Lovecraft Country won’t be returning to HBO for a second season.

The network confirmed the news in a Friday announcement. Lovecraft Country was adapted from Matt Ruff’s 2016 novel, which used historically racist author H.P. Lovecraft’s notions of cosmic horror to fuel stories set in the American South during (primarily) the 1950s.

“We will not be moving forward with a second season of Lovecraft Country. We are grateful for the dedication and artistry of the gifted cast and crew, and to Misha Green, who crafted this groundbreaking series. And to the fans, thank you for joining us on this journey,” HBO said in a statement on Friday (via The Hollywood Reporter).

Green, who served as Lovecraft‘s showrunner, didn’t comment on the cancellation directly, though she did share a tiny peek at t he “Season 2 Bible” on Friday after the news emerged. The theoretical second season would have carried the subtitle “Supremacy,” and it was to have introduced viewers to a reorganized “Sovereign States of America.”

Tweet may have been deleted

Markings on the restructured U.S. map in Green’s tweet suggest the Season 2 journey would have spanned the length of the map’s “Whitelands,” between southern Pennsylvania and northern Texas. Though that’s just a red dot and a red X; who’s to say what the route from one to the other would’ve looked like?

Green then shared a tiny morsel of additional detail on Saturday that offers a better sense of what might have been.

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It’s a tantalizing tease, but perhaps the bigger standout feature of Green’s tweet is her choice of hashtag. The “#noconfederate” hashtag ties to a social media pressure campaign that sprung up after HBO’s announcement of the show Confederate.

It was pitched as an alt-history sci-fi drama set in a world where the U.S. southern states successfully seceded as a result of the Civil War. The show would have picked up generations later, introducing a reimagined North America where the nation founded by the former U.S. states evolved slavery into a modern institution.

Notably, Confederate was to be spearheaded by Game of Thrones executive producers David Benioff and D.B. Weiss — both of whom are white. So the #noconfederate pressure campaign was conceived to protest HBO’s support for the idea. It seemed to work. The network went relatively silent after the show’s announcement in 2017, and the project was ultimately confirmed as canceled in 2020.

Which brings us back to Green’s tweet. The #noconfederate hashtag existed for a very specific purpose: To protest the existence of an ill-advised TV project that many felt had no business being in the hands of two white creators (particularly in light of some of the criticism directed at Thrones). It’s hard to read Green’s use of it in response to the Lovecraft cancellation as anything other than a swipe at HBO.

Confederate never ended up happening, but not necessarily because HBO was cowed by the criticism. The network only ever went as far as acknowledging that the initial announcement was handled poorly. And when news emerged in 2020 that it was, in fact, no longer happening, it only came after Benioff and Weiss had stepped away from a high-profile Star Wars project that was apparently derailed by a deal they’d struck with Netflix.

In other words: HBO never really closed the book on Confederate in a way that suggested it had actually listened to critics. So Green’s use of the hashtag now is a little reminder of the network’s fraught recent history with another alt-history project that it seemed only too willing to press forward with until other business considerations — as opposed to social considerations — surfaced.

Green will be fine, though. She co-created the excellent Underground on WGN America, and despite the cancellation, Lovecraft Country has proven to be a winner with critics and audiences both. She has a number of other projects lined up, including a sequel to the Alicia Vikander-starring Tomb Raider movie, (tentatively) titled Tomb Raider: Obsidian.

UPDATE: July 3, 2021, 9:27 p.m. EDT Added Green’s follow-up tweet.

One of the best things about an Apple Watch is how customizable it is. Any old watch lets you switch the band, but with an Apple Watch, even your watch face can match your mood, your outfit, or both.

While changing your watch band is a straightforward process, switching up your watch face might not seem so simple (at first). Don’t worry though — it’s child’s play once you get the hang of it.

Here’s how to change the watch face on your Apple Watch in a few easy steps.

How to change it directly on your Apple Watch

All it takes is a long press on the display.

Credit: screenshot / apple

You can scroll to the left or right to see some of your options.

Credit: screenshot / apple

Press your Apple Watch’s Digital Crown so that the current watch face appears. Then, long press on the display until the watch face is minimized. From there, you can swipe to the right or left and choose from your already saved watch faces.

If you don’t like any of the already saved options, you can also swipe all the way to the left until you reach the ‘New’ option. You can then scroll up and down through the additional watch faces and tap ‘Add’ when you find one you like.

If you don’t like any of your saved options, you can add new ones to your watch face library.

Credit: screenshot / apple

When you find one you like, you can tap ‘Add.’

Credit: SCREENSHOT / APPLE

Depending on the watch face, you can also edit the style, color, and complications. Once you’re done, press the Digital Crown to save and set the watch face.

You can change the color by turning your Digital Crown.

Credit: Apple / screenshot

Tap on the display to change a specific complication.

Credit: screenshot / apple

To edit any of the existing watch faces in your library, long press on the display and tap ‘Edit’ underneath each one. Then, swipe to the left to cycle through your editing options.

How to change it using your iPhone

You can also control the face options on your watch using the Watch app on your iPhone.

Under the ‘My Watch’ tab, you’ll find all your saved watch faces. When you tap on ‘Edit’ in the right-hand corner, you get a screen where you can rearrange the sequence of the watch faces that appear on your Apple Watch. Simply long press on the hamburger button on the right, and move it wherever you’d like.

You can change the colors of the watch face.

Credit: screenshot / apple

You can also change the complications.

Credit: screenshot / apple

You can also tap a specific watch face to edit its color, complications, and more. Once you’re done, tap ‘Set as current Watch Face.’ This is also where you can remove a watch face from your library.

Lastly, there’s the ‘Face Gallery’ tab. Here, you’ll find a ton of different watch face options separated by categories such as “Activity,” “Gradient,” “Infograph Modular,” “Motion,” and more. As with the other watch faces, you can also edit each one to your liking by tapping on each option.

The ‘Face Gallery’ tab has tons of watch faces to choose from.

Credit: screenshot / apple

When you pick one you like, tap ‘Add.’

Credit: screenshot / apple

Once you’re done tweaking the design, tap ‘Add’ on the top right and it’ll automatically save to both your Watch app and your Apple Watch.

Don’t trust anything on the internet — until Mashable tries it first. Welcome to the Hype Test, where we review viral trends and tell you what’s really worth millions of likes.

If you’re like me, then the Instagram algorithm’s got you pegged as some kinda aspiring fairy-princess-mermaid-goddess-witch (maybe you’re even part of the magical Instagram niche). So, in all likelihood, you’ve probably seen those irresistibly dreamy ads for Selkie’s viral puff dress.

At its core, the Selkie dress is a bewitching promise of fantastical escape from it all, for the reasonable price of $245. The small, independent, woman-owned high fashion boutique brand’s Instagram feels like a secret garden into a femme fairytale land, where this foppishly girlish garment is all you need to earn passage into their beautiful, otherworldly alternate dimension.

