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In the News 08.13.18 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets

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In the News 08.13.18 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets
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In the News 08.13.18 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets
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In the News 08.13.18 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets
Photography by Antonio Terron

The Nastiest Feud In Science

Gerta Keller was waiting for me at the Mumbai airport so we could catch a flight to Hyderabad and go hunt rocks. “You won’t die,” she told me cheerfully as soon as I’d said hello. “I’ll bring you back.”

Death was not something I’d considered as a possible consequence of traveling with Keller, a 73-year-old paleontology and geology professor at Princeton University. She looked harmless enough: thin, with a blunt bob, wearing gray nylon pants and hiking boots, and carrying an insulated ShopRite supermarket bag by way of a purse.

I quickly learned that Keller felt such reassurances were necessary because, appropriately for someone who studies mass extinctions, she has a tendency to attract disaster. Long before our 90-minute flight touched down, she’d told me about having narrowly escaped death four times—once while attempting suicide, once from hepatitis contracted during an Algerian coup, once from getting shot in a robbery gone wrong, and once from food poisoning in India—and this was by no means an exhaustive list. She has crisscrossed dozens of countries doing field research and can claim near-death experiences in many of them: with a jaguar in Belize, a boa in Madagascar, a mob in Haiti, an uprising in Mexico.*

Read the rest of this article at: The Atlantic

In the News 08.13.18 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets

Follow The Money

In the News 08.13.18 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets

Perhaps because she has spent her career watching the rich, the photographer and filmmaker Lauren Greenfield is herself rich to watch. At a party after the New York premiere of her new documentary — “Generation Wealth,” about the perils of capitalism — Ms. Greenfield was wired, welcoming and constantly working. She snapped pictures of the well-heeled crowd as she hugged her way around the room, occasionally misplacing a glass of white wine, in a churn of compliments and gossip.

Ms. Greenfield, 52, paused to note that one prominent guest had left the festivities early: Jacqueline Siegel, the star of her best-known documentary, “The Queen of Versailles,” about the construction of a $100 million house amid last decade’s financial crisis. Ms. Greenfield observed that in the intervening years, Ms. Siegel’s bosom seemed to have grown inexplicably, much like the national economy. “It’s a metaphor,” Ms. Greenfield said, “for the excess of the new American dream.” (Through a spokesman, Ms. Siegel, a self-professed patron of cosmetic procedures, denied that she has recently augmented her breasts.)

Over the last 30 years, Ms. Greenfield has become America’s foremost visual chronicler of the plutocracy, and those who hope to join its ranks. Her ultra-saturated, up-close, unsparing images have appeared in the pages of The New York Times Magazine, GQ and The New Yorker, as well as museum exhibitions and theatrical documentaries. Ms. Greenfield’s lens has fallen on affluent teens playing hooky, rappers and the strippers they shower $100 bills on, investors in exile, hedge-funders in denial, Iceland’s teetering banking system, abandoned mansions in Dubai and countless other icons of the world’s mounting financial inequality.

Read the rest of this article at: The New York Times

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Before He Was A Photographer, Bill Cunningham Was a Hat Maker

His soon-to-be published memoir reveals the unknown side of a public figure who hid in plain sight. Plus, never-before-seen images from his time as a milliner.

IN 1948, Bill Cunningham left the comforts of his middle-class Boston home, as well as a promising Harvard scholarship (classes, he wrote, “were like being in prison”) for the chance to make it in New York City. Nineteen years old, and skinny as a beanpole, he had been offered a training course working at the luxury department store Bonwit Teller, where he eventually landed a job in the advertising department. As he remembered, “I took to New York life like a star shooting through the heavens.”

Cunningham is best known for his two New York Times columns On the Street and Evening Hours, which officially began in 1989, though he covered fashion for The Times from the late ’70s until his death at the age of 87 in 2016. The first was a roving report of how people dressed — to work, to lunch, going to see their shrinks — which meant Cunningham was on a perpetual street safari. The second was more of a society diary, respectfully aware of certain dynasties and clans whose black-tie charity work cast a nostalgic glow, even in a post-Truman Capote New York City. Both were united by Cunningham’s appreciation for the smallest of details: the sash of a ball gown as a woman walked down a set of marble steps, the slope of a coat shoulder on a woman lunging over a puddle of melting snow. He was often seen riding around Manhattan on his bicycle, clad in his blue workman’s jacket and khaki pants, his camera hanging at the ready around his neck.

