Pura Vida - An Almost-Kidnapping in Costa Rica

by greenspikefrog

The night it happened was like our last week in Costa Rica. We met the girls about a week prior, somewhere midway through our trip, and were all having a really good time.

We had just crossed the country to the Caribbean side to see the difference and we were on our way back, south, then north, to San Jose. We stopped in a town called Quepos.

Quepos was fulla ex-pats. And it was quite hostal. We were offered harder drugs like meth and crack here for the first time, opposed to the usual weed, blow and sex. It wasn't really a tourist town. More of a shipping port town. That night we had some strange warning signs that we were in for some trouble here. One instance, at a hot-dog-eating-contest a couple of ExPat's were pounding on a belligerent tico. He was beyond drunk. And he kept trying to fight them, they would laugh and knock him down.

The guys bragged to us about how they ran the town and lived like Kings, yadda yadda, -- we didn't stay long in their presence.

We left the girls in the hostel we were at, and went searching for a quiet spot to smoke and enjoy the night air.

Just as we sat down, and lit that joint, we got run up on, my cousin and myself, by a couple of kids. They chased us with knifes down an alley way between a building and a soccer field. We eventually out ran them down a street into a bar. I thought we were toast but they were kinda fucked up, and wide-eyed from what I saw the moment they snuck up on us.

Here is a photo of my cousin and I in that allie between the soccer field: http://imgur.com/CxlaP,sz0JC,E47KV,TbFw8#3

We picked up some big rocks after that, and always had something for defense on us in the pockets. This would come in handy later in our story.

Back at this little hostel place, the girls weren't liking the town either, and wanted move down to Manuel Antonio the next day.

Manuel Antonio, you should know, is about 15 Km or something, through the hills to a dead end road with a National Park at the end.

The streets are lined with a lot of high-fenced resorts, and tourist spots to use as jumping points for exploring the park.

We found a nice little local place on recommendation. Photo here: http://imgur.com/CxlaP,sz0JC,E47KV,TbFw8#2

If I ever have the option while on proper adventure travels, I always try to stay local. You just get better intel on the surrounding area from people who call it home.

There was a lot of good times for two nights in this little mom and pop's place. We met a nice woman with twins, and she was visiting with her mother and aunt and they were our next door neighbors.

 http://imgur.com/FJWFr,Bu5bJ,gOAaKhttp://imgur.com/FJWFr,Bu5bJ,gOAaK#1

We partied pretty late with them one day and spent the afternoon at the beach hanging with them, getting drunk. They later told us that they never knew Americans could be like we were, so nice.

They opened up they're whole vacation to us.

They were staying a night shorter than us, and told my cousin and me that when we got to San Jose to come to their house and we could crash the night, wake up and have breakfast with them before the Grandmother, Abuela, said she would drive us to the airport.

On seeing our friends leave, our group started to get sentimental. The girls had spent 2 months in costa rica in the teachers school of emersion living with familys and were next off to Peru to teach english. We all decided we would have a final dinner together, suck it up and goto a local restaurant.

We didn't get out of our room till about 7 pm, and it was starting to get dark. FYI, Manuel Antonio after dark is a whole other world.

All the safety in numbers of tourists during the day and street vendors has vanished. All that remains are some locals and a lot of bums.

We arrived at the restaurant to find out they close at 7pm! Bummed out, and starting to be harassed (The girls were dressed lovely for dinner) We turned around to walk back to our rooms.

There is a place in the road, where it splits for a tiny circular turn around. It passes right by our hotel, and loops back up to the main road. We decided we would take the low road, walk under the canopy and listen to the ocean on our walk back.

At that point a stranger with capri pants, no shirt, sun dried skin and a curly head of hair, starts running down the street our direction, chasing a car as it over takes us on the road, and passes us. The girls were oblivious anything was suspicious, but my cousin and I started signaling and saying our "safe" words to communicate the alert.

He was walking like what he imagines he looks like drunk, because it a appeared to me to be him pretending to be drunk. At least that's what I thought as he was stumbling up on us to maybe appear docile enough to catch us off guard and grab someone until he got what he wanted.

(When we sense something is a red flag, we start talking about our code word. In this case it was "rock". )

The car passed us sure enough, but when the curly haired guy ran up on us, he slowed and his body language faced us somewhat. It was enough to catch the girls off guard. We all started to fast walk and "act normal, stay calm" and headed to our little low road pass.

When Curly caught up to the car, it stopped. It was slowing down when he passed us running, and he looked back a few times in our direction while talking in the car.

The car finally sped off, and Curly walked back down the road, not a bit drunk looking as he had pretended before.

He continued his way down the path back towards the restaurants as we made our way opposite towards the narrow low road. Photo here seen the next day of low road: http://imgur.com/FJWFr,Bu5bJ,gOAaK#2

The road was pitch black, and as we started inside, a car creeped very slowly down the path our direction, almost stopping but never slower than a crawl.

I instantly felt the Spidey sense and looked to my cousin to see what he was seeing. One of the girls then crossed the street. Right in front of the car as it was approaching, still about 20 feet ahead. So then my cousin, in keeping calm, also crosses the street. I crossed the street too but surprisingly, the other girl, K, stayed on the left side of the road. I followed my cousin, and motioned to her to come but she just kept on obliviously until the car came in between us and her, headlights blinding somewhat until it separated us and then it slowed again.