It’s no mystery, then, why the popularity of the handmade Selkie puff dress — which was always in high demand and perpetually out of stock before — only soared higher during the pandemic. More than ever, trapped alone inside our dreary bedroom walls, folks needed this kind of playful pretend dress-up that Selkie captures. It became far more than a dress, serving instead as a retreat (however brief) from the soul-crushing realities of the pandemic, a luxury we could justify purchasing with the disposable income usually spent on the social lives we could no longer have.

I wish I lived in the Instagram fantasy world the Selkie dress was made for.

I’m sure the Selkie puff dress served this purpose admirably for so many who desperately needed it, too. Some — like the ethereal goddesses who make up the array of diverse, size-inclusive models featured in Selkie’s marketing — only need to wear this kind of statement piece in order to seduce themselves and everyone around them into believing in that spellbinding alternate reality.

But for others like me, putting on a dress that looks like it was carried to my apartment on the backs of angel wings only heightened my awareness of my depressing surroundings, the jarring juxtaposition feeling more like a cruel reminder than an alluring invitation to escape.

I wish I lived in the Instagram fantasy world the Selkie dress was made for, where women and femmes are given wholesale permission to embody whatever unearthly magical beings they choose. But I live in this world, as a grown adult human woman with a job and bills, where flouncing about my daily life dressed as an oversexed Baby Princess Peach is perceived by other’s (*cough*cough* men) as an invitation to let their most disturbing fantasies run wild.

This is only exacerbated by the fact that the Selkie puff dress is extremely sheer, especially around the breast area. And in the real world, human women tend to have nipples that photoshop can’t erase — nipples which man-made human laws have deemed a literal crime to expose in public.

Yaaas kitchen puff dress queen, give us NOTHING!
Credit: SELKIE

At the same time, I still wasn’t ready to let go of the enchanted world Selkie wants to allow us all to live in. My disappointment in their most popular puff dress only made me go right back to the website to try and find a more, uh, socially acceptable fantasy.

Like many other people though, the Selkie puff dress entered my life during the darkest depths of the pandemic, as my city (Los Angeles, which is coincidentally also Selkie’s headquarters) became the U.S. epicenter of the virus. Crushed beneath the weight of being left to the wolves by our government leaders while untold, unstoppable, ever-mounting suffering kept piling up outside my window, I reached my limit. It’s selfish, I know, but the final straw that threatened the last vestiges of my ailing mental health was the prospect of spending Christmas and then (months later in May) my second birthday still stuck in this pandemic hell world with what seemed at the time like no end in sight.

So I bought the damn Selkie dress.

Though sky-high demand and covid-related production issues meant it wouldn’t arrive until spring, I gave my future self the gift of looking forward to the celestial escape the puff dress represented. If I was going to be forced to spend the last remaining birthday of my 20s alone in my apartment, I’d at least look like a princess goddamnit.

I wasn’t the only one with this exact same thought, either, as social media posts of folks in the Selkie dress even gave our timelines a brief respite from the horrors of existing in 2020.

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When months of delays outside the company’s control kept pushing the arrival date of the dress further and further back, Selkie’s customer service was extremely apologetic and kind (without even knowing I was press). I offered my understanding in return, but did gently ask if there was still a chance it’d arrive in time for my birthday. They vowed to do all they could. When it wasn’t possible, they even gave me a full refund for the pink puff dress that arrived just a week too late.

The unadulterated joy I felt ripping open that package when it finally came was the closest I’ve felt in years to waking up on Christmas day as a kid. Its delicate fabric felt as otherworldly as it looked on Instagram. Yet when I put it on and looked in the mirror, a wave of sadness overcame me.

The dress did not instantaneously transform me into an ethereal, celestial creature made of cotton candy like it did for others. I instead gazed upon the reflection of an ordinary mortal woman, just some lady, only now with her nips out in what looked like an out-of-season Halloween costume.

I don’t know how to become “that girl,” but would take any class from a Selkie model
Credit: selkie

Also by that point, Los Angeles was re-opening after consistently scoring the lowest national numbers of new COVID-19 cases. During pandemic isolation, I might’ve been able to say “fuck it” and live my dreams as a nips-out siren type. But the sudden return to society was already causing anxiety-inducing realizations of how bad I’d gotten at being human, and all the social norms I now had to agonizingly relearn.

Could I really afford the added stress of reemerging into this scary post-pandemic world dressed like a lost cast member who strayed too far from the Bridgerton set? Could I stomach casually striding down the litter-strewn pavement of Sunset Boulevard on a Tuesday afternoon, waltzing past all our unhoused neighbors suffering under the LA summer heatwave, dressed like a horny prepubescent doll moonlighting as a puff pastry? I simply could not imagine going about my day in this heightened-reality femme fever dream of an outfit without at least a few well-meaning people stopping to inform me that, “Ma’am, this is a Wendy’s.”

Obviously, I don’t blame Selkie for my own personal hang-ups.

For one, I think I failed to take my measurements properly (despite the website’s best efforts). For another, the dress is as beautifully crafted as advertised. Most importantly, there are plenty of folks made of stronger stuff than me (or at least who don’t have a social anxiety disorder) who can absolutely exude the fantasy the puff dress promises without batting an eye.

The real fantasy here is that her hair is *less* messy in the subway shot.
Credit: selkie

The Selkie models are themselves often pictured crossing the barrier between our disparate dimensions, flitting effortlessly between wearing the dress in pedestrian IRL settings and the magical Instagram settings. Their shoots aren’t all Venetian castles, with plenty of bedrooms and cityscape backdrops included in the product images. Better still, their models include the marginalized folks typically excluded from these opulent Instagrammable beauty ideals, whether it’s fantasy genre scenery, the high fashion industry, or cottagecore and romantic Victorian aesthetics.

But the struggle of bringing all that into the real world comes down to the fact that the puff dress (and others like it), while clearly catering to a feminine gaze, is still also unavoidably subjected to the reality of life under the male gaze.

Fashion aesthetics like the puff dress are unavoidably in conversation with the pedophilic male gaze that has dominated our culture for centuries.

The Selkie puff dress, it can be argued, is part of a pantheon of fashion aesthetics that — while gorgeous and potentially empowering in some ways — still glorify the infantilization of adult women and, by extension, the sexualization of underage girls. Japan’s storied Lolita fashion scene is also often subject to this same debate, though it comes with its own socio-cultural, historical, and community-specific nuances.

Regardless of the creators’ and wearers’ intentions, fashion aesthetics like the puff dress are unavoidably in conversation with the pedophilic male gaze that has dominated society for centuries.

It’s the same pedophilic male gaze that Tavi Gevinson, a teen fashion mogul who grew up to become a writer and actor, called out recently as a major source of the trauma both she and a teenaged Britney Spears fell victim to. A majority of our mass media industries, from fashion to music to TV and film, is grounded in normalizing the sexual exploitation of young girls. In recent decades, it’s been rebranded as feminist empowerment — but it’s an empowerment still defined and controlled by the grown men who use their actual power to prey on said underage girls. As a culture, we still systematically disempower girls in every way that matters, only to then offer them (and the women they grow up to become) a false sense of power derived from being sexually desired. But we’re only desired for fitting this feminine ideal of youth, physical smallness, and naïveté that makes men feel strong and superior by contrast.

