On June 9, 1993, the Montreal Canadiens -- of whom I, like my confederate Andrew Cohen, have been a fan since the age of zero, and who had won the National Hockey League championship only once since the their last dynasty years in the '70s -- were headed into game five of the Stanley Cup finals against the Los Angeles Kings, up three games to one. That's a comfortable lead, but the Kings were Wayne Gretzky's team; they'd taken the first game of the series 4-1 and pushed the Canadiens into overtime in each of the next three. With the possibility that the Habs could win it all that night, my pals and I felt compelled to head down to the Forum to see what the scalpers were asking. $100 for a standing-room ticket may not seem like much now -- and frankly, it didn't seem like much the next day -- but then and there, we doubted our luck that our team would manage a fourth win in a row and settled for a sports bar on rue Saint-Laurent.
The next morning, this was the off-lede story on the front page ofThe Montreal Gazette:
Unleashing seven years of pent-up frustration, thousands of Montreal hockey fans swarmed downtown last night smashing car windows, overturning cars and looting stores as part of the explosion of emotions which followed the Canadiens' 24th Stanley Cup victory.
They poured out of the Forum, were joined by thousands of other fans congregating downtown and took over Ste. Catherine St.
Despite a heavy police presence in the streets the delirious fans went on a rampage. They swept along the street turning over cars, smashing store windows and attacking remote trucks belonging to television stations.
... Montreal Urban Community police, stung by criticism of their slow reaction to outof-hand celebrations after the Canadiens won the Stanley Cup in 1986, said they had deployed about four times the number of officers and patrol vehicles in the area surrounding the Forum than they would normally send to a hockey game.
But this time they were overwhelmed by sheer numbers as the fans took over Ste. Catherine St. and brought traffic to a standstill.
All of which is largely how things are remembered today: years of pent-up frustration, thousands of violent fans rioting, overwhelmed police. ... But it's not true.
As the final minutes of the game had passed, and everyone at our bar started realizing that we'd really won, euphoria took over. I remember a guy in a Habs jersey bear-hugging me, weeping, just because I was there beside him in the middle of it all. Before long, we spilled out of the bar into a river of Montrealers flowing down toward Sainte-Catherine, and from there west to the Forum. I've never seen anything like it since. The slightest eye contact was all any two people seemed to need before embracing, slapping each other on the back, or patting each other on the face, wide-eyed, yelling victory -- maybe in French, maybe in English.
By the time we were half-way down Sainte-Catherine, though, the scene was filling out in odd ways. We started noticing packs of young guys huddled on the side streets, carrying empty duffle bags. Others hung back with walkie-talkies, one in a doorway over here, another in an alleyway across the street. None of them were moving. The crowed thickened. Police were out in full riot gear, but they were concentrated in tight groups, far away from one another. For three or four long blocks at a time, we didn't see them at all. Then, the sound of breaking glass. People started darting from the side streets against the pedestrian flow, hitting shop windows and bagging the goods. These weren't fans; they were crews. Most folks in the street were stunned, many started booing loudly. A few idiots idly picked up sunglasses or T-shirts from shattered storefronts.
In the last few blocks before the Forum, the looting got worse, along, now, with the random trashing of property -- bus doors, bank windows, street lamps. A car had been flipped over and torched. Some people were into the rampaging. But most clearly weren't. There were confrontations between rioters and non-rioters. A few fights broke out. Looking up at the Forum, I heard someone walking behind me say in an American accent, "This city sucks! I'm never coming back here again ...."
Flashing forward to Vancouver this week, the story there seems straigtforward. You can read the reporting, which is far more extensive than it was in Montreal 18 years ago, and you can watch the raw ugliness for yourself all over YouTube. But we still don't really understand what drove this riot -- and should be slow to reckon that the apparent irony of Canadians rioting, or the reality of people from a famously beautiful city turning vicious, tells us anything about Vancouver or Canucks fans as a whole.
Science says lasting relationships come down to—you guessed it—kindness and generosity.
Every day in June, the most popular wedding month of the year, about 13,000 American couples will say “I do,” committing to a lifelong relationship that will be full of friendship, joy, and love that will carry them forward to their final days on this earth.
Except, of course, it doesn’t work out that way for most people. The majority of marriages fail, either ending in divorce and separation or devolving into bitterness and dysfunction. Of all the people who get married, only three in ten remain in healthy, happy marriages, as psychologist Ty Tashiro points out in his book The Science of Happily Ever After, which was published earlier this year.
Social scientists first started studying marriages by observing them in action in the 1970s in response to a crisis: Married couples were divorcing at unprecedented rates. Worried about the impact these divorces would have on the children of the broken marriages, psychologists decided to cast their scientific net on couples, bringing them into the lab to observe them and determine what the ingredients of a healthy, lasting relationship were. Was each unhappy family unhappy in its own way, as Tolstoy claimed, or did the miserable marriages all share something toxic in common?
He lives near San Francisco, makes more than $50,000 per year, and is voting for the billionaire to fight against political correctness.
For several days, I’ve been corresponding with a 22-year-old Donald Trump supporter. He is white, has a bachelor’s degree, and earns $50,000 to $60,000 per year.
He lives near San Francisco.
“I recently became engaged to my Asian fiancée who is making roughly 3 times what I make, and I am completely supportive of her and proud she is doing so well,” he wrote. “We’ve both benefitted a lot from globalization. We are young, urban, and have a happy future planned. We seem molded to be perfect young Hillary supporters,” he observed, “but we're not. In 2016, we're both going for Trump.”
