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<ul class="summary-list"><li>Jason Ethier, known as <keyword id="10940846" type="UNKNOWN" weightage="60" keywordseo="jaystation">JayStation</keyword>, has had his last two <keyword id="10879" type="CITY" weightage="60" keywordseo="YouTube">YouTube</keyword> channels banned. </li><li>On Twitter, Ethier said he plans on suing YouTube and that the bans were "random."</li><li>Ethier has a long history of controversy and recently called COVID "fake" on Instagram.</li></ul><p>Jason Ethier, known online as JayStation, said he plans to sue YouTube after the platform terminated his last two channels.</p><p>The controversial YouTuber's "ImJayStation" channel had over 6.2 million subscribers before it was "terminated for a terms of service violation," <a href="https://twitter.com/TeamYouTube/status/1370526960523284481">according to a tweet from YouTube's creator-support account.</a> Ethier's second channel, "666," which had under a million subscribers, was also taken off the site. </p><p>Ethier is no stranger to controversy and has been making waves in the YouTube space since he started posting in 2015. After his main channel was demonetized following a November 2016 arrest, Ethier began posting on different channels, which have since been suspended. </p><p>The creator's previous channel suspensions have all come after major controversies. YouTube did not immediately respond to Insider's request for comment, and it was not clear whether the creator recently violated the platform's guidelines.</p><p>In a series of tweets on Friday, Ethier claimed that he recently "switched his content" from pranks to reaction videos in an effort to comply with YouTube rules. He claimed he would sue the company.</p><p>Ethier can no longer create a YouTube channel as it would constitute <keyword id="6354651" type="PERSON" weightage="60" keywordseo="ban">ban</keyword> evasion and cause his newer channel to be taken down. </p><p>Ethier claimed in a video posted to Twitter at 3 AM on Saturday that the ban was "random." </p><p>"I'm going to have a channel on YouTube, it's going to be big but I can't tell anybody and it isn't going to have my face," Ethier says in the video. </p><p>Ethier also sparked controversy on Instagram, falsely claiming that "COVID is fake as f---" and telling followers not to get vaccinated or wear masks to protect themselves from the deadly illness.  </p><p>Ethier did not respond to a request for comment. </p><h2>JayStation has a long history of contention with YouTube</h2><p>Ethier's original JayStation channel was dedicated to pranks, where he posted "24-hour challenge" videos that showed him seemingly entering homes and businesses with no legal right to be in.</p><p>In November 2016, Ethier was charged with <a href="https://ottawacitizen.com/news/local-news/star-of-24-hour-challenge-video-channel-charged-after-quitting-job-to-focus-on-making-videos">five counts of trespassing by the </a>Ottawa Police, and YouTube demonetized the channel shortly after. The Ottawa Police Department did not immediately respond to Insider's inquiry regarding the status of the charges.</p><p>Though the original JayStation channel remained up, Ethier switched over to ImJayStation to post his monetizable content. There, he became an even larger infamous figure, posting his "3 am Challenge" videos that had him pretend to use a Ouija board to contact deceased celebrities shortly after their passing, like Desmond "Etika" Amofah, XXXTentacion, and Kobe Bryant. </p><p>But the creator's most widely publicized controversy came in January 2020, when he claimed that his girlfriend, YouTuber Alexia Marano, had been killed in a drunk driving accident. Four days later, Ethier admitted that her death was just a prank, causing social-media users to pick up on the story. In a now-deleted video on his channel, Ethier said, "I expected all of this to stay on YouTube and it didn't."</p><p><a href="https://www.insider.com/youtuber-didnt-want-death-hoax-videos-ex-boyfriend-jaystation-alexia-2020-1">Marano said in a since-deleted video</a> that she did not want to take part in these pranks and left Ethier right after. The pair then <a href="https://www.insider.com/jaystation-reunites-with-ex-after-death-hoax-and-arrest-2020-4">started posting videos again together in April,</a> though they have not appeared together in recent months.</p><p>Ethier claimed in a January 2020 video that Marano spoke to police and a warrant had been issued for his arrest. <a href="https://www.newsweek.com/youtuber-imjaystation-claims-warrant-has-been-issued-his-arrest-toronto-police-deny-warrant-exists-1484249">The Toronto Police Department told Newsweek</a> in February 2020 that Ethier was charged with both assault and assault with a weapon. The status of those charges was not immediately clear at press time. </p><p>By the end of that month, Ethier's "ImJayStation" channel had also been demonetized and the YouTuber said in a video that he would be taking a break from the channel. </p><p>Ethier had transitioned to a new "666" channel last summer, creating commentary and gameplay videos to capitalize on YouTube's algorithm in an effort to reach new viewers. That channel was also removed by YouTube on March 12.</p>

