Over the past two decades—originally fueled by the Crossfit phenomenon—weight training has become more popular among more people than ever before. That’s led to a great many physical transformations, as with Adrian Nathan West; it’s also led more than a few people to the door marked illicit gains. But as West details with humor and candor, we might be making too much of the “illicit” part. You don’t have to agree to enjoy the piece.
As a youth, I thought exercise was for morons and looked at my body as I did at a car: a thing to rely upon, its needs ignored until it gave out in a future too distant to bother contemplating. But then, over the course of a single school year, I had bacterial pericarditis and viral pleurisy bookended by two bouts of bronchitis, and I got scared that if I kept smoking and taking drugs, I might die. I started weightlifting because Henry Rollins did it and because, at five-eleven and 125 pounds, I had no aptitude for any actual sport. I took as gospel the prevailing prejudices about steroids, listed here in order of veracity: they give you acne, shrink your balls, make your hair fall out, give you heart disease, make you aggressive, shrivel your penis. What changed my thinking ten years or so later was, ironically, reading an article about the death of Andreas Münzer, an Austrian bodybuilder, from multiple organ failure in 1996. Der Spiegel published Münzer’s drug cycle in the weeks leading up to his last contest, when he was on a smorgasbord of injectable steroids, as well as insulin, growth hormone, ephedrine, IGF-1, and dozens of tablets a day of Halotestin, Dianabol, and Winstrol. Due to their hepatoxicity, orals are often considered more dangerous than injectables, and the Munich doctor who performed Münzer’s autopsy described half his liver as crumbly “like Styrofoam,” and the other half as “full of masses the size of ping-pong balls.”
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Trucking is an industry in crisis. There’s a shortage of drivers: In 2021, a record 81,000 jobs went unfilled. But the problem isn’t a lack of people who can drive a truck, as Emily Gogolak explains in this reported essay. Rather, it’s the lifestyle: Truckers work insanely long hours for low pay, and they often live out of their cabs. So what kind of person wants to become a trucker today? Gogolak meets several candidates at a training school in Texas, who together offer a window into the death of the American dream:
Yanis was younger than the rest of us, but she was already stressed about her future. She wanted to be out of her parents’ place by winter, but that meant she needed to graduate from Changing Lanes and start filling her nearly empty bank account. Her family lived on ten acres of land in an unincorporated pocket of Travis County that was still mostly rural but was being eaten up fast by developers. Yanis reckoned that her father—who was also a truck driver—could sell the land for a couple million, but he didn’t want to. The problem was that they didn’t have utilities, which was why she wanted to make enough money to move out before the cold set in. It was weird being surrounded by a boomtown but disconnected from it, she told me: “We kind of live like in the old times.”
Yanis had worked as a cleaner at an airport lounge; at a UPS warehouse; as a security guard at an Apple corporate office in the hill country. Then she started working security at Tesla’s nearby Gigafactory. It took a full hour to walk across; when Elon Musk came to visit, his dog apparently had its own security guard. Yanis and her boyfriend, who also worked there, figured out that electricians made the best money at the factory, so they became electricians. In all of her work, she’d often been one of the few women. “You have to show them that you can do things better than them,” she said. “If you’re doing an outlet, the outlet has to look beautiful.” Ultimately, though, Yanis’s jobs have taught her about how the world works—that “the job that you can die on,” she told me, “is where they’re gonna pay you the most.
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Late one night many years ago, my sister was driving home through the leafy roads of South East England when a strange animal bounded into the headlights of her car and swiftly disappeared into a hedgerow. She was certain, she said, that it had been a wallaby—despite the fact that the kangaroo relative was native to Australia and Papua New Guinea and decidedly not native to Oxfordshire. Our reaction was about what you’d expect from a British family: politely skeptical. It had been dark, the encounter fleeting, and the human brain is decidedly fallible. Surely, then, she must have been mistaken.
My sister would eventually be vindicated when the existence of wild wallabies in the UK was confirmed and even captured on film. Yet, her experience isn’t too different from those who claim to have encountered cryptids, creatures whose existence remains a matter of debate. Yeti, Bigfoot, and the Loch Ness Monster are only the beginning; a small but committed community of cryptid hunters is dedicated to proving the existence of doubted beasts like the Mongolian Death Worm, the Honey Island Swamp Monster, and the Skunk Ape.
This is not a quest without victories. In the early 20th century, tales of a fearsome giant lizard living on an inhospitable island in Indonesia were dismissed as folklore until Jacques Karel Henri van Steyn van Hensbroek, an impressively named Dutch lieutenant stationed on nearby Flores Island, investigated and returned with a photograph of the now-famous Komodo Dragon. Other animals to make the switch from supposed myth to firm reality include the duck-billed platypus, the giant squid, and the okapi (or forest giraffe).