It freaked us out when it happened and I knew something was different, the car crawled very slowly forward and I could see K hopping now, and then out of pure instinct, she finally screamed, letting out the most blood curdling yell I've ever heard in my life. She was hopping backwards from what I could see and I thought she was being run over and dragged under some unfortunate clipping of the front tire well. Her scream was completely unintelligible and i assumed she was in unimaginable and excruciating pain. I got in front of the car and yelled stop, with my hand out, thinking somehow this benevelont driver didn't notice, but it kept moving forward, so I jumped on the hood and held on by the windshield wipers.

K let out an audible "HELP ME" and after that we all just reacted. It was almost a black out event that I remember but can't imagine happening or doing.

I slammed the hood with my hand yelling stop, and when I looked to her, I saw the front door, on passenger side of the car was open, hands reached out pulling on her, and through back seat windows, a lot of arms were in grabbing at her! Surreal I tell you.

Into my pocket I pulled out the first thing I could find, a fist sized, smooth river stone and hurled it as hard as I could directly into the windshield! The car stopped on a beat. K broke free, and the windshield glass spider-webbed a huge circular series of cracks. I thought in that instant I was going to be killed.

What shocked me next was the car completely emptied. All the guys inside, (probably about 5 or 6 guys) jumped out the car and scattered every direction. Mind you it's pitch black, with the exception of the lights emitted from the still on and ajar car.

I can only assume they weren't watching me but pulling at K, when I threw the rock. From the inside it must have appeared to be a gun shot.

When we broke free I grabbed K, who was hyperventilating, and we ran with the other girl, E, until we landed at this spot pictured here:

 http://i.imgur.com/sz0JC.jpg 

My cousin broke off and was trying to run ahead to get help. The girls were terror stricken and did not want to move, and at this point we were only a few hundred yards through a jungle to our room.

We ducked down and hid for a good 15 minutes, as we eventually saw the car flip-a-bitch and tear down the beach towards a small restaurant and then back. Picking up guys the whole time. People yelling. No sign or sound of my cousin. So we stayed low and quiet.

My cousin later told me he was chased at that point by the car.

K was just giving up. She was so terrified she didn't want to move, so we were lurking in bushes and lying on the ground breathing as quietly as we could.

At the above picture where we hid, two men came out. One younger in his 40's, and the other in his 70s, and they had a dog and a shot gun with them. We shit balls and tried to keep quiet, but they knew something had happened and heard us, and were calling out to see if everything was OK.

The girls didn't want to show ourselves but I finally just stood and said "please help us we have been attacked" or something to that nature.

They were very kind, as 99% of the locals I encountered. We described the car, where we were staying and that we did not feel safe.

The younger man, with the gun took off towards the spot in the road with the dog, and the old man walked us back up with a flashlight to the hotel we were staying.

At this time about 5 older men were watching soccer under the porch at the local hostel and they greeted us with concern. (Offered the girls valiums) and called the federally.

One thing you should know, in Costa Rica, there are no Police. There is no army. Just the Federally. And they drive around in Subaru's armed with fully auto assault rifles and in places like Manuel Antonio, they are few and far between. You are own your own out there.

The old men consoled the women and blocked off the main road and watched every car. We knew that it was one way in and out, so the car was towards the park somewhere.

We described the car, decals on the side and windows, and of course, the broken front windshield.

The men all muttered "Alejandro" roughly at the same time and knew the car. They told us there had unfortunately been some problems with this kid lately. (Drugs and rapes of tourists).

The old men wanted to take him out. My cousin finally arrived. The kid was speechless. Like he'd seen a ghost.

When the Federally's arrived they wanted us to come with them into the street and point out potential car's and identify people from the cars. We we'rent interested in being live bait, but were falsely assured by the Federally when one of the guys smiled at our balk and kinda raised his gun.

No luck after a couple hours, so we hoped in their car and drove into town. We saw the Curly haired man from earlier and pointed him out as knowing the car, but he denied it and didn't have papers and the federally just kinda shrugged him off.

The girls were so terrified they asked to go back to the high security hostel in Quepos with a ride from the cops.

We slept that night in our room, very little i admit. We waited till the sun rose to leave our room or unlock the windows. We walked through the whole night that morning, retracing our steps.

Within the week, little K was flying home and abandoning the job in Peru. E, did however stick it out and go down and have a great experience, I later heard.

We finished our trip in San Jose. We met up with our new friends, the family. We took them all out to eat on the last of our loot. They couldn't believe what we told them happened the day they left. We slept the night at their house. In the morning, after having breakfast, Abuela (The grandmother) took us to the airport and we safely returned home.

Pura Vida, I will never forget.

The Adventure of Buying Vinyl in the Senegal

by jchapstick

So we're in downtown Dakar, Senegal, "The Capital of West Africa", a huge, smoggy metropolis where there's desert sand in the streets and goats with saggy teats tied up on the sidewalks. Minarets mark the skyline, and many men dress in robes. With all the tourism, Dakar is also the home of the most persistent, pestering hustler kids in the world, the legendary faux-types. They follow you like crazy, hoping for a bit of change, or more likely, a finder's fee from whatever vendors you might visit in your travels.