Read the rest of this article at: The New York Times Magazine

In the News 08.13.18 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets

Love And Loathing In Las Vegas

In the News 08.13.18 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets

This is the story of a budding romance, but not the kind that starts with a chance encounter and ends with a happily-ever-after.

This one involves backbiting and an FBI undercover sting.

It began in the fall of 2012. Emile Bouari was dining with his girlfriend, a fitness model named Kim Milko, at a high-end restaurant in Las Vegas. Their relationship had been tumultuous, fraught with infidelity and disagreements. Milko wanted to marry, but Bouari, who was separated from his second wife at the time, struggled with commitment. To him, going to court to sign marriage papers meant he’d have to return for divorce proceedings yet again if the relationship didn’t last.

Bouari and Milko had split up a few times. During an off period, Milko said she struck up a flirtation with a local lawyer and former federal prosecutor named Paul Padda, who had a reputation in Las Vegas as a successful, available bachelor. Padda was tall with a coif of thick, jet-black hair that glimmered with gel. He and Milko had hung out in groups and shared two solo meetings, by her account: one for lunch and another for drinks. Their physical contact had been limited to kissing and affectionate touching, according to Milko, but when she reconciled with Bouari, she told Padda that their dalliance had to end. By the fall of 2012, it had been weeks since Milko had seen Padda.

What happened next on that fall evening in Las Vegas is disputed.

Read the rest of this article at: The Intercept

Who’s Afraid Of Tom Arnold?

In the News 08.13.18 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets

When Tom Arnold opens the big wooden door of his house in Beverly Hills on a Tuesday in late spring, he’s wearing a blue T-shirt with a Superman “S” logo on it. On the floor behind him is a pink, toddler-size Minnie Mouse car, property of his two-year-old daughter, Quinn. “Hey, buddy,” he says, out of breath from his flight down the stairs, and still sweaty, post-shower, from his morning cardio. He lost 90 pounds five years ago, when his son, Jax, was born, aiming to stick around for the family he’s built with his very patient fourth wife, Ashley. Since then, he’s gained enough back to land at a football-coach burliness — still not bad for a 59-year-old who once blew a $10 million Jenny Craig sponsorship by gaining more weight than he was supposed to lose. (Or maybe it was SlimFast — he tells the story both ways.)

We were supposed to be headed over to a taping of his friend Jim Jefferies’ Comedy Central show around now, but not for the first time in the world of Tom Arnold, something went wrong. “I did a bad tweet,” he says, walking through his kitchen toward his memorabilia-packed man cave of an office. It was, indeed, not good: He used the words “suck racist dick” in connection with black conservative figure Candace Owens. The right-wing press pounced. Arnold apologized, but he’s still too radioactive for Comedy Central. “Which made me laugh,” he says, “because Trump fuckin’ wins again on racism.”

Arnold parks himself at his desk, facing a TV tuned to CNN. Behind him is an Al Hirschfeld caricature of his younger self; on an opposite wall is a self-portrait drawn by Howard Stern, with a note thanking Arnold for being a good guest. In one corner is a framed tie David Letterman gave him when he showed up without one; in another, a cel from The Rosey & Buddy Show, a short-lived cartoon he and his ex-wife Roseanne Barr made. “None of it means too much to me except the pictures of my kids,” he says, his voice a familiar sandpaper rumble.

He can hardly sit down without sending a leg into twitchy overdrive: “Shaky Tom,” Barr called him. He says he’s “on the spectrum” (he’s not big on eye contact) and has ADHD. The Ritalin his parents snuck into his food calmed him as a kid; cocaine did the same for him as an adult. He’s done an awful lot of drugs, was in rehab just last year. He is, in all, a frantic, lovable, weirdly charismatic mess, “a crazy person,” by his own half-joking description.

Read the rest of this article at: RollingStone

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