Now, I am the last person who can cast any judgment on women and girls who like playing into this gender norm, or who seek to reclaim it for themselves. I literally buy into this aesthetic myself. I spent $245 on that babydoll-cut Selkie dress precisely because it fits my style, best described as sexed-up-little-girl-who-murders-you-in-your-sleep.

How does she make the dress look better in the city than the fantasy world?
Credit: selkie

But it’s one of those things that, while we can’t blame women and girls for enjoying it, we still need to recognize how it’s rooted in the fucked up patriarchal ideals that victimize and oppress us. I can’t blame Selkie — and won’t blame us — for finding this kind of alluring, fantastical escapism wherever we can in a society systematically designed to rob us of all joy.

In my heart of hearts, I think the fantasy that the Selkie dress embodies is actually a desperate desire to go back to the precarious innocence of girlhood — those brief, shimmering moments of pubescence when we didn’t realize the thrilling newfound power we had was infected by creepy older men sexualizing our transitioning bodies.

Wearing the puff dress and wanting to live in its Instagram fantasy world isn’t our crime. It is, perhaps, even a way of unconsciously processing or even consciously reclaiming the traumas of girlhood by wearing whatever the hell we want as grown ass women.

The aesthetic of the Selkie puff dress is “girlish,” to say the least.
Credit: selkie

So the problem isn’t the dress, or our desire to take part in an alternate reality where we’re allowed to be magically super-powered, ethereally detached from patriarchy, unabashedly the center of attention, and luxuriously dripping in the opulence of a royal status that used to be women’s only chance at governmental power. That’s all awesome. The real problem is all the disturbing ways others treat our return to girlhood daydreams as something inherently sexual, the men who see our love of playing dress-up to escape back into our youth as only a performance for their titillation. Women don’t get all fucking weird and predatory about it when men dress up as their favorite childhood comic book superheroes, do we?

At the end of the day, I just wanted to feel like a princess on my birthday again — to feel as alive and as special as I did when I was the girl in kindergarten class who for several weeks insisted on coming to school dressed in her Snow White Halloween costume. Who knows? Maybe one day we’ll live in a world where Selkie’s Instagram doesn’t feel so diametrically opposed to our oppressive realities. Maybe (hopefully) one day I can wear whatever I’d like without fear of what it might bring out in men.

Until then, I’ll keep endlessly scrolling Selkie’s feed and dreaming on.

Let us, the custodians of the news cycle, be the first to say it: A dense academic theory from the 1970s doesn’t just find its way into the news at random.

That’s another way of saying there’s a reason you’ve likely seen the words “critical race theory” in headlines lately. Critical race theory (CRT) is an analytical framework used by legal scholars to study systemic, institutional racism — but that’s not necessarily how it’s being used in its current spurt in prominence.

In recent months, Republicans have introduced dozens of bills in state legislatures attempting to put limits on what educators can and cannot teach with respect to allegedly “divisive” concepts, many of which concern race. The language of the bills varies slightly, but a majority seem to be fueled, in large part, by a growing fear among conservatives over “critical race theory,” which Republican leaders have used as something of a catch-all term to describe any mention of race or racism in academic and governmental settings.

To date, at least five states (Oklahoma, Texas, Idaho, Iowa, and Tennessee) have already passed laws intended to curtail certain classroom discussions pertaining to what they’re calling “critical race theory.” And conservative panic about critical race theory transcends national boundaries: The Australian Senate has also voted to eliminate critical race theory from its national curriculum. In the U.S., Republican leaders have particularly been incensed by an inaccurate notion that critical race theory teaches white students that they’re all innately racist, and that they should feel guilty.

The current uproar has stark implications for what’s taught in classrooms, who wins future elections, and broader culture wars — so here’s what you need to know about the three simple words dominating tweets, headlines, and school board meetings right now.

What is critical race theory?

For starters, it’s not something that would ever be taught in a kindergarten classroom, despite the repeated focus on banning critical race theory in K-12 schools, Dr. Khiara Bridges, a law professor at UC Berkeley and author of Critical Race Theory: A Primer, says. “Critical race theory is a legal theory that emerged in law schools in the 1970s, 1980s,” she says. “It was a response to the perceived, and I would say, obvious failures of the Civil Rights Act of 1964.”

At that time, major pieces of legislation intended to achieve some version of racial equality had just passed as a result of the Civil Rights Movement — yet racial inequality remained rampant. For a group of legal scholars, including Derrick Bell and his then-student Kimberlé Crenshaw, who later also coined the term intersectionality, which refers to the way identities like race and gender intersect, the question became…”why?” Critical race theory emerged to interrogate that question, Bridges explains. As a framework, critical race theory often focuses on the idea that racism is systemic, and fundamentally steeped in the legal system.

Take an injustice like the Flint Water Crisis. As Bridges also notes in her book, some would say that race is merely a descriptor when discussing what happened in Flint, arguing that it cannot be used to explain why those who were exposed to contaminated drinking water were predominantly Black people.

A critical race theorist studying the topic, however, would analyze the historical factors that led to the crisis primarily impacting Black people, with their studies grounded in the idea that racial injustice is built into society’s foundational building blocks.

Bridges points out that the framework has since evolved to “analyze multiple questions around law and racial inequality,” spanning topics like affirmative action, the criminal justice system, and racial disparities in health. Dr. Keffrelyn Brown, a professor of cultural studies in education at the University of Texas, Austin, adds that as an analytical framework, critical race theory also extends beyond legal studies now, “and it’s been applied in different disciplinary areas, including education. It is simply an explanatory framework for the history and present day conditions of race and racism.”

To truly understand the term, it’s important to dwell a bit on the word “theory.” Critical race theory isn’t like a scientific theory that can be tested with an experiment (and answered with a right or wrong answer). It is more like Foucault’s theory of power, which provides a clarifying framework for conceptualizing “power” in different contexts —another concept kindergarteners are not constantly learning about, Bridges explains. “Those things aren’t falsifiable at all,” she says. “Rather, it’s a theory for how to look at and understand society, how to explain society.”

As a result, Bridges stresses that there are plenty of disagreements among critical race theorists — for example, whether to focus on “institutions, structures, and macro level processes” (which she does) rather than on, say, implicit bias, which “directs us to interrogate individuals” while ignoring “the structures under which these individuals exist,” she says. “There’s a lot of contention within the theory, and that’s what makes it better,” Bridges adds. “Whenever somebody — in good faith — questions my scholarship…it makes my scholarship better.”

How did critical race theory become controversial?

For decades, critical race theory primarily lived in the hallowed halls of academia. So how did it suddenly end up in school board meetings, on Twitter, and all over the news? And why are people up in arms about it?

