Anthony Bourdain’s Food Market Takes Shape →

Florence Fabricant, writing for The New York Times:

“The way people eat has changed,” he said. “They want to be at counters and communal tables. They want heat and funk and chicken wings that set their hair on fire. They’re as quick to brag about the greatest $3 bowl of laksa as a dinner at Ducasse. That’s what I want to create for New York, some place where I would want to eat. Right now, there is nothing like that.”

Stephen Werther, the retail entrepreneur who is one of Mr. Bourdain’s partners in the venture, was more succinct: “People want Tony’s shows to come to life.”

I remember reading Kitchen Confidential right around the time I started getting into cooking and watching the Food Network and it was like dropping acid. Emeril’s Bam!s didn’t seem so funny anymore now that there was an actual badass to follow, writing about heroin and booze and the general skullduggery of the food world. Bourdain is now similar to the Darth Vader bear that my daughter recently brought home from Build-A-Bear—he’s wearing the outfit, and he has the accessories, but he’s been pumped full of cotton wadding and is soft and squishy to the touch.

I’ve kept an eye on this story for a while now—there have been whispers for almost a year, I believe. And the idea has never sat well with me, mostly because, as Bourdain has always been quick to point out: he had no success in the food business. His success has been in writing and eating on camera and playing a character. And the quote above from his partner reads as something horribly dooming because while it might sound snappy, those people aren’t getting his show. He won’t be sitting next to them. And when they realize that, I don’t think they’re going to come back.

I hope I’m wrong, but something tells me that this doesn’t end well.

Motherhood, Screened Off →

Susan Dominus, writing for The New York Times:

Parents today are often chastised for being distracted by their devices, for devoting more attention to their phones than to their children. I concede that Twitter provides, at times, a more witty conversation than the one I might have with a 6-year-old; that there is, in fact, always some excuse to turn to the device and tune out a small child’s rant about the problem with peanut butter; that the feeling of productivity the phone engenders is as addictive as it is false.

But it seems safe to say that our own parents probably gave more attention to their myriad daily tasks than they did to their children, too, and even did so in their children’s presence.

I’m a sucker for pieces that highlight the modern parent’s guilt over their technology addictions (bonus points if they are hypocritical parents, like me, who, at times, enforce technology rules on their children) while simultaneously pointing out that our concerns and guilt are mostly unfounded when compared to the supposedly “great” childhoods of yesteryear.

Turkey’s Refugee Shadow Economy →

Ben Hubbard, writing for The New York Times:

Mr. Abdul-Hamid’s swift success is a small part of the multimillion-dollar shadow economy that has developed in Turkey to profit from the massive human tide rushing toward Europe. Much of this new economy is visible in the streets here, where smugglers solicit refugees, clothing stores display life vests and inner tubes, and tour buses and taxis shuttle passengers to remote launch sites along the coast.

Money is flowing through Izmir, the third largest city in Turkey, now a grim hub for migrants and a boom town for residents. Hidden from view is an extensive smuggling infrastructure, with makeshift “insurance offices” that hold migrants’ money, covert factories that churn out ineffective life vests and underground suppliers of cheap rubber rafts that sometimes pop or capsize during the voyage to Greece, stranding or drowning people at sea.

There’s nothing better than reading something in bed before your day even begins that immediately sets your entire life, and how good you have it, into sharper focus.

‘Now, when I meet someone, I already know what they look like dead.’ →

Dave Philipps, writing for The New York Times:

Mr. Bojorquez, 27, served in one of the hardest hit military units in Afghanistan, the Second Battalion, Seventh Marine Regiment. In 2008, the 2/7 deployed to a wild swath of Helmand Province. Well beyond reliable supply lines, the battalion regularly ran low on water and ammunition while coming under fire almost daily. During eight months of combat, the unit killed hundreds of enemy fighters and suffered more casualties than any other Marine battalion that year.

When its members returned, most left the military and melted back into the civilian landscape. They had families and played softball, taught high school and attended Ivy League universities. But many also struggled, unable to find solace. And for some, the agonies of war never ended.

Almost seven years after the deployment, suicide is spreading through the old unit like a virus. Of about 1,200 Marines who deployed with the 2/7 in 2008, at least 13 have killed themselves, two while on active duty, the rest after they left the military. The resulting suicide rate for the group is nearly four times the rate for young male veterans as a whole and 14 times that for all Americans.

