newyorker--2020-08-04--The Laughing-Gas Wars of London

The Laughing-Gas Wars of London

When the sun is out and everything is closed , what is there to do but go to the park ?
In London , where the restaurants are open but still viewed suspiciously , like pop-up carnival rides , why not take a bottle of wine and some wipes to a patch of grass instead ?
The people-watching alone is worth it : boxing classes , after-work drinks , first dates , and dinner with the in-laws ( at a distance ) have all moved outdoors during the pandemic .
Recently , in my local park , an entire family @ @ @ @ @ @ @ down a hill on training wheels , and a man with a macaw did a handstand .
On a particularly scenic hill , which overlooks the London Zoo and , in the distance , the empty city center , teen-agers like to smoke and gossip and hug ; their relief at seeing one another is palpable .
The next day , the debris is everywhere : plastic cups ( birthday party ) , paper confetti ( engagement drinks ) , and countless masks and rubber gloves tangled in the bushes and trees ( @ @ @ @ @ @ @ t stopped—they ’ ve just moved outside .
Last month , the revelry got so intense that the council of Hackney , a trendy borough of East London , announced a temporary ban on the consumption of alcohol in the area ’ s popular park , London Fields .
“ London Fields is not a festival site—it ’ s a vital green space for everyone , ” the Hackney mayor , Philip Glanville , said in a statement brimming with outrage .
Some locals were feeling “ excluded from the park , ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ being made a misery because of littering , urinating , defecating and drunken behaviour.
” Residents wrote in with their own complaints .
“ Today I witnessed three individual groups of the public using the estate on Richmond Road as a toilet , ” one wrote to the council .
“ All weekend from early afternoon it ’ s just people drinking , and urinating , and worse , ” another complained , ominously .
“ We can ’ t go the morning after as it ’ s so grim and we can @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” With everyone lounging ( read : drinking ) in the not-so-fresh grass , there ’ s been time to notice the small things , including little silver cannisters of nitrous oxide , also known as laughing gas , left behind after a night out in the park .
These containers—thumb-size and shaped like miniature torpedoes—accumulate in areas of frenzied socializing , often discarded alongside a deflated balloon and an empty box of chips .
( The balloons dispense the gas .
The chips are incidental . )
In the U.K. , recreational @ @ @ @ @ @ @ music festivals and night clubs , and prevalent enough that the Hackney council , in its London Fields injunction , banned it by name , along with alcohol , barbecuing , and playing loud music .
A recent Home Office survey of drug use in England and Wales found that nitrous oxide ranked as the third most popular drug across all age groups ; among sixteen-to-twenty-four-year-olds , it was the second most popular , after cannabis .
Delight in nitrous oxide is hardly new in the U.K.—the chemist Humphry Davy , who discovered @ @ @ @ @ @ @ wrote , in 1799 , “ It made me dance about the laboratory like a madman ” —but it still has the power to rankle .
On July 21st , Rosie Duffield , the M.P .
for Canterbury , raised the issue in Parliament .
“ We have all seen the telltale bullet-shaped silver canisters and their balloon companions littering our beaches and parks this summer , ” she said .
“ Every single sixth-former and university or college student in Britain will know what those silver canisters are.
” She called for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , “ If I bought some canisters for the purpose of indulging in a quick lockdown high , I would not have broken the law.
” After Duffield ’ s speech , the tabloids promptly reported a lockdown-fuelled outbreak of “ hippy crack , ” as it is sometimes called in the papers .
( From the Sun : “ No Laughing Matter.
” ) The Guardian ’ s Joel Golby added , more wryly , that Duffield ’ s comments made him “ so hungry for a ‘ quick lockdown high ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it.
” But is it legal to get high off your face on laughing gas , or not ?
For a long time , the answer was muddled .
In the U.K. , it is legal to sell nitrous-oxide cannisters ( at the corner store , on the Internet , down the street ) for non-recreational use .
They are used legally all the time in medicine and catering—to put the whip in whipped cream , for example .
In 2016 , however , the Psychoactive Substances Act came into effect in the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to sell or give away for recreational use any substance “ capable of producing a psychoactive effect in a person who consumes it.
” It was intended to crack down on “ spice , ” a synthetic cannabis sold on the high street , but it effectively banned many other legal highs as well .
The legal status of nitrous oxide now seems a little like a riddle : it is legal to use recreationally , but illegal to sell for recreational purposes .
It is legal to sell anywhere , but only @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , where cannisters are often sold with balloons , the reviews are telling .
“ Makes really good cream for cakes , yes cakes , ” one reviewer wrote .
“ Had a wicked night after eating that cake , yes cake.
” David Nutt , who runs the Neuropsychopharmacology Unit at Imperial College London , finds the whole debate over nitrous oxide a bizarre distraction .
“ Anyone with an ounce of common sense knows that it ’ s one of the least harmful drugs , ” he told me .
Between @ @ @ @ @ @ @ gas caused about two deaths a year in England and Wales , an exceptionally low number for an estimated seven or eight hundred thousand users .
Nutt has pointed out that the high lasts less than a minute ; it doesn ’ t cause hangovers or render users unable to drive .
Mostly , he told me , the public outcry is about littering .
“ The main complaint about nitrous oxide is not that people are using it , but the fact that they discard their whippets in car parks or wherever @ @ @ @ @ @ @ my mind , that ’ s like complaining about broken bottles because people drink alcohol.
” Niamh Eastwood , the executive director of the independent drug charity Release , told me that her organization , which has been tracking drug use in the U.K. during lockdown , has found no evidence of a rise in demand for nitrous oxide during the pandemic .
The cannisters are just more visible .
“ We ’ ve got adults in the park in a way that we ’ ve never had before , ” she told @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in the park previously , but adults didn ’ t notice because they weren ’ t there.
” In addition , “ young people have less indoor spaces , or no indoor spaces , to gather , so there ’ s more use outside.
” Stretched councils have also reduced cleaning services in London ’ s parks .
“ It ’ s arguably a littering problem rather than a public-health problem , ” Eastwood said .
Whatever the reason—ostentatious littering , the mad desire for a furtive lockdown high—the cannisters are ubiquitous in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ an artist who lives in Holloway , in North London , has taken note .
She has been collecting the small silver containers since 2017 , when they began appearing everywhere .
“ I was out on the motorbike , and I started seeing them at junctions , ” she said .
She was often on the road , and she would stop frequently to examine them .
“ After a while , it started bugging me more and more , ” she told me .
She and her friend Jack Cheshire , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ bicycling around the city , scooping up the cannisters .
They often returned with several bulging canvas bags full .

