk. He cried and stuff. His fans — three million likes on Facebook — want this. The character, nothing else. He flexed and pointed some more for their pleasure. Nick finished his set to polite applause. “You are the best dad I could ever wish for,” he said before leaving the stage. “I love you. Happy Father’s Day.” The crowd seemed to agree with him about his dad.

Hulk then introduced Gervais as “his boy.” The masses crawled out from wherever they hid during Nick’s set. A sea tattooed arms pumped their fists. A woman stood up on a stool and nearly fell off; she must have reserved that seat. A few songs into Gervais’s set it started to rain. Before the lightning, the Grammy-winning DJ got to play his remix of Lana Del Rey’s “Summertime Sadness.” Hogan stayed on stage the whole time.

Tyler Gillespie is the palest Floridian you will ever meet.

Here is a smoky, four-minute flop on the couch from Mr. Twin Sister, formerly known as Twin Sister. It’s gorgeous in a way the band pulls off regularly; this song is a spiritual successor to 2010’s excellent “Other Side of Your Face,” which you can listen to here. (Via GvB.)

★★★ Already, as the clock rounded nine, it was fiercely bright and humid. In the shade, the people waiting in their cars for the street sweeper still favored opening the windows over running the air conditioning, by a noticeable margin. The heat stayed; cumulus clouds appeared here and there. Tennis-ball-colored items coincided, glaring in the light, on the corner outside the Apple Store: a lace top, the trim on a motorcycle, striping on a pair of baggy athletic shorts. The mirrored face of the apartment tower captured a startling pileup of clouds off in the east. There would be no violent release of heat, though, no turn in the plot — just the sun descending through majestic masses of purple, the higher sky striped pink and blue.

According to a nice new tool called Blocktogether, I am blocking 16 people on Twitter. I was worried about what this tool would show me: Would it be 16 reminders of times I was wrong, or acted stupid, or engaged in some sort of petty feud? Would I be ashamed? Here is what it said:

@monteiro (Mike Monteiro)
@darth (darth™ )
@RyanHoliday (Ryan Holiday)
@pmarca (Marc Andreessen)
@gabestein (Gabriel Stein)
@SteenKJW (Steen)
@Max_Fisher (Max Fisher)
@BorowitzReport (Andy Borowitz)
@tomwolber (Tommy Wolber)
@paxdickinson (Pax Dickinson)
@WyanRilson (jack danielsaur)
@DylanByers (Dylan Byers)
@paulcarr (Paul Carr)
@NYTFridge (NYTFridge)
@ChristineTWang (Christine Tien Wang)
@GlennF (Glenn Fleishman)

I don’t remember blocking about a third of these people, and don’t clearly remember who three of them are. There is certainly evidence of pettiness here! Arguments I didn’t want to finish, buttons clicked in the heat of the moment, silly Twitter-only conflicts that are too embarrassing to recount. I am a little sorry for that, but I will not be unblocking any of these people. This list is a much more honest expression of my preferences than my follow list, which is garbage. This is my real Twitter account, and so I stand by it. I plan to cultivate it and help it grow. I will boast of my blocks. For every new follow, three blocks. I will Own my Owns, and you should too.

Matt’s list is longer; he uses blocks more frequently, and, I would argue, much more effectively than I do:

