A fun look at Gwyneth Paltrow’s rather ridiculous offer to AirBnB her guest house. Jodi Walker strips this down to the publicity stunt it is and has a great time analyzing how she can make the stay hers.
Because if it looks like a contest and quacks like a contest, it’s probably a publicity stunt. But still, if at the end of that publicity stunt—and at the end of whatever technical nightmare stands between me and the Goop House—is my getting to talk about natural wine and odors with Gwyneth Paltrow and her husband, Brad Falchuk … well, quack quack, bitch, let’s go.
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Now that Bookforum is back from the dead, it’s seemingly pushing legacy content through its RSS feed—which means lovely surprises like this Ross Gay essay about basketball (and the bellicose posturing that’s such an inextricable part of the game) from the Summer 2022 issue. My favorite poet, my favorite sport. Not a bad way to start a week.
He was also talking shit the whole time. I don’t know what he was saying—I mean, I can guess, ballpark—but his shit-talk reached its embodied zenith when he ripped their point guard at the top of the key and, sailing to the other basket and taking his last dribble, looked back at the kid chasing him and held the ball on a platter, like You looking for this, like, Not today, before laying it in. The refs kept getting on him, and getting on us to get on him, for all this jawing, this flamboyant chatter, but he couldn’t stop, I remember watching and giggling and thinking, He can’t stop, he just can’t stop, for he was elated, and his elation was elating, and Lord let me best as I can never be the asshole rips the wings off an elated kid.
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The term “narcissist” is often freely bandied around, but what does it really mean? In this fascinating essay, Diane Kwon discovers that—like many things— it is a broad spectrum with several nuances. The science here is easily digestible and will show you narcissism is not necessarily what you think it is.
But chances are you’ve encountered a narcissist, and they looked nothing like Trump, Musk or Modi. Up to 6 percent of the U.S. population, mostly men, is estimated to have had narcissistic personality disorder during some period of their lives. And the condition manifests in confoundingly different ways.
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I see a feature story about dancehall music, I recommend it. That’s the rule. Even if this profile of Sean Paul is so millennial-skewed that it overlooks massive hits like “Deport Them” and “Gimme the Light,” it’s still an overdue appreciation of an artist who helped bring the reggae offshoot to new global heights.
Whether it’s at a grimy nightclub or in an auditorium full of emotionally stunted teenagers avoiding eye contact in Dehradun, India, there are a few things likely to occur whenever a D.J. puts on “Get Busy” for a crowd of the right age. There will be squeals of recognition as Paul booms “SHAKE … THAT … THING,” each word with its vertiginous pause. Then the delirious, almost incantatory hand claps will start to register: “It’s the ignition of those butterflies,” he told me. As Paul’s exuberant melodies combine with the boisterous throb of the Diwali riddim, listeners’ hips and waists acquire a sentience of their own, moving as if threatening to secede from the rest of the body.
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A push for slavery reparations. The dilemma of wild cows. A complicated racial heritage. How bees require a balanced diet. And the joys of swimming in the slow lane.
It’s been nine years since Ta-Nehisi Coates wrote his seminal essay “The Case for Reparations” in The Atlantic. Today, the idea of compensating Black Americans for the horrors of slavery and institutionalized racism remains fringe at best. The same goes in other countries that were once complicit in human bondage. But in the island nation of Barbados, where slaves made sugar plantations wildly lucrative, support for reparations is very real—and growing stronger. This year, under the leadership of President Mia Mottley, the country is asking European countries for a “Marshall Plan-like public investment,” as opposed to the individual payments we usually associate with reparations. Mottley, though, isn’t at the heart of this feature about Barbados’ groundbreaking efforts. Instead, writer Jannell Ross showcases Esther Phillips, the country’s poet laureate, who went from believing reparations were radical, to viewing them as unlikely, to arguing passionately for them. Phillips hopes that other people, particularly in Europe, will undergo transformations of their own. “If something of such horror is revealed,” she tells Ross, “and you’re still benefiting from the proceeds, you cannot turn you head and say, ‘Well, what has to do with me?’”—SD
Jude Isabella | Hakai | August 15, 2023 | 5,525 words