When the sun is out and everything is closed, what is there to do but go to the park? In London, where the restaurants are open but still viewed suspiciously, like pop-up carnival rides, why not take a bottle of wine and some wipes to a patch of grass instead? The people-watching alone is worth it: boxing classes, after-work drinks, first dates, and dinner with the in-laws (at a distance) have all moved outdoors during the pandemic. Recently, in my local park, an entire family started line dancing, a toddler careened down a hill on training wheels, and a man with a macaw did a handstand. On a particularly scenic hill, which overlooks the London Zoo and, in the distance, the empty city center, teen-agers like to smoke and gossip and hug; their relief at seeing one another is palpable. The next day, the debris is everywhere: plastic cups (birthday party), paper confetti (engagement drinks), and countless masks and rubber gloves tangled in the bushes and trees (everything). The parties haven’t stopped—they’ve just moved outside.
Last month, the revelry got so intense that the council of Hackney, a trendy borough of East London, announced a temporary ban on the consumption of alcohol in the area’s popular park, London Fields. “London Fields is not a festival site—it’s a vital green space for everyone,” the Hackney mayor, Philip Glanville, said in a statement brimming with outrage. Some locals were feeling “excluded from the park,” he explained; their lives were “being made a misery because of littering, urinating, defecating and drunken behaviour.” Residents wrote in with their own complaints. “Today I witnessed three individual groups of the public using the estate on Richmond Road as a toilet,” one wrote to the council. “All weekend from early afternoon it’s just people drinking, and urinating, and worse,” another complained, ominously. “We can’t go the morning after as it’s so grim and we can’t let the children run free.”
With everyone lounging (read: drinking) in the not-so-fresh grass, there’s been time to notice the small things, including little silver cannisters of nitrous oxide, also known as laughing gas, left behind after a night out in the park. These containers—thumb-size and shaped like miniature torpedoes—accumulate in areas of frenzied socializing, often discarded alongside a deflated balloon and an empty box of chips. (The balloons dispense the gas. The chips are incidental.) In the U.K., recreational use of laughing gas is common at music festivals and night clubs, and prevalent enough that the Hackney council, in its London Fields injunction, banned it by name, along with alcohol, barbecuing, and playing loud music. A recent Home Office survey of drug use in England and Wales found that nitrous oxide ranked as the third most popular drug across all age groups; among sixteen-to-twenty-four-year-olds, it was the second most popular, after cannabis.
Delight in nitrous oxide is hardly new in the U.K.—the chemist Humphry Davy, who discovered the gas’s consciousness-altering effects, wrote, in 1799, “It made me dance about the laboratory like a madman”—but it still has the power to rankle. On July 21st, Rosie Duffield, the M.P. for Canterbury, raised the issue in Parliament. “We have all seen the telltale bullet-shaped silver canisters and their balloon companions littering our beaches and parks this summer,” she said. “Every single sixth-former and university or college student in Britain will know what those silver canisters are.” She called for tighter restrictions on their sale, noting, “If I bought some canisters for the purpose of indulging in a quick lockdown high, I would not have broken the law.” After Duffield’s speech, the tabloids promptly reported a lockdown-fuelled outbreak of “hippy crack,” as it is sometimes called in the papers. (From the Sun: “No Laughing Matter.”) The Guardian’s Joel Golby added, more wryly, that Duffield’s comments made him “so hungry for a ‘quick lockdown high’ that my whole body could scream for it.”
But is it legal to get high off your face on laughing gas, or not? For a long time, the answer was muddled. In the U.K., it is legal to sell nitrous-oxide cannisters (at the corner store, on the Internet, down the street) for non-recreational use. They are used legally all the time in medicine and catering—to put the whip in whipped cream, for example. In 2016, however, the Psychoactive Substances Act came into effect in the U.K. The act made it illegal to sell or give away for recreational use any substance “capable of producing a psychoactive effect in a person who consumes it.” It was intended to crack down on “spice,” a synthetic cannabis sold on the high street, but it effectively banned many other legal highs as well. The legal status of nitrous oxide now seems a little like a riddle: it is legal to use recreationally, but illegal to sell for recreational purposes. It is legal to sell anywhere, but only to the right customers. On Amazon, where cannisters are often sold with balloons, the reviews are telling. “Makes really good cream for cakes, yes cakes,” one reviewer wrote. “Had a wicked night after eating that cake, yes cake.”
David Nutt, who runs the Neuropsychopharmacology Unit at Imperial College London, finds the whole debate over nitrous oxide a bizarre distraction. “Anyone with an ounce of common sense knows that it’s one of the least harmful drugs,” he told me. Between 2001 and 2016, misuse of the gas caused about two deaths a year in England and Wales, an exceptionally low number for an estimated seven or eight hundred thousand users. Nutt has pointed out that the high lasts less than a minute; it doesn’t cause hangovers or render users unable to drive. Mostly, he told me, the public outcry is about littering. “The main complaint about nitrous oxide is not that people are using it, but the fact that they discard their whippets in car parks or wherever,” he said. “To my mind, that’s like complaining about broken bottles because people drink alcohol.”
Niamh Eastwood, the executive director of the independent drug charity Release, told me that her organization, which has been tracking drug use in the U.K. during lockdown, has found no evidence of a rise in demand for nitrous oxide during the pandemic. The cannisters are just more visible. “We’ve got adults in the park in a way that we’ve never had before,” she told me. “Kids were probably using in the park previously, but adults didn’t notice because they weren’t there.” In addition, “young people have less indoor spaces, or no indoor spaces, to gather, so there’s more use outside.” Stretched councils have also reduced cleaning services in London’s parks. “It’s arguably a littering problem rather than a public-health problem,” Eastwood said.
Whatever the reason—ostentatious littering, the mad desire for a furtive lockdown high—the cannisters are ubiquitous in London this summer. Erika Flowers, an artist who lives in Holloway, in North London, has taken note. She has been collecting the small silver containers since 2017, when they began appearing everywhere. “I was out on the motorbike, and I started seeing them at junctions,” she said. She was often on the road, and she would stop frequently to examine them. “After a while, it started bugging me more and more,” she told me. She and her friend Jack Cheshire, a TV producer and director, began bicycling around the city, scooping up the cannisters. They often returned with several bulging canvas bags full.
Flowers, who is fifty-three, thinks of herself as an eco-conscious fossil collector (“I hate seeing litter”); her parents used to take her to the Jurassic Coast to pick up ammonites and devil’s toenails. She calls the cannisters “nitronites,” and considers them fossils of the human era. “Nitronites are a man-made sub-species of neo-fossil—or ‘Future Fossil’—formed when stainless steel nitrous oxide canisters are [discarded] by recreational users, mainly in urban areas,” her Web site reads. In the past few years, nitronites have found their way into her work. She groups and labels them—“Gigonite,” “Hilarionite,” “Gutteronite”—adds the coördinates where she found them, and fixes them inside glass-covered wooden boxes, like specimens. Sometimes, she adds other found objects: a credit card, a plastic dinosaur. They are funny, and wry, and oddly beautiful.
On a recent Sunday, the morning after an exceptionally warm summer evening, which all of London seemed to spend in the parks, I joined Flowers and Cheshire on a collecting trip. We started at Flowers’s home, a small terraced house cluttered with canvases. Near the back garden, she had stacked dozens of boxes of cannisters, neatly labelled: “Rusty, Squashed”; “Silver, Rolled”; “Silver, Scratched”; “Silver, Squashed & Dappled.” Flowers, who is lean and sprightly, with long blue hair, held up a box labelled “Specials.” “A triangulanite is a special,” she said, noting a cannister that had been smashed into a triangle. She continued, “Bent one’s a special, cracked one’s quite special, and then sometimes I just like the patina.”
On our bikes, we followed Flowers as she wove nimbly through traffic looking for discarded cannisters. From Holloway, we passed through Finsbury Park, where hungover pedestrians were searching out coffee, and then Clissold Park, with no luck. “Parks are really hit and miss,” Flowers told me. The junctions were better, she said: people toss cannisters from their cars after a night out. At the base of a traffic light, Cheshire stopped to pick up a shiny silver one. “Argentonite,” he said, and placed it into a tote hanging from Flowers’s handlebars.
Outside Victoria Park, the cannisters began appearing every few feet, either one by one or in groups. The bag was growing heavy, but Flowers was frowning. “I’m just very disappointed, no bent ones,” she said. In Whitechapel, she abruptly exited the bike path, crossed a number of lanes, and began pacing the edge of a traffic island. She stopped suddenly and pumped her fist in the air, holding up a rusty, bent cannister. “Everything you could want here!” she said.


newyorker--2020-08-05--Donald Trump’s Attempt to Obscure the Reality of the Coronavirus Pandemic Is Getting Comical