AntDeRosa (Anthony De Rosa)
ginamdunn (Gina Dunn)
adamswbrown (Adam)
ShawnKing (Shawn King)
techsavvy (Matt Buchanan)
patlyk (patlyk)
Mikeisaac (Mike Isaac)
morganwarstler (Morgan Warstler)
MattHurst (Matthew Hurst)
mrb (Matthew Buchanan)
mdaisey (Mike Daisey)
ashedryden (how about no conf)
cpawl (cpawl)
samgustin (Sam Gustin)
kziel (Kris Ziel)
jaycarozzi (Javier)
PrintsCharming (Ryan Smith)
xonder (Alexander)
freekdeman (Freek de Man)
notoakie (oakie)
searchmeinc (Searchme.com)
14583699
ringernation (Jonathan Weaver)
akour_ (Ahmed Akour)
travelchannelgo (Travel Channel GO)
wiifitproject (Wii Fit Project)
WhoWhat (#WhoWhat)
puluwai (Puluwai Real Estate )
davidsirota (David Sirota)
klturi421 (klturi421)
VanityFair (VANITY FAIR)
froesei (Ivan Froese)
NonRevAdventure (Bruce Bere)
syllogic (Syl Mulder)
CoNOrgsMattM (Matt Millsaps)
sdcrane (Stuart Crane)
moorehn (Heidi N. Moore)
mediazerm (#mediazerm news)
hleman (Hope Leman)
kittylyst (Ben Evans)
vineetsingh (VineetSingh)
hunterw (Hunter Walker)
samatlounge (Sam Missingham)
votetocracy (Votetocracy)
ariokage (Lea Hannigan)
iPhoneCTO (iPhoneCTO)
pro2rat (professor rat)
vsabhi (Abhi Sharma)
svatikirsten (Svati Kirsten Narula)
mommamiaria (Maria A)
muckrack (Muck Rack)
cocoricks (coco ricks)
evgenymorozov (Evgeny Morozov)
braincellsgood (Kevin C)
redapron (redapron.com)
shitanshuverma (Shitanshu Verma)
faizairmac (Faiza Chowdhury)
CafePaysBills (GET STARTED NOW)
Staceynzoey (Stacey King)
GianlucaRispo (Gianluca Rispo)
lwfoxwell (Lennie Foxwell)
sdhousehunting (Jeremy Katz SDHH)
leoofborg (Bad Uncle Leo)
KiwiPixel (KiwiPixel)
TapThatGuy (Tap That Guy)
coffeeforkicks (Lincoln Donaldson)
CPA_Fans_Page (Earla Riopel.USAnews)
InstantWeb (Snapshot of the Web)
ladybeazley (Lady Beazley)
Tips4Tech (Allan Pratt, MBA)
morgannels (Morgan Sandquist)
gathtata (Gath_-_-kats)
sujith_web (Sujith S Nair)
UberFacts (UberFacts)
greg_gray_ray (Greg Ray)
EdwinKorver (Edwin Korver)
Laldinfela (Laldinfela Pachuau)
everybodyiknow (Christian’s Bot)
True4m (Godstruform)
lilville155 (lillian falciglia)
damy_kim (Damy Kim)
JrPenny (Junior Penny)
patosins (Patrick Osinski)
gabyncontreras (Gaby Nuñez Contreras)
thepinwale (Ismail Jadun)
XVisionNow (XVision)
shaymitchfanss (Stephanie)
Phoblographer (The Phoblographer)
TweetsFromNYC (New York)
WhiteHousePtbo (White House Hotel PR)
youngt1986 (willie bryant)
229605435
SuperZeroMovie (Super Zero)
DylanByers (Dylan Byers)
SharonMTeel (Sharon M. Teel)
makezens (ZENS)
uniofsurreyarts (Arts at Surrey)
253896905
jasey153 (jasey dickson)
JESSIBEENON (JESSICA)
davisagirl90 (davisajordan)
coraliecanelle (coralie Mason Wilson)
yamahateaminfo (pingi)
BrightApollo (christopher wanko)
paulcarr (Paul Carr)
bingo418 (SallyKim)
ArielMondi (Ariel Mondi)
1938loren (Loren Feldman)
BezelDollGrp (Bezel Doll Group)
veter_iok (Anna Baidachnaya)
SarahSlocum (Sarah Slocum)
rnorthboy (rnorthboy)
MattAtTheBrief (Matt Buchanan)
LaLimonadaTO (LaLimonada)
geetayl0r_ (?gee?)
socmedtech (socmedtech)
Sparkle_Policy (The Sparkle Agency)
usefoolapps (Actions)
retreatrdotcom (retreatr)
mike120699 (mike egna)
cashshower (CashShower)
Wonam6 (Casey)
yashalevine (Yasha Levine)
bouffordbzgfd9 (Boufford Axton)
huytuandecor (huytuandecor)
MakeSomeoneLove (Sam Stone)
RhafTonreyUJAS (Rhaf Tonrey)
JadaMix (JadaMix)
mimi98loll (mimi)
MarcoTimelli (Marco Timelli)
Katheleenq26 (Katheleen Ridlen)
strebeckk6 (Strebeck Jobs)
royalangel4 (oyinlola moses)
Minbox (Minbox)
LocishOfficial (Locish)
8515Jairo (jhon jairo )
Galaxkey (Galaxkey )
FPhones (Free phones)
dust_particle (Dust Particle)
yo_thanland (Than’s Stellarbot)
ashokaap (ashokaap)
JesleyCassidy (Jesley Cassidy)
peerintech (Peerin Tech)
MrHatefulMean (Mr. Hateful Mean)
mojVkANRKw (morgan mcdonald)
thewritealice (thewritealice)
YoungFreshHD (?i?? ?i? ƒ???€? — ??)
7411nigeria (7411 Nig. Directory)
takez7 (takez7)
Reeppyu (Reetta S)
WhoisWallet (WhoisWallet)
victor03972867 (victor)
doug_stellar (Doug’s Stellar Bot)
ivana_jonovic (Ivana Jonovic)
Benzy92Laryea (benjamin laryea)
TheClippy (Clippy)
SnapchatShot (Snapchat ?•??•?)
experimenttess (Tess )
lezlowfreegen (lezlow@freegenmail.c)
InstantAutogrhs (Iautographs)
Bravesoul79 (Jason)
Johnson67LARRY (LARRY Johnson)
sesssnt (#Savepalestine)
felix_sande (estevao felix sande)
HistoryInPics (History In Pictures)
AlexyBome (gogita)
JoaquinTamiroff (Seth Edenbaum)
h8reads (Hate Reads)
JbGelasius (Gelasius)
dodo (The Dodo)
beinganddying (Being and Dying)
CrusadesPay (Henry Wise)
1629975926
alicehuttep (Alice Huttep)
minaj9_nicki (nicki)
OweYaa (OweYaa)
FauxFranzen (Faux Franzen)
ICantGetABoner (ICantGetABoner)
holybiever (holybieber)
SpaceGreyiPhone (Space Grey iPhone 5S)
hdvhardcore (hdvhardcore)
abomhawed1 (???? ??????)
EzeeCube (Ashok Jaiswal)
AvalonRadys (Avalon Radys)
clarabarbosa19 (clara barbosa )
CESrpg (#CESrpg)
cem3394 (chris mckinlay)
TheWNOfficial (World News)
iOSShiftKey (iOS Shift Key)
ExMediaMan (Media Man)
britney_spider (Britney Spears)
ClippyTheClip (Clippy)
Gabrielmendza (Gabrielle Mendoza)
GlaycePin (glayce imaculada pin)
promotionsweb (Web Promotions)
GShuttleBus (GTrainShuttleBus)