Last year, our sister publication, The Atavist, published one of my favorite features in recent memory: a story about feral cows who were washed away in a storm surge, only to resurface miles away, perfectly fine. I don’t think I’d thought about feral cows before that point. In my mind, conditioned as it was by cheese companies and weird college mascots, “bovine” was synonymous with “domesticated.” Even after reading it, my image of feral cows remained indistinguishable from the archetype of the placid ruminant. But as Jude Isabella points out in her visit to Alaska’s uninhabited Chirikof Island, the truth is udderly different. “Trappers on Chirikof have witnessed up to a dozen bulls at a time pursuing and mounting cows, causing injury, exhaustion, and death, especially to heifers,” she writes. Troublesome rutting is only one of the issues plaguing Chirikof; the 2,000 cattle there are federally protected, but everyone else is torn about whether that’s a boon or a bane for the island’s ecosystem. One wildlife biologist Isabella talks to points out that Chirikof’s shape—either a T-bone steak or a teardrop, depending on who’s describing it—neatly embodies the tension at hand. At its heart, this is a nature piece, one that transports you (by seaplane) to a land of wind-rippled meadows and majestic untamed beasts. But it’s also a challenge to our very conceptions of cows. Yes, we can imagine Chirikof as a utopia for its massive herd—but what of the many other species that call Chirikof home? —PR
Arthur Asseraf | Granta | July 25, 2023 | 3,029 words
Arthur Asseraf became a historian in part to overcome the confusion of his ancestry: his paternal grandmother was born in Morocco and eventually returned to France, for reasons undiscernible to Asseraf as a child. As he gains context and knowledge, Asseraf carefully confronts his grandmother’s distaste for Arabs and her unwillingness to see them as equal to her as an Algerian Jew. The more he learns about her past, the more distant he becomes to her. “I never told my colleagues the truth: that I knew colonialism not only through reading books, but also because its representative served me fish fingers after school,” he writes. Things change as Assaraf’s grandmother develops dementia and she reveals the anti-semitism she encountered as a Jew after the Second World War. This piece is a beautiful read about a grandson’s desire to understand a heritage mired in racist colonialism, coupled with the discovery that his grandmother, over the course of her life, was both oppressor and victim. —KS
Diane Mehta | Virginia Quarterly Review | June 12, 2023 | 4,236 words
I love to swim. Put me in front of a body of water and I will want to jump in it—temperature be damned. The feeling of a new silky texture rushing to envelop your skin. The silence of submerging. The sudden weightlessness of heavy limbs. However, not all swimming has equal majesty. Give me endless wild splashing in a sea or a lake, never the confusing etiquette of public pool lane-swimming. As I read this beautiful essay, I nodded to Diane Mehta’s frustration at swimming in the slow lane of her local YMCA pool. Why was a woman touching her foot? Why was another woman performing cartwheels and ballet steps? But Mehta keeps on going. Every. Single. Day. You will root for her as she learns to swim freestyle for the first time, and feel for her as she comes to grips with middle age and her new, less cooperative body. She swims until she “fell in love with the woman who cartwheeled down the lane, the stalwart silver-haired man who strode in with deliberation, [and] the older lady who gravitated forward like a Galapagos turtle.” And she swims until she also loves her own body again. I think I need to give lane-swimming another chance. —CW
Audience Award
Here’s the piece that stood out for our audience this week.
Julie Miller | Vanity Fair | August 9, 2023 | 8,658 words
In yet another true crime story—but one that still manages to surprise—Margie Palm gets kidnapped by serial killer Stephen Miller and discusses her religious beliefs until he lets her go. Julie Miller recounts this bizarre, terrifying day and the even more bizarre friendship that followed. By smartly delving into the background of both characters Miller provides the necessary context to understand an otherwise unfathomable scenario. —CW
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In this powerful account of the bond between a police dog and his handler, Dave Wedge deftly portrays how well this team supports each other, both on the field and off. The emotion is particularly raw when they lean on each other to recover from the things that they experience. By the end, that emotion has flooded over.
Kitt wasn’t merely Cushing’s partner: They were best friends—family, even—together 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Deeply connected, they’d saved each other’s lives during confrontations with armed criminals and were trained to do it again, if necessary.
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It’s hard to believe that Martin Scorsese ever needed a comeback movie, but the 1985 cult classic After Hours arguably qualifies. For Air Mail, Jake Malooley rounds up every-damn-body involved with the picture—including Scorsese—for an oral history you’ll laminate and place next to your Criterion Collection Blu-ray.
[GRIFFIN] DUNNE: Marty is asthmatic, and he could smell a cigarette 10 miles away. When we were shooting the crane shot where I drop to my knees and scream, “What do you want from me? I’m just a word processor,” I had to yell that at the top of my lungs several times. And a woman from a loft overlooking the scene lifted her enormous window up, poked her head out, and screamed, “Shut up! Shut up! Shut the fuck up!” Marty, without missing a beat, looked up and said, “Tell that lady to put out her cigarette.”
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