It should never be forgotten how much of Donald Trump ’ s career has been based on his ability to obscure and defy reality .
In the nineteen-eighties and early nineties , he built a gaming-and-real-estate empire on a mountain of debt , which eventually forced some of his businesses into bankruptcy .
By persuading his bank creditors to let him retain some of his prized assets , rather than liquidate them , he converted disaster into opportunity .
And , by booking a huge tax loss , which he carried over in subsequent years , he seems to have @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of his federal-tax obligations for at least a decade .
Despite scraping through his financial busts with some of his businesses intact , Trump would have all but disappeared from the national scene were it not for a starring role on reality television—a medium that has very little to do with actual reality .
After “ The Apprentice ” became a hit , Trump erased the failures from his résumé and ran for President on the image of a successful businessman—even as it emerged that one of his surviving ventures , Trump University @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , Trump defied yet another reality : his opponent , Hillary Clinton , defeated him in the popular vote by almost three million votes .
But the antiquated Electoral College ushered Trump into the White House , where he continued the assault on fact-based reality that he had launched during his election campaign , repeatedly labelling the news media as “ fake news ” and the “ enemy of the people.
” Three and a half years later , he is still at it .
It is a remarkable record of manipulation and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ t listen to Trump ’ s bluster or read his tweets .
On June 3rd , according to a running tally maintained by the New York Times , the seven-day average for confirmed new cases of COVID-19 was 21,958 .
On Monday , August 3rd , the seven-day average was 60,202 .
That ’ s an increase of about a hundred and seventy-five per cent in two months .
Since early July , as the virus has spread out across the country , the number of deaths from COVID-19 has more than doubled @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the past few days , the weekly average is still more than a thousand .
Confronted with these developments , Trump has become even more brazen in promoting an alternative reality .
On Monday , he lashed out at Dr. Deborah Birx , the response coördinator of the White House ’ s coronavirus task force , tweeting , “ So Crazy Nancy Pelosi said horrible things about Dr. Deborah Birx , going after her because she was too positive on the very good job we are doing on combatting the China Virus , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to counter Nancy , Deborah took the bait & hit us .
Pathetic !
” The President was referring to an interview that Birx gave CNN ’ s Dana Bash over the weekend , and if you watch it you ’ ll see that she didn ’ t “ hit ” Trump or his Administration at all .
To the contrary , she defended the White House task force , saying that it had shifted course more than a month ago : after it became clear that the pandemic had entered a new @ @ @ @ @ @ @ more granular approach , providing individual municipalities and counties with the support and guidance they needed to address the rising number of cases , she said .
She also pointed out that , in some places where they have been introduced , mitigation efforts seem to be having a positive impact .
In hard-hit Arizona , Florida , and Texas , and in a half-dozen other states , new case numbers have declined somewhat in the past two weeks , the Times ’ interactive guide shows .
( Case numbers are still rising @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ) What was Birx ’ s offense ?
She openly acknowledged that the virus is spreading , and she warned people in Trump-supporting areas of the dangers that this presents .
“ I want to be very clear , ” she said .
“ What we are seeing today is different from March and April .
It is extraordinarily widespread .
It ’ s into the rural as [ well as ] urban areas .
And , to everybody who lives in a rural area , you are not immune or protected from @ @ @ @ @ @ @ say that people living in rural areas need to socially distance and wear masks—including at home , if they have potentially vulnerable family members .
In other words , Birx used her media platform to try and save lives .
Asked about his tweet attacking her , at a press conference on Monday afternoon , Trump said that Birx was “ a person I have a lot of respect for.
” But he refused to say whether he agreed with her characterization of the pandemic .
Could there be a clearer demonstration that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to his preferred version of reality , even if adopting such a strategy puts more American lives at risk ?
Having failed to adhere to this communications policy , Dr. Anthony Fauci , the best-known member of the White House task force , hasn ’ t been invited to appear alongside Trump for weeks .
Birx is still more visible .
But Trump , having restarted his regular coronavirus briefings , is again the Administration ’ s primary spokesperson on the pandemic .
The consequences are , by turns , absurd and alarming @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a taped interview to Axios ’ s Jonathan Swan , he came prepared with charts , which , he claimed , showed that the United States was doing better than other countries “ in numerous categories.
” Swan , a plainspoken Australian , seemed puzzled .
“ Oh , you ’ re doing death as a proportion of cases , ” he said after Trump handed him one of the charts .
“ I ’ m talking about death as a proportion of population .
That ’ s where the U.S. is really @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , Germany , et cetera.
” Trump seemed flummoxed .
“ You can ’ t do that , ” he said .
“ Why can ’ t I do that ?
” Swan replied .
“ You have to go by the cases , ” Trump said .
That was a comedy routine .
After HBO aired the interview , on Monday night , it was compared online to “ Spinal Tap ” and “ Curb Your Enthusiasm.
” The interview also contained darker moments , though , especially when Swan pressed Trump @ @ @ @ @ @ @ virus was under control , thereby giving a sense of false security to his supporters .
“ They don ’ t listen to me or the media or Fauci , ” Swan said .
“ They think we ’ re fake news .
They want to get their advice from you .
And , so , when they hear you say , ‘ Everything ’ s under control .
Don ’ t worry about wearing masks ’ —I mean , many of them are older people , Mr. President.
” Trump ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ circumstances , right now , I think it ’ s under control , ” he said tightly .
Swan repeated that every day a thousand people were dying .
“ They are dying , that ’ s true , ” Trump went on .
“ And it is what it is .
But that doesn ’ t mean we aren ’ t doing everything we can .
It ’ s under control as much as you can control it .
This is a horrible plague that beset us.
” Nobody could deny Trump @ @ @ @ @ @ @ survey from CBS News , which was released over the weekend , showed that sixty per cent of North Carolinians think the Trump Administration could be doing more to contain the pandemic , and that fifty-eight per cent think it is merely letting the virus run its course .
In Georgia , another red state , the survey findings were practically identical .
For decades , Trump has made his way by concealing the true nature of things .
Some realities are too big and pressing for even him to obscure .
More @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lives and revive the economy , Donald Trump and Jared Kushner should listen to Anthony Fauci rather than trash him .
• We should look to students to conceive of appropriate school-reopening plans .
It is not too late to ask what they really want .
• A pregnant pediatrician on what children need during the crisis .
• Trump is helping tycoons who have donated to his reëlection campaign exploit the pandemic to maximize profits .
• Meet the high-finance mogul in charge of our economic recovery .
• The coronavirus is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of space are we willing to live and work in now ?

