来源 :网易彩票新闻资讯频道 2019-11-15 10:56:16|九龙心水正中五鬼报



  It is known that during an election season, a flock of politicians will migrate to local pubs, greasy spoons and fried-Oreo stands at county fairs in an attempt to appear more normal. The wool suits will be replaced with casual windbreakers, joggers will be worn with wingtips and the Democratic congressman Beto O’Rourke will do an absolutely sick 360 boneless in a Whataburger parking lot.

  Social media has become an enormously useful hub for candidates to trumpet how relatable they are — to show just how much they are like us. Recently, on Instagram Live, Senator Elizabeth Warren hoisted a Michelob Ultra (“The club soda of beers,” she knowingly added) and began to talk about her 2020 presidential run, much the same way Representative Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez did previously when she discussed her views on criminal justice reform while chopping vegetables. No longer do you have to organize a motorcade to the petting zoo; now that we’re all online, all the time, politicians can be “relatable” on social media by live-streaming their fantasy draft and tweeting out a few crying emoji.

  In 2007, Jonah Peretti, the co-founder and chief executive of BuzzFeed, wrote a manifesto about what could make something go viral, years before anyone knew what “going viral” meant. He detailed this method of content delivery as a “form of pop conceptual art” that should represent the “simplest form of the idea” — something anyone could understand. Any small cabal of aesthetes could declare some artwork a success, but for Peretti, what mattered most was how many eyeballs it eventually received. “If people don’t share the work with their friends,” he wrote, “it is a failure regardless of the creator, critics or other elites.”

  A few years later, BuzzFeed became a factory farm of virality using Peretti’s theory as its working principle, fueled by that which was “relatable” — a word BuzzFeed has stamped onto hundreds of articles, from “17 Times Oprah Was the Most Relatable Billionaire Ever” to “21 Relatable Tweets You’ll Need to Immediately Tag Yourself in and Comment, ‘Me.’ ” The “relatable” tag houses a collection of stories that suggest a mass Liz Lemoning of American youth. The “you” these articles point to is always the same: quirky but smart, introverted but friendly, shaded with a charmingly pathetic love of spreadable cheese.

  Relatability is the chief psychological lubricant that glides you thoughtlessly down the curated, endless scroll of your feed. It is the coin of the digital-media realm, a mealy concept that delights advertisers and publishers alike because it all but guarantees to garner a reader’s attention. Whether it’s attached to cats jumping into and out of cardboard boxes or Ariana Grande saying that she hates America or Beto O’Rourke’s own Instagram stories, which the website Mashable says are “so relatable that often people have no choice but to screenshot his posts and literally write ‘MOOD,’ ” “relatable” can encompass it all. The word is now so pervasive that the #relatable hashtag has become a kind of winking gesture at its own utter meaninglessness as a form of social connection. The familiar has been funneled into our eyes so constantly for the last few years that even it has been rendered alien.

  Why do we want to share what is relatable? The French critic and philosopher René Girard suggested that all desire is mimetic, that we like things simply because we observe other people — our friends, Rihanna — liking those same things, too. The California rock star and lay philosopher David Lee Roth touched on a similar idea when he suggested that music critics enjoy Elvis Costello “because they all look like Costello.” He wasn’t exactly wrong. Even the critics who turned up their nose at the bombast of Van Halen in favor of the bookish pop-rock of “Armed Forces” weren’t exactly innocent of such blinkered, ego-driven pathology. Relatability is a desire for a connection to the world, to want what we see in others — especially if what we see in others is ourselves.

  Though it now feels as common as air, the modern meaning of “relatable” is a relatively new addition to the lexicon, first used in education journals in the late 1940s. Before that, the word meant something more like “comprehensible.” This new definition — that which you can relate to — entered mainstream circulation as television-industry jargon in the 1980s. It was a metric for quiz shows like “The Newlywed Game,” whose host, Bob Eubanks, praised it in a 1981 Washington Post article for its “relatable humor, the kind that takes place in every home.” As shows like “Hill Street Blues” and, later, “Twin Peaks” began to elevate the medium of TV, the word helped signify the stuff that would play in Peoria.

  In marketing language for movies and television, “relatable” became the go-to word when you wanted something that created a stronger relationship with the show than simply “likable.” This was you on the screen, beaming into millions of homes. In 1996, the head of marketing for Fox Filmed Entertainment spoke to The Times about trying to expand that relationship to a younger generation through their new MTV-ified Baz Luhrmann adaptation of “Romeo and Juliet.” The zip-bang style of the movie was all part of a targeted campaign, and the goal was to make Shakespeare’s play “tremendously relatable to young people.” Eighteen years later, it was Shakespeare again who inspired Rebecca Mead to write in The New Yorker about the “scourge of relatability” after Ira Glass, host of “This American Life,” complained that Shakespeare’s plays were “not relatable.”