We'd been there less than a week, but after just a couple of taxi trips with the car radio blaring, I decided that the Senegalese make my favorite music of all the millions of styles on the continent. The Koranic singing and the surrounding desert have a haunting, lonesome influence on the pop stuff, and the ancient tradition of kora playing makes for wicked electric guitar picking. Especially on those scratchy old 60's and 70's LPs, which sell for a small ransom back home in the West. On the second day of our week-long trip I found some old records at a street stand, and the vendor led me back to his house to peruse a pile of LPs stored outdoors under a tarp. This guy had stuff from all over West Africa, mostly smaller bands I'd never heard of, but bigger names, too, like Franco, Fela, and Ebenezer Obey. There was also a mess of classic disco and dance 12"s, American soul, old Arabic singers and stuff from other French-speaking countries. My appetite whetted, a few days later I decided to brave the central market on foot.

I had already experienced two attempted robberies on the street in Dakar, so this time I left everything of value at the hotel, including my wedding ring. I went out in thin shorts, busted trainers and a t-shirt, with only a record cover in my hand to show what I was looking for, because my French stinks. No surprise, the second I left the hotel I was followed and hounded by a young faux-type, who would never leave my side until I returned to the hotel hours later. The money was in my shoe, 30 bucks or so in Senegalese currency.

After a long walk in the insane heat, we reached Sandaga market, found a CD seller, and showed him my album cover. In American-accented English, the CD seller said smoothly, "Oh, for that kind of thing you have to go to the Black Market." But he looked at me like I was an idiot for wanting records in the first place. Good sign. Imagine. This is a street market in central Dakar, Senegal, a city where the vast majority lives in tin-roof slums with open sewers. In this market there's total chaos in every direction, thousands of people buying and selling everything from a live chicken to a translucent toilet seat. Nobody's paying taxes on any of this informal commerce, and yet one of the sellers tells me to go to the "Black Market"!?!?! I'm like, 'If this guy calls it the Black Market, it must really be the Black Market.' So I am a little scared, but the hustler kid shows me the way.

We walk another ten minutes through the heat, trash, livestock and traffic to find it--a whole city block of shanty buildings and narrow alleys oozing grey water, little kids covered with mud, a totally fucking horribly scary shithole. Salle de Vin, I think they called it.

We approach the entrance and I am just mobbed by young, loud, dirty, stoned and/or drunken crazy-looking dudes, asking me what I need, literally shoving each other out of the way to get my business. I show them the record cover and they start bickering over who's going to get what part of the sale, who's going to lead me around, what size of a cut my faux-type is going to get, etc. Heated discussion. I lean on a car to wait for them to figure it out. Eventually, what I guess is the Main Dude of the Black Market emerges from out of the spooky entrance, a cigarette in his mouth and an ice-cold look in his eye. He looks me up and down, tells the other guys to lay off and leads me into the center of the block, which is like the freakiest walk I have ever taken.

There's broken and salvaged crap everywhere, scrap re-bar and wood with nails sticking out, cast-off plastic parts of old appliances, dirty piles of cloth, whatever. There's no electricity, so everything's dark except where the sun peeks in. The odor is noisome, as probably dozens of people live and defecate here. The place is like the Senegalese version of a thrift store, where various private scroungers hawk their used furniture, used washing machines, you name it. But this being a country that's 95 percent Muslim, there's also a little baby mosque in there, and guys praying.

We get into the inner sanctum, which is a furniture factory of sorts, where the Main Dude has a crew building couches and coffee tables. It's actually kind of nice in the middle there, with all the new furniture to sit on. And it's great to get out of the insane heat, but still my senses are screaming for me to run out of here and never look back. I have definitely given my self over to forces beyond my control. Everyone is yelling at each other, looking at me like a piece of meat. The Dude offers me a cigarette, which I refuse politely. He sends someone to get me a stick of gum and proceeds to roll himself a thin joint. He doesn't offer, but I am in no mood to be stoned, anyway.

By this time I am thinking there's no way I am getting out of here with any of my possessions. I am also thinking, if I get out of here in one piece, this will be a great story. There's like 5-10 people milling around staring at me, yelling at each other and me in Wolof and French, looking hella menacing, while the main Mafioso and I are negotiating prices, him totally stoned, running these dudes like they're his personal army.

Senegalese are GENIUSES at the price war, unfortunately, and this was a conversation seriously impaired by the language barrier, even with the translation services of my young hustler friend. So despite my Herculean efforts, I end up agreeing--after like 15 of the longest minutes of my life--that I will pay him an exorbitant 12 bucks apiece for the records. Triumphant, he sends his minions off in all directions.

After a few minutes they start coming back one at a time with various bags and boxes of records in all states of disarray, mildew and fucked-up-edness. But in the business of digging for 40-year-old records in one of the poorest places on Earth, you can't care about condition, and I am thrilled to be seeing the prize at last. I go through the bags and boxes as fast as I can. Like any other pile of records, this one is 95% crap: bad 80's French singers, The Best of Nana Mouskouri, big band reissue box sets, Paul Mauriat, Olivia Newton-John, and the like. But there's also a good measure of West African originals. I pull out about 10, knowing I can't afford them all at his price. There are some real finds in there, including two copies of the same Orchesta Baobab LP (one broken) and some other 60's and 70's Senegalese things, a hot-looking record by a group from Guinea-Bissau, even an early LP by this Haitian guy Coupe Cloue, who I've been looking for forever.