It should never be forgotten how much of Donald Trump’s career has been based on his ability to obscure and defy reality. In the nineteen-eighties and early nineties, he built a gaming-and-real-estate empire on a mountain of debt, which eventually forced some of his businesses into bankruptcy. By persuading his bank creditors to let him retain some of his prized assets, rather than liquidate them, he converted disaster into opportunity. And, by booking a huge tax loss, which he carried over in subsequent years, he seems to have eliminated most, if not all, of his federal-tax obligations for at least a decade.
Despite scraping through his financial busts with some of his businesses intact, Trump would have all but disappeared from the national scene were it not for a starring role on reality television—a medium that has very little to do with actual reality. After “The Apprentice” became a hit, Trump erased the failures from his résumé and ran for President on the image of a successful businessman—even as it emerged that one of his surviving ventures, Trump University, was a scam.
In 2016, Trump defied yet another reality. His opponent, Hillary Clinton, defeated him in the popular vote by almost three million ballots. But the antiquated Electoral College ushered Trump into the White House, where he continued the assault on fact-based reality that he had launched during his election campaign, repeatedly labelling the media as “fake news” and the “enemy of the people.” Three and a half years later, he is still at it.
It is a remarkable record of manipulation and effrontery, but the coronavirus doesn’t listen to Trump’s bluster or read his tweets. On June 3rd, according to a running tally maintained by the Times, the seven-day average for confirmed new cases of COVID-19 was 21,958. On Monday, August 3rd, the seven-day average was 60,202. That’s an increase of about a hundred and seventy-five per cent in two months. Since early July, as the virus has spread across the country, the number of deaths from COVID-19 has more than doubled. Even after a welcome decline during the past few days, the weekly average is still more than a thousand a day.
Confronted with these developments, Trump has become even more brazen in promoting an alternative reality. On Monday, he lashed out at Deborah Birx, the response coördinator of the White House’s coronavirus task force, tweeting, “So Crazy Nancy Pelosi said horrible things about Dr. Deborah Birx, going after her because she was too positive on the very good job we are doing on combatting the China Virus, including Vaccines & Therapeutics. In order to counter Nancy, Deborah took the bait & hit us. Pathetic!”
The President was referring to an interview that Birx gave to CNN’s Dana Bash over the weekend, and if you watch it, you’ll see that she didn’t “hit” Trump or his Administration at all. To the contrary, Birx defended the White House task force, saying that it had shifted course more than a month ago: after it became clear that the pandemic had entered a new phase, the task force adopted a more granular approach, providing individual municipalities and counties with the support and guidance they needed to address the rising number of cases, she said. She also pointed out that, in some places where they have been introduced, mitigation efforts seem to be having a positive impact. In hard-hit Arizona, Florida, and Texas, and in a half-dozen other states, new-case numbers have declined somewhat in the past two weeks, the Times’ interactive guide shows. (Case numbers are still rising in fifteen states and Puerto Rico.)
What was Birx’s offense? She openly acknowledged that the virus is spreading, and she warned people in Trump-supporting areas of the dangers that this presents. “I want to be very clear,” she said. “What we are seeing today is different from March and April. It is extraordinarily widespread. It’s into the rural as [well as] urban areas. And, to everybody who lives in a rural area, you are not immune or protected from this virus.” Birx went on to say that people living in rural areas need to socially distance and wear masks—including at home, if they have potentially vulnerable family members. In other words, Birx used her media platform to try to save lives. Asked about his tweet attacking her, at a press conference on Monday afternoon, Trump said that Birx was “a person I have a lot of respect for.” But he refused to say whether he agreed with her characterization of the pandemic.
Could there be a clearer demonstration that Trump expects his health advisers to defer to his preferred version of reality, even if adopting such a strategy puts more American lives at risk? Having failed to adhere to this communications policy, Anthony Fauci, the best-known member of the White House task force, hasn’t been invited to appear alongside Trump for weeks. Birx is still more visible. But Trump, having restarted his regular coronavirus briefings, is again the Administration’s primary spokesperson on the pandemic. The consequences are, by turns, absurd and alarming.
Last week, when he granted a taped interview to Axios’s Jonathan Swan, he came prepared with charts, which, he claimed, showed that the United States was doing better than other countries “in numerous categories.” Swan, a plainspoken Australian, seemed puzzled. “Oh, you’re doing death as a proportion of cases,” he said after Trump handed him one of the charts. “I’m talking about death as a proportion of population. That’s where the U.S. is really bad. Much worse than South Korea, Germany, et cetera.” Trump seemed flummoxed. “You can’t do that,” he said. “Why can’t I do that?” Swan replied. “You have to go by the cases,” Trump said.
That was a comedy routine. After HBO aired the interview, on Monday night, it was compared online to “Spinal Tap” and “Curb Your Enthusiasm.” The interview also contained darker moments, though, especially when Swan pressed Trump on why he kept insisting that the virus was under control, thereby giving a sense of false security to his supporters. “They don’t listen to me or the media or Fauci,” Swan said. “They think we’re fake news. They want to get their advice from you. And so, when they hear you say, ‘Everything’s under control. Don’t worry about wearing masks’—I mean, many of them are older people, Mr. President.”
Trump’s face was blank. “Under the circumstances, right now, I think it’s under control,” he said tightly. Swan repeated that every day a thousand people were dying. “They are dying, that’s true,” Trump went on. “And it is what it is. But that doesn’t mean we aren’t doing everything we can. It’s under control as much as you can control it. This is a horrible plague that beset us.”
Nobody could deny Trump his final point. But a battleground-state survey from CBS News, which was released over the weekend, showed that sixty per cent of North Carolinians think that the Trump Administration could be doing more to contain the pandemic, and that fifty-eight per cent think it is merely letting the virus run its course. In Georgia, another red state, the survey findings were practically identical. For decades, Trump has made his way by concealing the true nature of things. Some realities are too big and pressing for even him to obscure.
More on the Coronavirus


newyorker--2020-08-04--Review: Seth Rogen’s Empty Ethics in “An American Pickle”