Nevertheless, although attitudes may be slowly changing, cryptozoology—to give the field its proper name—is still considered a pseudoscience. So why do cryptid hunters continue to put their reputations on the line, and what other legendary beasts might we discover to be not so legendary after all? In an age when species extinction has reached alarming proportions, perhaps this quest to discover new life carries extra poignancy. The articles collected below offer tantalizing insight into both questions.
There’s so much to enjoy in this wonderful piece by Tara Isabella Burton, which provides both a fascinating overview of the history of cryptozoology and an insightful exploration of the psychology that drives it. Burton writes with compelling flair, drawing links between our enduring desire to uncover the undiscoverable and the perceived decrease in mystery and magic that has accompanied the modern age. She argues convincingly that interest in cryptids ties into our innate, if often subjugated, wish to believe in something “other,” something beyond the confines of a rational, predictable world.
Burton also explores cryptozoology as reflected in what she describes as its “parallel and opposite”—the rise throughout the Renaissance of the Wunderkammern, a room kept in any learned gentleman’s house dedicated to the documentation and categorization of scientific specimens. I would go even further and argue that modern cryptozoology occupies a unique place between the realms of science and the magical. Ultimately, it’s a pursuit that hinges more on faith than logic. Yet, it also seeks to move a subject from imagination into reality. Would we be happier if Bigfoot were proven to exist? Or would it fade into the everyday, the commonplace, the explainable, to finally become something less than it ever was? Such are the questions that this excellent article engenders.
Like its Enlightenment-era forebears, contemporary cryptozoology is rooted in that same hunger for strangeness, and for an enchanted world. It’s telling that the contemporary iteration of the phenomenon saw its first major resurgence during the wider postwar optimism of 1950s—when Belgian zoologist Bernard Heuvelmans, often lauded as one of the forefathers of the field, published On the Track of Unknown Animals in 1955. (Heuvelmans also coined the terms cryptozoology and cryptid.) Featuring entries dedicated to the abominable snowman and Nandi bears alongside examinations of platypuses and gorillas, Heuvelmans’s book celebrates the potential of a world teeming with creatures the scientific record has not yet ossified into fact.
“The world is by no means thoroughly explored,” Heuvelmans writes in his introduction. “It is true that we know almost all its geography, there are no more large islands or continents to be discovered. But because a country is on the map it does not mean that we know all about its inhabitants. There are still more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in Horatio’s philosophy.”1 Neither technological progress nor scientific expansion can expunge the delightful possibility that the abominable snowman (or Bigfoot, or the Mothman) might well be out there.
This gripping tale takes us back to Nepal in 1960, and Tom Ward’s evocative prose does a splendid job of outlining the atmosphere that gripped a world still coming to terms with the repercussions of two devastating global wars. As Ward points out, one inadvertent result of the conflicts was that the public was used to hearing news from lands once considered intimidatingly remote, setting the stage for this first-class adventure story, which captured the imagination of people the world over. All such stories need a hero, a larger-than-life figure of courage and daring, and New Zealand mountaineer and philanthropist Sir Edmund Hillary fit the bill perfectly.
Seven years earlier, Hillary and Sherpa Tenzing Norgay had become the first climbers to reach the summit of Mount Everest, a feat for which Hillary was appointed Knight Commander of the Order of the British Empire. (Coincidentally, news of the climber’s achievement reached England on the day of Queen Elizabeth II’s coronation.) Prior to that, Hillary had served in the Royal New Zealand Air Force during World War II as a navigator on Catalina amphibious aircraft.
But in 1960, the mountaineer found himself on quite a different mission. Rumors of the existence of the Yeti (a.k.a. the Abominable Snowman) date back centuries, if not millennia, and Hillary was well aware of the Sherpas’ belief that such a creature truly existed. Nowadays, the Yeti has become a B-movie staple, slipping into the “enjoyable nonsense” category alongside the Loch Ness Monster. Not so in 1960; Hillary’s was a well-funded and highly skilled expedition that marked the passing of a more credulous and mysterious time.
When the race to conquer Everest heated up in the 1950s, so too did the number of alleged yeti sightings. Western audiences were hooked, eager for news of this evolutionary hangover halfway between man and beast. Perhaps it was comforting to think that there were beings beyond comprehension surviving at the ends of the wilderness and that, crucially, there were still enough wild places left to hold them.
