be easy enough to fix if social networks were open. If I use Tomo and you want to use some new network, and there’s still some way to communicate and connect across those networks, then you’re free to go use your new network and keep your connections to your friends. The empty network problem goes away.
Of course, Tomo doesn’t want that. They don’t want competition. They want barriers to entry, which they achieve by owning your social graph and social connections.
It’s this barrier to movement that keeps people stuck on Tomo. You can hate our privacy policies, and our data ownership, and our manipulative ad techniques, but what are your alternatives? To quit Tomo?
In today’s age that means choosing isolation. Nobody chooses isolation. That’s why they use it as a punishment in prisons.
CHAPTER 7
----
S AM B EKINS , thirty-nine years old, lives in Bend, Oregon, a five-hour drive from Portland, over the Mount Hood pass and into the desert highlands.
I debate taking the Accord. It predates computers, so there’s no track of where it’s been, except for photos of it. I can swap out the license plate, and I’ve made sure there are no distinguishing marks on the vehicle. Although I worry about taking it so far from home. Will I unwittingly bring home compromising evidence it’s been to Bend, a smidgen of dirt or wisp of leaf caught in a crevice that would tie it specifically to that geography? All the cool kids get car washes these days, but you never know what forensics will turn up even after a machine wash.
I reserve two nights at Timberline Lodge, the highest place you can stay on Mount Hood. It’s a beautiful old place made of thick beams and heavy stones. Snowboarding season ended many weeks ago, yet plenty of people stay up there during the summer to explore the mountain, hike, or fish. Timberline Lodge itself is seven miles up a twisting and turning road away from Highway 26, the main path across the mountain and primary way to Bend.
I take three days off work, and wake up very early on Wednesday morning. I check into Timberline mid-morning, enjoy the lunch buffet, and go for a short walk. By three, I’m back into my hotel room and launch an app on my laptop to start a preprogrammed sequence of emails, web browsing, and video streaming. I swallow a dose of Benadryl, shower, and lie down for a nap.
My phone wakes me at eleven, and I change into a set of clean clothes. I head down to the parking lot, where my chariot awaits: an old Jeep Wrangler belonging to a couple staying overnight.
I drive down the mountain, pulling over briefly near a trailhead to swap the license plates with a spare set and disconnect the speedometer cable where it plugs into the transmission. I lay my flashlight on the ground, trying to aim it toward the license plate. Of course, the beam hits way too low. I grab the flashlight between my teeth, and pick up a nut and wrench in my hand. I fumble and the nut rolls away. Scheisse. Dear universe, I’d like another hand, please, at least for a few minutes. The license plate is easy compared to the speedometer cable. Twenty minutes and plenty of curses later, I’m back on the road and by 3 A.M., in Bend.
Sam Bekins lives on the outskirts, in a cul-de-sac of identical suburban homes, every third house a mirror image floor plan. He drives a Ford Explorer, his wife drives a Taurus. Both are parked in the driveway. They don’t seem to travel much. I called both Ford dealerships in Bend, and the second had done the service.
Neither of them work. When I ran a standard financial check a few weeks earlier, I found Sam gets a monthly disability check from the New Hampshire State Police. Forty percent of all women married to police officers are abused. Forty percent!
Of all groups of victims, the wives of police officers are stuck with the least options. They’re scared to report it, and even the agencies that normally help battered women are hesitant to become involved when a
Of course, Tomo doesn’t want that. They don’t want competition. They want barriers to entry, which they achieve by owning your social graph and social connections.
It’s this barrier to movement that keeps people stuck on Tomo. You can hate our privacy policies, and our data ownership, and our manipulative ad techniques, but what are your alternatives? To quit Tomo?
In today’s age that means choosing isolation. Nobody chooses isolation. That’s why they use it as a punishment in prisons.
CHAPTER 7
----
S AM B EKINS , thirty-nine years old, lives in Bend, Oregon, a five-hour drive from Portland, over the Mount Hood pass and into the desert highlands.
I debate taking the Accord. It predates computers, so there’s no track of where it’s been, except for photos of it. I can swap out the license plate, and I’ve made sure there are no distinguishing marks on the vehicle. Although I worry about taking it so far from home. Will I unwittingly bring home compromising evidence it’s been to Bend, a smidgen of dirt or wisp of leaf caught in a crevice that would tie it specifically to that geography? All the cool kids get car washes these days, but you never know what forensics will turn up even after a machine wash.
I reserve two nights at Timberline Lodge, the highest place you can stay on Mount Hood. It’s a beautiful old place made of thick beams and heavy stones. Snowboarding season ended many weeks ago, yet plenty of people stay up there during the summer to explore the mountain, hike, or fish. Timberline Lodge itself is seven miles up a twisting and turning road away from Highway 26, the main path across the mountain and primary way to Bend.
I take three days off work, and wake up very early on Wednesday morning. I check into Timberline mid-morning, enjoy the lunch buffet, and go for a short walk. By three, I’m back into my hotel room and launch an app on my laptop to start a preprogrammed sequence of emails, web browsing, and video streaming. I swallow a dose of Benadryl, shower, and lie down for a nap.
My phone wakes me at eleven, and I change into a set of clean clothes. I head down to the parking lot, where my chariot awaits: an old Jeep Wrangler belonging to a couple staying overnight.
I drive down the mountain, pulling over briefly near a trailhead to swap the license plates with a spare set and disconnect the speedometer cable where it plugs into the transmission. I lay my flashlight on the ground, trying to aim it toward the license plate. Of course, the beam hits way too low. I grab the flashlight between my teeth, and pick up a nut and wrench in my hand. I fumble and the nut rolls away. Scheisse. Dear universe, I’d like another hand, please, at least for a few minutes. The license plate is easy compared to the speedometer cable. Twenty minutes and plenty of curses later, I’m back on the road and by 3 A.M., in Bend.
Sam Bekins lives on the outskirts, in a cul-de-sac of identical suburban homes, every third house a mirror image floor plan. He drives a Ford Explorer, his wife drives a Taurus. Both are parked in the driveway. They don’t seem to travel much. I called both Ford dealerships in Bend, and the second had done the service.
Neither of them work. When I ran a standard financial check a few weeks earlier, I found Sam gets a monthly disability check from the New Hampshire State Police. Forty percent of all women married to police officers are abused. Forty percent!
Of all groups of victims, the wives of police officers are stuck with the least options. They’re scared to report it, and even the agencies that normally help battered women are hesitant to become involved when a
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