The inspired premise of “ An American Pickle ” ( coming to HBO Max this Thursday ) immediately invites a vast range of imaginative possibilities .
Directed by Brandon Trost and written by Simon Rich—based on his own series of Web pieces in The New Yorker—the movie is a New York Jewish twist on the Rip Van Winkle theme .
It stars Seth Rogen in a double role—first , as Herschel Greenbaum , a poor young Jewish man from the Eastern European shtetl of Schlupsk , where he ’ s in danger of drowning in clichés .
He and a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ) marry and emigrate to the United States , seemingly in the nineteen-tens .
They live in Brooklyn , where Herschel has a miserable and poorly paid job killing rats in a pickle factory ; in 1920 , the thirtyish laborer accidentally falls into a vat of pickles , moments before it ’ s sealed and the factory is shuttered .
In 2020 , the vat is still in the now abandoned factory—and Herschel emerges from it , perfectly preserved and intact , exactly as he went in .
In Rich ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ( and also without any detail ) into the tumult of modern-day Brooklyn .
The movie , however , offers a fine and promising twist : inevitably , the revenant from the brine becomes a celebrity of sorts , an instant big news story ; the authorities , discovering Herschel ’ s legal identity , also find that he has one living descendant , a thirtyish great-grandson named Ben Greenbaum ( also Rogen ) , who is , in effect , his identical great-grandson .
( Their only difference is Herschel ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the problem of Herschel , officials deliver him to Ben , a jovial yet solitary app developer—working on one app , Boop Bop , that will rate companies on ethics and give consumers access to the numerical rating , and for which he ’ s counting on a generous venture-capital sale .
Conveniently , Ben is an orphan—an only child whose parents were killed in a car accident in 2014—and apparently has no extended family .
For his part , Herschel learns that Sarah died long ago , as did their son , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s brining ) .
The scant yet nonetheless droll details of Herschel ’ s reëmergence—his contact with officialdom , with media , with modern medicine—hold out a promise that the movie doesn ’ t deliver .
In 1920 , Herschel would have known skyscrapers and movies , records and automobiles and airplanes ; he ’ d have known of the Great War and the flu pandemic .
The New York of Jewish immigrants was turbulent , complex , emotionally strenuous ( see Henry Roth ’ s 1934 novel “ Call It Sleep @ @ @ @ @ @ @ born in 1906 , evokes his childhood through the eyes of a fictional child ) ; Herschel ’ s bland simplicity suggests the opposite , a dull and featureless past .
Moreover , what he wouldn ’ t have known was his son and his grandson—but he hardly asks Ben anything about the family , and Ben volunteers nothing more .
There ’ s something else that Herschel wouldn ’ t have known , and it ’ s all the stranger given that ( spoiler alert ) the movie takes a brief detour @ @ @ @ @ @ @ have known of the Holocaust , of the fact that more or less everyone he ’ d grown up with would have been exterminated by the Nazis .
Yet not a word , not a hint , of the Holocaust appears in “ American Pickle ” ; the anti-Semitic violence that does get referenced—the Cossacks whose marauding in Schlupsk prompts Herschel and Sarah to emigrate—is played for laughs .
Rogen ’ s comedic career has become dominated by an ethical focus , even an ethical obsession , that , in the desire to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ has lost its spice , its risk , its sense of human trouble .
As a result , his comedy has become filtered , replacing a wide purview and the possibility of wild emotion and loose-ended impulse with schticky tropes .
“ An American Pickle ” is framed as a picaresque adventure , and it touches on details of contemporary life only in order to lampoon their peculiarities .
The satirical light that Herschel ’ s perspective brings to bear on current events is narrowly focussed and dim with sentiment and piety , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” Instead , the movie breezes by the manifold specifics of current affairs that it references in order to reach the small set of points it is most interested in underscoring .
Those points become apparent early on , when Herschel obliviously manages to make a mess of Ben ’ s sales pitch for Boop Bop .
The two men argue , and Herschel goes off on his own , living homeless ( another grievous social ill played as an inconsequential joke ) .
Using his one acquired bit of professional knowledge from @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to become an overnight success as an artisanal pickle vender on the streets of Williamsburg .
Yet , in the process , he has to negotiate the price of fame—and it ’ s here that the movie ’ s satire kicks in .
Though Herschel , in Schlupsk , appears to be a gentle and tender soul whose big dreams remain sweetly modest , he ’ s revealed , in his 2020 incarnation , to be what ’ s called in Yiddish a bulvan : a boastful loudmouth , an aggressive know-it-all .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ reckless vanity , overweening pride , ethnocentricity , and other attitudes that are not , so to speak , P.C.
, and are no longer acceptable , at least in Ben ’ s circles .
But Herschel also possesses ferocious willpower—a rage to survive , to thrive , to prosper , to triumph—that comes off , in the movie ’ s view , as the embarrassingly bare-toothed mark of off-the-boat immigrant ancestors who , handed nothing , fought their way brutishly for a toehold on the American Dream—and whose descendants , educated and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ embarrassment .
This myth of the immigrant who ’ s willing to take on grossly unpleasant work in order to survive—and who , with pluck and determination , leaps from there to shining success—is presented unchallenged .
In Rich ’ s short story , the arrival of Herschel ( there called Herschel Rich ) turns out to be a touchstone for the depressingly bourgeois-hipster world of his great-great-grandson , named Simon Rich , a Brooklyn-based Hollywood script doctor who ’ s besotted with ego and celebrity .
Though the New Yorker piece “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , is filled with exaggerated comedic impossibilities , it retains an acerbity of detail ( suggested even in its title ) that threatens , like the pickles , to curl the teeth .
( “ That is why you do not care about money , ” Herschel declares .
“ Because you already have so much of it .
For you , all of life is happy game.
” ) The movie “ An American Pickle ” performs a remarkable , sentimental reversal : its subject is Ben ’ s reconciliation not only @ @ @ @ @ @ @ his set of ideas .
In effect , what Ben must reconcile with is more than his personal past ; it ’ s the collective cultural past of racism , misogyny , homophobia , and other unchallenged modes of prejudice .
It ’ s this reconciliation , the overcoming of the notion of apologizing for or being embarrassed by the recent cultural past , that “ An American Pickle ” strains to achieve .
Herschel ’ s celebrity appears borrowed from the Peter Sellers character in “ Being There ” —his plain and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ media as profundities .
Yet along the way , he confronts the power and the disgrace of celebrity , and faces a far wider range of modern torments .
In addition to reaching for little satirical nods to today ’ s sordid Presidency , “ An American Pickle ” pivots on a critique of cancel culture , left and right ( suggesting that that the former is peevish , the latter is violent—and abetted by the force of law ) .
It ’ s revealing to see which of Herschel ’ s struggles @ @ @ @ @ @ @ off as mere plot devices : not only homelessness but arrest , incarceration , weaponized deportation and its aftermath .
The focus of “ An American Pickle ” remains the world of media ; to Rogen , the practical challenges and real dangers that a current-day immigrant might face remain abstractions .
The entire movie is Boop Bopped : its ethical characteristics are revealed as disembodied and impersonal .