For all its reputation as a pseudoscience, cryptozoology relies on scientific methods to verify evidence, whether that be expert analysis of images and footprints or, as is the case in this story, DNA testing. This decades-spanning piece draws together two fascinating threads: the tantalizing possibility of uncovering undeniable proof, certified by the very gatekeepers who look down upon this field, and the stories of those who go to extraordinary lengths attempting to secure such a thing.
Bigfoot also figures prominently in “The Truth Is Out There,” a recent issue of our sister publication, The Atavist.
Our protagonist here is cryptid hunter Peter Byrne, a man whose tireless questing since the 1970s has earned him a special place in the Bigfoot research community. While Byrne first encountered the legendary creature via bedtime stories as a child, his awareness blossomed into passion while stationed in India at the end of WWII; that’s when he met Nepalese people for whom the existence of Bigfoot was a given. Over his lifetime, Byrne has undertaken five expeditions into the Himalayas, spending a total of 38 months in the mountains.
It would be churlish not to admire such dedication, but cryptid hunting is a high-stakes game: struggling for funding while working in a maligned field, all in hopes of one day vindicating your obsession and elevating your name to the history books. Back in 1977, Byrne rolled the dice, sending a sample of suspected Bigfoot hair to the FBI and urging them to test it. After four decades, the FBI wrote back. If you don’t want to know what happens yet, you’re made of sterner stuff than I.
When Byrne arrived, he noticed the trees stood close together — far too narrow a space for something with broad shoulders and big feet to make a clean egress. And there, between three and five feet off the ground, snagged in the bark, he spotted the tuft of hair and piece of skin he hoped would bring him one step closer to his idée fixe, the sasquatch itself, a towering hominid of North American lore.
Like many mass social phenomena, widespread panic comes in waves and can often affect communities and individuals in surprising ways. A single sighting of something strange or disturbing often snowballs into many more, with the story growing and mutating via a feedback loop, one fed by sensational media reports and eyewitnesses who are primed and nervous. Such situations are common and stretch back into recorded history. In early Victorian London, a mysterious creature who came to be known as Spring-Heeled Jack terrorized the night-time streets. In medieval Alsace, a bizarre “dancing sickness” spread throughout the city. In possibly the most famous example, a strange being dubbed Mothman haunted 1960s Point Pleasant, West Virginia. Among followers of paranormal news, there’s even a name for such events: flaps.
At their heart, such events are more about human psychology than hard science, and are no less fascinating for it. For proof, let us turn to the mid-1990s flap around the Chupacabra, a doglike creature whose penchant for slaying cattle gave it a name rooted in the Spanish words chupar (suck) and cabra (goat). Stories of the Chupacabra persist, providing a fascinating example of how modern legends circulate and grow. Countless attempts have been made to document proof of this disturbing beast, and with many more surely to come. Asher Elbein’s excellent feature does a fine job of telling the tale.
But the chupacabra wasn’t always a resident of the Lone Star State, and it didn’t always look like a dog. In the 21 years since the first supposed sightings of the creature, it has been a spine-backed alien, a winged kangaroo or a goblin, a predatory monkey or an unusually ambitious mongoose. Only one facet of the tale has remained constant: The chupacabra is out there in dark thickets and empty deserts, and it wants your livestock.
Journalist Frank Lewis has a rich tapestry of material to draw from in this piece about one of our most enduring cryptids. The Jersey Devil (sometimes known as the Leeds Devil) likely originates in the legends of the Lenape, an indigenous people whose historical territory ranges across the northeastern United States. The Lenape called “it” M’Sing—a mysterious deer-like creature with leathery wings. The beast owes its modern twist to pre-Revolutionary America, and a popular folktale concerning a woman named Jane Leeds (often referred to as Mother Leeds) who, after discovering she was pregnant for the 13th time, cursed the child, which transformed into a strange, twisted and winged creature following its birth. By the early 19th century, the legend was ubiquitous throughout New Jersey. In 1859, the Atlantic Monthly published a detailed and evocative account, and waves of sightings continue to this day. (As do pop-culture portrayals: like many of the other creatures on this list, the Jersey Devil became the focus of a popular X-Files episode.)
What fascinates here is that such tales persist, transmitted from generation to generation, despite the rise of scientific skepticism. Perhaps in part that’s due to our need for community, and therefore communal stories and myths, which have traditionally brought people together and fostered a sense of collective belonging. But can that explain why New Jersey residents continue to have close encounters with the Devil? Whatever you might believe, this splendid article is full of sumptuous detail and quotes drawn from across the long life of Jersey’s own cryptid, and will surely have you chasing down further articles in search of answers.