  Galled by Glass’s implication, Mead took the fledgling concept to task and lamented its growing use in the critical lexicon. With Glass’s glib tweet and Mead’s salient essay, “relatable” was reframed as something mildly sad. Seen this way, relatability is a crutch for those who lack the faculty or the patience to be challenged by art — it’s a vapid, selfish lens through which to offer a critique. “The notion of relatability,” Mead wrote, “implies that the work in question serves like a selfie: a flattering confirmation of an individual’s solipsism.” Points for both René Girard and David Lee Roth.

  Confounding the pejorative-or-not question that surrounds the word is its new proximity to the idea of representation. The gormless relatability of content farms is contrasted with critically acclaimed shows like HBO’s “Insecure,” created by and starring Issa Rae. Her character on the show is recognizably millennial: adrift in her romantic and professional life, awkward, self-conscious and, well, insecure. “Somewhere along the way, being white became seen as ‘relatable,’ and you started to see people of color only reflected as stereotypes or specific archetypes,” Rae, who is black, told The Guardian in 2017. Her nuanced performance on the show helps give the word a more inclusive meaning. “So much of the media now presents blackness as being cool, or able to dance, or fierce and flawless, or just out of control,” she said. “I’m not any of those things.”

  “Relatable” art doesn’t need to be selfish, as Kristen Roupenian’s “Cat Person,” the majorly viral short story published in The New Yorker in December 2017, made clear. It’s a simple tale of a young woman named Margot and an older man named Robert who meet, text, go on a bad date and have even worse sex. Arriving in the opening months of the #MeToo movement, the story became a flash point for conversations about consent, gaslighting and needling women to the point of acquiescence. The subtext of sharing this work of fiction was a pronouncement of collective guilt or recrimination, or both. The short story masqueraded as a personal essay, as real as reality TV. Almost every subsequent article praising “Cat Person” used the word “relatable.”

  This was in part because Roupenian wrote the story in a dry style that felt more like a piece of web content, a well-written Medium post, as opposed to using florid, architectural prose. The world of “Cat Person” was meant to be your world, your language, your voice, and in it was a little didactic lesson about relationships that we could all come away with. It was representational art framed as relatable content, a perfect artifact for a world that increasingly values both. A week after it was published, The New Yorker declared it one of the most-read short stories of the year, and soon after that, Roupenian got a seven-figure book deal.

  Our egos fuel an ecosystem that can become acrid with familiarity. Instead of seeing “relatable” as something that connects us, we may one day imagine it as a double negative: Relatability measures how strange something isn’t, the lack of mystery itself. But the last decade of the internet, in every venue, from art to politics to media, has borne out Peretti’s philosophy: Not only the social value of something but also its economic viability depends on how shareable it is. And if what we share is a reflection of our identity, then the greatest value comes from sharing something that could validate our existence to as many people as possible, to constellate ourselves across the sky so that others may gaze up at the stars and whisper, “It me.”




【第】【三】【百】【九】【十】【章】【赌】【战】 “【也】【不】【知】【道】【是】【哪】【里】【来】【的】【自】【信】,【在】【炎】【家】【都】【是】【很】【不】【受】【待】【见】,【若】【不】【是】【碍】【于】【炎】【家】【的】【面】【子】【我】【都】【不】【会】【邀】【请】【他】【来】。” 【沙】【通】【天】【表】【面】【上】【微】【笑】【着】,【好】【像】【毫】【不】【在】【乎】【这】【炎】【凌】【的】【所】【作】【所】【为】,【但】【是】【暗】【地】【里】【已】【经】【是】【将】【他】【的】【底】【细】【全】【部】【泄】【露】【给】【了】【林】【凡】。 “【江】【宁】【郡】【城】【之】【中】,【白】【家】【为】【尊】,【白】【家】【老】【爷】【子】【据】【说】【已】【经】【是】【突】【破】【了】【天】【梯】【境】,【达】【到】

“【现】【在】【还】【嫌】【弃】【吗】?” “【喵】~” 【灰】【米】【使】【劲】【用】【自】【己】【的】【小】【脑】【袋】【拱】【着】【苏】【岩】【的】【手】【心】。 【不】【嫌】【弃】【不】【嫌】【弃】,【就】【算】【嫌】【弃】【也】【不】【说】! 【嗯】,【很】【好】,【认】【错】【态】【度】【端】【正】。 【苏】【岩】【又】【危】【险】【地】【眯】【起】【眼】【睛】【看】【着】【顾】【言】【痕】: “【我】【亲】【爱】【的】【未】【婚】【夫】,【您】【呢】?” 【苏】【岩】【满】【脸】【都】【写】【着】“【要】【是】【敢】【说】【嫌】【弃】【以】【后】【你】【就】【别】【碰】【我】【了】”,【顾】【言】【痕】【还】【能】【有】【选】【择】?

