u/MenitoBussolini

Is this anything?

I miss WEBFISHING so much. The experience of just chatting with strangers about whatever, serious or silly, as I do little casual tasks that in no way impact the clear main objective of socializing... it was delightful. It helped me a lot when I felt very low. Are there any games like it for PC?

I know Rift Fishing is one, but it's still a demo and very sparse.

Is this Thing

As a result my laptop blasted NL talking about r/condoms and "farm to table to cock to pussy to compost type condoms" for a minute at full volume while I desperately tried to shut that shit down and my computer suddenly refused to either die or let me pause the video

I ask because I've been reading a little about that time and it is a fascinating topic, especially its presence today. You see a lot of nostalgia for how prosperous it was, but also contestation regarding the pollution, colonial crimes and injustices of the time. The legacy seems mixed.

I know by the later years of the 30G there was plenty of societal contestation: May '68, even the song Hexagone by Renaud being held as a cultural piece that defined the end of an era. But how was this winding down of a "thirty year high" felt by the people and in French culture? Surely a change this monumental was unsettling and left marks on the people?

Bonus points if it comes with a great build-up.

I will always nominate Teenage Wildlife by Bowie for this one. My hairs all stand on end every time.

"The lake narrowed. Over to the right lay the nine-hole golf course (I knew it was there, though I couldn’t see it) with its ramshackle clubhouse and wicker armchairs painted green, its porch swing on creaking chains. Once a month we showed up there late for Sunday supper, our clothes not right, our talk too distant and forthright, the cigar a foul smudge pot set out to ward off the incoming social frost.

Now Dad’s cigar had gone out and he stopped the boat to relight it. From our high windy perch we drifted down. Engine cut to a mild churning. When the exhaust pipe dipped above water level, it blatted rudely. “Boy, I’m soaked!” Peter was screaming in his soprano. “I’m freezing. Gee, you sure let me have it!”

“Too much for you, young fellow?” my father asked, chuckling. He winked at me. The children of visitors (and sometimes their fathers) were usually called “young fellow,” since Dad could never remember their names. Old Boy, who had been squinting into the wind, his head stuck out beyond and around the windshield, was now prancing happily across the cushions to receive a pat from his master. Kevin, sitting just behind my father, said “Those fishermen were mad as hell. I’d’ve been, too, if some guy in a big fat-ass powerboat scared off my fish.”

My father winced, then grumbled something about how they had no business . . . He was hurt.

I was appalled by Kevin’s frankness. At such moments, tears would come to my eyes in impotent compassion for Daddy; this invalid despot, this man who bullied everyone but suffered the consequences with such a tender, uneducated heart! Tears would also well up when I had to correct my father on a matter of fact. Usually I’d avoid the bother and smugly watch him compound his mistakes. But if he asked my opinion point-blank, a euphoria of sadness would overtake me, panicky wings would beat at the corners of the shrinking room and, as quietly and as levelly as possible, I’d supply the correct name or date. For I was a lot more knowledgeable than he about the things that could come up in conversation even in those days, the 1950s. But knowledge wasn’t power. He was the one with the power, the money, the right to read the paper through dinner as my stepmother and I watched him in silence; he was the one with the thirty tailor-made suits, the twenty gleaming pairs of shoes and the starched white dress shirts, the ties from Countess Mara and the two Cadillacs that waited for him in the garage, dripping oil on the concrete in the shape of a black Saturn and its gray blur of moons. It was his power that stupefied me and made me regard my knowledge as nothing more than hired cleverness he might choose to show off at a dinner party (“Ask this young fellow, he reads, he’ll know”). Then why did his occasional faltering bring tears to my eyes? Was I grieving because he didn’t possess everything, absolutely everything, or because I owned nothing? Perhaps, despite my timidity, I was in a struggle against him. Did I want to hurt him because he didn’t love me?”