The inspired premise of “An American Pickle” (coming to HBO Max this Thursday) immediately invites a vast range of imaginative possibilities. Directed by Brandon Trost and written by Simon Rich—based on his own series of Web pieces in The New Yorker—the movie is a New York Jewish twist on the Rip Van Winkle theme. It stars Seth Rogen in a double role—first, as Herschel Greenbaum, a poor young Jewish man from the Eastern European shtetl of Schlupsk, where he’s in danger of drowning in clichés. He and a young woman named Sarah (Sarah Snook) marry and emigrate to the United States, seemingly in the nineteen-tens. They live in Brooklyn, where Herschel has a miserable and poorly paid job killing rats in a pickle factory; in 1920, the thirtyish laborer accidentally falls into a vat of pickles, moments before it’s sealed and the factory is shuttered. In 2020, the vat is still in the now abandoned factory—and Herschel emerges from it, perfectly preserved and intact, exactly as he went in.
In Rich’s short story, Herschel is thrust unceremoniously (and also without any detail) into the tumult of modern-day Brooklyn. The movie, however, offers a fine and promising twist: inevitably, the revenant from the brine becomes a celebrity of sorts, an instant big news story; the authorities, discovering Herschel’s legal identity, also find that he has one living descendant, a thirtyish great-grandson named Ben Greenbaum (also Rogen), who is, in effect, his identical great-grandson. (Their only difference is Herschel’s short but untamed beard.) Privatizing the problem of Herschel, officials deliver him to Ben, a jovial yet solitary app developer—working on one app, Boop Bop, that will rate companies on ethics and give consumers access to the numerical rating, and for which he’s counting on a generous venture-capital sale.
Conveniently, Ben is an orphan—an only child whose parents were killed in a car accident in 2014—and apparently has no extended family. For his part, Herschel learns that Sarah died long ago, as did their son, Mort (who was born after Herschel’s brining). The scant yet nonetheless droll details of Herschel’s reëmergence—his contact with officialdom, with media, with modern medicine—hold out a promise that the movie doesn’t deliver. In 1920, Herschel would have known skyscrapers and movies, records and automobiles and airplanes; he’d have known of the Great War and the flu pandemic. The New York of Jewish immigrants was turbulent, complex, emotionally strenuous (see Henry Roth’s 1934 novel “Call It Sleep,” in which the writer, born in 1906, evokes his childhood through the eyes of a fictional child); Herschel’s bland simplicity suggests the opposite, a dull and featureless past. Moreover, what he wouldn’t have known was his son and his grandson—but he hardly asks Ben anything about the family, and Ben volunteers nothing more.
There’s something else that Herschel wouldn’t have known, and it’s all the stranger given that (spoiler alert) the movie takes a brief detour to Schlupsk: he wouldn’t have known of the Holocaust, of the fact that more or less everyone he’d grown up with would have been exterminated by the Nazis. Yet not a word, not a hint, of the Holocaust appears in “American Pickle”; the anti-Semitic violence that does get referenced—the Cossacks whose marauding in Schlupsk prompts Herschel and Sarah to emigrate—is played for laughs.
Rogen’s comedic career has become dominated by an ethical focus, even an ethical obsession, that, in the desire to convey good values with good humor, has lost its spice, its risk, its sense of human trouble. As a result, his comedy has become filtered, replacing a wide purview and the possibility of wild emotion and loose-ended impulse with schticky tropes. “An American Pickle” is framed as a picaresque adventure, and it touches on details of contemporary life only in order to lampoon their peculiarities. The satirical light that Herschel’s perspective brings to bear on current events is narrowly focussed and dim with sentiment and piety, nodding at “Fiddler on the Roof.” Instead, the movie breezes by the manifold specifics of current affairs that it references in order to reach the small set of points it is most interested in underscoring.
Those points become apparent early on, when Herschel obliviously manages to make a mess of Ben’s sales pitch for Boop Bop. The two men argue, and Herschel goes off on his own, living homeless (another grievous social ill played as an inconsequential joke). Using his one acquired bit of professional knowledge from before his brining, he then manages to become an overnight success as an artisanal pickle vender on the streets of Williamsburg. Yet, in the process, he has to negotiate the price of fame—and it’s here that the movie’s satire kicks in.
Though Herschel, in Schlupsk, appears to be a gentle and tender soul whose big dreams remain sweetly modest, he’s revealed, in his 2020 incarnation, to be what’s called in Yiddish a bulvan: a boastful loudmouth, an aggressive know-it-all. His obstreperous manner matches impulsive violence, reckless vanity, overweening pride, ethnocentricity, and other attitudes that are not, so to speak, P.C., and are no longer acceptable, at least in Ben’s circles. But Herschel also possesses ferocious willpower—a rage to survive, to thrive, to prosper, to triumph—that comes off, in the movie’s view, as the embarrassingly bare-toothed mark of off-the-boat immigrant ancestors who, handed nothing, fought their way brutishly for a toehold on the American Dream—and whose descendants, educated and polished and bourgeois-ified, find them an embarrassment.
This myth of the immigrant who’s willing to take on grossly unpleasant work in order to survive—and who, with pluck and determination, leaps from there to shining success—is presented unchallenged. In Rich’s short story, the arrival of Herschel (there called Herschel Rich) turns out to be a touchstone for the depressingly bourgeois-hipster world of his great-great-grandson, named Simon Rich, a Brooklyn-based Hollywood script doctor who’s besotted with ego and celebrity. Though the New Yorker piece “Sell Out,” which Herschel narrates, is filled with exaggerated comedic impossibilities, it retains an acerbity of detail (suggested even in its title) that threatens, like the pickles, to curl the teeth. (“That is why you do not care about money,” Herschel declares. “Because you already have so much of it. For you, all of life is happy game.”) The movie “An American Pickle” performs a remarkable, sentimental reversal: its subject is Ben’s reconciliation not only with Herschel, personally, but with his set of ideas. In effect, what Ben must reconcile with is more than his personal past; it’s the collective cultural past of racism, misogyny, homophobia, and other unchallenged modes of prejudice. It’s this reconciliation, the overcoming of the notion of apologizing for or being embarrassed by the recent cultural past, that “An American Pickle” strains to achieve.
Herschel’s celebrity appears borrowed from the Peter Sellers character in “Being There”—his plain and gruff utterances are interpreted by the sensation-hungry media as profundities. Yet along the way, he confronts the power and the disgrace of celebrity, and faces a far wider range of modern torments. In addition to reaching for little satirical nods to today’s sordid Presidency, “An American Pickle” pivots on a critique of cancel culture, left and right (suggesting that that the former is peevish, the latter is violent—and abetted by the force of law). It’s revealing to see which of Herschel’s struggles the movie plays for comedy or tosses off as mere plot devices: not only homelessness but arrest, incarceration, weaponized deportation and its aftermath. The focus of “An American Pickle” remains the world of media; to Rogen, the practical challenges and real dangers that a current-day immigrant might face remain abstractions. The entire movie is Boop Bopped: its ethical characteristics are revealed as disembodied and impersonal.


newyorker--2020-08-04--Hear Me Out: Hot-Dog Salad

Hear Me Out: Hot-Dog Salad

It ’ s a scene too universal to need much writerly description : the weather is sweltering and the menu is hot dogs and burgers—simple and straightforward and a relief .
This part of the day , at least , makes sense : being outside and not having too many dishes to wash and eating foods that convey unfussy joy .
Later , when the hot dogs and burgers have been eaten , and the sky is pink or charcoal , you call it a day .
There are a few cooked hot dogs left on the grill , maybe @ @ @ @ @ @ @ them , close the grill cover .
You contemplate the leftover foods , which were so frictionless to plan and execute and yet are strangely difficult to know what to do with afterward , now that the plan has come off .
Why ?
My theory is that there ’ s an effort imbalance to be resolved between the before and after .
Hot dogs and burgers are so easy to make , so likable , so good at creating a mood that if you want a second chance at eating them the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ input of elbow grease .
For contrast , consider braised meat : there ’ s a lot of up-front work—salting a day ahead , browning , slow cooking for hours .
But there is no shortage of clear and obvious things to make with the leftovers , like pulled-meat sandwiches , ragù , chili , stew , and , and , and .
.
.
If you ’ re interested in making further use of your leftover hot dogs and burgers , first let go of their identities as hot dogs and burgers @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and other innate qualities .
For hot dogs , you ’ re not cooking with “ hot dogs ” but with something sweet , smoky , salty , smooth , impossible to dry out .
For hamburgers , with something savory , smoky , salty , crumbly , impossible to dry out .
Hamburgers are easier .
I haven ’ t eaten a sloppy joe since summer camp , but if I were going to it would be chopped leftover cooked burger , heated in adobo sauce , with maybe a little chili @ @ @ @ @ @ @ spooned , with chopped pickled onion , onto potato rolls .
Twice , recently , I ’ ve made and enjoyed a cheeseburger omelette—a dish whose success depends on pickles , American or cheddar cheese , a wobbly , eggy middle , and a hangover .
Most often , though , I chop up the burger meat very , very finely and add it to mapo tofu—my three-year-old son just eats the accompanying rice—or , a recent favorite , to leftover-burger Bolognese , which the meat ’ s slight smokiness from the grill @ @ @ @ @ @ @ My son just eats the accompanying fettucini . )
“ Hot-dog salad ” is not a phrase that naturally ignites the appetite , but please hear me out .
The sweetness and saltiness and tube-iness of hot dogs makes them a viable option for a salad inspired by a Thai yum goon chiang , which is typically made with sweet Chinese sausage .
Thinly slice the hot dogs on a bias and sear them quickly—or , even better , cut them into matchsticks and then sear them until the edges are crisp—then combine @ @ @ @ @ @ @ shallot , plus chili , lime , fish sauce , and sugar .
The cook Leela Punyaratabandhu adds cucumber to her yum goon chiang .
I think my hot-dog salad benefits from cucumber , as well .
And peanuts .
My other go-to ’ s are hot-dog fried rice ( leftover rice , eggs , salt , hot dogs , oil ) and hot-dog onigiri—Japanese rice balls filled with chopped hot dogs candied in homemade teriyaki sauce .
This is a bald ripoff of Spam onigiri , which is exactly what it sounds @ @ @ @ @ @ @ would be a perfect snack to eat with friends at a bar alongside tall , fat , ice-cold mugs of beer .
For my version , I make teriyaki sauce according to Just One Cookbook—where , in general , instructions are irreproachable—and simmer a half cup of sauce per cup of finely chopped leftover hot dogs in a frying pan until the meat is almost caramelized and syrupy .
I drop little spoonfuls of this mixture into balls or squares or triangles of sushi rice and rest each on a thin strip of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ( salted plum ) paste or pickled ginger , or both , on top , and a sprinkle of toasted sesame seeds or the rice seasoning furikake .
I made these hot-dog onigiri just a few weeks ago , during one of July ’ s heraldic rain storms .
Our first house guests since March had just arrived .
I had some leftover pork ribs from Larry Walker , the first vendor this summer to roll his smokers and grills down to the stretch of Hudson River waterfront near my house , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sauce along with the chopped hot dogs .
I don ’ t know if it was the storm , or the sweet smoky flavor from Walker ’ s grill , or just how foods often taste better when they ’ ve settled overnight , but we were all a little stunned at how hot doggy the meal felt-—like things were fine , and fun , and easy , and unburdened .
• ⅔-1 cup cucumber matchsticks , unpeeled ( about ½ an English cucumber , or 1 Kirby , or 2 Persians ) @ @ @ @ @ @ @ plus more to taste • 1 hot dog , cut into matchsticks the same size as the cucumber ones • 1 cup chopped cilantro , mint , basil , or any combination of them 1 .
Mix cucumber pieces with salt and sugar and let sit for 10 minutes .
2 .
For crispy hot-dog bits , heat oil in a small pan over a medium flame , then sauté hot-dog matchsticks until browned on all sides .
Or , if you prefer , leave the hot dog unfried .
3 .
Add @ @ @ @ @ @ @ half a lime , and chili to the cucumbers and mix through .
Add hot-dog pieces and mix again .
4 .
Adjust fish sauce and lime juice to taste , then add herbs .
Mix through and taste again for any final adjustments .
Top with peanuts !
Eat the salad by itself , or wrapped in large pieces of lettuce , or on rice !

