In the News 12.01.18 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets


In the News 12.01.18 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets
In the News 12.01.18 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets
In the News 12.01.18 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets

‘The Lowest White Man’

I guess Donald Trump was eager to counter the impression in Michael Wolff’s book that he is irascible, mentally small and possibly insane. On Tuesday, he allowed a bipartisan session in the White House about immigration to be televised for nearly an hour.

Surely, he thought that he would be able to demonstrate to the world his lucidity and acumen, his grasp of the issues and his relish for rapprochement with his political adversaries.

But instead what came through was the image of a man who had absolutely no idea what he was talking about; a man who says things that are 180 degrees from the things he has said before; a man who has no clear line of reasoning; a man who is clearly out of his depth and willing to do and say anything to please the people in front of him.

He demonstrated once again that he is a man without principle, interested only in how good he can make himself look and how much money he can make.

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


Serena Williams on Motherhood, Marriage, and Making Her Comeback


On a moist South Florida morning at the end of a relentless hurricane season, their wedding only a week away, Serena Williams and Alexis Ohanian are seated side by side at their long kitchen table discussing the Marshmallow Test. Some 50 years ago, in a famous experiment, the Stanford University psychologist Walter Mischel invited children to choose between a small immediate reward, such as a marshmallow, or, if they could sit and wait for fifteen minutes, a larger prize. The children who found ways to stave off temptation—by singing songs or pulling pigtails—went on to have higher SAT scores and lower body-mass indexes than their ravenous peers.

“I would have eaten that marshmallow,” says Serena, who, in conspicuous contrast to that image, sips a radioactive-looking broth, which she nudged her chef to prepare after reading online that ginger and turmeric were supposed to aid in breast-milk production. She positions this tincture on a stack of gold lamé swatches: Golden Harvest, Gold L’Amour, Golden Daydream, Victorian Gold. One of these will be selected for the tablecloths at the wedding dinner. Thinking better of her coaster choice, she shifts her glass to a stack of photocopied pages from assorted newborn instruction manuals. Serena loves printing and collating and stacking. She loves paper. She is the analog to her husband-to-be’s digital.

“Are you kidding?” Alexis shoots back. “You would never eat that marshmallow. You would stare down that marshmallow like it was the enemy. It would be Serena versus the marshmallow.”

“You’re right,” she admits with a squeak of laughter. “But it would have been fear. I would have been scared to eat it. I would have been like, Am I supposed to eat this? Am I going to get in trouble if I eat this?”

Read the rest of this article at: Vogue

Tuscany Tote in Midnight

Shop the Tuscany Tote in Midnight
at Belgrave Crescent &

In Conversation: Terry Gross

“I wouldn’t be able to keep doing my job,” says Fresh Air host Terry Gross, sitting in her book-lined office at Philadelphia’s WHYY radio station, “if I wasn’t still so curious about people.” That curiosity — the kind that can sustain a lifetime spent conducting revealing, penetrating interviews with artists and newsmakers — is even on display in the brief moments before our interview begins: Gross, a small woman in glasses and a leather jacket, asks a passing co-worker about her weekend plans, a visiting former intern about her current gig, and me about my trip from New York to Philly, my editing process, my career, the neighborhood where I live, what I thought about Lady Bird. And when I turn my recorder on, the 66-year-old — the country’s unofficial poet laureate of the interview — leans forward to listen even more closely. “If you’re willing,” says the NPR mainstay, “you can get an interview to a pretty real emotional place.” Or at least, she adds with a smile, “a place that isn’t boring.”

You’ve been interviewing people for more than 40 years. What do you think that’s taught you about yourself?
That’s hard. I’m not exactly sure I can enumerate what I’ve learned. It’s like you’re slowly being changed every day by doing this job. I have learned, though, that everybody is insecure and everybody is troubled. Even incredibly talented people have deep insecurities. Maybe this is perverse, but I find that idea comforting. It helps me cope with my own stuff.