At first, we discussed Bill Clinton.
Last week, I wrote an article asking why Trump supporters aren’t bothered that their candidate called Clinton a shameful abuser of women who may well be a rapist. After all, Trump used to insist that Clinton was a victim of unfair treatment during his sex scandals. Either Trump spent years defending a man that he believed to be a sexual predator, even welcoming him as a guest at his wedding, or Trump is now cynically exploiting a rape allegation that he believes to be false.
Studies have shown narcissists post more self-promoting content on social media, but it's not always so easy to tell if someone's doing it for the attention.
It’s not hard to see why the Internet would be a good cave for a narcissist to burrow into. Generally speaking, they prefer shallow relationships (preferably one-way, with the arrow pointing toward themselves), and need outside sources to maintain their inflated but delicate egos. So, a shallow cave that you can get into, but not out of. The Internet offers both a vast potential audience, and the possibility for anonymity, and if not anonymity, then a carefully curated veneer of self that you can attach your name to.
In 1987, the psychologists Hazel Markus and Paula Nurius claimed that a person has two selves: the “now self” and the “possible self.” The Internet allows a person to become her “possible self,” or at least present a version of herself that is closer to it.
Five weeks of training was not enough to prepare me for a room of 20 unruly elementary-schoolers.
I am sitting in a comfortable gold folding chair inside one of the many ballrooms at the Georgia International Convention Center. The atmosphere is festive, with a three-course dinner being served and children playing a big-band number. The kids are students at a KIPP academy in Atlanta, and they are serenading future teachers on the first night of a four-day-long series of workshops that will introduce us to the complicated language, rituals, and doctrines we will need to adopt as Teach for America "Corps Members."
The phrase closing the achievement gap is the cornerstone of TFA's general philosophy, public-relations messaging, and training sessions. As a member of the 2011 corps, I was told immediately and often that 1) the achievement gap is a pervasive example of inequality in America, and 2) it is our personal responsibility to close the achievement gap within our classrooms, which are microcosms of America's educational inequality.
A real-time chronicle of Donald Trump’s unpresidential statements.
People will look back on this era in our history, to see what was known about Donald Trump while Americans were deciding whether to choose him as president. Here’s a running chronicle from James Fallows on the ways in which Trump has been unpresidential in an unprecedented way, and of the evidence available to voters as they make their choice. (If you’d like to flag examples to include, please let us know.)
Three Atlantic staffers discuss “Blood of My Blood,” the sixth episode of the sixth season.
Every week for the sixth season of Game of Thrones, Christopher Orr, Spencer Kornhaber, and Lenika Cruz will be discussing new episodes of the HBO drama. Because no screeners are being made available to critics in advance this year, we'll be posting our thoughts in installments.
Narcissism, disagreeableness, grandiosity—a psychologist investigates how Trump’s extraordinary personality might shape his possible presidency.
In 2006, Donald Trump made plans to purchase the Menie Estate, near Aberdeen, Scotland, aiming to convert the dunes and grassland into a luxury golf resort. He and the estate’s owner, Tom Griffin, sat down to discuss the transaction at the Cock & Bull restaurant. Griffin recalls that Trump was a hard-nosed negotiator, reluctant to give in on even the tiniest details. But, as Michael D’Antonio writes in his recent biography of Trump, Never Enough, Griffin’s most vivid recollection of the evening pertains to the theatrics. It was as if the golden-haired guest sitting across the table were an actor playing a part on the London stage.
“It was Donald Trump playing Donald Trump,” Griffin observed. There was something unreal about it.
The 104-year-old organization is having trouble recruiting black and Latina kids. Why?
Hillary Clinton. Madeleine Albright. Sandra Day O’Connor. These powerful women have all shaped the course of the United States. And they have something else in common: They were all Girl Scouts.
The girls’ leadership organization has more than 2 million current scouts and 59 million living alumnae. Nearly half of all American women have been Girl Scouts at some point in their lives. Their uniforms, badges, and cookies are synonymous with what it means to be an American girl. Or at least a white, suburban American girl.
Girl Scouts has been losing members for more than a decade as it struggles to reach the new American girl, who is more likely than ever to be an ethnic minority or come from poor, immigrant families. Unlike many scouts who followed in their mother’s footsteps, these girls and their parents have few connections to the 104-year-old organization. And the Girl Scouts can’t seem to find enough volunteers to lead troops for all the girls on the waiting list.
Those who don't have sex during their teen years are in the minority, but the reasons for—and effects of—waiting differ for everyone.
Keith McDorman walks into the back room of an Austin, Texas coffee shop. With his dirty-blond hair, light eyes, week-old beard, and striped button-down shirt, he looks like a younger, shorter, bohemian version of Bradley Cooper. He tosses his scooter helmet onto the wooden table, sits across from me at a booth that barely fits us both, and talks before I ask a question.
“My mind doesn’t comprehend how much sex I have,” says McDorman, a 29-year-old carpenter from southern California.
That statement brings glances from studying college students. We opt for more privacy by heading outside, where we talk over a live rock band at a high table near a vegan food truck. McDorman continues by telling me about a conversation he had recently with his girlfriend, in which he expressed fear that his libido had dropped. She laughed, since, well, they had had sex six times that week.