The short answer is that timing matters — and so does language itself. Bridges says that in her book, Critical Race Theory: A Primer, she had observed that there might be something “easily exploitable about the fact the theory calls itself ‘critical race theory,'” because it’s incredibly broad. “It kind of makes it hard to point to something and say, ‘there [critical race theory] is,'” she says.

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Kimberlé Crenshaw ultimately coined the phrase, and Bridges wonders “if, in 40 years hindsight, she wishes that she had said something like, ‘critical legal studies of law,’ like just [built] law in there somewhere, so that this theory could be anchored to the law.”

In any case, even if the concept got its roots in legal studies, that’s not how it’s currently being used by many conservatives right now. Some critical race theorists, Crenshaw and Bridges included, see the foundations for the current conservative backlash around critical race theory in the Black Lives Matter protests of 2020. During that time, many businesses, schools, and other organizations offered anti-racist seminars and trainings, and an overall cultural shift seemed to have trickled down to even the most mundane places.

“I woke up one morning in May, and I had an email from my yoga studio telling me that they were going to ‘do better’ when it came to racial justice,” Bridges says. “I went on Amazon to order some toilet paper, and Amazon told me that Black Lives mattered.”

In the view of some scholars and analysts, that provided fertile ground for waging a culture war from those who appeared to be threatened by increased public understanding about white supremacy, anti-Blackness, and systemic racism. “Trump was eyeing November 2020 at the same time, trying to get re-elected, and we all know that he leveraged those protests to make it into something like Black Lives Matter versus everyone else… American versus ‘un-American’ people; radicals versus people who love this country,” Bridges says.

Around the same time, the conservative activist Christopher Rufo was critiquing certain anti-racist training modules, inaccurately arguing they were endorsing “segregationism” and “group-based guilt.” When discussing them on conservative news shows, he started using the term “critical race theory,” which he discovered when following the footnotes on certain texts.

Rufo assisted in drafting a memo issued by former President Trump in September 2020 that barred federal agencies from conducting training on topics concerning “critical race theory” and “white privilege,” (President Biden has since rescinded the ban.) Meanwhile, Trump was also stridently critical of the 1619 Project, a journalism effort from the New York Times that chronicles the impact of chattel slavery on U.S. history. (A small group of historians have critiqued aspects of the project, but by and large it’s seen as a crucially educational endeavor, with its creator Nikole Hannah-Jones winning a Pulitzer Prize for her work.) Trump referenced the project in an alarmist diatribe against critical race theory that misinterpreted the concept.

All told, it seemed as if conservatives had found an ominous specter — critical race theory — to unite around, even if the term was being used in a way largely divorced from its academic meaning. Conservatives have particularly taken issue with critical race theory’s concept of systemic racism, claiming that teaching critical race theory in schools (more on that in a second) amounts to teaching kids that their country is “fundamentally and irredeemably racist,” and that “every white person is a racist,” as Sen. Ted Cruz, a Texas Republican, recently said it did. (Bridges and Brown both clarify that this interpretation of “critical race theory” is not within the academic scholarship.)

It’ll be years, Bridges notes, before scholars like herself truly understand the full picture behind the current public conversation concerning critical race theory, particularly because we’re in the middle of a battle over politicized language that has yet to fully unfold.

In any case, there is evidence to suggest the term “critical race theory” was intentionally weaponized to some degree, at least by the originator of its current explosion in usage. Rufo told the New Yorker about his specific use of the term “critical race theory,” saying that “…cancel culture’ is a vacuous term and doesn’t translate into a political program; ‘woke’ is a good epithet, but it’s too broad, too terminal, too easily brushed aside. ‘Critical race theory’ is the perfect villain.” He also tweeted that “the goal is to have the public read something crazy in the newspaper and immediately think ‘critical race theory.'”

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Others don’t necessarily see the progression so linearly, but agree that the way critical race theory is being misunderstood in the public eye has major implications, regardless of how it ended up on the tip of everyone’s tongues. “I think that there are many different entry points that one could use to talk about why we ended up at this place,” Brown says. She says that an increased recognition of racial violence, such as George Floyd’s murder, led to “a lot of attention being placed on trying to understand racism not as simply something one person does to another person, but a real systemic and structural problem.”

“I think it is not surprising that critical race theory is becoming a catch-all phrase for any effort that is an attempt to understand diversity, inclusion, and equity — all things we’ve made some progress in,” she continues. “We’ve made some progress in addressing those issues in schools and in society, and as a result, we’ve got this pushback.”

Wait, so are schools going to stop teaching about race because of “critical race theory” bills?

Not necessarily — but the bills and the conservative uproar around critical race theory do have serious implications for anyone who cares about the fate of lessons about systemic racism in schools.

Brown and Bridges both agree there’s essentially zero chance that critical race theory, as it’s understood as a graduate-level analytical framework, is actually being taught in any K-12 classroom in the country. As the slate of anti-CRT bills proves, though, that hasn’t stopped efforts to turn the heightened focus on critical race theory into an issue for school boards, parents, and students to debate. (And lately, that debate has frequently turned to chaos at school board meetings.)

“I do not believe, nor do I have any evidence of any content standards, curriculum standards, that lay out the need for teachers to teach critical race theory,” Brown says. She explains that there may be teachers who understand critical race theory themselves, and “may use that as an explanatory framework to help them make sense of what’s there, but they’re not teaching critical race theory as a theoretical framework.” In short, it’s possible that a teacher’s background understanding of critical race theory could inform how they explain a lesson about “the role racism has played historically” in, say, a social studies course, but Brown maintains she doesn’t know “of really any K-12 schools that teach about theoretical frameworks.”

There’s no unified national curriculum for public schools in the U.S., though Common Core State Standards provide some uniform standards for math and English. That said, states and school districts can determine education standards on a smaller scale, which is where anti-CRT bills are being introduced. In the past, this curriculum model has led to discrepancies in what kinds of historical lessons are taught around the U.S., including language used in schools concerning the Civil War.

“This isn’t the first time that there’s been debate, contention, and controversy placed on curriculum,” Brown adds. “In fact, I would say curriculum is one of the prime places where political battles have been waged, at least since the 1800s, and definitely since the emergence of widespread, K-12 public education, with the understanding that what students are taught is viewed as potentially powerful.”

Right now, it stands to be seen how much the bills will actually impact classrooms. The legal standing for many of these bills is faulty, legal scholars say, and they stand to face challenges in court due to their limits on free speech. At its core, the conservative pushback around teaching anything about racism points to a larger attempt to obscure the ugliest parts of our country’s history, and Bridges and Brown say anyone interested in having young people educated about race, power, and inequality should stay vigilant about keeping those kinds of lessons in schools.

“I think at least one of the aims of the bills is just to create enough confusion and fear on the part of some parents, and on the part of some educators, to just not do this work,” Brown says. “So, if you don’t do the work, you’ve accomplished the aim of not actually addressing racism.”

