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.
She lived with us for 56 years. She raised me and my siblings without pay. I was 11, a typical American kid, before I realized who she was.
The ashes filled a black plastic box about the size of a toaster. It weighed three and a half pounds. I put it in a canvas tote bag and packed it in my suitcase this past July for the transpacific flight to Manila. From there I would travel by car to a rural village. When I arrived, I would hand over all that was left of the woman who had spent 56 years as a slave in my family’s household.
The condition has long been considered untreatable. Experts can spot it in a child as young as 3 or 4. But a new clinical approach offers hope.
This is a good day, Samantha tells me: 10 on a scale of 10. We’re sitting in a conference room at the San Marcos Treatment Center, just south of Austin, Texas, a space that has witnessed countless difficult conversations between troubled children, their worried parents, and clinical therapists. But today promises unalloyed joy. Samantha’s mother is visiting from Idaho, as she does every six weeks, which means lunch off campus and an excursion to Target. The girl needs supplies: new jeans, yoga pants, nail polish.
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At 11, Samantha is just over 5 feet tall and has wavy black hair and a steady gaze. She flashes a smile when I ask about her favorite subject (history), and grimaces when I ask about her least favorite (math). She seems poised and cheerful, a normal preteen. But when we steer into uncomfortable territory—the events that led her to this juvenile-treatment facility nearly 2,000 miles from her family—Samantha hesitates and looks down at her hands. “I wanted the whole world to myself,” she says. “So I made a whole entire book about how to hurt people.”
The office was, until a few decades ago, the last stronghold of fashion formality. Silicon Valley changed that.
Americans began the 20th century in bustles and bowler hats and ended it in velour sweatsuits and flannel shirts—the most radical shift in dress standards in human history. At the center of this sartorial revolution was business casual, a genre of dress that broke the last bastion of formality—office attire—to redefine the American wardrobe.
Born in Silicon Valley in the early-1980s, business casual consists of khaki pants, sensible shoes, and button-down collared shirts. By the time it was mainstream, in the 1990s, it flummoxed HR managers and employees alike. “Welcome to the confusing world of business casual,” declared a fashion writer for the Chicago Tribune in 1995. With time and some coaching, people caught on. Today, though, the term “business casual” is nearly obsolete for describing the clothing of a workforce that includes many who work from home in yoga pants, put on a clean T-shirt for a Skype meeting, and don’t always go into the office.
Isabel Caliva and her husband, Frank, had already “kicked the can down the road.” The can, in their case, was the kid conversation; the road was Caliva’s fertile years. Frank had always said he wanted lots of kids. Caliva, who was in her early 30s, thought maybe one or two would be nice, but she was mostly undecided. They had a nice life, with plenty of free time that allowed for trips to Portugal, Paris, and Hawaii.
“I wasn’t feeling the pull the same way my friends were describing,” she told me recently. “I thought, maybe this isn’t gonna be the thing for me. Maybe it’s just going to be the two of us.”
At times, she wondered if her lack of baby fever should be cause for concern. She took her worries to the Internet, where she came across a post on the Rumpus’ “Dear Sugar” advice column titled, “The Ghost Ship that Didn’t Carry Us.” The letter was from a 41-year-old man who was also on the fence about kids: “Things like quiet, free time, spontaneous travel, pockets of non-obligation,” he wrote. “I really value them.”
Instead, the Netanyahu government is nervous about the new administration.
In Tel Aviv on Monday, Donald Trump will not receive a gleaming gold medal or join a boisterous sword dance. But his 28-hour stop in the Holy Land should have been the highlight of his first foreign tour as president of the United States. Israel’s ruling right-wing greeted his election with glee, and for good reason: The new president seemed ready to fulfill its deepest wishes.
During Trump’s campaign and transition, he vowed to move the U.S. embassy to Jerusalem. (The United States, like most countries, keeps its mission in Tel Aviv to avoid wading into the dispute over the contested holy city.) He nominated a U.S. ambassador, bankruptcy lawyer David Friedman, who supports Israeli settlements—not only in his words, but as the president of a foundation that donated millions to Beit El, an ideological settlement outside of Ramallah. Trump said he would be open to a one-state solution, a statement that seemed to casually discard decades of bipartisan U.S. policy. Several hawkish lawmakers even started drafting a bill to annex large chunks of the West Bank, a step that would permanently foreclose a two-state outcome. “The era of a Palestinian state is over,” Naftali Bennett, the leader of the pro-settler Jewish Home party, cheered at the time. “Obama is history. Now we have Trump,” Miri Regev, Israel’s populist culture minister, declared.