It’s a scene too universal to need much writerly description: the weather is sweltering and the menu is hot dogs and burgers—simple and straightforward and a relief. This part of the day, at least, makes sense: being outside and not having too many dishes to wash and eating foods that convey unfussy joy.
Later, when the hot dogs and burgers have been eaten, and the sky is pink or charcoal, you call it a day. There are a few cooked hot dogs left on the grill, maybe a single burger puck. You remove them, close the grill cover. You contemplate the leftover foods, which were so frictionless to plan and execute and yet are strangely difficult to know what to do with afterward, now that the plan has come off.
Why? My theory is that there’s an effort imbalance to be resolved between the before and after. Hot dogs and burgers are so easy to make, so likable, so good at creating a mood that if you want a second chance at eating them the cosmic scale is going to demand some input of elbow grease. For contrast, consider braised meat: there’s a lot of up-front work—salting a day ahead, browning, slow cooking for hours. But there is no shortage of clear and obvious things to make with the leftovers, like pulled-meat sandwiches, ragù, chili, stew, and, and, and . . .
If you’re interested in making further use of your leftover hot dogs and burgers, first let go of their identities as hot dogs and burgers and consider their underlying flavors and textures and other innate qualities. For hot dogs, you’re not cooking with “hot dogs” but with something sweet, smoky, salty, smooth, impossible to dry out. For hamburgers, with something savory, smoky, salty, crumbly, impossible to dry out.
Hamburgers are easier. I haven’t eaten a sloppy joe since summer camp, but if I were going to it would be chopped leftover cooked burger, heated in adobo sauce, with maybe a little chili vinegar or vinegar hot sauce, and spooned, with chopped pickled onion, onto potato rolls. Twice, recently, I’ve made and enjoyed a cheeseburger omelette—a dish whose success depends on pickles, American or cheddar cheese, a wobbly, eggy middle, and a hangover. Most often, though, I chop up the burger meat very, very finely and add it to mapo tofu—my three-year-old son just eats the accompanying rice—or, a recent favorite, to leftover-burger Bolognese, which the meat’s slight smokiness from the grill makes taste complex and considered. (My son just eats the accompanying fettucini.)
“Hot-dog salad” is not a phrase that naturally ignites the appetite, but please hear me out. The sweetness and saltiness and tube-iness of hot dogs makes them a viable option for a salad inspired by a Thai yum goon chiang, which is typically made with sweet Chinese sausage. Thinly slice the hot dogs on a bias and sear them quickly—or, even better, cut them into matchsticks and then sear them until the edges are crisp—then combine them with copious amounts of herbs and shallot, plus chili, lime, fish sauce, and sugar. The cook Leela Punyaratabandhu adds cucumber to her yum goon chiang. I think my hot-dog salad benefits from cucumber, as well. And peanuts.
My other go-to’s are hot-dog fried rice (leftover rice, eggs, salt, hot dogs, oil) and hot-dog onigiri—Japanese rice balls filled with chopped hot dogs candied in homemade teriyaki sauce. This is a bald ripoff of Spam onigiri, which is exactly what it sounds like and, in better times, would be a perfect snack to eat with friends at a bar alongside tall, fat, ice-cold mugs of beer. For my version, I make teriyaki sauce according to Just One Cookbook—where, in general, instructions are irreproachable—and simmer a half cup of sauce per cup of finely chopped leftover hot dogs in a frying pan until the meat is almost caramelized and syrupy. I drop little spoonfuls of this mixture into balls or squares or triangles of sushi rice and rest each on a thin strip of nori, with a dab of umeboshi (salted plum) paste or pickled ginger, or both, on top, and a sprinkle of toasted sesame seeds or the rice seasoning furikake.
I made these hot-dog onigiri just a few weeks ago, during one of July’s heraldic rain storms. Our first house guests since March had just arrived. I had some leftover pork ribs from Larry Walker, the first vendor this summer to roll his smokers and grills down to the stretch of Hudson River waterfront near my house, and I added that meat to the teriyaki sauce along with the chopped hot dogs. I don’t know if it was the storm, or the sweet smoky flavor from Walker’s grill, or just how foods often taste better when they’ve settled overnight, but we were all a little stunned at how hot doggy the meal felt-—like things were fine, and fun, and easy, and unburdened.
Hot-Dog Salad
Serves 1–2
Ingredients
⅔-1 cup cucumber matchsticks, unpeeled (about ½ an English cucumber, or 1 Kirby, or 2 Persians)
¼ tsp. kosher salt
½ tsp. sugar
1 tsp. fish sauce, plus more to taste
1 small shallot or bulbed spring onion, cut into thin rings
1 thinly sliced chili, like a habanero, bird’s eye chili, or jalapeño
1 Tbsp. peanut or similar oil (optional)
1 hot dog, cut into matchsticks the same size as the cucumber ones
1 cup chopped cilantro, mint, basil, or any combination of them
Lime juice to taste
Chopped roasted peanuts
Directions
1. Mix cucumber pieces with salt and sugar and let sit for 10 minutes.
2. For crispy hot-dog bits, heat oil in a small pan over a medium flame, then sauté hot-dog matchsticks until browned on all sides. Or, if you prefer, leave the hot dog unfried.
3. Add fish sauce, shallot, juice from half a lime, and chili to the cucumbers and mix through. Add hot-dog pieces and mix again.
4. Adjust fish sauce and lime juice to taste, then add herbs. Mix through and taste again for any final adjustments. Top with peanuts! Eat the salad by itself, or wrapped in large pieces of lettuce, or on rice!


newyorker--2020-08-04--Americans Insanely Jealous of Spain After Corrupt Head of State Flees Country