JayStation, the YouTuber who faked girlfriend's death, threatened to sue the platform for removing his channels

<ul class="summary-list"><li>I stayed up all night on TikTok Live, which is sometimes known as the unregulated underbelly of the app.</li><li>The streams I saw ran the gamut of scams, from people pretending to sleep, to content thieves, to a fake shower striptease.</li></ul><p>At 4 a.m., I found a stream of a man assembling a house of cards. It was six rows high and the tower looked nearly complete. But instead of finishing it, he started howling at the viewers not to send him a donation — a common reverse psychology tactic to troll-bait viewers into sending him a donation. Eyeliner was smeared around his face, and he looked genuinely agonized, like he was suffering through a painful surgical operation without anesthesia. </p><p>The stream — which was actually an old video re-broadcasted in real-time by a creator who's been <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1kTsJVu5kiM" target="_blank" rel="noopener">accused of scamming</a> before — was one of many disquieting feeds I found while surfing all night on TikTok Live.</p><div type="image" title="Galaxy kid TikTok" height="790" width="1054" msid="98157389" hostid="261"></div><p>TikTok Live is the platform's answer to the streaming platform Twitch, a way for users to interact in real-time with their followers. It's the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SKUSZhk96tA" target="_blank" rel="noopener">unfettered underbelly</a> of the app, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=njYYP7k_ayw" target="_blank" rel="noopener">with</a> a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SKUSZhk96tA" target="_blank" rel="noopener">reputation</a> for <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s5Cb6bznQYI" target="_blank" rel="noopener">unnerving content</a> — for example, people streaming while<a href="https://www.insider.com/tiktok-sleepfluencers-help-people-with-insomnia-fall-asleep-2022-12"> they sleep</a>. TikTok Live is also how many creators make money, with fans able to donate cash gifts of up to $500 at a time. The incentive to cull donations is why its content is often both so creative and bizarre. In one stream last week, a creator appeared to be playing beer pong as he asked viewers to send him donations to try different things, like adding a cup or tossing a ball using his left hand. </p><p>To better understand the TikTok Live universe, I decided to stay up all night to see how strange and unhinged the streams would get.</p><p>I watched a mix of streams that TikTok's algorithm naturally recommended and streams on the platform's popular "Lives" tab. I also sometimes searched for content from specific popular genres (like "ASMR," "mukbang," and "gaming"), and set a 10-minute limit on every stream to experience as much content as possible. I then made sure to switch between a couple of accounts to prevent the algorithm from siloing me into one genre.</p><p>When I ended the experiment in the morning, it felt like coming up for air after being submerged in a sea of cultural sewage. I was subjected to the lowest-hanging fruit of content, from apparent scams to fantastical roleplays to clickbait titles. While I discovered some gems in the depths of night, it was mostly alarming and a little thrilling to be peering into an untethered digital void. TikTok Live really is a wasteland of weirdness.</p><p>Here's what I uncovered, logged hour-by-hour.</p><h2><strong>Midnight. A gentle beginning to the night.</strong></h2><p>The first few streams were relatively straightforward: Customers buying pearls from a pearl shop owner who was harvesting them live, a man scratching off lottery tickets and hoping to win big, and a woman who claimed she could truthfully prophesize people's futures.</p><div type="image" title="Pearl TikToker" height="562" width="749" msid="98157390" hostid="261"></div><p>The armchair fortune-teller is a pretty popular subgenre of TikTok Live. Creators often use a device known as "<a href="https://www.awesomeinventions.com/pendulum-decision-maker/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">decision maker pendulums</a>" with "yes," "no," and "maybe" signs to answer viewers' questions. But where professional psychics might take time to walk you through potential futures, these creators make predictions like they're speedrunning video games. They breeze through every question, even if it seems life-changingly important. Someone in the stream asked if their partner was being honest to them, and the creator nonchalantly answered "nah," with no further context nor explanation.</p><p>After that, there was a delightful "1 MINUTE TO<a href="https://www.businessinsider.com/internet-slang-tiktok-word-rizz-rizzler-rizzgod-zoomers-rizzardofoz-twitter-2023-1"> RIZZ</a>'' speed-dating stream, where the creator invited strangers to join the Live and paired them up for a mini date. Everyone was polite and sweet to each other, except for a German man who said something homophobic and was quickly ejected.