Heartbreaking reporting. At times, it feels almost impossible that this situation could have even been allowed to get to this point, where so many of us are learning about it in this way. It’s not an easy problem to fix, but why should that be stopping us? Where is the outrage?

Bethenny Frankel and the Making of a Celebrity Brand →

Lizzie Widdecombe, writing for The New Yorker:

Frankel’s deal with Beam requires her to make promotional appearances for her liquor brand. In the car, she asked her employee, a polished blond twenty-six-year-old named Alexandra Cohen, “Is this for Spicy Lime or Pinot?” Cohen explained that it was for neither. Frankel would be meeting a group of life-style bloggers who had been hired by Beam to act as “influencers” for Skinnygirl Cocktails. “These are ten bloggers who are going to share with every single follower that they met you, and that you’re inspirational,” Cohen said. She added, firmly, “It’s important that you message the right things to these people. Because these people have a ton of followers.”

“O.K.,” Frankel said. “Why did they only pick ten, though?” She’s active on Twitter, but the nuances of social media sometimes escape her. (An agency called DM2 manages most of her social-media accounts.)

“Because they’re the most influential.”

“Influential of what?”

“Messaging of cocktails,” Cohen said. “Like, if you tweet something about a cocktail, it goes to 1.4 million people. One of these girls tonight—Lauryn Evarts, of the Skinny Confidential—she has half a million followers. It’s a blog. And she worships you. She’s, like, ‘I want to be the next Bethenny Frankel.’ ”

The car pulled up outside the James Hotel, where the women were greeted by a Beam marketing executive and the bloggers, who looked like younger versions of Frankel. They wore brightly colored cocktail dresses and had well-honed personal brands. Evarts said, “I’m all about having kale in one hand and champagne in the other. Balance, balance, balance!”

Looking around the party room in the hotel’s basement, Frankel delivered critiques in the form of a comic riff: “The lighting in here! I feel like we should seal the windows and turn on the gas. It’s depressing! Jesus Christ. If we sell a couple more bottles, maybe we could get better lighting.” A Beam employee rushed to adjust the dimmer.

I read this piece at 3:30am, unable to fall back asleep after a feeding, so I don’t know if that skewed my critical thinking, but I can’t say for sure if this is either a horrifying tale that portends a certain cultural armageddon, or a beautiful, glimmering example that The American Dream is alive and well.

Why Do We Admire Mobsters? →

Maria Konnikova, writing for The New Yorker:

t’s no surprise that family members paint idyllic pictures of their mobster ancestors. Every mobster was also a father, brother, uncle, or grandfather, and—at least theoretically—his villainy didn’t spill over into those roles. The real question is why so many other people feel the same way. We don’t glamorize all violent crime; no one holds the Son of Sam or Charles Manson in high regard. (It’s hard to imagine their descendants gathering for a celebratory dinner at a steakhouse.) So why are Al Capone, Lansky, Arnold Rothstein, Luciano, and their ilk held up as mythic figures, even heroes of a sort, not just by their families but by the general public? Why are members of the Italian mafia treated more like celebrities than unsavory criminals?

Loaded article. This could easily be a book-length discussion.

The Rolled R’s of Vanessa Ruiz →

Ilan Stavans, writing for The New York Times:

The controversy over Ms. Ruiz’s rolled R’s can easily be framed in the context of a troubling strain of anti-immigrant sentiment, rooted in Arizona in this case, but much in evidence elsewhere. At issue is the contested coexistence not only of two languages, but of two cultures. In a public statement, Ms. Ruiz politely pointed out that her pronunciation honors Arizona’s original settlers, who were all Iberian.

But there is an even larger picture that deserves our attention: the miraculous malleability of language.

It will be conversations like this one, conversations that take simple binary arguments and turn them into something more nuanced and insightful, that allow us, as we always have, to progress forward as a society. I, for one, welcome the debate.

‘Yankees Suck! Yankees Sucks!’ b/w No Pussy in the Pit

Amos Barshad, writing for Grantland:

LeMoine knew a guy in Sayreville, New Jersey, who ran the screen-printing business that made shirts for all the hardcore bands. On a whim, he ordered a small batch of shirts: “Ten Yard Fight” on the back, “Yankees Suck” emblazoned on the front. The night of Game 4, he headed to Fenway.