What should you do if you want lessons about race and racism to stay in schools?

First of all, say it. That means showing up at school board meetings, writing letters and emails to education officials, and/or reaching out to your congressperson, particularly as critical race theory continues to dominate the conversation. “You need to let your school districts know that you want your children to understand racism, but more importantly, they also need to be talking about diversity and equity,” Bridges says. “I don’t know what the lasting impact will be of these efforts,” she adds. “It’s not the first time that multiculturalism and diversity have been challenged [in school curricula]. I don’t think it will be the last time, and I don’t think that it will go away. But I do think that it will lead to a conversation. For those of us that know [teaching students about race] is important work…we have to stand up for its relevance and importance.”

Bridges, meanwhile, is optimistic that if we can move away from the “ridiculous” notion that “critical race theory in K-12 schools means that everybody is going to be taught that every single white person is racist,” we might instead “enter a dialogue as a nation about how…K-12 schools should introduce concepts like systemic racism, like structural racism, like intersectionality.”

“That’s a much more productive conversation than ‘let’s keep critical race theory out of K-12 schools,'” she continues. “How about we engage in these democratic discussions around what we think kids should learn, and how. I think that would be much more productive, and much more American, than simply banning ideas.”

If you’re lucky enough to have a Peloton bike, you know they come with all sorts of high-end frills. But what about connecting your Peloton bike to wireless headphones?

While it’s not as easy to pair them as it would be on an Apple device (AirPods automatically pair with Apple devices when the case is opened), you can still connect your Apple AirPods to your Peloton. Here’s how:

Making the connection

Maybe your Peloton is set up in a community space that can get noisy, or you just want to get lost in the music. Whatever your reason, it’s easy to pair your AirPods to your Peloton and groove your way through cardio.

According to Peloton, you can connect in a few simple steps:

1. Make sure your AirPods aren’t connected to any other device and that their Bluetooth option is enabled. They should be disconnected from everything, even your phone, for this to work.

2. With the AirPods in the case and the lid open, hold the button on the back of the case until the amber light starts blinking — about three to five seconds. This will reset your AirPods, which you need to do in order for them to pair with a non-Apple device. Once they’re reset, you can put them back into pairing mode and try to pair them with your Peloton’s touchscreen.

3. Close the lid to your AirPods case. On your Peloton’s touchscreen, you should see a list of available Bluetooth devices to pair with in the Bluetooth menu (get there by going to Settings, then Bluetooth).

4. Find “AirPod” or the custom name you’ve given your AirPods, in the list of available Bluetooth devices and click on it. After a few seconds, you should see the status change to “paired.”

5. Go back to the Featured page by tapping on the Peloton logo in the lower center of the touchscreen.

6. Choose a ride to test the connection and make sure your AirPods are connected and working. Adjust the volume to a good level.

After that you should be good to go. If you’re still having trouble connecting, you can try resetting the connection and pairing your AirPods again.

Credit: apple

Keep in mind that since your Peloton isn’t an Apple device, you won’t be able to use features like Siri while your AirPods are paired to your bike. You will be able to listen to Peloton’s audio through your wireless headphones, though. Also, you’ll need to use the volume controls on the Peloton to change the volume in your AirPods.

One last thing: Make sure you disconnect your AirPods when you’re finished! If someone else is using the Peloton with their AirPods and you open your AirPod case within pairing range, the Peloton will connect with your AirPods instead and kick the person on the bike off the connection.

Nothing hits quite like great action. That raw, racing adrenaline thrusts you into the seat of heroes or villains, who’ve made the wild world their giddy plaything. Whether it’s tire-squealing car chases, dizzying combat, nerve-shredding escapes, heart-racing explosions, or stunt sequences so audacious they’re absolutely mind-melting, we thrill-seekers can’t get enough. So, plot your next adventure with this selection that boasts homicidal cyborgs, chomping creatures, spies, samurais, nice guys, and one plucky explorer.

Here are the 10 best action movies now streaming on Hulu.

1. The Terminator

The 1980s were the era of AHNOLD. Yet Austrian bodybuilder Arnold Schwarzenegger achieved his mightiest flex when he stepped into the titular role of a merciless killer cyborg from a frightful future. In 1984 Los Angeles, waitress Sarah Connor (Linda Hamilton) is on the run from this manly machine. He has been sent from 2029 to prevent the birth of her son, who is destined to lead the rebellion against tyrannical robots. Schwarzenegger awed audiences not only with his hulking form and suitably stiff performance, but also with the sheer star power that would launch a franchise and a decades-long action hero career. Meanwhile, director James Cameron made a sci-fi classic with laser cannons, careening chase scenes, sprays of bullets, and (once) cutting-edge graphics that put audiences in the POV of the Terminator’s cold, calculating stare.

How to watch: The Terminator is streaming on Hulu.

2. Crawl

Craving an action-packed creature-feature? Then, you’ll want to snap up this pulse-pounding gator tale from horror auteur Alexandre Aja. Set on the coast of Florida, Crawl follows a father and daughter in a frightening fight for survival. It’s bad enough that a Category 5 hurricane is barreling toward their family home while tough-love dad (Barry Pepper) is trapped below in a crawl space. Making matters more menacing, the home is invaded by a congregation of hungry alligators. College swim star Haley (Kaya Scodelario) will have to put her skills to the ultimate test. Not only must she outlast the relentless waters that flood their home level by level, but also she has to drag her injured dad to out of the jaws of death to safety. Studded with jump scares, close-calls, grisly attacks, and great escapes, Crawl will have the whole family at the edge of their seats and hollering.

How to watch: Crawl is streaming on Hulu.

3. Dora and the Lost City of Gold

If you’re searching for something action-packed that’ll be lighthearted fun for the whole family, look no further. This live-action re-imagining of the cartoon show Dora The Explorer is sure to satisfy. Raised in the jungle with her explorer parents, 16-year-old Dora Marquez (a bubbly Isabela Merced) doesn’t quite fit in at her Los Angeles high school, where carrying a purple backpack full of climbing gear and weapons isn’t appreciated. But when she and her new friends find their way back to the wild, Dora has home court advantage. Kids and grown-ups alike will enjoy watching this quirky crew race through treacherous terrain, best comical foes, solve perilous puzzles, and rediscover the wonder of adventures in nature. The cherry on top of all this action is the supreme silliness that director James Bobin sprinkles in with meta jokes, side-splitting pratfalls, and cutesy callbacks to its animated origins.

How to watch: Dora and the Lost City of Gold is streaming on Hulu.

4. Misson: Impossible — Ghost Protocol

When a devastating bombing at the Kremlin is blamed on the Impossible Missions Force, secret agent Ethan Hunt and his highly skilled crew of spies are wrongfully labeled as terrorists. Disavowed and disgraced, they must clear their names while on the run from foes and former friends. With his signature smile and unfailing commitment to stellar stunts, Tom Cruise swings into action with the aid of Paula Patton, Simon Pegg, and Jeremy Renner. Though best known for helming animated adventures like The Incredibles, director Brad Bird wowed critics by creating a cavalcade of awesome action set pieces, that includes hard-hitting hand-to-hand combat, chase scenes, and Cruise spectacularly scaling the world’s tallest skyscraper.

