My son was born when both me and my wife were 24. We thought we were about the right age to have kids, as it was roughly around the same age that our parents had kids. It never really occurred to us that we were "young parents." And then we came to New York, and realized that in certain quarters of the world, we weren't merely young parents, we were actually teen parents.
I experienced this as as older people (but not that much older) giving random and unsolicited instructions on the street, or black men who I did not know asserting that they were "proud" of me because every time they saw me I was with my son. These comments ultimately had very little to do with me as a parent and everything to do with the black community's self-image. And then there was pre-school wherein I realized that the age of child-bearing, and child-rearing, was significantly older than I'd ever imagined. It seemed that in certain quarters of New York, the agreed-upon age to have kids is about 35.
I often wished we'd waited for a time when were more fixed, and knew ourselves better, to say nothing of each other. The boy's life has been nomadic and random. Everything is constantly changing. There's a kind of wild intimacy about us because of the close quarters we've always enjoyed, and everything just feels like it's in flux. The problem is that when he was born, his parents were still maturing, still mutating.
As when the boy was two and my friend Ricardo handed me a copy of London Calling and told me I had to listen. This was early in the moment when I realized I had exhausted the limits of hip-hop's aesthetics and I wanted something new, which of course to all of you, is something very, very old. At any rate I know I am growing old because I have memories of the boy bobbing his head to "Guns of Brixton" or running around our Brooklyn basement apartment raising his fist yelling, "Ruuuu--deeee Ca Fale!!!"
My God, we were so broke then. I remember when we first got to New York and I had this sinking feeling that I had really gotten in too deep, that I had involved myself in some business (a family!) that I was not ready for. What I learned was that it's best not to think about it. No one is ready. Not even the people I often took to be more secure.
Anyway this is a great song--and it reminds me of my man.
In the 1970s, a new wave of post-Watergate liberals stopped fighting monopoly power. The result is an increasingly dangerous political system.
It was January 1975, and the Watergate Babies had arrived in Washington looking for blood. The Watergate Babies—as the recently elected Democratic congressmen were known—were young, idealistic liberals who had been swept into office on a promise to clean up government, end the war in Vietnam, and rid the nation’s capital of the kind of corruption and dirty politics the Nixon White House had wrought. Richard Nixon himself had resigned just a few months earlier in August. But the Watergate Babies didn’t just campaign against Nixon; they took on the Democratic establishment, too. Newly elected Representative George Miller of California, then just 29 years old, announced, “We came here to take the Bastille.”
Tom Hanks’s Doug has a lot in common with “Black Jeopardy” contestants—except, of course, for politics.
SNL’s ongoing “Black Jeopardy” series has been, in part, about divisions. In each edition, black American contestants answer Kenan Thompson’s clues with in-jokes, slang, and their shared opinions while an outsider—say, Elizabeth Banks as the living incarnation of Becky, Louis C.K. as a BYU African American Studies professor, or Drake as a black Canadian—just show their cluelessness.
When Tom Hanks showed up in a “Make America Great Again” hat and bald-eagle shirt to play the contestant “Doug” this weekend, it seemed like the set-up for the ugliest culture clash yet. The 2016 election has been a reminder of the country’s profound racial fault lines, and SNL hasn’t exactly been forgiving toward the Republican nominee on that front: Its version of Trump hasn’t been able to tell black people apart, and it aired a mock ad painting his supporters as white supremacists—which, inarguably, some of them really are.
Late to this for family reasons, but catching up on an actually astonishing development:
Through the campaign, Donald Trump at times seemed more intent on promoting his business interests than in advancing a political campaign. He took time off this summer to fly to Scotland and tout the opening of a new Trump golf resort. He turned what was billed as a major campaign announcement into a promo for his new DC hotel. A surprisingly large share of the money he’s raised for his campaign’s expenditures has gone to his own businesses (notably Mar-a-Lago).
That is why today’s story, in Travel and Leisure, is so piquant and O. Henry-like. What Trump might have imagined would further burnish his personal brand may in fact be poisoning it. T&L reports that Trump’s new hotels will no longer carry his name!!! Instead they’ll be called “Scion.” Groan, given the actual scions, but fascinating in its own way. From T&L:
The Republican nominee’s presidential campaign has been nightmarish for his hotel business. Financial markets foresee a similar effect on the world economy.
Donald Trump once wondered aloud if he might become the first person to make money running for president. He made rather brazen attempts to fulfill the prediction. But his candidacy has been a downright disaster for the hotels and resorts that bear his gilded surname. Bookings there are down 59 percent since 2015, according to the travel company Hipmunk. Trump Hotels CEO Eric Danzinger announced that the newest hotels will junk the Trump name entirely. The company has settled on “Scion” to rebrand its new line of luxury hotels aimed at Millennials, who are overwhelmingly opposed to his campaign.
