Friday, July 25, 2014
All the New Yorker Story Roundups You Should Read While the Stories Are Still Unlocked, As Well As All the New Yorker Stories They Link To
Featured Collection: Profiles, New Yorker
"Isadora," January 10, 1927
"Secrets of the Magus," April 5, 1993
"Covering the Cops," February 17, 1986
"Two Heads," February 12, 2007
"The Man Who Walks on Air," April 5, 1999
"Delta Nights," June 5, 2000
Love Stories, by Deborah Treisman, New Yorker
"What Is Remembered," Alice Munro, February 19, 2001
"The Love of My Life," T. C. Boyle, March 6, 2000
"Reverting to a Wild State," Justin Torres, August 1, 2011
"Jon," George Saunders, January 27, 2013
"The Surrogate," Tessa Hadley, September 15, 2003
"Clara," Roberto Bolaño, August 4, 2008
The New Yorker Opened Its Archive — Here's Where To Start, by the Digg Staff
Regrets Only by Louis Menand
A Pickpocket's Tale by Adam Green
The Apostate by Lawrence Wright
Life At The Top by Adam Higginbotham
Being A Times Square Elmo by Jonathan Blitzer
An S.O.S. In A Saks Bag by Emily Greenhouse
The Chameleon by David Grann
'Voices Have Power' is a campaign designed to elevate awareness of (and destroy the stigmas around) domestic violence. Its goal is to encourage a frank discussion about the deep cultural and societal factors that silence victims and perpetuate instances of abuse.
Women (AND men) are sharing their messages of hope via the hashtag #VoicesHavePower. And here's the kicker: For every message of hope Verizon is donating $3 to organizations committed to ending domestic abuse. Check out some of the inspirational messages below and post your own message of hope now.
ALL couples fight. It’s OK to disagree as long as you communicate & respect each other. Visit @loveisrespect for more! #VoicesHavePower
— Teresa Huang (@teresapalooza) July 16, 2014
Dating and domestic violence in the U.S. is an issue that’s largely undiscussed and heavily stigmatized. As a result, victims often feel ashamed or are fearful of speaking out, and would be advocates don't know how to step in and help those in need. In both examples, the challenges of dating and domestic violence in the US — silence and stigmas — are only further perpetuated.
You can help. READ MORE
The Foton-M4 research satellite launched on July 19 with five geckos on board. The plan: To observe their mating activities in the zero-gravity conditions of Earth orbit. [...] But shortly after the satellite made its first few orbits, it stopped responding to commands from mission control.
-The best-laid lizards, etc. [Washington Post]
This track is an immediate shot of adrenaline: though Scottish producer Rustie and known beast Danny Brown have apparently never met in person, they've got an insane, high-octane chemistry on "Attak," in which Brown's traditionally apeshit flow works deep and quick in the pockets of Rustie's switch and skitter, with the vaguely Yeah Yeah Yeahs-"Rich"-y sirens spiking in the back.
I have been sick for most of my life. This is both incredibly simple and incredibly complicated. Here is the short version: my immune system does not know how to protect me. My body attacks itself and I become inflamed. I am always in some type of pain.
I was 14 when I was diagnosed with Crohn’s disease, an inflammatory bowel disease with no known cure. Countless medications, several surgeries, a handful boyfriends, and a few periods of remission later, I was unexpectedly thrust into a new kind of sickness. At 27, without warning, I experienced crippling lower back and hip pain. After months of failed treatments and tests, I was diagnosed with Ankylosing Spondylitis, a type of autoimmune spinal arthritis common in people with bowel diseases. From then on, my fate as a very slow-moving person in constant need of a restroom was sealed. I cope with my disabilities by perpetuating two possibly false facts: one, that there is humor in illness; two, that one day I will no longer be ill. I have learned that while there is no appropriate time to tell someone that your spine would love nothing more than to fuse with your pelvis, there is definitely a joke in there somewhere.