  【一】【个】【皇】【帝】,【每】【天】【除】【了】【日】【常】【看】【看】【奏】【折】,【几】【乎】【没】【有】【别】【的】【什】【么】【紧】【急】【大】【事】,【宫】【里】【更】【是】【平】【静】【的】【吓】【人】。 【这】【都】【是】【不】【正】【常】【的】。 “【好】【了】【没】【事】,【我】【会】【查】【清】【的】。”【珑】【五】【满】【不】【在】【意】【的】【揉】【了】【揉】【姬】【离】【的】【脑】【袋】。 【珑】【五】【这】【么】【自】【信】,【姬】【离】【似】【乎】【也】【感】【觉】【好】【了】【一】【点】。 - 【这】【件】【事】【不】【是】【很】【好】【调】【查】,【但】【珑】【五】【并】【不】【打】【算】【让】【姬】【离】【知】【道】,【省】【的】【他】【又】【担】【心】。 九龙心水正中五鬼报【林】【间】【小】【屋】【内】【传】【来】【馥】【遥】【震】【惊】【的】【声】【音】:“【你】【说】【什】【么】?!【你】【是】【说】【是】【人】【把】【张】【伯】【活】【活】【咬】【死】【的】?!” 【馥】【遥】【站】【在】【竺】【先】【生】【的】【房】【内】,【竺】【先】【生】【坐】【在】【桌】【前】:“【这】【也】【是】【我】【的】【猜】【测】,【因】【为】【在】【我】【检】【查】【张】【伯】【的】【尸】【身】【之】【时】,【在】【他】【血】【肉】【模】【糊】【的】【脖】【颈】【处】【发】【现】【了】【腐】【肉】,【张】【伯】【只】【是】【昨】【晚】【死】【的】,【不】【可】【能】【会】【有】【黑】【色】【的】【腐】【肉】【出】【现】,【唯】【有】【可】【能】【的】【就】【是】【咬】【张】【伯】【的】【那】【个】【身】【重】【所】【毒】

  【这】【一】【次】【从】【奎】【林】【出】【发】,【上】【岸】【的】【地】【方】【则】【是】【在】【芝】【云】【东】【北】【部】,【这】【里】【并】【不】【是】【那】【种】【蘑】【菇】【一】【样】【的】【成】【片】【岛】【屿】,【而】【是】【美】【丽】【的】【沙】【滩】。 【沙】【滩】【边】【的】【岩】【石】【细】【小】【杂】【乱】,【远】【远】【的】【陈】【希】【就】【停】【了】【船】,【三】【人】【踏】【上】【小】【舟】,【继】【续】【前】【进】。 【周】【围】【的】【沙】【滩】【上】【生】【长】【着】【高】【大】【的】【平】【顶】【灌】【木】,【一】【些】【林】【间】【小】【动】【物】【穿】【梭】【在】【树】【丛】【之】【中】。 【这】【里】【看】【起】【来】【很】【偏】【僻】,【至】【少】【没】【有】【什】【么】【人】。

  “【获】【得】5【点】【源】【力】【值】。” 【伴】【随】【着】【芦】【屋】【道】【满】【的】【躯】【体】【被】【七】【情】【之】【火】【彻】【底】【烧】【成】【了】【灰】【烬】,【清】【姬】【也】【重】【新】【化】【作】【了】【人】【形】【的】【模】【样】,【她】【转】【头】【望】【向】【苏】【子】【鱼】【表】【情】【好】【似】【有】【些】【不】【好】【意】【思】,【稍】【微】【低】【头】【整】【理】【了】【一】【下】【衣】【裳】【这】【才】【款】【款】【而】【行】【走】【到】【了】【苏】【子】【鱼】【的】【身】【旁】。 “【夫】【君】。”【清】【姬】【转】【头】【看】【了】【一】【片】【不】【远】【处】【的】【三】【尾】【狐】,【轻】【声】【道】:“【那】【犬】【鬼】【已】【经】【被】【我】【烧】【掉】【了】。”

  “【哇】【哦】,【已】【经】【第】【十】【天】【了】,【对】【面】【大】【楼】【每】【天】【晚】【上】【都】【亮】【着】【字】,【今】【晚】【会】【是】【什】【么】【呢】?” “【比】【起】【那】【个】,【我】【更】【想】【知】【道】【是】【谁】【如】【此】【有】【心】,【能】【想】【得】【出】【这】【么】【浪】【漫】【的】【求】【爱】【招】【数】。” “【可】【是】【这】【位】【有】【心】【人】【的】【计】【划】【显】【然】【没】【有】【成】【功】,【不】【然】【早】【该】【进】【行】【下】【一】【步】【了】。” “【小】【美】,【你】【又】【知】【道】?” 【被】【众】【人】【称】【为】【八】【卦】【先】【知】【的】【女】【孩】【骄】【傲】【的】【挺】【起】【了】【胸】【膛】,“【你】

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