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In the News 06.22.18 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets

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In the News 06.22.18 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets
@minimaliving
In the News 06.22.18 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets
@ch.phr8ph
In the News 06.22.18 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets
@ch.phr8ph

Disposable America

A straw is a simple thing. It’s a tube, a conveyance mechanism for liquid. The defining characteristic of the straw is the emptiness inside it. This is the stuff of tragedy, and America.

Over the last several months, plastic straws have come under fire from environmental activists who rightly point out that disposable plastics have created a swirling, centuries-long ecological disaster that is brutally difficult to clean up. Bags were first against the wall, but municipalities from Oakland, California, (yup) to Surfside, Florida, (huh!) have started to restrict the use of plastic straws. Of course, now there is a movement afoot among conservatives to keep those plastics flowing for freedom. Meanwhile, disability advocates have pointed out that plastic straws, in particular, are important for people with physical limitations. “To me, it’s just lame liberal activism that in the end is nothing,” one activist told The Toronto Star. “We’re really kind of vilifying people who need straws.” Other environmentalists aren’t sure that banning straws is gonna do much, and point out that banning straws is not an entirely rigorous approach to global systems change, considering that a widely cited estimate for the magnitude of the problem was, umm, created by a smart 9-year-old.

Read the rest of this article at: The Atlantic

The Real Story of Donald Trump Jr.

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On a recent Thursday afternoon, Donald Trump Jr. buckled himself into a coach seat on a packed plane—just like any nameless fellow might—and flew west to Utah. There, for a few blissful spring days at a hunting retreat far from his myriad worries in New York and Washington, Donald Trump Jr., eldest son and namesake of the president of the United States, was simply Don.

He rode through the mountains, gabbing with Robert O’Neill, the former Navy SEAL who has said he was first into bin Laden’s bedroom and who, after taking careful aim over the shoulder of the terrorist’s youngest wife, shot him square in the head, killing him instantly. O’Neill is a big supporter of the president, but he and Don didn’t talk politics. “I was really impressed with his knowledge of ballistics and harvesting animals,” O’Neill told me. “I was a sniper in the SEALs, and he knew pretty much what I knew about ballistics.”

More than once during their time together, O’Neill says, Donald Trump Jr. called attention to the fact that he must come off like a walking contradiction. “You didn’t think the son of a billionaire would be a hunter,” he said again and again, according to O’Neill.

Don is hardly shy about this particular passion. His neighbors in upstate New York complain that his tract of land there sounds like a military-grade shooting range (perhaps ironic, given that he’s appeared in a promotional video for a manufacturer of gun silencers).

Read the rest of this article at: GQ

Tuscany Tote in Midnight

Shop the Tuscany Tote in Midnight
at Belgrave Crescent & shop.thisisglamorous.com

Take A Look At Him Now: The Many Lives Of Phil Collins

Phil Collins used to be Mr. Nice Guy.

He was a pop star most people could agree on, whether it was your mother or Don Johnson. A ubiquitous presence in ’80s and early-’90s pop culture, this balding, middle-aged white man mugged for the camera on MTV—with push-up blazer sleeves and the requisite mullet, like one of the era’s midlevel road comics—and sang about relationships, politics, and something called a “Sussudio.” He was absurdly normal. If the middle of the road had an equator, it was Phil Collins.

But now, seemingly everything that once seemed innocuous back in the late 20th century has been given a Zack Snyder–style “gritty” reboot. These days, as he carries on with an extended farewell tour, Phil Collins is no longer a safe choice for dentist’s offices. He has instead been reimagined as music for monsters.

One of the most memorable scenes from The Assassination of Gianni Versace: American Crime Story, FX’s brilliant and underwatched 2018 miniseries, concerns Andrew Cunanan (Darren Criss) and a wealthy older man who thinks he has hired Cunanan to have sex with him in his Miami hotel room. What the man doesn’t know is that Cunanan is a fugitive serial killer who will soon murder the world’s most famous fashion designer. Cunanan has decided to torture his would-be john with some duct tape, a pair of scissors, and “Easy Lover,” 1984’s hit duet that Collins performed and cowrote with Philip Bailey.

Read the rest of this article at: The Ringer

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The Trouble With Johnny Depp

Johnny Depp isn’t here yet. Still, his presence is all around the 10,500-square-foot rented mansion at 16 Bishopswood Road in London’s Highgate neighborhood.

He is here in the busy hands of Russell, his personal chef working up the Peking duck. He is here in the stogie-size joint left by the sink in the guest bathroom. He is here in the never-ending reservoir of wine that is poured into goblets. And he is here in a half-done painting upstairs that features a burning black house, a child Johnny and an angry woman who resembles his mother, Betty Sue.