I take off my shoe, pull out my sweaty money and buy the few records I can afford. Having gone this far, I am really bummed I can't get the other 5 or so that are in my pile. I'm also kinda paranoid, still not convinced that these guys are going to let me leave without some kind of struggle. But since I have nothing to lose, I ask the Dude if he'll just let me have the other ones as a gift. The hustler kid helps me convince him that nobody is ever going to come along again asking for old LPs, and he seems to see the point.

But then he yells, "Do you have any more money?" all angry. I tell him no, which is the truth, and he barks, "Stand up!" I comply and turn out my empty pockets. Get this: the dude fucking frisks me! While he's got his hand between my legs, I'm thinking, "Man, I am so glad I don't have anything else of value." Clearly the records are meaningless to him, just a means to the ultimate goal of cleaning out this dumb-ass foreigner.

But in the end, he did show a refreshing bit of humanity, giving me the other records for free, out of the kindness of his heart. I ended up with about 12 of them all told, total gems, if dirty and scratched, with water-damaged covers. We both agreed that we wished we could speak English (him) and Wolof (me) so that we could have a real conversation. On my way out he even took pity and gave me back enough of my money to catch a taxi. I gave the faux type a ride back to the hotel so he could find another mark.

Love and Low Self-Esteem

How being in love feels for someone with low self-esteem

by itchypoop

So firstly you see someone, and there's that spark, there's something that tells you that you should go for it. So you do, even though so many other times you would have just told yourself that there's no point because nobody will ever like you.

But you go ahead and put your self out there, which is pretty rare in itself. And then somehow, for some reason, it actually works and you get along. It's so rare that someone would show some genuine interest in you, well at least in your eyes it is. So you hold on to it, you keep trying to ignore that voice in your head that you're not worth a damn.

And I'd like to say that it goes smoothly, but it doesn't. You second guess yourself, wondering if she's actually into you or if she's just going along with it. Like so many others. You want to just be happy and go with it, but you don't, and you just realise the only person you've got to blame is yourself. You throw yourself into making sure it works, because it's one of the few things you've got that might work out for the best, that might make you feel like you're not a complete fuckup.

But eventually, after months and months of second guessing yourself you finally get to a point where you're comfortable and you're in love. Where it's just working.

And it's just nice.

It's really, really, really nice.

You start to think that you're actually better than you give yourself credit, after all, if someone else can love you dearly, surely that means there's something to love.

And then it's just a week or two where someone is busy and you don't meet up. It's the other person forgetting to text back, or losing a phone or something that's actually rather innocent.

And that brings everything back. It's back to you thinking that there's something wrong with you, inherently wrong with you. And you feel like shit for a while, until there's some sign that you're just being stupid and there's no problem. Maybe it's a cycle, maybe it'll get better next time around and you'll actually have some lasting change.

I just don't know at the moment.

So it's easier to fall in love when you think you're shit. But it's a bit of a rollercoaster, and in my experience you keep second guessing yourself that he/she's actually in to you, because your instinct is to think that you're not worth a damn, and it takes a lot to break out of that. That's not to say that you shouldn't try to find someone, just that it's really tough at times.

The trick, for me at least, is knowing when you're in a bad place because of your low self esteem and making sure that you don't fuck anything up because you're being an idiot.

What it is like to date someone with low self-esteem

by bakonydraco

it may be helpful to know and understand how incredibly draining and hurtful it can feel to be dating someone with low self esteem. When you fall head over heels for someone, you love them for who they are, embrace their strengths and accept everything else. To have your love for someone questioned early in a relationship is natural, but to be continuously questioned, no matter how long you've been dating, no matter how thoughtful you are, no matter how much you sing their name from the rooftops and get up early to make them breakfast is soul-crushing.

First it's hurtful because it feels like they don't value your love, because you loving them doesn't make them feel special. Then you start to question if there actually is something wrong with them; if they keep questioning if you really love them, maybe there really is something wrong with them. These two can be overcome with strength and maturity, but what's really difficult is the realization of the possibility that it's possible, no matter what you do, no matter how long, they will never fully accept that you will love them, and that you're facing a life-long mission of convincing the person you're madly in love with that you actually love them.

For all of these reasons, many people make the hard but reasonable decision to break up with someone with low self-esteem. Ironically, the fear of being broken up with causes the break up, and often reduces self-esteem even further.

After my first long relationship with someone with low self-esteem, I gradually started to lose much of my self-worth, and vowed never to date someone without self-esteem until I was mature enough to handle it. As I've matured, I've come to learn that everyone has things that they are insecure about, and that's okay. Part of being in a healthy relationship is accepting your partner for their strengths and insecurities, and helping build through them, while at the same time recognizing your own insecurities, and actively working on tearing them down. If you do not work to fight your own insecurities, you can't expect anyone to help you. And if you do not try to love yourself, you can't expect anyone else to love you either.

It's incredibly difficult to be someone with low self-esteem, but it's just as hard to be in a relationship with a person with low self-esteem. None of this can be overcome over night, and takes a lot of time, work, and love. I firmly believe that love can be found by anyone, and it is a life-long commitment of work.

