Joe Stracci's blog. Topics covered include, but are not limited to: writing, art, technology, Apple, food, fatherhood, parenting, and music. And photography. And design. And sports. Oh, and probably some politics too.
Posted in: Links
In memory of David Bowie, I asked some past Song Exploder guests to help curate a playlist for the show’s newsletter. They each picked their favorite David Bowie track, and wrote a few words about the song they chose.
The playlist is here, but make sure you hit the link above to check out what each person said.
Matt Berninger's voice is just right for this song. And the atmosphere is just perfect; exactly the kind of remembrance it seems like a guy like Bowie would have appreciated. (If the embedded video doesn't show up, just hit the Pitchfork link.)
/via Pitchfork
Cast your mind back to 1979, a time before Internet radio, Twitter, Tumblr, and other social networks beginning with the letter T. And now imagine that you’d never heard the Velvet Underground, Talking Heads, Blondie, Roxy Music, hell, even Bruce Springsteen—all of whom were just beginning to break through to mainstream consciousness. Now imagine your introduction to these artists comes from none other than Ziggy Stardust himself—or the Thin White Duke—David Bowie, immersed in his Berlin period and recording a trilogy of albums that together arguably represent the best work of his career. That would be something, wouldn’t it?
Just a fantastic two hours of music. The link above includes the complete tracklist.
Karl Ove Knausgaard, writing for The New York Times Magazine:
Marsh brought out the stimulator again. This time it was turned up to 8 before there was a reaction, and Dashi said, “Face.”
Marsh waved me over.
“See this? This little spot here. That’s the center for facial movement. We have to leave that in peace.”
Were all the expressions the human face could make supposed to originate in this little spot? All the joy, all the grief, all the light and all the darkness that filled a face in the course of a life, was it all traceable to this? The quivering lower lip before tears begin to flow, the eyes narrowing in anger, the sudden cracking up into laughter?
Marsh continued working with the two instruments. Using the sucker, he pried and pushed and shoved continuously, while he used the other tool in between, with no trace of hesitation, without stopping and, seemingly, without thinking.
He brought out the electric stimulator again. This time he pushed it toward the bottom of the hole.
“This should be the face again,” he said.
“Nothing,” Dashi said.
“Nothing?”
Dashi shook his head, and Marsh went on working.
Every adjective I know to describe something intelligent and beautiful and profound and surgically precise would fail to adequately capture how strongly this piece, by my new favorite writer, embodies all of those qualities. If you like reading about science, this is a must-read. If you like having the human condition displayed in front of your eyes, this is a must-read. Fuck all of that—this is a must-read.
Life in Western Mongolia is an adventure. Training eagles to hunt, herding yaks, and racing camels are just a few of the daily activities of the nomadic Kazakh people. I spent a few weeks living with them and experiencing one of the most unique cultures in the world. Saddle up and enjoy the ride.
I made the mistake of watching this amazing short documentary right after ordering a $175 external solid state drive because I’m running out of space on my laptop with how much room my podcast producing software takes up—and I almost immediately began to regret about 90% of my choices in life. But—don’t let that stop you. Incredible work here.
/via Devour
Pete Souza, writing on Medium:
One of the best and most challenging aspects of my job is whittling down a year’s worth of photographs to the final selections for my annual Year in Photographs. Every year, I attempt to keep it less than 100 photos — and every year I fail in that goal. But I am excited once again to present this gallery for the seventh consecutive year.
Some truly amazing images here. What a job.
Pete Souza, writing on Medium:
Throughout the year, I post photographs of my White House work on a regular basis to my Instagram, @PeteSouza.
So. Cool.
Luke Mogelson, writing for The New York Times Magazine:
‘‘How do you know they were from the 18th Street Gang?’’ the asylum officer asked during the interview, after Villanueva described the incident.
‘‘They had tattoos with the number on their faces and hands,’’ he said, ‘‘and the walls of their houses are marked with the number.’’
Villanueva later described the torture and murder of the uncle who directed the youth group at his family’s church. In 2013, the uncle disappeared after complaining to the police about the 18th Street Gang harassing the group members. A few days later, his body turned up in the Chamelecón River covered with puncture wounds, which investigators deemed to have been inflicted by an ice pick.
‘‘How do you know the gang is connected to the police?’’ the asylum officer asked.
‘‘Everybody knows that in my country,’’ Villanueva said.
‘‘Your attorney submitted an article that indicates the police captured a leader of the 18th Street Gang,’’ the officer pointed out. ‘‘If the gangs are working with the police, why would the police arrest their leaders?’’
‘‘They arrest people so the community thinks they’re doing something. But then they’re out of jail in a week or two.’’
‘‘Why are they released after a week or two?’’
‘‘This is the question that all of the good people of Honduras ask.’’
‘‘Is there anything else that you’re afraid of in Honduras?’’
‘‘No. Just losing my life.’’
Although the officer found Villanueva credible, she did not consider him eligible for asylum; the immigration judge agreed. Villanueva was sent to Louisiana, where he was loaded onto a plane with more than a hundred other Hondurans. They wore manacles on their wrists and ankles, and their hands were shackled to chains around their waists. Armed guards accompanied them. Midway through the flight, bologna sandwiches and cookies were distributed. They were packaged individually, the sandwiches and cookies. Most of the handcuffed men and women found it easiest to tear the plastic with their teeth.
I continue to be baffled by the ability of so many people to ignore these stories. And I know they're not reading them, because if they did, assuming their heart and their brain is functioning, they wouldn't be capable of such indifference, such animosity, towards the hordes of innocent people who are in need.
America used to be a beacon for those who were willing to leave everything behind for a chance at opportunity and freedom. Now? I just don't know.
Jedidah Isler, writing for The New York Times:
Last week during oral arguments in Fisher v. University of Texas, a case about the constitutionality of race-conscious admissions policies, Chief Justice John G. Roberts Jr. posed two questions: “What unique perspective does a minority student bring to a physics class?” Followed by: “I’m just wondering what the benefits of diversity are in that situation?”
Then Justice Antonin Scalia deepened an already painful wound when he questioned the abilities of black students to succeed at fast-paced institutions, an idea rooted in the widely discredited “mismatch theory.” Their questions left many black scientists, myself included, reeling from the psychological blow.
I can't think of a better display of white privilege than the moment that prompted Isler to write this piece.
Patrick O’Sullivan, writing for The Player’s Tribune:
By the time I was 10, it got worse. He would put cigarettes out on me. Choke me. Throw full soda cans at my head. Every time I stepped on the ice, I knew that my play would determine just how bad I got it when we got home. I’d score a hat trick, and afterward we’d get in the car and he would tell me that I played “like a faggot” (that was his favorite term, which says a lot).
I thought it was normal. As a kid, you just don’t know any better. He would wake me up at 5 a.m. and force me to work out for two hours before school. I remember I had this heavy leather jump rope, and if he thought I wasn’t working hard enough, he would force me to take my shirt off and he’d whip me with it. If the jump rope wasn’t around, he would use an electrical cord.
He always stopped short of knocking me unconscious, because that would defeat his purpose. See, if I was passed out, I couldn’t train.
This was a difficult one to get through. But, Sports Parents everywhere owe it to the Patrick O’Sullivans of the world to read it and learn the lessons.