“Having a slave gave me grave doubts about what kind of people we were, what kind of place we came from,” Alex Tizon wrote in his Atlantic essay “My Family’s Slave.”
A thousand objections can be leveled against that piece, and in the few days since it was published, those objections have materialized from all quarters. It’s a powerful story, and its flaws and omissions have their own eloquence. For me, the most important failure is that Tizon seems to attribute Lola’s abuse entirely to another culture—specifically, to a system of servitude in the Philippines—as though he believes, This doesn’t happen in America. But that system is not only in America, it’s everywhere. It ensnares not only immigrants, but everyone.
The justices end a six-year fight over 2011 congressional maps that diluted black voting strength in the state.
You don’t see a Kagan-Breyer-Ginsburg-Sotomayor-Thomas majority often in U.S. Supreme Court decisions, but today that quintet joined together to deal a blow to North Carolina Republicans. In the decision in Cooper v. Harris, the eight-member pre-Gorsuch roster upheld a district court’s ruling that two congressional districts in North Carolina were unconstitutional racial gerrymanders, putting an end to one part of a six-year saga that began with redistricting in 2011.
The two districts in question, District 1 and 12, were drawn in 2011 after the last Census and the 2010 midterms, as part of a nationwide and well-funded push by Republicans to reshape electoral maps and solidify a partisan advantage. In North Carolina, the state and federal congressional redistricting efforts also played part in the state’s ongoing conflicts over voting rights, and both sets of maps eventually found their way to state and federal courts.
The story of a decades-long lead-poisoning lawsuit in New Orleans illustrates how the toxin destroys black families and communities alike.
Casey Billieson was fighting against the world.
Hers was a charge carried by many mothers: moving mountains to make the best future for her two sons. But the mountains she faced were taller than most. To start, she had to raise her boys in the Lafitte housing projects in Treme, near the epicenter of a crime wave in New Orleans. In the spring of 1994, like mothers in violent cities the world over, Billieson anticipated the bloom in murders the thaw would bring. Fueled by the drug trade and a rising scourge of police corruption and brutality, violence rose to unseen levels that year, and the city’s murder rate surged to the highest in the country.
Singing “My Heart Will Go On” for its 20th anniversary, Dion interrupted the show’s mediocrity and cemented her status as a symbol of perseverance.
The Billboard Music Awards is where you can have all your worst suspicions about today’s pop music confirmed. The biggest current stars seemed disposable as they performed in Las Vegas Sunday night: Drake let waterworks replace showmanship as he rapped in the middle of the Bellagio’s fountain; Lorde took the concept of a fake karaoke bar to its least exciting conclusion; Bruno Mars and Ed Sheeran gave new meaning to “phoning it in” by just having overseas concerts simulcast on ABC. The worst set—Drew Taggart of the Chainsmokers mumbling millennial Mad Libs about premature nostalgia while climbing a staircase and then sitting down—felt like a satire on the overrating of white male mediocrity. Still, hosts Ludacris and Vanessa Hudgens pantomimed breathlessness throughout the night. Each muddled performance, we were told, was “epic.”
The question isn’t whether a president can directly control the bureau—it’s whether other institutions, and the public, are going to let him get away with it.
Donald Trump is leading this country into new and dark places. At each new reveal, administration critics ask their version of the question satirically posed by Saturday Night Live’s Michael Che playing NBC’s Lester Holt: “Did I get him? It’s all over?” But no, as the punchline confirms, it’s not over—and a fascinating Friday Twitter exchange shows why not.
I eagerly await the flood of experts explaining why Donald Trump firing Comey to obstruct justice is not obstruction of justice. 😐
Famed defense lawyer Alan Dershowitz has emerged as one of Donald Trump’s most full-throated defenders first in the Russia matter, then in the Comey firing. In so doing, he has devised a bold argument, already rapidly being taken to heart by other Trump defenders: an astonishing and novel claim of the president’s absolute personal control over the FBI.