</p><h2><strong>1 a.m. The unsettling subcultures began to reveal themselves.</strong></h2><p>It was around 1 a.m. when the content started to grow increasingly outlandish. I found multiple streams of people trying to grow a large number on the screen (one went as high as 9999999980). The creators urge viewers to donate monetary gifts to decrease or increase the number. Streamers bait viewers to donate so the number can revert to zero, or they'll use reverse psychology to cull donations if the number is getting really big. "Oh no, please don't send a gift, no, I've spent so long reaching this number!" one creator said.</p><p>This kind of large-number edging is easily one of the cheapest forms of clickbait on the platform.</p><p>I also landed on a few "DISTURB MY SLEEP" streams, a popular genre where creators claim to be sleeping and have viewers donate to them to try to wake them up. The gifts correspond to different noises, like explosive farts and piercing shrieks. When a sound plays, the person "sleeping" will often perform an affected scowl or toss their blanket in exasperation. </p><div type="image" title="Sleep streamer" height="561" width="748" msid="98157391" hostid="261"></div><p>By far, the strangest stream in this interval was a shower striptease — or what the creator advertised as a shower striptease. (Spoiler: I didn't see anyone in the shower, although I was both alarmed and maybe a bit curious.) A wobbly camera was mounted on what appeared to be a shower wall, and water could be heard dripping limply in the background. Sometimes it shakily panned over to a rack with shampoo on it. It was like a low-budget TikTok equivalent of the movie "Skinamarink." No human ever appeared. But it seemed like the creator was trying to exploit how creepy and voyeuristic people would get. On-screen text encouraged viewers to donate a "rabbit gift" to see the creator's "kitty."</p><p><em>Time to cleanse the brain with some ASMR,</em> I told myself at this point. Very few commercial TikTok influencers seemed to be streaming at night, and the biggest active creators at this time were ASMR streamers, which makes perfect sense since people often watch it to help them fall asleep. </p><h2><strong>2 a.m. - 3 a.m. Falling deeper into the belly of the beast.</strong></h2><p>2 a.m. was when the bizarre content really began to shatter my brain. </p><p>For instance, there was an entire subgenre of paranormal investigators, or people who claim to stalk spirits at night in abandoned houses and forests. A TikToker who <a href="https://www.tiktok.com/@a_howie" target="_blank" rel="noopener">goes by the name Howie</a> trekked through the Pine Barrens in New Jersey with nothing but a flashlight and a burning desire to find something he called "the shadow man." To summon the creature, he began pressing against a huge tree as if pushing a gigantic cart of watermelons. It was like an elaborate form of performance art faintly redolent of the YouTuber JayStation, except without the maddening sound effects and melodramatic acting.</p><div type="image" title="TikTok night forest walker" height="562" width="749" msid="98157392" hostid="261"></div><p>Next up was a stream of a man pretending to be a robot. Waving mechanically at the camera, he performed various tasks (like saying "daddy," "mommy," or slapping himself) depending on the gift size. Whoever donated the largest gift would make him perform a "big punishment." I wasn't quite sure what that meant, but the vagueness of the term felt ominous, inviting you to fill in the gap with your most alarming imaginations. Commenters accused the stream of being a scam and warned newcomers that he wasn't actually a real robot. (Roleplaying seemed to be a mainstay of late-night streaming. On the "Lives" tab, there were popular streams of creators dressed up as an alien and a gorilla.)</p><div type="image" title="TikTok live screenshot" height="562" width="749" msid="98157395" hostid="261"></div><p>The algorithm provided a reprieve from the craziness around 3 a.m.: a feed of cute raccoons munching food on someone's porch. The camera was stable; the atmosphere was peaceful. You could hear trees softly rustling and the gentle buzz of insects. I felt refreshed.</p><p>Recommended content started to flood in from countries around the world where it was already daytime. There was a stream by an Indonesian man with over 20,000 followers who billed himself as the number one ambassador for aloe vera — as if to prove it, he began eating the plant. I then got dropped into a videocast of a bustling street in Shibuya, Tokyo, run by a news organization with over 3.5 million followers. The camera was pointed at an intersection and never moved.