Before I fell indefinitely ill, I experienced two blissful years of love as a healthy person. Derek kissed me in the music closet on Valentine’s Day in sixth grade. Marcus told me I was beautiful and held my hand at a winter dance. There was a sordid encounter during a matinee screening of Titanic with a boy from another school.
After nearly 15 years of practice, I can assure you that there is a specific look reserved for the moment someone realizes you are fragile. I used to prep prospective partners for this when first dating them. “I have this illness,” I’d explain. “I may look okay now. This is the fun part. We are drinking gin and laughing and my hair smells nice and we’re telling each other our greatest hits stories but one day I will inevitably drop off the radar or my medication will fail. I’ll find myself in need of a gastroenterologist, a rheumatologist, and a steady hand.” My hair does not smell nice at the hospital. They do not serve gin there, but most of the time there’s morphine.
Men my age, single men, have not mastered the art of concealing their reactions when faced with the prospect of a breakable me. It’s more delicate than horror, slight enough that I’ve had to see it again and again to notice. And even then only after looking backwards to figure out what went wrong. READ MORE
Melissa Hunter, who you may remember from Adult Wednesday Addams, brings our attention to the tragic and ongoing social epidemic of men who fail to meet even their most basic human needs. Will you be an angel for a fully grown, yet utterly helpless man?
Eyebrow Wax, $9
"Hello," I said to the owner of the sewing shop. A beautiful tulle-and-satin creation hung from a hook by the cash register. "Here’s my dress! I love it so much!"
"This is your dress?" she asked from behind a wall, around the corner of which I could see a huge wooden table covered in lace and pins. "Oh, good. It’ll be ready tomorrow."
This was the Monday before my wedding.
I had intended to come to pick up the dress on Saturday, but had been told then by this very shop owner not to come. That day, I took a five-minute breather in my car alone (which would actually have been TLC gold) before arranging to leave work early to retrieve it on Monday afternoon.
"No it won’t," I said. "I already took off work today."
Giving orders this way was out of the ordinary for me. I am not an Assertive Person, but I am an impatient one who is running very low on PTO due to having a wedding this year. Twenty minutes later, I found myself wandering around the neighborhood where I had attended high school years before, waiting for the last touches to be put on my dress and feeling entirely too much like a Bruce Springsteen song. The nostalgia got to be too much so I ducked into an eyebrow place to numb it with searing pain. READ MORE
What’s in your handbag, Freyja, Norse goddess of love, sexuality, beauty, fertility, gold, seiðr, war, and death?
Gold eyeliner that a friend gave me because she’s a mortal and she wasn’t sure she could pull it off, empty containers of skyr, that strained Icelandic yogurt that I’m super addicted to, an overdue Comcast bill, Garnier bb cream and SO many treats for the nine magical grey cats who pull my chariot, (gluten-free ones for Helga who has a sensitive tummy). I love these creatures, but they’re useless when they have low blood sugar.
What’s in your handbag, Louka, female Tapir recently relocated to a French wildlife park to pair up with male Tapir Thakeray?
Oof, way too much, I always overpack when I travel! I mean, the usual fruit, berries, and leaves, particularly young, tender growth, since I eat like 40 kg of vegetation a day and I wasn’t sure what they’d have on offer here in France. Plus, some calcium chewables which are super important to keep my chisel-shaped incisors healthy so they can process all the leaves I eat. Also, a little Pantene pro-V since I tend to get split ends in hot weather—I leave it on while I’m checking email over coffee and then hop back in the shower to rinse it off. Works like a charm! READ MORE
Jessie Ware follows up her new album's sublime lead single "Tough Love" (and its two excellent remixes) with "Share It All," co-written with Romy Madley-Croft, the XX's female frontwoman; it's a lovely collaboration, with Romy's slight, iterative sense of melody and neatly picked guitar fuzzed over and opened up by Ware's eighties synth and generous, weightless voice.
Grayson and Tina, pro-choice husband and wife team from Raleigh: we salute your Saturday chores.