The T-shirts were an instant smash. In ’99, Boston was buzzing off the Sox’s appearance in the ALCS, and the streets were packed. The shirts started flying, not just to the hardcore kids waiting to say goodbye to their favorite band but to the masses heading into the park or spilling out of the bars of Lansdowne. They couldn’t tell you the first thing about Ten Yard Fight, but they knew that phrase, in that harsh sing-song cadence: Yan-kees Suck! Yan-kees Suck!

Twenty-four hours later, the Sox’s season was over. The Yankees won the series in five games and went on to repeat as World Series champions. But LeMoine was certain he was onto something. He sunk a couple thousand dollars into a small stock of shirts. And for the Sox’s home opener in 2000, he went out with a tiny crew, flapping forth a new version.

In line with hardcore’s aesthetics, the shirts were bare-bones. The phrase appeared in big block text in Berthold City Bold, the same font used by SS Decontrol. Effectively, it was the same logo as that of the hardcore zine Boiling Point. This time, the shirt featured just two words: Yankees Suck.

Unbelievable story. Excellent writing. But of course, there’s another side to tell, and Carolyn Zaikowski tells it with no holds barred:

First off, let’s get the biggest piece of mythology straightened out: the majority of these guys weren’t from Boston, or even its immediate surroundings. They were from wealthy suburbs, some over an hour away. Many of the folks highlighted in this article, including Ray LeMoine, screen-printer of kooky T-shirts and person I was friends with in high school, were from North Andover and Andover. To be clear, that’s about forty minutes north of Boston. Some went to elite high schools like Philips Academy. Many other “hardcore kids” I knew, including my high school boyfriend, were from the Lincoln-Concord area, one of the wealthiest places in the country, significantly west of Boston.

I’ll always be spurred on as a writer because of the simple fact that two words, just two words (Yankees Suck!) can be the jumping-off point for so much creative thinking and analysis. 

One Simple Cartoon That Explains Why “All Lives Matter” Misses the Point →

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/via Vox

Donald Trump and the White Nationalists →

Evan Osnos, writing for The New Yorker:

When Trump announced his candidacy, on June 16th, he vowed to build a two-thousand-mile-long wall to stop Mexico from “sending people that have lots of problems.” He said, “They’re bringing drugs. They’re bringing crime. They’re rapists. And some, I assume, are good people.” Three of the statements had no basis in fact—the crime rate among first-generation immigrants is lower than that for native-born Americans—but Trump takes an expansive view of reality. “I play to people’s fantasies,” he writes in “The Art of the Deal,” his 1987 memoir. “I call it truthful hyperbole. It’s an innocent form of exaggeration—and a very effective form of promotion.”

Trump’s campaign announcement was mocked and condemned—and utterly successful. His favorability among Republicans leaped from sixteen per cent to fifty-seven per cent, a greater spike than that of any other candidate’s début. Immigration became the centerpiece of his campaign. “Donald Trump has changed the entire debate on immigration,” Rush Limbaugh told his listeners last month. As the climax of events in Las Vegas and Phoenix, Trump brought onstage Jamiel Shaw, Sr., whose seventeen-year-old son was killed, in 2008, by a man who was in the country illegally. Trump stood by while Shaw told the crowd how his son was shot.

Before departing for Laredo, Trump said, “I’ve been invited by border patrols, and they want to honor me, actually, thousands and thousands of them, because I’m speaking up.” Though Trump said “border patrols,” the invitation had in fact come from a local branch of the border-patrol union, and the local, after consulting with headquarters, withdrew the invitation a few hours before Trump arrived, on the ground that it would not endorse political candidates. Descending the airplane stairs, Trump looked thrilled to be arriving amid a controversy; he waded into a crowd of reporters and described the change of plans as the handiwork of unspecified enemies. “They invited me, and then, all of a sudden, they were told, silencio! They want silence.” Asked why he felt unsafe in Laredo—which has a lower crime rate than New York City or Washington, D.C.—he invoked another “they”: “Well, they say it’s a great danger, but I have to do it. I love the country. There’s nothing more important than what I’m doing.”

This all ends eventually. Donald Trump will not be the Republican presidential nominee. There’s a room full of kingmakers in a really nice hotel somewhere who get the final say and they won’t let it happen. But it might not matter, because the damage will have already been done by then. No matter what side of the aisle you stand on, you owe it to yourself and to this country to read this piece. And if you consider yourself a Trump supporter, you really, really should read it, if only to find out who else is playing on your team.