How to watch: Mission: Impossible – Ghost Protocol is streaming on Hulu.

5. Train to Busan

Critics screamed in terror and elation over Yeon Sang-ho’s riveting zombie movie. This international hit begins with a seemingly average day in South Korea. A train to Busan is calmly boarded by a gaggle of strangers, which includes a pair of bickering elderly sisters, a cheery high school baseball team, a pregnant woman, her burly husband (Ma Dong-seok), a workaholic dad (Gong Yoo), his little girl (Kim Soo-ahn)…and a zombie-bit victim who is about to become a flesh-craving fiend. Once they’re one their way, there’s no easy escape from the mounting terror or the growing undead horde that will stop at nothing to maim, munch, and murder. With jaw-dropping practical effects, masterfully suspenseful sequences, and a charismatic cast of characters, this is one thrill ride you won’t want to miss. But be warned, you may never look at an escalator the same way again.

How to watch: Train to Busan is streaming on Hulu.

6. Kick-Ass

Before Deadpool, before Logan, there was Kick-Ass, an R-rated superhero movie that dared to team saving the day with raunchy sex jokes, blood-splashing violence, and a barrage of curse words, including 115 reported employments of the f-bomb. Inspired by Mark Millar’s comics and directed by Matthew Vaughn, this 2010 hit follows plucky high schooler Dave Lizewski (Aaron Taylor-Johnson), who decides he doesn’t need superpowers to be a masked avenger. However, to take down a cruel crime boss (Mark Strong), he will need to a team-up with the mysterious Red Mist (Christopher Mintz-Plasse) and a fearsome father-daughter team of vigilantes, the badass Big Daddy (a mustachioed Nicolas Cage) and the sailor-mouthed Hit-Girl (Chloë Grace Moretz). Packing as many laughs as outrageous hits, this superhero comedy certainly does kick ass.

How to watch: Kick-Ass is streaming on Hulu.

7. 13 Assassins

Japanese director Takashi Miike had previously won international acclaim for his eye-popping and twisted thrillers, Audition and Ichi The Killer. In this celebrated 2010 offering, the distinctive director created a period piece with punch, reimagining Eiichi Kudo’s 1963 samurai drama of the same name. Set in Japan’s feudal era, this martial arts stunner centers on a motley band of warriors (including Kōji Yakusho, Hiroki Matsukata, and Takayuki Yamada), who will do whatever it takes to assassinate the malevolent Lord Naritsugu (Gorō Inagaki). In a time when computer graphics ruled action, critics cheered the verve and practical effects that Miike brought to his remake. With a grand scale, moody cinematography, and an ensemble that pitches themselves fully into every fray, 13 Assassins is more than action-packed, it’s enthralling cinema.

How to watch: 13 Assassins is streaming on Hulu.

8. Hell or High Water

The Western is smartly modernized in this 2016 David Mackenzie drama. Chris Pine and Ben Foster star as a pair of bank-robbing brothers. When the family farm risks foreclosure from a ruthless bank chain, these gun-packing cowboys saddle up for a string of robberies to even the scales. They may be desperate, but they’re no dummies. So, it’s up to a sharp and storied cop (Jeff Bridges with a thick mustache and ten-gallon hat) to stop them. Hell or High Water is studded with gunplay, heists, escapes, and even explosions. However, what makes this action movie a standout is the gripping story, confident pace, and hard-hitting performances from its triad of leading men. Little wonder this film earned four Academy Award nominations, including nods for Best Supporting actor for Bridges and Best Motion Picture of the Year.

How to watch: Hell or High Water is streaming on Hulu.

9. The Nice Guys

Long before he was writing/directing daring action movies like Kiss Kiss Bang Bang and Iron Man 3, Shane Black made his mark on Hollywood by penning the seminal buddy-cop comedy Lethal Weapon. This 2016 action-comedy is a thrilling throwback to his roots, starring Ryan Gosling and Russell Crowe as a mismatched duo determined to solve a twisted mystery. In 1970s Los Angeles, Holland March (Gosling) is a washed-up private eye that’s got more bruises than bank. Jackson Healy (Crowe) is a rugged enforcer, who has got a soft spot for dames in trouble. So, despite their differences, they’ll team up track down a mysterious missing girl. Along the way, they cross paths with wild turns, bursts of violence, sultry bombshells, barrages of mayhem, and explosively outrageous humor.

How to watch: The Nice Guys is streaming on Hulu.

10. Virtuosity

This high-concept thriller from 1995 was not a box office hit. It was not critically heralded. So why does it deserve a spot on this list? Because Virtuosity is a savage and satisfying guilty pleasure. Lawnmower Man director Brett Leonard teamed with A-lister Denzel Washington and rising star Russell Crowe for a cat-and-mouse game about a killer unlike the world (wide web) had ever seen. SID 6.7 (Crowe) is a sophisticated and psychopathic computer program built from the psychological files of the world’s most infamous serial killers. He’s intended to train cops in the safety of virtual reality. But once this homicidal A.I. inevitably escapes into the real world, it’s up to Washington’s disgraced cop to save the day. Collateral damage be damned.

How to watch: Virtuosity is streaming on Hulu.

The Summer Olympics haven’t even started and they’re already a mess.

First, star sprinter Sha’Carri Richardson, 21, was suspended by U.S. Anti-Doping Agency. That means she won’t be able to run the 100 meters at the Tokyo Olympics later this month.

Her crime: testing positive for marijuana use. This was during the U.S. Olympic Track and Field Trials last month in Eugene, Oregon — a state where recreational marijuana use is legal.

On Friday, she told TODAY that she smoked to cope with learning from a reporter that her biological mother had died, and to deal with the pressure of trying to qualify for her first Olympics.

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In case you have never smoked marijuana, it does not help you run faster. For athletes, it’s a much safer alternative for treating intense physical pain than, say, opioids. Major sports leagues in the United States — including the NBA, NFL, Major League Baseball, and the NHL — have stopped banning players for using it.

Another fun fact: Olympic athletes are allowed to drink alcohol, as evidenced by the fact that the Olympic Village nearly always becomes a bacchanal.

It makes sense to ban smoking weed during competition, just like it makes sense to ban drinking alcohol. Nobody wants to see a sloshed athlete throw a javelin. But Richardson was punished for smoking out of competition.

Why would an athlete be punished for doing that? The U.S. Anti-Doping Agency answers that question in a FAQ, which cites a study from the World Anti-Doping Agency, the body that regulates drug use at the Olympic Games.

The paper says that “cannabis can be performance enhancing for some athletes and sports disciplines,” partly because it allows some athletes to “better perform under pressure and to alleviate stress experienced before and during competition.” In case you’re wondering, antidepressants and anti-anxiety medications are allowed — although athletes have run into problems using those, too.

