As part of a weekly series, these topics are a place for users to casually discuss the things they did — or didn't do — during their weekend. Did you make any plans? Take a trip? Do nothing at all? Tell us about it!

This thread is posted weekly, and is intended as a place for more-casual discussion of the coronavirus and questions/updates that may not warrant their own dedicated topics. Tell us about what the situation is like where you live!

You know, I can't get over how good DuckTales is. It's clever, funny, beautiful and well-animated. The voice actors are fantastic (Tennant is Scrooge! Lin-Manuel Miranda is Gizmoduck!).

You know, I tried watching the old one, just to have something to compare to, and it's shocking how bad it is compared to the new one (I needed several days to get through the first episode). Some examples:

• Donald Duck still has the "duck voice", but he's the only one with it, and I won't spoil it but it's more of a gag nobody acknowledges. The old ducktales has everyone with voice quirks and it is just irritating to listen to.
• In the remake, the triplets have three proper very distinct personalities. They dress differently, have different voices, behave differently.
• Scrooge really is a miser in the old series, in a "how did this guy ever become a billionaire" way (I'll walk for four hours instead of spending $10 on a taxi my time is worth zero yaaay). The new one has him be a penny-pincher, but he actually has some business sense. Hell, there's quite a few jokes at the expense of silicon valley… which I will not spoil.
• The 2017 Gyro Gearloose is kind of a dick, and it's great! The "mad scientist with dubious intent" angle is a pretty cool addition to the cast.

I've thoroughly enjoyed my first watch-through, and I'm really enjoying leaving it running in the background to rewatch it. Highly recommended as an "adult" kids show. It is 100% on the same level as Gravity Falls.

The main advantage of this is that updates can be organized and followed daily like on the COVID threads (which is especially useful if you don't live in the US and can't keep track of what's going on) and the main disadvantage is that unlike COVID, we have no idea if this will go on long enough or be dynamic enough to truly merit that. (Although in @dubteedub's COVID post he doesn't discount doing updates every 3 days, which we could do although that conflicts with 7-day weeks)

There are many thoughtful posters on Tildes that are much more eloquent than I. In the discussion of recent events I find myself struggling to successfully illustrate these issues.

Any help would be appreciated.

There's a lot of unrest in the US lately, with protests going on in several cities.

How do you feel about the state of things in the US, regarding racism, police brutality, etc...? What's your viewpoint on the protests? How do you see the situation evolving? Some fear deadly confrontation between military police and civilians.

Have you had the misfortune of having a negative encounter with police officers? Care to tell your story? Have you participated yourself in one of these protests? What was your experience like? If you haven't, do you keep yourself informed? Where do you primarily find news? What's the general mood in your neighborhood, in your community, in your city?

We've seen protests pop up a lot more in recent years in various parts of the world - eg. Hong Kong, Lebanon, France, etc... Do you feel that this is symptomatic of a larger, global unease? Or can the US protests be considered wholly specific?

I can think of several good reasons why protesting is a really bad idea right now:

• The virus doesn't care if your cause is just.
• If you end up going to jail, that's another hotspot.
• It provides cover for violence.
• The courts are going to do whatever they do at their own pace anyway.
• The long-term work of police reform isn't even going to begin until the crisis is over.

And yet, despite all these good reasons, I don't see leaders, black or otherwise, clearly saying that people should stay home. For example, Obama's statement is carefully neutral on this. It seems to be taboo?

But I'm out of touch. What am I missing?

How I narrate my life has a lot to do with how I feel in the present. Bad things happened to me and I have done bad things. But there has been good people and good things also, and by forgetting them and only remembering the pain, I do a disservice not only to them, but to myself and my own wellbeing. I have been changing my story, not because the old narration is not true, but because it omits. It was not intentional omission, I just couldn’t remember. So

I want to tell the story about a boyfriend I once had named Jack. Jack was a huffer, he huffed paint, and you could always tell what color spray paint was on sale, by the color of the ring around his lips. I believe Jack loved me. He was older than me by about a decade, and I was young, but emotionally I think we were the same age. At the time of my relationship with Jack, I was a ward of the state and moved in and out of foster homes, behavioral modification centers, juvenile hall, and state mental hospitals.

I want to tell this story about Jack not only because he is most certainly dead, and tenderness and epic feats should be remembered, but also because there is never a place for me to speak about Jack.

So Jack loved me. When I was struggling with my sexuality and claimed that I only had sex with him and with men because they were easy, he stopped touching me, and allowed me to use his place to explore girls I liked. He would make them feel at home, make food, and leave to do something else elsewhere. He would never participate in a threesome when girlfriends and I were tripping our asses off, or drunk or high on something else, instead he’d go to a corner and huff paint and leave the world for a bit. When a john beat the crap out of me, and I wouldn’t go to the hospital because I was afraid of being arrested, he stitched me and set bone, all while cheerfully talking about how we would murder the bastard. In recovery we made elaborate plans for execution and giggled, and snuggled, and listened to music and had gentle sex, because I like girls, but I am not really gay.

Jack was also a planner. And not only could he make a conversation about plans to murder some deserving asshole, he could also devise and follow through on plans on how to bust me out of my various incarcerations. Most of them failed, and one cost him his own incarceration, but he had some successes. When I would be incarcerated, Jack would go to libraries and planning offices and find architectural and electrical plans for the buildings I resided in. We had this coded language we used in our letter writing where I could let him know where exactly I was located inside the building and he could let me know how far into a plan he was without a censor being able to casually figure out what was going on.

And Jack succeeded. Power went out, and I crept down stairs without alarm, and we met in bushes, and we moved through yards, and made our way to bus stops and subways until we were safe, and far, and naked, to talk and laugh, to tell the story, and have or not have sex. And then he would go to the corner and huff and fall away from the world. And I would go out into the night to make a buck.

Jack made it his mission to keep me from being locked up. He would pretend to be the brother or uncle to gain entry, to find weaknesses and to exploit, constantly on the lookout to find ways to extract my freedom, almost like he understood that I was locked up not because there was something inherently wrong with me, but that there was something wrong with the system that could not be bothered to parent the child who they had authority over. Me drugged on Thorazine, Jack carrying me down an elevator through a front door towards freedom, a quick puff at the parking lot, a friend waiting in a car around the corner, laying zoned out together, looking at Jack with his mouth stained blue. Grateful.

He had a horror story of his own that he never foisted on anyone. He also had once been a child of the state. And paint and other inhalants completely annihilated his pain. But he loved me, and paused his own decline to show me acceptance and love and tenderness. I could rest.

Jack’s name is not Jack. His name was Bill Pfeiffer. And it has been easy in my life to tell my story that no one loved me, that no one believed in me, that no one ever let me breathe. But Bill Pfeiffer did. And as the narration of my life changes, and I focus more on what I have had instead of what I did not have, Bill once again comes to free me.