While we're at it, I just want to take a moment to salute the poetry of Ghostface. I really need to pick up the latest. But from his debut on 36 Chambers to Fishscale, I don't know if I ever seen MC consistently raise his game as Ghost has. (Big Boi maybe?) It wasn't like he was awfulon 36 Chambers, and by Ironman he was in the top tier of the Wu. But now he's arguably the best MC they've produced.
One of my favorite joints has to be "Shakey Dog," a kind of stream of conscious narrative about a drug stick-up on gone bad. I think, but I'm not sure, that it's a riff of off Biggie's "Niggas Bleed." But allusions aside, the chaos of the piece--the multiple voices, the wild and seemingly incongruous details, and of course's Ghost's performance--really match the chaos of the track. Here's a scene halfway in, as Ghost and his partner Frank con their way into an unsuspecting drug-dealer's apartment:
"Yo, who goes there." Tony. "Tony, one second homey,
No matter rain sleet or snow you know you spose to phone me."
Off came the latch. Frank pushed me into the door.
The door flew open. Dude had his mouth open, frozen,
Stood still with his heat bulging. Told him
"Freeze, lay the fuck down and enjoy the moment."
Again the language--the archaic "Who goes there" and the comic understated threat, "lay the fuck down and enjoy the moment" work to create this soundscape of chaos.
"Shakey Dog," like some much of Ghost's best work, is about fear and desperation. It's fear and desperation rendered through the drug game, but the emotion of the thing transcends. Before she takes a big exam, or when I'm working on an article, it's nothing for me or Kenyatta to say to, "The moment is here, take your fucking hood off," or as Ghost says in Run, "When you see me coming, get the fuck out the entrance." "Run" is another one of those anthems--all desperation and illegality. ("If you selling drugs in a school zone, run." A quick shout-out to a great line, "Took off, made track look easy\Those walkie-talkies them DTs had, black, they was Rated PG")
Again, I think hip-hop is too often seen as literal music as opposed to an art that often employs one of the most transgressive acts of our time--drug-selling--to touch the transgressive spirit in all of us. Who can't relate to the very American hustler spirit evinced by Jada when he says, "Clear twelve twelves that look like stuffed shells\I'm cutting niggers throats on the sales, while they puff els." I guess you'd have to understand the lingo to relate, but my point is that moralizing so often misses appoint. We are not wholly moral people, nor do we really want to be. Some of us need our art to speak to that ugly, essential truth.
The audio on the second video is awful--but it made me feel like I 19 again, so it warrants a link. I might have punched some one if I was in that crowd.
It happened gradually—and until the U.S. figures out how to treat the problem, it will only get worse.
It’s 2020, four years from now. The campaign is under way to succeed the president, who is retiring after a single wretched term. Voters are angrier than ever—at politicians, at compromisers, at the establishment. Congress and the White House seem incapable of working together on anything, even when their interests align. With lawmaking at a standstill, the president’s use of executive orders and regulatory discretion has reached a level that Congress views as dictatorial—not that Congress can do anything about it, except file lawsuits that the divided Supreme Court, its three vacancies unfilled, has been unable to resolve.
On Capitol Hill, Speaker Paul Ryan resigned after proving unable to pass a budget, or much else. The House burned through two more speakers and one “acting” speaker, a job invented following four speakerless months. The Senate, meanwhile, is tied in knots by wannabe presidents and aspiring talk-show hosts, who use the chamber as a social-media platform to build their brands by obstructing—well, everything. The Defense Department is among hundreds of agencies that have not been reauthorized, the government has shut down three times, and, yes, it finally happened: The United States briefly defaulted on the national debt, precipitating a market collapse and an economic downturn. No one wanted that outcome, but no one was able to prevent it.
Learning how to bond with my daughter, who found comfort in the familiarity of being alone, has come through understanding reactive attachment disorder.
My hands hover over the computer keyboard. They are trembling. I hold down the shift key and type the words with intention, saying each letter aloud: “R-e-a-c-t-i-v-e A-t-t-a-c-h-m-e-n-t D-i-s-o-r-d-e-r.” The words “reactive attachment disorder” are memory beads I gather into a pile and attempt to string along on a necklace.
I think back to when Judith, my neighbor who is a psychiatrist, offhandedly threw out the term the first time she met Julia. We were talking about babies who start their lives in orphanages, and she mentioned the disorder. She wasn't suggesting that my daughter Julia showed any signs, but she’d said it was a well-known problem with children who’d been adopted from Romanian orphanages in the '80s and '90s. I remember nodding my head and thinking, Shut up, Judith. We got Julia young. It shouldn't be an issue.
Unexpected discoveries in the quest to cure an extraordinary skeletal condition show how medically relevant rare diseases can be.
When Jeannie Peeper was born in 1958, there was only one thing amiss: her big toes were short and crooked. Doctors fitted her with toe braces and sent her home. Two months later, a bulbous swelling appeared on the back of Peeper’s head. Her parents didn’t know why: she hadn’t hit her head on the side of her crib; she didn’t have an infected scratch. After a few days, the swelling vanished as quickly as it had arrived.
When Peeper’s mother noticed that the baby couldn’t open her mouth as wide as her sisters and brothers, she took her to the first of various doctors, seeking an explanation for her seemingly random assortment of symptoms. Peeper was 4 when the Mayo Clinic confirmed a diagnosis: she had a disorder known as fibrodysplasia ossificans progressiva (FOP).