The paper also says “use of illicit drugs” isn’t “consistent with the athlete as a role model for young people around the world.” That Richardson is Black and paying the cost for the stigma around marijuana is, sadly, not shocking. As my colleague Morgan Sung noted, a 2020 report from the ACLU found that “even though white people and Black people consume cannabis at ‘roughly equal’ rates, Black people are 3.64 times as likely to be arrested for marijuana possession.”

People were, justifiably, incredulous and outraged over the ban on Twitter.

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The Onion, as always, summed up the situation perfectly.

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But wait… there’s more. The International Swimming Federation recently announced that swimming caps designed for natural Black hair won’t be allowed at the Tokyo Olympics.

Per the Guardian, the organization said the caps didn’t fit the “natural form of the head” and that athletes at international swimming events had never needed them before — which, really, seems more like a diversity problem than justification for the ban.

The decision means swimming caps from Soul Cap, which had partnered with Alice Dearing, the first Black swimmer to represent Team GB at the Olympics, won’t be allowed.

The Black Swimming Association tweeted that the decision would “discourage many younger athletes from ethnic minority communities from pursuing competitive swimming.” Others agreed.

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Tweet may have been deleted

And finally, it was announced Friday that two female athletes from Namibia, Christine Mboma and Beatrice Masilingi, won’t be able to run the 400 meters at the Olympics because of naturally high testosterone levels. Oddly enough, that doesn’t stop them from running the 200 meters.

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Tweet may have been deleted

Before this week, the Tokyo Olympics were already marred by accusations of misogyny, racism, and corruption. None of these are new problems. Maybe it’s time to rethink who runs and regulates the Olympic Games.

Is there any feeling that comes close to watching the first kill in a horror movie? The slow build, the tight frame, the creepy music and finally — YIKES.

Buckle the heck up, because you will not know peace for the next two hours. Netflix’s Fear Street Part 1: 1994 is like getting on your favorite rollercoaster — you might know the bumps, turns, and drops, but you’re in for the ride because you just know it hits.

Based on the Fear Street novels by R.L. Stine, the movie saga tells the story of Shadyside, a positively Stephen King-esque town plagued by centuries of random murder that may or may not be caused by a dead witch’s curse. Part 1 is written by Leigh Janiak and Phil Graziadei, with story by both writers and Kyle Killen. Janiak will direct all three films; Part 2: 1978 drops on July 9 and Part 3: 1666 on July 16.

Part 1: 1994 introduces us to the Shakespearian conflict between Shadyside and Sunnyvale, the polished Eagleton to Shadyside’s bloody Pawnee. At the center of that conflict are Deena (Kiana Madeira) and Sam (Olivia Scott Welch), Shadyside exes who reconnect at a vigil after the first spate of murders. Along with Deena’s brother Josh (Benjamin Flores Jr.) and best friends Kate (Julia Rehwald) and Simon (Fred Hechinger), they make up the core squad of Fear Street 1994.

Sam (Olivia Welch) and Deena (Kiana Madeira) put their past aside to escape a bloodthirsty killer in “Fear Street Part 1: 1994.”
Credit: netflix

Fear Street may disappoint horror purists, but there’s something deeply satisfying about its formula. We recognize the buildup and beats, the pops of humor (“Did they get back together?” Simon asks as Deena and Sam run by, shrieking and covered in blood), and the horny interlude. It’s the perfect tone for the kind of horror movie that doesn’t terrify but constantly entertains. The pacing results in a one-hour-47-minute runtime that feels as rich as a film twice that length, yet flies smoothly toward its bloody final act.

A cast of relative unknowns, unencumbered by the baggage of recognizable faces, gives Fear Street the edge needed to become a classic Netflix cult hit.

It’s serendipitous that the film opens in a mall with Maya Hawke from Stranger Things, a show that draws on artistic and narrative influences of the 1980s the way Fear Street honors I Know What You Did Last Summer, Scream, and other ’90s horror hits. The young cast deliver solid performances of recognizable teen archetypes, feeding off the ensemble’s energy while giving each other plenty of moments to shine (there is not nearly enough Darrell Britt-Gibson, but when is there ever?).

A good script doth not a horror movie make, as connoisseurs of the genre know; but it doesn’t hurt. 1994 plays to predictable horror elements but with a tight structure and fresh vision. Despite the size of Stine’s sprawling texts, the film artfully weaves in new storylines and mythology, enticing viewers to piece together Shadyside’s haunting history.

The warm palette of Caleb Heymann’s cinematography pops, and Marco Beltrami and Marcus Trumpp’s score bolsters everything along with copious ’90s needle drops.

With Janiak helming the entire trilogy and working with a largely overlapping cast and crew, Fear Street will have the kind of cohesive vision that few film anthologies enjoy. The weekly drops make it the closest Netflix has ever come to dabbling with appointment TV, building anticipation between each installment. We’re only getting started, but we can’t wait to go back to Shadyside.

Fear Street Part 1: 1994 is now streaming on Netflix.

If you game on the go but want more control over the experience than you can get with your phone’s touchscreen, you’re in luck. iOS 13 (or later) lets you connect a Playstation controller to your iPhone via Bluetooth pairing.

While you can also do this with an iPad and some Xbox controllers, we’re focusing on how to pair your PS4 DualShock controller with your iPhone.

Here’s how to connect

1. Go to the Settings menu on your iPhone.

2. Tap “Bluetooth” to get into the Bluetooth menu. It might already be on, but if it isn’t, turn it on now by clicking the toggle switch at the top of the screen. It’ll be green when Bluetooth is turned on.

3. Keep the Bluetooth menu open so you can see when the controller shows up and pair it.

4. On your PS4 controller, press the Playstation and Share buttons at the same time. Hold them down until the light on your controller starts to flash.

5. You should see “DUALSHOCK 4 Wireless Controller” pop up in the Bluetooth menu on your iPhone under other devices. Click that to pair your controller.

6. Your controller is paired when the light on the back stops blinking and turns a reddish pink color.

If you want to pair your PS4 controller with an iPad instead, follow the same steps.

How to disconnect

To disconnect your controller after you’re done playing, follow these steps:

1. If your phone has face ID enabled, you can get to the Control Center by swiping diagonally across your screen from the upper right to lower left. On a touch ID phone, swipe up from the bottom of your screen.

2. Press and hold the Bluetooth icon.

3. A menu will come up. Find the icon that says “Bluetooth: On,” then press and hold it.

4. Your available devices will come up, including your DualShock controller. Press the controller name to disconnect.

You can also navigate into the Bluetooth menu from Settings, the same way you did when you paired the controller in the first place. Once there:

1. Find “DUALSHOCK 4 Wireless Controller” under My Devices and click the small ‘i’ icon next to it.

2. Press Disconnect

Troubleshooting

If you’re still having problems connecting your controller, Apple recommends trying the following:

• Unpair, then pair again. If that still doesn’t work, get more info on connecting Bluetooth accessories to your iPhone here.