Letters from Teddy

Author unknown

As she stood in front of her 5th grade class on the very first day of school, she told the children an untruth. Like most teachers, she looked at her students and said that she loved them all the same. However, that was impossible, because there in the front row, slumped in his seat, was a little boy named Teddy Stoddard

Mrs. Thompson had watched Teddy the year before and noticed that he did not play well with the other children, that his clothes were messy and that he constantly needed a bath. In addition, Teddy could be unpleasant. It got to the point where Mrs. Thompson would actually take delight in marking his papers with a broad red pen, making bold X's and then putting a big 'F' at the top of his papers.

At the school where Mrs. Thompson taught, she was required to review each child's past records and she put Teddy's off until last. However, when she reviewed his file , she was in for a surprise.

Teddy's first grade teacher wrote, 'Teddy is a bright child with a ready laugh. He does his work neatly and has good manners... He is a joy to be around..'

His second grade teacher wrote, 'Teddy is an excellent student, well liked by his classmates, but he is troubled because his mother has a terminal illness and life at home must be a struggle.'

His third grade teacher wrote, 'His mother's death has been hard on him. He tries to do his best, but his father doesn't show much interest, and his home life will soon affect him if some steps aren't taken.'

Teddy's fourth grade teacher wrote, 'Teddy is withdrawn and doesn't show much interest in school. He doesn't have many friends and he sometimes sleeps in class.'

By now, Mrs. Thompson realized the problem and she was ashamed of herself. She felt even w worse when her students brought her Christmas presents, wrapped in beautiful ribbons and bright paper, except for Teddy's. His present was clumsily wrapped in the heavy, brown paper that he got from a grocery bag. Mrs. Thompson took pains to open it in the middle of the other presents. Some of the children started to laugh when she found a rhinestone bracelet with some of the stones missing, and a bottle that was one-quarter full of perfume. But she stifled the children's laughter when she exclaimed how pretty the bracelet was, putting it on, and dabbing some of the perfume on her wrist. Teddy Stoddard stayed after school that day just long enough to say, 'Mrs. Thompson, today you smelled just like my mom used to.'

After the children left, she cried for at least an hour. On that very day, she quit teaching reading, writing and arithmetic. Instead, she began to teach children. Mrs. Thompson paid particular attention to Teddy. As she worked with him, his mind seemed to come alive. The more she encouraged him, the faster he responded. By the end of the year, Teddy had become one of the smartest children in the class and, despite her lie that she would love all the children the same, Teddy became one of her 'teacher's pets..'

A year later, she found a note under her door, from Teddy, telling her that she was the best teacher he ever had in his whole life.

Six years went by before she got another note from Teddy. He then wrote that he had finished high school, third in his class, and she was still the best teacher he ever had in life.

Four years after that, she got another letter, saying that while things had been tough at times, he'd stayed in school, had stuck with it, and would soon graduate from college with the highest of honors. He assured Mrs. Thompson that she was still the best and favorite teacher he had ever had in his whole life.

Then four more years passed and yet another letter came. This time he explained that after he got his bachelor's degree, he decided to go a little further. The letter explained that she was still the best and favorite teacher he ever had. But now his name was a little longer.... The letter was signed, Theodore F. Stoddard, MD.

The story does not end there. You see, there was yet another letter that spring. Teddy said he had met this girl and was going to be married He explained that his father had died a couple of years ago and he was wondering if Mrs. Thompson might agree to sit a t the wedding in the place that was usually reserved for the mother of the groom. Of course, Mrs. Thompson did. And guess what? She wore that bracelet, the one with several rhinestones missing. Moreover, she made sure she was wearing the perfume that Teddy remembered his mother wearing on their last Christmas together.

They hugged each other, and Dr. Stoddard whispered in Mrs. Thompson's ear, 'Thank you Mrs. Thompson for believing in me. Thank you so much for making me feel important and showing me that I could make a difference.'

Mrs. Thompson, with tears in her eyes, whispered back. She said, 'Teddy, you have it all wrong. You were the one who taught me that I could make a difference. I didn't know how to teach until I met you.'

This story is fiction.

The Curse of the Traveler

by darien_gap

Have you ever heard of The Curse of the Traveler?

An old vagabond in his 60s told me about it over a beer in Central America, goes something like this: The more places you see, the more things you see that appeal to you, but no one place has them all. In fact, each place has a smaller and smaller percentage of the things you love, the more things you see. It drives you, even subconsciously, to keep looking, for a place not that's perfect (we all know there's no Shangri-La), but just for a place that's "just right for you." But the curse is that the odds of finding "just right" get smaller, not larger, the more you experience. So you keep looking even more, but it always gets worse the more you see. This is Part A of the Curse.

Part B is relationships. The more you travel, the more numerous and profoundly varied the relationships you will have. But the more people you meet, the more diffused your time is with any of them. Since all these people can't travel with you, it becomes more and more difficult to cultivate long term relationships the more you travel. Yet you keep traveling, and keep meeting amazing people, so it feels fulfilling, but eventually, you miss them all, and many have all but forgotten who you are. And then you make up for it by staying put somewhere long enough to develop roots and cultivate stronger relationships, but these people will never know what you know or see what you've seen, and you will always feel a tinge of loneliness, and you will want to tell your stories just a little bit more than they will want to hear them. The reason this is part of the Curse is that it gets worse the more you travel, yet travel seems to be a cure for a while.