The results of the referendum are, in theory, not legally binding.
Lest we think the Euroskepticism displayed this week by British voters is new, let me present a scene from the BBC’s Yes, Minister, a comedy about the U.K. civil service’s relationship with a minister. The series ran from 1980 to ’84 (and, yes, it was funny), at a time when the European Union was a mere glint in its founders’ eyes.
The Europe being referred to in the scene is the European Economic Community (EEC), an eventually 12-member bloc established in the mid-1950s, to bring about greater economic integration among its members.
In many ways, the seeds of the U.K.’s Thursday referendum on its membership in the European Union were sown soon after the country joined the now-defunct EEC in 1973. Then, as now, the ruling Conservative Party and opposition Labour, along with the rest of the country, were deeply divided over the issue. In the run-up to the general election the following year, Labour promised in its manifesto to put the U.K.’s EEC membership to a public referendum. Labour eventually came to power and Parliament passed the Referendum Act in 1975, fulfilling that campaign promise. The vote was held on June 5, 1975, and the result was what the political establishment had hoped for: an overwhelming 67 percent of voters supported the country’s EEC membership.
American society increasingly mistakes intelligence for human worth.
As recently as the 1950s, possessing only middling intelligence was not likely to severely limit your life’s trajectory. IQ wasn’t a big factor in whom you married, where you lived, or what others thought of you. The qualifications for a good job, whether on an assembly line or behind a desk, mostly revolved around integrity, work ethic, and a knack for getting along—bosses didn’t routinely expect college degrees, much less ask to see SAT scores. As one account of the era put it, hiring decisions were “based on a candidate having a critical skill or two and on soft factors such as eagerness, appearance, family background, and physical characteristics.”
The 2010s, in contrast, are a terrible time to not be brainy. Those who consider themselves bright openly mock others for being less so. Even in this age of rampant concern over microaggressions and victimization, we maintain open season on the nonsmart. People who’d swerve off a cliff rather than use a pejorative for race, religion, physical appearance, or disability are all too happy to drop the s‑bomb: Indeed, degrading others for being “stupid” has become nearly automatic in all forms of disagreement.
Why the transgender star equates femininity with makeup
When Caitlyn Jenner announced to her family that she was transitioning, her stepdaughter Kim Kardashian West had a few words of advice.
“I remember Kim coming up and saying, ‘If you do this, you gotta rock it every day,” Jenner said during a session on Sunday, at Spotlight Health, a conference co-hosted by the Aspen Institute and The Atlantic. “You cannot go out the door unless you’re put together.”
The anecdote was part of a broader discussion about how hounded by paparazzi Jenner felt during her transition. Photographers followed her relentlessly in pursuit of an unfeminine-looking shot, Jenner said. A particularly painful moment came in 2014, when Jenner was photographed leaving a surgical center after a procedure to shave her Adam’s apple.
The city is riding high after the NBA final. But with the GOP convention looming, residents are bracing for disappointment.
Cleveland’s in a weird mood.
My son and I attended the Indians game on Father’s Day, the afternoon before game seven of the NBA Finals—which, in retrospect, now seems like it should be blockbustered simply as The Afternoon Before—when the Cavaliers would take on the Golden State Warriors and bring the city its first major-league sports championship in 52 years.
I am 52 years old. I’ve lived in Northeast Ohio all my life. I know what Cleveland feels like. And it’s not this.
In the ballpark that day, 25,269 of us sat watching a pitcher’s duel, and the place was palpably subdued. The announcer and digitized big-screen signage made no acknowledgement of the city’s excitement over the Cavaliers. There were no chants of “Let’s Go Cavs,” no special seventh-inning-stretch cheer for the Indians’ basketball brothers, who play next door in the Quicken Loans Arena, which in a few weeks will host the Republican National Convention.
The Republican candidate is deeply unpopular, and his Democratic rival is promoting her own version of American nationalism.
American commentators have spent the weekend pondering the similarities between Britain’s vote to leave the European Union and America’s impending vote on whether to take leave it of its senses by electing Donald Trump. The similarities have been well-rehearsed: The supporters of Brexit—like the supporters of Trump--are older, non-college educated, non-urban, distrustful of elites, xenophobic, and nostalgic. Moreover, many British commentators discounted polls showing that Brexit might win just as many American commentators, myself very much included, discounted polls showing that Trump might win the Republican nomination. Brexit may even result in the installation this fall of a new British prime minister, Boris Johnson, who is entertaining, self-promoting, vaguely racist, doughy, and orange. It’s all too familiar.
The June 23 vote represents a huge popular rebellion against a future in which British people feel increasingly crowded within—and even crowded out of—their own country.
I said goodnight to a gloomy party of Leave-minded Londoners a few minutes after midnight. The paper ballots were still being counted by hand. Only the British overseas territory of Gibraltar had reported final results. Yet the assumption of a Remain victory filled the room—and depressed my hosts. One important journalist had received a detailed briefing earlier that evening of the results of the government’s exit polling: 57 percent for Remain.
The polling industry will be one victim of the Brexit vote. A few days before the vote, I met with a pollster who had departed from the cheap and dirty methods of his peers to perform a much more costly survey for a major financial firm. His results showed a comfortable margin for Remain. Ten days later, anyone who heeded his expensive advice suffered the biggest percentage losses since the 2008 financial crisis.