And then he is actually here. He is in the living room, crooning his entrance: “Oh, my darling, oh, my darling, my darling Clementine. You are lost and gone forever, my darling Clementine.”

Depp has come from a photo shoot for the Hollywood Vampires, his sometime band that features Alice Cooper and Joe Perry. Trailing behind is his lawyer Adam Waldman. Depp is dressed like a Forties gangster, jet-black hair slicked back, pinstripes, suspenders and spats. His face is puffy, but Depp still possesses the fixating brown eyes that have toggled between dreamy and menacing during his 35-year career. Now, Depp’s studious leer is reminiscent of late-era Marlon Brando. This isn’t a coincidence, since Depp has long built his life by imitating his legends – buying an island like Brando, becoming an expert on quaaludes like Hunter S. Thompson.

“Hey, I’m Johnny. Good to meet you.”

He reaches out a right hand whose fingers recently had their tats changed from “slim” – a reference to his ex-wife Amber Heard – to “scum.”

“So are you here to hear the truth?” asks Depp as Russell brings him a glass of vintage red wine. “It’s full of betrayal.”

We move to the dining room for a three-course meal of pad thai, duck and gingerbread with berries. Depp sits at the head of the table and motions toward some rolling papers and two equal piles of tobacco and hash, and asks if I mind. I don’t. He pauses for a second. “Well, let’s drink some wine first.”

This goes on for 72 hours.

It had taken a month and almost 200 e-mails for the message to become clear: Come to London; Johnny Depp wants to bare his soul about his empty bank accounts.

It’s estimated that Depp has made $650 million on films that netted $3.6 billion. Almost all of it is gone. He’s suing The Management Group, run by his longtime business manager, Joel Mandel, and his brother Robert for negligence, breach of fiduciary duty and fraud. The suit cites, among other things, that under TMG’s watch Depp’s sister Christi was given $7 million and his assistant, Nathan Holmes, $750,000, without his knowledge, and that he has paid the IRS more than $5.6 million in late fees. (Most of the ire is directed toward Joel, who had day-to-day responsibility for Depp’s account.) There are additional charges of conflict of interest, saying that TMG invested Depp’s money for its own purposes and returned it without profit. The suit seeks more than $25 million from TMG, accounting for “tens of millions” it claims TMG illegally took for its commission, plus any additional damages the court sees fit.

Read the rest of this article at: RollingStone

The Last Days Of Marc-André Leclerc

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In the summer of 2016, I was researching the northwest face of the Devil’s Thumb, an infamous peak in southeast Alaska chronicled in Eiger Dreams, by Jon Krakauer. As a young writer, Krakauer had himself climbed the east ridge, but as I soon learned, no one had ever ascended via the 6,500-foot northwest face. It was one of alpinism’s last great prizes. In 2003, Guy Edwards and John Millar, two top-tier Canadian climbers, had disappeared on that face during a week of bad weather and frequent avalanches. After a six-day search, Alaska state troopers gave up looking. No one had attempted the line since.

I called Colin Haley, a Seattle-based alpinist who has climbed extensively in Alaska, to ask if he knew of anyone thinking about a push on the massive and dangerous face. He didn’t, but he told me that if I was searching for a story, I should look into a young man from British Columbia named Marc-André Leclerc. “He’s one of the best all-around climbers I know,” Haley told me. I called Leclerc.

On the phone, the 23-year-old was soft-spoken and articulate, and he laughed at himself when he slipped into Canadianisms like “eh.” He explained that he’d gotten into climbing after reading a book his grandfather gave him when he was eight years old, how he’d learned at a gym near Vancouver but had always been more interested in big mountains. “I told the grownups that I wanted to go to the Himalayas,” he said, “and they told me that it was too dangerous. In North America, people like to push the difficulty of climbing without pushing the risk. The danger aspect of going into the mountains is discouraged.”

Two days after our conversation, Leclerc left for Patagonia. Over the next few months, we spoke intermittently by e-mail and made plans to meet in December. Eventually, I learned that Guy Edwards, who’d cut his teeth climbing near Leclerc’s home before disappearing in Alaska, was one of the young Canadian’s heroes. What I couldn’t have known was that before long, on a peak not far from the one that had taken Edwards’s life, Leclerc would succumb to a similar fate.

Like many couples in their twenties, Leclerc and his girlfriend, Brette Harrington, had a tough time saying goodbye. But on the morning of Saturday, March 3, 2018, it proved easier than usual.

Read the rest of this article at: Outside

P.S. previous articles & more by P.F.M.

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