None of this is to suggest that one should ever reduce travel. It's just a warning to young Travelers, to expect, as part of the price, a rich life tinged with a bit of sadness and loneliness, and angst that's like the same nostalgia everyone feels for special parts of their past, except multiplied by a thousand.

Ok, that's the Curse. I don't personally know if I agree with all of it, inasmuch as I think a lot of it can be mitigated by 1) traveling with companions whom you see regularly (although this does reduce the number of people you'd meet, vs traveling alone), and 2) modern technology really does make it possible to stay closer to people all over the world. This internet-enabled world had not yet happened with the man I met in the bar; it was 1998 and he had heard of email, but didn't have an account yet, and therefore is lost to me forever whereas if we'd met a year later, perhaps we'd be Facebook friends to this day.

Well if you really want to get into it, crack open a beer, dim the lights, and listen to this amazing song, Curse of the Traveler by Chris Rea. and Lyrics here.

How to combat procrastination

by heykidcatch

Many natural procrastinators I know (including myself, and much of Reddit) are people who are praised for their intelligence, and misinterpret that as a sign that they don't need to have structure for their brain's daily activities, and don't need to give it the proper respect and exercise that it requires and deserves. So they neglect it - let it run wild on the internet, gorge itself on Reddit and Facebook and porn and games (the mental equivalent of junk food and jerking off), and allow it to lapse into a vicious cycle of unaccountable information binging and inevitable self loathing.

Your brain adapts to, and then perpetuates, the habits to which it is constantly exposed. That fact doesn't work in your favor right now, but you can change that. My suggestions:

1) Structure your time. By scheduling your daily activities, you provide a motivation to be present and diligent for your responsibilities. Plus, this will discourage the huge, unhealthy blocks of surf time that arise when you don't plan your time out ahead. As far as skill acquisition like studying goes, I recommend time management methods like the [1] Pomodoro Technique to give your brain a healthy routine length. You may also want to invest in a timer, or a program that acts like one, so you can monitor how much time you're actually spending plugged in, and hold yourself accountable for it in the future.

This tip also extends to structuring your sleep schedule. I assume you're in college, and there's always fun stuff like parties and dorm CoD seshes and recreational drug use happening at any given time in college. Even if not, there's always the internet. Learn to pull the plug, even when you don't feel like you want to stop, and get your 6-8 hours a night. It does wonders for your self-control, self-image, and your presence in real life as opposed to inside your head.

2) Figure out why you procrastinate. Procrastination is a type of[2] experiential avoidance that causes itself through an unwillingness to feel uncomfortable emotions, or be in unpleasant situations, even at personal detriment. I personally was an internet/League of Legends addict because I wanted to avoid confronting my anxiety, low self-esteem, and feelings of helplessness, and losing myself in my laptop provided an avenue where I could feel 'in control'. It's different for everyone, but this attitude is rather common nowadays. You owe it to yourself to be honest about what it is you're procrastinating from, and why you fell into the habit. It may take some reflection.

3) Learn to tolerate, or even enjoy, putting time and effort into your work. Many Redditors, and internet users in general, have been conditioned into believing that truly intelligent people don't need to work hard at what they do. I was one such dumbfuck, and since I breezed through my AP science courses in high school, I deluded myself into thinking I didn't need to study for anything, and that cramming was enough. Then college-level Organic Chemistry came along and punched me in the face.

You may, presently, also believe that you are smart enough not to study. Don't kid yourself anymore. That's your brain talking, spoiled by lack of discipline and fattened up on trivia that it'll never need to use, trying to sweet-talk you into not eating broccoli and having ice cream instead. You've got to be a tough-love parent, and make sure your kid eats his vegetables.

4) Incentivize your productivity. You are your own RPG hero.Procrastinators have a problem with delaying gratification. Technology addicts, specifically, are driven to surf by the easy 'accomplishment' feeling from learning tidbits of Avatar or My Little Pony trivia, or perfecting their last-hitting in LoL, or racking up no-scopes in CoD. This is an easier way for your brain to create and savor small hits of dopamine than confronting real-life responsibilities -responsibilities that are harder, more time-consuming, and that give less obvious, more ambiguous rewards.

You can combat this addiction by substituting it. Many recovering procrastinators come to see themselves as their own RPG player-character, their own Tamagotchi or Sim or Pocket Pikachu. Doing practice problems? EXP into your INT stat. Gym time? Boosting your STR. Going to networking events for your major, socializing with professionals in your desired career? Major levels in Charisma, with points into a possible class change in the future.

Personally, I'm not totally absorbed into that style of discipline. But Idid borrow an idea from the Pomodoro Technique and DDR, which is combo chains. Every day that I accomplish a general task (studying, exercise, writing in a journal, not looking at porn, etc.) is a link on the chain I drew on my whiteboard, while missing a day erases the chain. I want those suckers to get too long to fit on the board.

The main thing about this mindset is that you need to invest in your personal development in terms that your tech-addicted brain is already familiar with. Think about this - if you were playing the Sims, and your Sim self needed to go to work but was playing computer games instead, would you let him stay at his laptop? HELL NO.

