News 15.10.21 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets


News 15.10.21 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets
News 15.10.21 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets
News 15.10.21 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets

In every job he has ever had, Gavin has shirked. When he worked in a call centre, he would mute the phone, rather than answer it. When he worked in a pub, he would sneak out of the building and go to another pub nearby, for a pint. His best-ever job was as a civil servant. He would take an hour for breakfast, and two for lunch. No one ever said anything. All his colleagues were at it, too.

When the pandemic began, Gavin, now working as a software engineer, realised, to his inexhaustible joy, that he could get away with doing less work than he had ever dreamed of, from the comfort of his home. He would start at 8.30am and clock off about 11am. To stop his laptop from going into sleep mode – lest his employers check it for activity – Gavin played a 10-hour YouTube video of a black screen.

Read the rest of this article at: The Guardian

News 15.10.21 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets

News 15.10.21 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets

The sun had only just risen over Rosarito, Mexico, on August 9th when a neighbor told Roberto Salinas Ramirez about the blood spattered across the dry creek outside his small pink home. Ramirez, 47, lives on a farm next to fields of tomatoes and lettuce, in full view of the mesa-colored Cerro el Coronel, the area’s largest mountain. It’s a quiet place, removed from the tourists who go to the oceanside restaurants and strip clubs in nearby Tijuana. Ramirez hadn’t heard anything the night before, but the neighbor looked shaken. So he went out with his son’s dog, a white mutt named Kobe, to investigate.

Ramirez unlatched the fence — four strands of barbed wire wrapped around wooden stakes — and first saw the blood over a patch of dried-out brush and rocks. There was more on the bushes farther in, so he went deeper, but didn’t find anything. “My eyes were set over there,” he tells me as we walk along the brush, pointing to the northern swoop of the creek. “I figured I would see a big body.” He didn’t see anyone on first inspection, but soon, Kobe was barking at something about 65 feet in. “Maybe I was nervous, but I couldn’t figure out if I saw two feet or three. So I got a little closer, and I realized it was two little children,” he says.

There they were, Kaleo, two, and Roxy, 10 months, hidden under the leaves of a willow shrub, their small, pale bodies lying on their sides, backs together, naked save for diapers.

This is the wreckage that Santa Barbara, California, surf instructor Matthew Taylor Coleman, the father of these two children, admitted to leaving behind in one of the most inexplicable and gruesome crimes in recent memory. Coleman, 40, was a staple of his community, an evangelical Christian who ran a surfing school and tutored Spanish, the kind of person who was known to comfort those who’d lost their own children. But when he was arrested at the U.S.-Mexico border just hours after the bodies were found, another side of him emerged. According to a federal criminal complaint, Coleman told an FBI agent he’d recently been “enlightened” by QAnon — the satanic panic that helped fuel the January 6th insurrection on the U.S. Capitol. His children, he said, had “serpent DNA” they’d inherited from his wife, and he was “saving the world from monsters.”

Read the rest of this article at: RollingStone

The Balmoral in Chestnut

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Adrien Brody comes bearing fruit. We meet in the parking lot at the base of a popular Los Angeles hiking trail, and he quickly hands over the bounty he’s prepared for us: a plastic container full of cherries and watermelon, along with a couple of bottles of water, some fresh-squeezed orange juice, and two pieces of buttered toast wrapped in a paper towel. He’s a charmer, no doubt—but also an actor who relishes doing the deep work of preparation, no matter the role. We eat sitting on the curb. It’s not quite nine in the morning. The cherries are terrific.

Brody is 48 now, and has been acting professionally for more than 30 years. In that time, he’s become known for the intensity of his commitment to the job: losing weight or gaining muscle or crawling across the forest floor for a part. “I would do whatever it takes for a role,” he says, “and everybody in my life understands that and respects that.” Like all actors, he’s had highs and lows, but maybe because of that intensity, Brody’s highs have felt higher—and his lows perhaps lower—than many of the actors we think of as his peers, and whom he calls his friends. He is still the youngest best actor winner in Academy Awards history. He also decided, not long ago, to spend a few years doing anything but acting.

Read the rest of this article at: GQ

News 15.10.21 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets

News 15.10.21 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets

His father, Jim, was a cotton salesman and an amateur jazz musician. Although Paul grew up in Liverpool on a working-class housing estate, he went to a good secondary school where he caught the bug for literature from his teacher Alan Durband, who had studied with F. R. Leavis at Cambridge. But, after a “pretty idyllic” childhood, his mother’s death cast a pall over the house that lasted for many months. Paul could hear “this sort of muffled sobbing coming from the next room, and the only person in that room was your dad.”

His own room was filling with music. In “The Lyrics,” McCartney talks about his delight early on in matching a descending chord progression (G to G7 to C) with an ascending melody and speculates that he might have picked up maneuvers like that from listening to his father, who had led Jim Mac’s Jazz Band—and from his “aunties” singing at holiday parties at home. In those days, though, a kid playing his first chords on a guitar and furtively writing his first lyrics was unusual. To turn this lonely preoccupation into something bigger, he had to go out looking for a friend and a band.