The nearly 6-foot-tall beast stood no more than 3 feet away from her front bumper; she couldn’t see its feet, that’s how close they were. Its fine coat was all one color, a light brown or beige, like a camel, but it had the forward-leaning shape, short front legs and long, thick tail of a kangaroo. Short, rounded horns sprouted from its head, small wings from its back. To this day, she can’t fully describe the face; the expression was almost human.
“It looked right at me,” she says. “He just looked like a sad little thing. I felt sorry for it, whatever it was.”
Chris Wheatley is a writer and journalist based in Oxford, UK. He has too many guitars, too many records, and not enough cats.
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Things are changing fast in the field of obesity, and a new generation of children are facing treatment choices that their parents never had. But are more options always better? It’s a question Lisa Miller takes great pains to explore whilst tracing one family’s decisions over several years. A considered, informative piece on a drug that has had its fair share of headlines.
But if Maggie was sheltered from the onslaught beyond her small town, her mother was not. Erika has also struggled with her weight her entire life and feels the experience defined her; she has done everything she can to reassure Maggie that she is beautiful as she is and to protect her from the casual cruelty of people she encounters. But she also knew from the time her daughter was young that there was something different about her. In a small, dark part of herself, Erika feared that, because of her parenting or her habits or her own history with food, she was the one at fault. Even now, after all the interventions — the doctors, the fighting with insurance companies, the overhaul of the family fridge — this worry has not left her. It has only evolved, because Erika knows her neighbors and people in the world beyond have things to say not just about Maggie’s body but about the treatments she has chosen for it, too.
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If you’ve ever ordered dinner through one of the megaliths dominating the restaurant-delivery world, it’s hard not to be a little underwhelmed. Michael Graff puts on his tomato-sauce-colored glasses to remember his teenage days as a Domino’s driver, and to wonder what we’ve lost in the mass shift toward convenience. An unexpected dose of nostalgia that’s perfect for a dreary winter week.
This was the summer of 1998, and I needed work to fund a couple of new habits I’d picked up during my freshman year: dating, Bruce Springsteen CDs, Busch Light. The Domino’s gods had recently dropped a franchise alongside the main four-lane road that cut through the small community of Bryans Road in rural southern Maryland, where I grew up, lifting our culinary scene to new heights. The Domino’s was attached to a drive-through liquor store, which was next to a parking lot where a family sold steamed crabs out of the back of a truck. Also in the area was a Burger King, a McDonald’s, a Subway, and a Chinese restaurant.
But although customers had to drive to all of the others, Domino’s drove to the customers. Even in our strange attire, we delivery drivers were like kings who wore the jewel of a Domino’s sign on our crowns. Once, a police officer noticed me going 25 miles over the speed limit. He whipped around, but rather than ticket me, he pulled up beside me and wagged his finger, as if to say, Heavy is the head that wears the crown.
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Grievous police and legal negligence, a wrongful conviction, and a remorseful juror. These are the three building blocks Michael Hall uses to tell the moving story of how Carlos Jaile went from living the American dream as a successful salesman to life plus 20 years behind bars.
In 2017 Estella was throwing out some old papers when she came upon that 27-year-old envelope. Inside was the certificate. She called out to Johnny: “This is what I got for putting an innocent person in jail for life.”
She was 75 now. For a generation she had suppressed the shame, the guilt. She had gone through a lot in that time. She’d become more engaged in the world around her. She had seen her children and grandchildren become active citizens. Most important, she’d become more assertive. “I found that you have more power if you talk,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong if you say what you think.”
She knew how hard it was to take a stand. She knew how hard it was to do the right thing. And now she was going to do it.
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In an excerpt from his new book, Filterworld: How Algorithms Flattened Culture, Kyle Chayka recalls growing up on the early social internet, describing with his first brush with the online world as a teenager through AOL Instant Messenger, and the formative experience of expressing himself online via LiveJournal, an early publishing platform. It was an escape, and an exciting time that sparked creativity and possibility. Chayka then takes us on a tour of the first social networks he joined, from MySpace to Facebook, up to the very different and broken web that we navigate today—one of monopolies and algorithms and ads that only reinforces existing power structures.
I didn’t understand yet in middle school, but in the years that followed I began to think of my online presence as a shadow self. Those aware of it could see it, and I could see theirs—the reflection of their avatars and icons and away messages, the tone of their instant-message chats or L.J. posts. But, for other people who were not so online, it was still invisible, insignificant. I’ve been thinking a lot about this early version of my online self lately as I’ve been writing about latter-day digital culture and taking stock of just how much the landscape has changed.
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