Trump isn’t just bad for his business. He’s not even just a danger to the U.S. economy. Investors around the world think that a President Trump would be disastrous for global markets. And now, there is hard data to prove it, thanks to two clever economists and one debate meltdown.
When their manhood is threatened, men react by doing less housework. The only exception? Meal preparation.
It’s never been a better time to be a man, but for some, it’s also a scary time. Men lost jobs in the recession, and women outnumber them on college campuses. (Some are predicting, in fact, that we’re witnessing the end of men.)
As I’ve written, one way some men are responding to their slipping place in the social hierarchy is by supporting Donald Trump, whose rhetoric hearkens to a less progressive, more traditional time.
But another way men react to having their masculinity threatened is stealthier. They do fewer chores, according to an analysis by Dan Cassino, a professor at Fairleigh Dickinson University, and his wife Yasemin Besen-Cassino, from Montclair State University, which relied on the American Time Use Study. According to their findings, men especially avoid housework just when you’d think they would pick up the slack: When they make less than their wives do.
What use is there today for one of the oldest virtues?
As many Americans go about their days, I imagine they have two little angels perched on their shoulders, whispering conflicting messages about happiness and material wealth. One angel is embodied by James Altucher, a minimalist self-help guru recently profiled by The New York Times. Altucher claims to have only 15 possessions, after having unburdened himself a few months ago of 40 garbage bags’ worth of stuff and never looking back. As I read about Altucher, I rolled the numbers 15 and 40 over in my mind, thinking about the belongings in my bedroom and the garbage bags under my kitchen sink.
The other angel is Tyler Brûlé, the editor in chief of the fantastically high-end lifestyle magazine Monocle and a columnist for the Financial Times. He is the sort of writer who tosses off such lines as “I zipped along the autostrada through the Val d’Aosta with the ever-trusty Mario (my Italian driver for the past 20 years) at the wheel” with little regard for how privileged and pretentious he sounds (especially in his superfluous parentheticals). Still, there is something, I’m a little ashamed to say, that I envy about Brûlé’s effortless cosmopolitanism—which, it’s hard to miss, is only made possible by unusual wealth.
Biology textbooks tell us that lichens are alliances between two organisms—a fungus and an alga. They are wrong.
In 1995, if you had told Toby Spribille that he’d eventually overthrow a scientific idea that’s been the stuff of textbooks for 150 years, he would have laughed at you. Back then, his life seemed constrained to a very different path. He was raised in a Montana trailer park, and home-schooled by what he now describes as a “fundamentalist cult.” At a young age, he fell in love with science, but had no way of feeding that love. He longed to break away from his roots and get a proper education.
At 19, he got a job at a local forestry service. Within a few years, he had earned enough to leave home. His meager savings and non-existent grades meant that no American university would take him, so Spribille looked to Europe.
These are some reading recommendations that will hopefully provide a deeper look at some of these issues. Books may seem like small comfort. But in a time like this, when it’s hard to understand how American culture became so hate-filled, reading is probably the best possible option—to get off the internet, pick up a book, and think about how the country has gotten here.
Tristan Harris believes Silicon Valley is addicting us to our phones. He’s determined to make it stop.
On a recent evening in San Francisco, Tristan Harris, a former product philosopher at Google, took a name tag from a man in pajamas called “Honey Bear” and wrote down his pseudonym for the night: “Presence.”
Harris had just arrived at Unplug SF, a “digital detox experiment” held in honor of the National Day of Unplugging, and the organizers had banned real names. Also outlawed: clocks, “w-talk” (work talk), and “WMDs” (the planners’ loaded shorthand for wireless mobile devices). Harris, a slight 32-year-old with copper hair and a tidy beard, surrendered his iPhone, a device he considers so addictive that he’s called it “a slot machine in my pocket.” He keeps the background set to an image of Scrabble tiles spelling out the words face down, a reminder of the device’s optimal position.
How the worst apple took over the United States, and continues to spread
At the supermarket near his home in central Virginia, Tom Burford likes to loiter by the display of Red Delicious. He waits until he spots a store manager. Then he picks up one of the glossy apples and, with a flourish, scrapes his fingernail into the wax: T-O-M.
“We can’t sell that now,” the manager protests.
To which Burford replies, in his soft Piedmont drawl: “That’s my point.”
Burford, who is 79 years old, is disinclined to apple destruction. His ancestors scattered apple seeds in the Blue Ridge foothills as far back as 1713, and he grew up with more than 100 types of trees in his backyard orchard. He is the author ofApples of North America, an encyclopedia of heirloom varieties, and travels the country lecturing on horticulture and nursery design. But his preservationist tendencies stop short of the Red Delicious and what he calls the “ramming down the throats of American consumers this disgusting, red, beautiful fruit.”