On July 6, 1957, McCartney, now fifteen, rode his bike to a nearby fair to hear a local skiffle group called the Quarry Men. He paid the threepence admission and watched them play “Come Go with Me,” by the Del Vikings, as well as “Maggie Mae” and “Bring a Little Water, Sylvie.” He noticed that there was one kid onstage who had real presence and talent. After the set, McCartney got himself an introduction; the kid’s name was John Lennon. McCartney nervily asked to have a go at his guitar, banging out a credible version of Eddie Cochran’s “Twenty Flight Rock.”

They had more in common than their talent and ambition. Lennon’s mother, Julia, died after being hit by a car, in 1958. (His father left the family when John was a child.) Lennon, more than a year older than McCartney, masked his wound with cocksure wit. And now he made a cunning, history-altering calculation. “It went through my head that I’d have to keep him in line if I let him join,” Lennon said years later, “but he was good, so he was worth having.” McCartney was now part of the band.

Not long afterward, McCartney brought in a school friend, George Harrison, a younger guitar player. “George was the baby,” McCartney says. In 1960, the Quarry Men renamed themselves the Beatles and, two years later, nicked a crack drummer from Rory Storm and the Hurricanes named Richard Starkey, who went by Ringo Starr. All were working-class Liverpudlians (though John was posher, Ringo poorer). They had grown up listening to Frank Sinatra and Billy Cotton on the BBC. They heard their first rock-and-roll performers—Bill Haley, Elvis Presley, the Everly Brothers, Little Richard, Fats Domino, Ivory Joe Hunter—on Radio Luxembourg, a commercial station that broadcast American music. They liked what McCartney calls the “slim and elegant” shape of Chuck Berry’s songwriting. Together, they figured out guitar chords as if they were ancient runes. When Paul and George heard that someone across town knew the fingering for the B7 chord—the essential chord to go with E and A for every blues-based song in the rock repertoire—they got on a bus to meet the guy and learn it.

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

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News 15.10.21 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets

When Myrtle McKinney first moved into the Carter G. Woodson Houses in 2004, she felt lucky to be there. The complex is one of only 38 public-housing developments in New York City reserved for seniors, and the waiting list for a one-bedroom can stretch on for years.

A Jamaican emigrant in her early 70s, she had raised seven kids working as a housekeeper in Florida and the Bahamas before relocating to Brooklyn to live with her daughter. By the time her application was approved, she was desperate for a place of her own.

After settling into apartment 6M, McKinney quickly jumped into the bustling social scene enjoyed by the development’s 450 residents. She joined a knitting circle in the first-floor senior center and spent her mornings relaxing with friends amid the rows of shade-dappled benches in the courtyard out front. In the afternoons, her neighbor in 6E, an easygoing man in his early 70s named Leon Gavin, whom everyone called “Music Man,” liked to DJ dance parties in the courtyard from a small speaker hooked up to his mobility scooter. It was like a middle-school dance, one resident said: girls on one side, boys on the other.

Situated in the heart of eastern Brooklyn along the border between Brownsville and East New York, the Woodson Houses occupy nearly an entire block in one of the city’s most dangerous neighborhoods. But to the residents who lived there, the complex was a refuge, “a place of peace,” as one family member put it. Over the next decade, though, that feeling would slowly disappear. The complex had always dealt with its share of low-level crime, but around 2013, an influx of new tenants seemed to bring with them new dangers. Now, when a resident’s caregiver was buzzed into the main tower’s front door, a seemingly endless stream of interlopers sneaked in after, vanishing into the dark corners of the high-rise. Longtime residents suddenly found themselves accosted in the hallways by strangers asking for money. Some smoked crack in the stairwells and on the roof. And while some residents fretted over the conditions, others started supplementing their income by renting out couches to drug users off the street. Things got so bad that at one point, a small band of users took over an elderly tenant’s cramped second-floor apartment and turned it into a thriving crack den.

The residents weren’t alone in facing deteriorating circumstances at their development: NYCHA complexes have long suffered from issues of neglect, including mold infestation, contaminated drinking water, and lead-paint poisoning. When Woodson residents complained to the NYCHA staff that oversaw the property, they were told there was little that could be done to secure the premises. Woodson had no surveillance cameras, and the security guards NYCHA hired from a private firm to monitor the front doors were on-site only between 5 p.m. and midnight. The rest of the day, the complex was “wide open,” one resident said. Instead, NYCHA management encouraged residents to safeguard the lobby themselves as part of the development’s Tenant Patrol, a neighborhood-watch-style group that had been in operation off and on for years. At first, they offered snacks and water as an incentive for residents to join, but after a staffing change, the goodies went away, and the group eventually petered out.

Read the rest of this article at: New York

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