5) You are not going to like the change in lifestyle. It is going to feel like shit. Accept it and power through it anyway. The emotions that an addict suffers through while quitting are sweet siren calls, seductively beseeching you to slam your ship into the rocks. Your brain is used to the habits. It likes the habits. It doesn't want you to stop. It will present you with thoughts that tempt you to break your combo and forsake your willpower.

You are not your habits. You are not your thoughts. They are the many drops of water in the ocean that you are sailing in. The waters may be stormy and fickle, and may, without the force of your will, push you into shipwreck after shipwreck. It may seem easier just to let your ship be tossed wherever the follies of your brain take it. But it is your duty to captain your ship, especially in harder waters, and wrest yourself back on course with gritted teeth and the knowledge that you are stronger than the storm.

TL:DR - Get sleep, stop fapping your brain, organize yourself, it'll feel like shit but that's a good sign. Also [3] this infographic 

What DJs like deadmau5, tiesto, and Steve Angelo are doing on stage during a show

by schifferbrains

First of all, we need to talk about the difference between a DJ and a Producer.

• A Producer makes music
• A DJ plays music

That said, keep in mind that almost all Producers are also DJs (but NOT many DJs are Producers). Think about it: with any instrument, lots of people play other people's songs, but very few end up good enough to write their own. Same thing.

In any case, all the big name DJs you hear of are famous for songs they PRODUCED, (though most of them are, as you might expect, incredible DJs as well). All the DJs you named are both.

Finally, as a bunch of other people on this thread said already, there are also DJs that actually produce (make) music live. That's pretty cool, but also much more rare, so I don't think that's what you're talking about.

So, what is a DJ doing up there in his (or her) little box. Well, a number of things:

1) Picking songs

It's not enough to just pick a good song or even a good dance song to be a good DJ; you need to pick a song that goes well with the last song you played. This is very difficult to do for 3 hours straight unless you know A LOT of music REALLY WELL (which is one of the most important things that makes the best DJs so good). Sometimes, DJs just "know" what songs go well with other songs (practice helps a lot), but other times, they need to listen to both songs being played at the same time to figure out whether they mesh or not. So, while a song is playing on the speakers, the DJ will play another song in his headphones and, listening to both at the same time, decide whether they go well together.

Of course, because this is so difficult, and because DJs have to do this for hundreds of songs every night, most DJs decide (to some extent) what songs they're going to play in what order before they start their set. In the end though, good DJs almost always have to improvise a little bit because of what they see in the crowd.

2) Reading the crowd.

A DJ needs to be able to tell what kind of music people like (in general) and what they want to hear (right now) just by looking at them. Are lots of people dancing and singing along to Britney Spears? Does the dance floor clear out when you play Skrillex? Well then, doesn't matter what the DJ likes, he should play more pop and less dubstep. Figuring this out is pretty easy, and the DJ has to do it very early or else lots of people will just leave the party.

More difficult is reading the crowd's "mood" or "energy." On one hand, the DJ is supposed to be setting the mood, but there's a limit to what he can do. Maybe the DJ plays an energetic song and everyone is jumping up with their hands in the air so he thinks, "Great! They love this kind of music!" But if he plays another song like that, and then another, people will stop jumping - they will get tired; they will get bored of being "super excited." A DJ needs to see that BEFORE too many people stop jumping so that he can choose a less intense song next.

This is something that DJs have to do throughout the night. They have to see or "feel" when the crowd is ready to take it up a notch and when they need to be given a little slack.

So, based on the tastes of the crowd, and mood or vibe that the DJ observes, and his knowledge of what songs go well with other songs, the DJ is constantly looking through his records, cds or music library, listening to songs in his headphones, and planning the next song or next few songs that he is going to play.

All of this has to be done in a very short amount of time, because the third thing DJs do is:

3) Transitioning Between Songs

The first step in mixing music is Beat Matching, which means speeding up or slowing down one (or both) of your songs so that they are playing at the same tempo (speed). These days, this is usually done automatically by a beat matching software, and despite what some people on this thread are saying, even the pros use it because beat matching is very easy and there's not much room for creativity, so it's just not all that interesting to do.

To beat match manually, the DJ pauses a song in his headphones right before the first (usually, but it can be any) beat. Once it is paused, he can fast forward or rewind the song very slowly to find the exact right spot. Then, he listens to the song playing on the speakers and tries to start the song in his headphones at the same time as a beat in the song that is playing. Once both are playing (one on the speakers, one in his headphones), the DJ speeds up or slows down a song (usually in the headphones) to make the beats match each other exactly for as long as possible. He may have to do this several times (pause, wait for a beat, play, adjust speed) before getting it just right.

One of the marks of a good DJ (in electronic music) is having long mixes, that is long periods of time where two (or more) songs are playing at the same time. Beat matching for a few bars (or a few seconds) is easy, because if you're only off by a little, nobody will notice. With longer mixes, small mistakes become obvious as the two songs increasingly diverge, so DJs will often have to adjust the speed of one of the songs as they're going.

You will notice, for example, that they sometimes seem to be moving the record (or the thing that looks like a record) forward or backwards a little bit at a time, (but you won't hear a scratching sound, there's not much scratching in electronic music). They will do this when they have already adjusted the speed, and now they have to push one of the songs a little bit forward or backwards to "catch up" to the other one. (Or else, they're playing at the same speed, but they're not in sync anymore).