</p><p>The international content warped my sense of time, as clips flicked between sunny streets and then across dark, shadowy rooms. The immersive nature of TikTok's algorithm gave everything a timeless, placeless feeling. I never knew what type of stream to expect next, as the content and language changed. Throughout the night, I kept running into the same fake-shower and fake-sleep streamers. Thinking I may have broken my For You page algorithm, I briefly paused to make some tomato soup.</p><h2><strong>4 a.m. - end. Dazed and disoriented in the void of content.</strong></h2><p>After 4 a.m., when the lack of sleep really began creeping on me, the content started to blur together into a cacophony of conning and visual gibberish. </p><p>I found a creator streaming an old MrBeast "Among Us" gameplay video and pretending it was live. There was a man with a human-sized phone who kept saying "welcome to our kingdom" and searching for the TikTok profiles of users who donated to him. One stream featured a baby with a disproportionately large head. One of the final Lives I watched was a "DISTURB MY JOB" stream, a sibling genre to the fake-sleep streamers. In these videos, the TikToker sits before a screen and feigns to be working. This man had perhaps the most pain-stricken look I've ever seen. He honestly deserved an Oscar. </p><div type="image" title="TikTok live screenshot" height="562" width="750" msid="98157396" hostid="261"></div><p>The saddest part was that only ten people were watching. Even the most peculiar clickbait can lose its luster.</p><h2><strong>What I learned (a lot) and what I lost (my sanity) along the way.</strong></h2><p>A striking difference between Twitch and TikTok Live is that there are still big influencers on Twitch streaming in the wee hours. I saw multiple popular gaming streamers with tens of thousands of viewers throughout the experiment. Twitch star Kai Cenat maintained around 100,000 concurrent viewers during a <a href="https://dotesports.com/streaming/news/what-is-a-subathon-on-twitch" target="_blank" rel="noopener">sub-athon</a> that night. But on TikTok, the largest audiences were barely over 10,000 at a time, and they were mostly random accounts.</p><p>The decentralized structure of TikTok and its chaotic algorithm incentivizes people to make clickbait to get noticed. Rather than gradually building up a fanbase like on Twitch, TikTok's vortex of content means live-streaming creators might have to do whatever it takes to hook viewers and coax donations. It's one of the darker manifestations of the gig economy to date. <a href="https://www.businessinsider.com/why-tiktokers-are-struggling-to-make-money-connect-with-followers-2022-8">Sustaining careers for creators is a TikTok-wide problem</a>, and it isn't the creators' fault they're pushed to such extremes.</p><p>TikTok could make changes to help fix this, like stripping down the excess gift options and focusing more on <a href="https://newsroom.tiktok.com/en-us/live-subscription-invite-only" target="_blank" rel="noopener">monthly channel subscriptions</a>. This would encourage streamers to establish communities with loyal fans rather than deploying cheap tactics to bamboozle gifts. TikTok could also create a more easily searchable "Lives" hub, with recommendations for large streamers to check out. And the platform could enforce its rules better, like its <a href="https://www.tiktok.com/community-guidelines?lang=en" target="_blank" rel="noopener">policy that prohibits</a> "frauds and scams" (as well as specific content areas like gambling, which is another popular TikTok Live subgenre). I asked TikTok about this. In an email statement I received on Tuesday, the company said it is actively "identifying and removing" content that violates its guidelines.</p><p>"Our community expects an authentic experience and we work hard to maintain that by identifying and removing behavior that violates our Community Guidelines, including fraud and impersonation," a spokesperson said. "We continue to invest in strengthening our detection and prevention mechanisms to minimize the potential for this behavior to flourish on our platform."</p><p>Even though some of the content was unsettling, the experience was ultimately fascinating and informative. In an era of personalized algorithms, it's often difficult to escape your internet bubble and discover how vast and diverse the rest of the online-scape can be. Forest spirit-hunters? An aloe vera king? Rush hour in Shibuya? I wouldn't have stumbled on any of these if it wasn't for TikTok Live. It may have felt like a maelstrom of insipid content at the moment, but the experiment was worth it for the stories.</p>

I spent all night on TikTok Live, and discovered a wasteland of clickbait, scams, and other oddities. It got stranger and darker by the hour.

You Searched For "jaystation" and got 2 results

JayStation, the YouTuber who faked girlfriend's death, threatened to sue the platform for removing his channels

Steven Asarch

I spent all night on TikTok Live, and discovered a wasteland of clickbait, scams, and other oddities. It got stranger and darker by the hour.

Kieran Press-Reynolds

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