Read the rest of this article at: Vulture


Ronan Farrow, the Hollywood Prince
Who Torched the Castle

Ronan Farrow is dressed in a black tuxedo jacket and blue silk pajama bottoms. Showing a bit of stubble, his blond hair mussed, he’s holding court at the bar at Mama Lion, a sleek supper club in L.A.’s Koreatown. It’s a Saturday in early December, and Farrow is among the guests of honor at a joint birthday party with his friends Shannon Woodward — the Westworld actress and Katy Perry pal — and Juliet Liu, a fellow Yale alum and the executive assistant to Universal Pictures chairman Donna Langley.

The theme is “black tie and pajamas.” Farrow, who lives in New York, won’t turn 30 for a few days, but he’s in L.A. running down sources for his next New Yorker piece. (He won’t reveal the topic.) And the trip — during which he stayed with Jon Lovett, the former Obama speechwriter and comedic co-host of the popular political podcast Pod Save America — allowed him to “have a small thing with close friends — a rare glimmer of a social life,” he says.

Just a few miles away, on the other side of the Santa Monica Freeway, a far less intimate event is unfolding: Disney’s world premiere for Star Wars: The Last Jedi. Held at the 6,300-seat Shrine Auditorium, it is the quintessential budget-busting Hollywood spectacle that for decades has served to lard on this town’s veneer of glamour and prosperity. The irony is more than topographical. It was Farrow — the golden-haired progeny of Hollywood royals Woody Allen and Mia Farrow — who took a journalistic sledgehammer to this industry’s meticulously tended facade when he (along with reporters from The New York Times) revealed decades of sexual predation by now-disgraced film mogul Harvey Weinstein. His Oct. 10 exposé for The New Yorker upended the town’s historic casting-couch culture and spurred a wave of disclosures that have toppled powerful men in Hollywood, the media and politics.

Read the rest of this article at: The Hollywood Reporter

How Death Got Cool


On the August afternoon that a white supremacist drove a car through a crowd of peaceful protestors in Charlottesville, Virginia, I was perched on a bar stool in a café near my home, sipping a glass of rosé while reading a novel and daydreaming. It was one of those rare, near-perfect New York days when the light streamed through a wide-open window, training its beam on the notebook at the table next to me. There, a tutor worked through math lessons with a slightly frustrated adult student.

At 2:52 p.m., a New York Times headline popped up on my phone. My stomach sank as I took in the image of the vehicle, a man just behind it with his feet up in the air, frozen in the moment before his torso smacked the ground. I texted my partner, a University of Virginia graduate, who was herself scrolling through her friends’ Instagram posts with horror. My eyes stung with anxious tears as I thought, not for the first time this year: Everything has changed now and we are all in trouble.

Around me, nothing had actually changed. The tutor was still disentangling math problems. The espresso machine ground beans, cut off, and then switched on again. I tried to return to my book, but gave up and dropped it in my bag. I clutched my wine, which had become more of a coping device than an afternoon treat, and scrolled through my Twitter feed. One person said there were more “bronies” gathered in Philadelphia for a convention than there were Nazis in Virginia. Retweet! Someone else criticized the president for not yet condemning the gathering. Retweet! Now the president was speaking and his words were being live-tweeted, with commentary. I switched to Instagram, to Facebook, even over to Slack to see if my colleagues were watching and maybe reaching out.

I knew I should turn my phone off, but I could not look away.

This is not how August goes—at least not my August. For the past five years, I’ve signed off all social media—essentially any messaging software to which I didn’t have access before 2007, when I got my first smartphone. My annual social media sabbatical has been reliably awesome; it’s an opportunity to notice the things I’ve lost in exchange for all the connections and productivity that social media has introduced to my life. It’s like Whole 30 for the internet—a radical diet change that at first leaves me feeling sick and lethargic, and then slowly returns me to health.

Read the rest of this article at: The Guardian

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

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