Mary Poppins Quits Because She's Only Making Federal Minimum Wage: A Revised Musical, Starring Kristen Bell
♪♫ Just a three-dollar increase can make a living wage/ I don't get these birds for freeeee ♫♪
MNEK, a 19-year-old singer-songwriter from the UK, continues to quietly challenge the new Sam Smith order. Here's the video for "Wrote A Song About You," which Kaytranada already flipped into understated techno. The video treatment is one-part Saved By The Bell, one-part "Rude Boy."
My first date after moving to Paris was at a cemetery. I had been messaging a girl on OkCupid from New Zealand who was looking for people with whom to knock must-visits off her Parisian bucket list; her name was Ruby, and she suggested we meet up at Cimetière du Père-Lachaise. Ruby from New Zealand had only one OKC profile picture, and it was of a small, distant, short-haired figure sitting in a kayak. I had no idea how I’d recognize her in a crowd unless she brought the kayak along with her. But that didn’t end up mattering, since outside the Gambetta metro stop on a sunny spring day, she was the one who found me.
Ruby was pretty: tall, reddish-blonde pixie cut, luminous skin. Her prettiness surprised me. Because I am (like most people on online dating sites, I presume) a bit of a shallow asshole, I didn’t think someone who forewent advertising what she looks like on her profile was someone from whom I could realistically expect sparks. But here she now was, and she was pretty, and sparks sidled into the realm of possibility.
I’m shallow, but not that shallow; Ruby was smart, too, which I’d guessed from her profile and gradually confirmed as we made our way to Oscar Wilde’s grave. She had a law degree from New Zealand and was in Paris on semester exchange for a second degree in literature. We talked about public policy differences between our two countries, and some of the books we loved. It took us an hour of wandering the hilly graveside pathways to happen upon Wilde’s lipstick-kissed tomb long after we’d stopped actively searching for it. We never did find Jim Morrison.
This was not only my first date in Paris, where I was volunteering at a film festival and blowing most of my savings on fine cheeses, but also my first date with a stranger. Before Paris, I’d dated people from my classes and extracurriculars. Now, in the heady flux of postgrad, in a city where I didn’t speak the language and knew next to no one, I’d thought, fuck it. I spent a Sunday drinking two-euro supermarket wine in my broom closet of a studio apartment, filling out online questionnaires. It’s hard enough finding queer women out in the wild, let alone the wilds of a place very far from home.
When we got tired of walking, Ruby and I stopped for coffee. Inside the cafe, she took off her sweater. I drank my espresso and tried not to stare for too long at her bare arms. This stranger, who was no longer too much of a stranger anymore, in her perfect plain black T-shirt, was talking about the representations of women in sci-fi blockbusters and smiling across our table at me. I thought, it really isn’t so bad, all of this.
We dated with relative regularity over the next couple months. Ruby’s kayak profile picture seemed to reveal itself as a side-effect of extreme shyness. Without any personal precedent of being the one to make the move, I became, out of sheer necessity, the one to make the move. It was our third time seeing each other. We’d had wine on the lawn in front of the Eiffel Tower at sunset, an embarrassingly sentimental date, though we made enough jokes about the cliche to claw our way out of it more or less unscathed. We walked home to her apartment, where we sat on her couch drinking milky tea. I psyched myself up and put down my mug, tried to play it suave, but ended up blundering through a pause in conversation by saying, “I’m gonna do something and you just tell me if I end up doing something you don’t wanna do, okay?” She nodded, and I kissed her.
Before she left Paris for a six-month solo traveling trip around the world, I’d occasionally wake in Ruby’s loft bed, where I felt like we were two overgrown kids in a fort we’d dreamed up, and where I always tried to leave her resting in the mornings. Usually she insisted on walking me to the metro. We parted, always, gracelessly: kissing each other’s cheeks, two awkward momentary expats playing at a culture that wasn’t ours. READ MORE