• If your DualShock 4 controller connects, but you still see a “connection unsuccessful” message, try pressing the Playstation (PS) button and waiting for it to connect.

• Make sure you don’t have a bunch of other devices already connected, as there are limits to how many devices you can have paired at once.

And that’s it! Game on.

I loved my Pixel camera — until it went berserk on me at the most inopportune time.

I was struck by the Pixel camera curse, like so many others who’ve shared their tales of woe on message boards and within app reviews. We all bought Pixels because of the hyped camera tech, and then hated Google because of its camera fails — and the tech giant’s reluctance to publicly admit to a widespread issue.

The curse unfurls like this: Your camera works fine one moment, but the next time you try to take a picture, the camera app crashes. You try again and get a pop-up that says “Something went wrong / Close and open the Camera app and try again.” Except closing and opening the app doesn’t do anything. Neither does force quitting. Neither does restarting your phone. Neither does factory resetting your phone. You can sometimes get the front camera to work to take a selfie, but the error message taunts you on screen as you snap your sad face. (You can see me pout in the corner of my phone below; it was the last selfie I took on my Pixel.) Some adventurous tinkerers have taped a magnet next to the rear camera, which seems to fix the issue sometimes, but they then have to live with an ugly magnet taped to the back of their phone. Not ideal.

The “Something went wrong” error message taunts me whenever I try to use the camera app on my Pixel 2.
Credit: Brittany Levine Beckman / mashable

This camera curse has afflicted Pixel 2, Pixel 2 XL, Pixel 3, Pixel 3XL, Pixel 4, and Pixel 4a owners, according to online comments. Initial reports of camera crashes appear to have surfaced in 2019 and the complaints continue to this day, with frustrated users taking to the camera app’s review section to vent. The latest upset customer posted a one-star review on June 23: “I can’t use my rear facing camera. Please fix!! My phone is 6 months old and I’m definitely feeling frustrated with my choice because a big reason I got my Google pixel 4a was for the camera.” The camera app for the device that’s been hailed as one of the best camera phones of the year currently has 3 stars out of 5.

Whether the problem is due to a software or hardware issue — or a software issue that caused a hardware issue by overheating the phone like some armchair experts conjecture — has been debated online since people started carping about the curse. Google claims there are no known app or operating system software issues causing Pixel cameras to go on the fritz. Instead, Google tells Mashable the problem could be due to wear and tear or drops over time.

But that reasoning isn’t up to snuff for customers, some of whom had their cameras crash as soon as a month after they bought a Pixel. For others like me, the malediction descends upon you after a year or two. (And my phone doesn’t have a scratch on it.)

Those lucky to have encountered the curse less than a year into owning a Pixel have been well taken care of. The Pixel’s one-year warranty means those favored customers just ship their hexed phones back to Google and get a free (most likely refurbished) replacement. But if you’re outside the warranty window, you’re out of luck in the free department. You can get a broken Pixel repaired by a Google partner. I was given a $120 estimate for a fix, which is twice as much as the phone is worth if I tried to sell it on eBay. A Google customer service rep also suggested I could trade in my phone to buy a new one, but the trade-in would get me at most $21. Google says anyone experiencing this issue should contact customer support for help, but in my experience, you won’t get far if you’re seeking a comped replacement out of warranty.

The estimate I received when I attempted to trade-in my Pixel 2 on Google’s website.
Credit: Screenshot: Google

The camera on my Pixel 2, which I raved about taking exceptional photos of the Northern Lights in 2019, stopped working while I was covering the reveal of BMW’s new electric SUV recently. Although I initially bought my Pixel in 2017, Google has sent me two replacements over the years after bricking incidents. The first time my Pixel bricked was right before I got on a flight in 2018; I lost all access to my boarding pass information. The second was a year later in 2019 when I was on vacation in Hawaii (no photos of turtles and sandy beaches for me during that trip). The Pixel has cruelly nailed the dramatic timing of its torture. When my camera stopped working in early June, I’d had the phone for almost two years.

Sadath Ahmed, an engineer in Dubai, was struck by the curse seven months after his warranty on his Pixel 2 XL ended. He bought the new phone in 2019 and a year and a half later, when he was trying to take a picture of the sunset, the camera app crashed. He explains in a Reddit DM that he got the same black screen I experienced after the first crash. He tried the magnet hack, but after a few days the trick lost its magic. Any photos he took were blurry until the camera just stopped working once again. He used his camera-less phone for four months and then bought a used Pixel 2 for $50 as a temporary stopgap. He’s eyeing an iPhone for his next purchase, but for now, the used phone gets him through the day.

“I think they should first acknowledge that there is a widespread issue and help customers get the camera fixed,” says Ahmed about what he considers an appropriate response from Google.

Muhammad Irtaza, an engineering student in Pakistan and another cursed Pixel owner, agrees.

“Google fails to acknowledge this issue which is, in simple terms, pathetic for a company as big as this.”

“There are dozens of articles and posts on Reddit, the Google support site, and countless other forums, yet Google fails to acknowledge this issue which is, in simple terms, pathetic for a company as big as this,” Irtaza writes in a Reddit message.

The camera crashed on his used Pixel 3 five months after he bought it, while he was snapping a pic of an indoor plant. He also tried the magnet trick, but its enchantment lasted just a few seconds before the camera crashed again. He says the camera problems vanished after he updated to the latest Android 12 Beta. He reverted back to Android 11, Google’s current mobile operating system, a few weeks later and the camera was still functioning properly.

“But it makes the phone overheat like crazy. I can’t leave the camera on for more than 5 minutes,” he adds. So he bought a new Pixel 4XL, which he says has been “phenomenal.”

“This has somewhat restored my faith in the Pixel line, but I cannot and will not recommend the Pixel to any of my friends and family since I’ve read about the Pixel 4 battery issues as well. I don’t have those problems, thankfully, but I believe it’s just a matter of luck,” he adds.

I used to tell everyone who complained about their iPhone to get a Pixel. I trumpeted the Pixel line to one of my oldest friends who got a Pixel a few years ago. While she hasn’t experienced the camera issue, she has had other headaches, like screen glitches. Yet she still stuck with Google, moving on to the Pixel 4a and now the Pixel 5, mostly because of the camera’s acuity (and all the pre-installed G Suite apps.)

Before the camera crash, my phone’s battery life was dwindling. I’d have to charge it every five hours or so, which wasn’t a huge deal because of fast charging and being stuck at home not far from an outlet during the pandemic. To be fair, a limp battery seems to be par for the course after owning any phone for a year or two. I ditched my iPhone 6S and bought the Pixel 2 because the iPhone’s battery life was laughable two years in, and this was before Apple set a temporary $29 fee for battery replacements on the 6S (it now costs $49).

After a few days of steaming over my cursed Pixel camera, I was lured by Apple’s sorcery and bought a bright red iPhone 12 mini.

It takes superb photos.