There is nothing to explain here. This is a list of the forsaken and forgotten: People who tweeted too much, who slipped up once or twice, who posted a “Thank god it’s Friday” joke on two consecutive Mondays, who were wrong in such a way that would obviously never be remedied and therefore earns them permanent silence. If you grant that actively using Twitter and maintaining mental hygiene are not mutually exclusive, this is the proper way to do it.

Anyway, try this. It’s great! Blocktogether seems to be a little busy right now, but BlockedBy.Me is a good alternative. Check your block list and share it with the world. Don’t just tell your blockees that you’re tired of them. Tell the entire stupid internet! People may look at your list and think less of you, which is fine. They deserve to be blocked too. Others may look at your list and think: Why do I let people continue to retweet that obnoxious venture capitalist into my feed? Why do I occasionally continue to put up with that fake photo account that people can’t stop falling for? Oh, this one, he is definitely a harasser, and should be blocked by every single Twitter user in the world. Brand? Blocked. And that annoying guy, I’ve seen too much of him lately, so maybe I should block him too. Blocking is power in a situation otherwise defined by endless concession.

Name, shame, own. Who cares, let’s do a hashtag: #OWNYOUROWNS. Block them. Block them on Facebook, too. BLOCK THEM ALL. Music helps. Put on some sunglasses and crank “Barracuda.”

You lying so low in the weeds
I bet you gonna ambush me
You’d have me down, down, down, down on my knees
Now, wouldn’t you, Barracuda? Oh-oh-ohh

Unfriend like the icy wind. Post less, ban more. Ideally just don’t post at all, and block all the time.

Image by Anthony Fire