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Boy Roy

On Monday night, Ms. Abney said she recalled Mr. Moore, the embattled Republican Senate candidate, being a regular presence in the mid-1980s at the YMCA.


Matt Has A Sad

The progressive journalist Matt Taibbi recently published a lengthy apology/explanation in which he despaired that the public reappraisal of the work that established him (in particular, a book about Russia that he now says is satirical and includes accounts of pushing women under the table for blow jobs, of telling them to lighten up when they object to such high jinks) is coinciding with the publication of his book about the death of Eric Garner. It’s the kind of important book that he’s been working toward writing for 30 years, he laments. Reading this, I couldn’t help but think of all the women who’ve wanted to be writers for 30 years, who’ve yearned to make the world a better place by telling stories of injustice, but who haven’t had the opportunity in part because so much journalistic space is occupied by men like Taibbi: dudes who in some measure gained their professional footholds by objectifying women—and not just in big, bad Russia. Take the piece Taibbi wrote in 2009 about athletes’ wives. “The problem with the Smoking-Hot Skank as a permanent life choice,” he opined, “is that she eventually gets bored and starts calling up reporters to share her Important Political Opinions.” Taibbi may feel demoralized because the hilarious misogynistic stylings of his youth are now interfering with his grown-up career, but lots of women never even got their careers off the ground because the men in their fields saw them as Smoking-Hot Skanks whose claim to having a thought in their heads was no more than a punch line.

Rebecca Traister

Imaginary Beings

Yet, in the end, what’s most remarkable is not that our fantasies contain so much reality; it is that our reality contains so much fantasy. Most of us understand that our perceptual systems, far from passively reflecting the world around us, actively sort, select, distort, ignore, and alter a huge amount of information in order to construct reality as we experience it. But reality as we experience it also departs from actual reality in deeper ways. In actual reality, space and time are inseparable, and neither one behaves anything like the way we perceive it; nor does light, and nor does gravity, and, in all likelihood, nor does consciousness. Yet all the while we go on experiencing space like a map we can walk on, time like a conveyor belt we travel on, ourselves as brimming with agency, our lives as mattering urgently.

That world, the one we inhabit every day of our lives, is a yeti—a fantastical thing constructed out of bits and pieces of reality plus the magic wand of the mind. If we could hand it over to some superior being for consideration, it might not even rank very high on the scale of plausibility. Then again, plausibility itself might not rank very high on the scale of qualities we prize. Better, perhaps, to know that what we feel in our happiest moments has some truth to it: life is magical.

Kathryn Schulz

Mongo Nominates Secret Negro

I’ve been in airports and on airplanes all day, dealing with shitty cellphone signals and shittier airport Wi-Fi for the last few hours, so when I finally was able to get online just now after landing in Pittsburgh, I checked Twitter to see if anything particularly newsworthy had happened while I was offline.

First I saw the depressing news about Deshaun Watson, which may actually be a sign from God that this NFL season needs to just be canceled like House of Cards. And then I saw that someone called “Jerome Powell” was also trending, which made me assume that he must be the backup quarterback for the Houston Texans or something. Or that it was perhaps the title of a new mixtape from Drake. I even allowed myself to suspect that “Jerome Powell” was the new name Rachel Dolezal was going with after tiring of Nkechi Amare Diallo.

Of course, I was wrong. Jerome H. Powell is just the name of an über-rich white dude who’ll chair the Federal Reserve. Full disclosure: I don’t know what the Federal Reserve is or does, really. I know it has something to do with money and, I don’t know, reserving it or something, but that’s about the extent of my Federal Reserve knowledge. The Federal Reserve could be giving me a lap dance right now and I’d just wonder if it took tips with PayPal.

What I do know, however, are multiple niggas named Jerome. And most either go by “Rome” or “Romey,” and they all somehow look exactly as if their name should be Jerome. Jerome is the most self-aware name ever. I also know a gaggle of Powells. I even once crashed a Powell family picnic because my man was dating a woman from the Powell fam and she invited him to meet her family, and he brought me along as an excuse to leave early if the food was wack. (It wasn’t. I stayed and got a T-shirt.) But I know of no white dudes named Jerome and zero white people named Powell, which makes me believe that Trump conjured up this nigga with the same wizard that’s trying to cure Steve Bannon’s greyscale. I don’t believe you, White Jerome. You need more people.

Damon Young

Time Has Come Today

It has been Known since the 1956 publication of the true-life non-fiction tome The Door Into Summer that Leonardo Da Vinci was a time traveler.

Therein we learn that he was born in the 20th Century as Leonard Vincent, and was employed as a drafting and architecture instructor at the University of Colorado at Boulder. There he became a willing subject of a colleague’s classified time-travel program, which propelled him some 500 years into the past. This was a primitive time machine, one that could only thrust people, places, and things into the past, or future, but not bring them back. And so Leonard Vincent permanently settled into the 15th Century, as Leonardo Da Vinci.

The reason Da Vinci then spent so much time and effort designing machines and other devices that would not come to fruition for hundreds of years is because he was earnestly attempting to accelerate development of Real Things he had known and experienced when Leonard Vincent in the 20th Century.

All of this is now common knowledge.

What is less well known, I guess maybe because I haven’t told anyone until now, is that Da Vinci’s contemporary and competitor, Michelangelo Buonarroti, was/is also a time traveler.

I figured this would become blazingly obvious to everyone when the enemies of the people on Thursday published an article on the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s show of 133 Michelangelo drawings, an article accompanied by a large reproduction of Michelangelo’s portrait of Australian thespian Cate Blanchett. (That portrait is also featured here, up above there.) I thought the humans would ask: how could the 15th Century Michelangelo, draw the 21st Century Cate Blanchett? And then arrive at the proper answer: because Michelangelo was/is a time traveler.

But, apparently the humans are not getting it. So, I am here to help.


Yes They’d Send Us Back

Look The Whole Thing In The Eye

When I Worked

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