The other thing you need to do to have long mixes (but also to do proper short ones) is Phrase Match. This is much more interesting than beat matching and there is no software for it (to my knowledge).

If you think of a song like a story, then a Verse is like a Paragraph, a Phrase is like a Sentence, and a Beat is like a Word or a Letter. It's easy to match two words of the same length, but much more difficult to match two sentences. For example, you don't want to play the part of a song that has words in it at the same time as the part of another song that also has words in it - it'll just sound like a garbled mess. So it's not enough to start a new song on the same beat as the song that is playing, you also have to consider what part of the song is playing, and match the phrases.

All of this stuff - phrase matching, beat matching, is stuff that DJs are doing in their headphones while you're listening to a song play. Basically, they're getting (at least) one step ahead of you. Again, this is something great DJs can do in seconds because they know music so well, and newer DJs spend a lot of time struggling with.

So to get back to your question - what are (great) DJs like Deadmau5, Tiesto and Steve Angelo doing during their set - the beat matching and phrase matching probably isn't taking up much time. They're probably, as you say, playing with knobs the entire time, though these knobs don't simply control the volume.

Some of the knobs are labelled: Highs, Mids, and Lows. The sounds you hear in a song are broadly broken up into these three categories - the high sounds, the middle sounds, and the lower sounds. The deep BOOM BOOM BOOM of the bass is Low, whereas the TSS TSS TSS of a cymbal is high, and vocals (singing) usually comes in the middle (although parts of the voice will come through in the High and Low registers as well.

Sometimes, the DJ only wants to start playing the bass on a new song, so he will turn off the Lows on the song playing, turn down the Highs and Mids of the new song, and then mix in the new song in with only the Lows playing to match the Mids and Highs of the old one. There are a lot of variations on this and DJs can play with it quite a bit.

The other knobs control different kinds of effects that distort the sound in one way or another. For example, they may add a sort of "stutter" or echo, or a sort of "crushed," static-y element to a song.

There are also buttons and knobs to make certain parts of a song repeat over and over again. DJs can use this to transition into a new song or also just in the middle of a song.

Then of course, there are the volume knobs and the cross fader. These are used if you want one song to play louder than another, possibly to fade one out while the other one fades in.

4) Mixing

Everything I've just said about Transitioning between songs can also happen in the middle of a song. For example, maybe a DJ only wants to play a small clip of a new song while the other one is already playing, but he doesn't want to switch to that new song in the end.

Basically, a DJ is trying to serve up music in a way that you haven't heard it before. That's what really gets people excited. Hearing a song they like but in a new way. Getting that "high" you get from a familiar song, but also getting that "high" you get from hearing something for the first time, that maybe none of your friends have heard before. It's that combination of familiarity and surprise that makes DJ sets so cool.

Why the humans are the bad guys in 'The Matrix'

by megatom0

The Matrix isn't wrong. Not at all. In fact the humans in the Matrix are the real villains of the series. Lets look at the facts of what lead to the actual Matrix. Humanity created the machines and AI, they used them as slaves, and they rebelled. In this war they were defeated. If you watch the animatrix you actually see that the machines were willing to make peace with the humans, but they refused any such notions. Instead they kept fighting to the point where they unleashed a doomsday weapon that blotted out the sun permanently. This was an effort to kill the machines, an act of genocide, but arguably this act would destroy them as well. As expected this act actually weakened the human race by starvation, but the machines adapted quickly.

Instead of leaving the human race to die, the machines in an act of mercy decide to preserve the human race to function in a forced symbiosis. It is my belief that the machines could have used other animals to power themselves, or even used geothermal power as the humans did. Indeed, the machines are the ones who show mercy to the humans, even attempt to make their lives utopian, something the humans could have never achieved themselves, but of course they reject this. One has to even ask why the quality of life in the matrix should even matter to the machines. I believe this also proves the machines to be empathetic and more so than the human race. We actually see this empathy later with the "rogue" program that has a family (the indian couple at the train station). This empathy is something the human have not shown the machines in anyway.

So yes the matrix is a prison, but it is a prison built for humanity's and the machines' own protection. Humanity had proven to be not only self-destructive but also genocidal. This would be grounds enough to let the human race perish, but the machines had more mercy than to let that happen. They did realize that humanity did need to be controlled, but they actually did it in a very benevolent way, and imo they were shown a mercy that they didn't deserve.

Furthermore, you have the rebel humans. Now lets look at these guys. You might be asking "megatom but if the machines are so benevolent and merciful why do they hunt down and kill the freed humans?" The answer is very simple. The freed humans and "the one" had all proven repeatedly to be proponents of destruction. Six times before the matrix, both humanity and the machines were brought to the edge of extinction due to the actions of the one. Granted the machines had begun to see this as some inevitability, they still needed to defend themselves from this act of terror or in reality hope to destroy it, which is why they continue to try to kill all the people of Zion.

TL;DR: The humans are the enemy, and consistently act as a force of destruction bringing both the machine race and the human race to the brink of destruction. The Matrix is a merciful prison to contain a violent race that inevitably causes destruction.