MADRID ( The Borowitz Report ) —Americans are insanely jealous of Spain after its disgraced former head of state Juan Carlos announced on Monday that he was fleeing the country .
In interviews across the U.S. , Americans expressed dismay and frustration that multiple criminal investigations were “ all it took ” for the former Spanish ruler to voluntarily leave Spain forever .
“ So wait , in Spain , if a leader is being investigated for financial crimes and tax evasion , he just writes a letter saying goodbye and then he leaves ?
” Carol Foyler , who @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
“ Whoa.
” Tracy Klugian , who hails from Butte , Montana , harbored similar feelings of jealousy when he learned of Juan Carlos ’ s self-exile .
“ So , basically , the people of Spain will never have to see or hear from this corrupt narcissist again ?
” he said .
“ Man.
” Harland Dorrinson , who lives in St. Louis , said that he was seething with envy when he learned that Juan Carlos might have already fled to the Dominican Republic , some four thousand miles @ @ @ @ @ @ @ miles away from Washington is basically the North Pole , ” he said .
“ Why does Spain get all the good things ?
”

MADRID (The Borowitz Report)—Americans are insanely jealous of Spain after its disgraced former head of state Juan Carlos announced on Monday that he was fleeing the country.
In interviews across the U.S., Americans expressed dismay and frustration that multiple criminal investigations were “all it took” for the former Spanish ruler to voluntarily leave Spain forever.
“So wait, in Spain, if a leader is being investigated for financial crimes and tax evasion, he just writes a letter saying goodbye and then he leaves?” Carol Foyler, who lives in Topeka, Kansas, said. “Whoa.”
Tracy Klugian, who hails from Butte, Montana, harbored similar feelings of jealousy when he learned of Juan Carlos’s self-exile. “So, basically, the people of Spain will never have to see or hear from this corrupt narcissist again?” he said. “Man.”
Harland Dorrinson, who lives in St. Louis, said that he was seething with envy when he learned that Juan Carlos might have already fled to the Dominican Republic, some four thousand miles away from Spain.
“Four thousand miles away from Washington is basically the North Pole,” he said. “Why does Spain get all the good things?”


newyorker--2020-08-05--A Non-Hiker’s Terms and Conditions for Hiking

Thank you so much for inviting me on a hike !
I ’ ve been meaning to explore the unbelievable landscapes surrounding my urban abode and move my body in a way that isn ’ t just thirty minutes of tweeting on the elliptical—presuming that you agree to these modest , reasonable conditions , of course .
These Hiking Terms and Conditions constitute a legally binding agreement entered into by the Friend Who Hikes Often ( you ) and the Friend Whose iPhone Autocorrects “ Hike ” to “ Joke ” ( me ) , concerning our Hiking Adventure ( @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ hike , ” I know you don ’ t mean a stroll through a nearby park––you mean a lengthy trek with intense elevation and multiple threats to my precious bones and organs .
I am willing to accept this dicey proposition , so long as nothing on the Internet describes the chosen path as “ hard , ” “ unforgiving , ” or “ featured on an episode of ‘ Unsolved Mysteries.
’ ” I ’ ve heard that getting an early start to avoid “ trail traffic ” is ideal , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ am willing to embark on our uphill battle .
This does not include the time needed to stop for an egg sandwich and latte , but it does include the extra time I ’ ll need to stretch and put finishing touches on my last will and testament .
I have purchased a pair of hiking boots that look the most like Cheryl Strayed ’ s in “ Wild.
” ( Don ’ t worry—I broke them in by walking to the nearest grocery store to buy eleven days ’ worth of snacks @ @ @ @ @ @ @ we are hiking in the spring/summer/fall , I will dress accordingly , in seasonally appropriate colors and styles that are somewhat practical for traipsing through the woods and ideal for a nature photo shoot .
( See CONTENT for more information . )
If we are hiking in the winter , I will be wearing a weighted blanket on the couch , and you can text me and let me know how your hike went .
By taking me on this hike , you guarantee to provide me with quality content for Twitter @ @ @ @ @ @ @ essay on Medium .
The view from the top must be so incredibly worth our labor that my # NoFilter pic gets more likes than my latest-friend-to-get-married ’ s wedding portraits .
I must also return home with at least one ( 1 ) perfect photo of me looking outdoorsy as fuck for my Tinder profile , or why did we even do this ?
Thank you in advance for capturing me out of my element .
I am not out of shape , but I am not in shape , either , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
.
.
a shape .
Please respect this as we ascend the mountainside , and pause with me as often as necessary to say a small prayer , hydrate , briefly lie down , or check if we have magically entered an area with cell service .
If you hear me breathing heavily , I ’ m just doing it to be dramatic , but if you could pack a travel-size oxygen tank in your nature bag , that ’ d be great .
Owing to breath-conservation , let ’ s not @ @ @ @ @ @ @ unless I ask “ Are we there yet ?
” and your answer is “ Yes.
” I might also ask “ What ’ s the Wi-Fi password on this mountain ?
” several times until it ’ s no longer funny , or someone actually gives it to me .
Please note : you will be the designated greeter of passing hikers , as I am too busy making sure I don ’ t die in an off-brand way .
Content-wise , I am open to having an encounter with chill wildlife @ @ @ @ @ @ @ this is the type of hike where a bear or snake could make a startling appearance , you should be prepared to summon the strength to run with me on your back .
Bugs will be tolerated on a case-by-case basis .
My fanny pack will contain snacks , celebratory beers , and several portable iPhone chargers .
Your military-grade , waterproof camping backpack should have a first-aid kit , a second-aid kit , a keg of water , sharp knives ( for the gourmet cheese I brought ) , and fireworks , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a pin on Google Maps .
I have watched enough episodes of  “ Naked and Afraid ” to understand how to use the forest as a toilet , but if at any point my latte kicks in , I will stop , drop , and roll back down the mountain to the nearest formal commode .
If we get lost and our hike becomes newsworthy , please let me have the spotlight after we ’ ve been rescued .
This could be my only shot at stardom .
If there are any @ @ @ @ @ @ @ dibs .
If something worse happens , please have Margot Robbie play me in the bio-pic .
If everything goes according to plan , then cool—this was fun !
By inviting me on this Hiking Adventure , you agree to read , understand , and be bound by all of these completely valid Terms and Conditions .
☐ I would rather risk hiking alone .
☐ I would like to take this opportunity to opt out of our friendship entirely .

Thank you so much for inviting me on a hike! I’ve been meaning to explore the unbelievable landscapes surrounding my urban abode and move my body in a way that isn’t just thirty minutes of tweeting on the elliptical—presuming that you agree to these modest, reasonable conditions, of course.
INTRODUCTION
These Hiking Terms and Conditions constitute a legally binding agreement entered into by the Friend Who Hikes Often (you) and the Friend Whose iPhone Autocorrects “Hike” to “Joke” (me), concerning our Hiking Adventure (death march).
DIFFICULTY LEVEL
When you say “hike,” I know you don’t mean a stroll through a nearby park––you mean a lengthy trek with intense elevation and multiple threats to my precious bones and organs. I am willing to accept this dicey proposition, so long as nothing on the Internet describes the chosen path as “hard,” “unforgiving,” or “featured on an episode of ‘Unsolved Mysteries.’ ”
TIMING
I’ve heard that getting an early start to avoid “trail traffic” is ideal, but 8 A.M. is the earliest I am willing to embark on our uphill battle. This does not include the time needed to stop for an egg sandwich and latte, but it does include the extra time I’ll need to stretch and put finishing touches on my last will and testament.
COSTUMES
I have purchased a pair of hiking boots that look the most like Cheryl Strayed’s in “Wild.” (Don’t worry—I broke them in by walking to the nearest grocery store to buy eleven days’ worth of snacks for our three-hour excursion.) If we are hiking in the spring/summer/fall, I will dress accordingly, in seasonally appropriate colors and styles that are somewhat practical for traipsing through the woods and ideal for a nature photo shoot. (See CONTENT for more information.) If we are hiking in the winter, I will be wearing a weighted blanket on the couch, and you can text me and let me know how your hike went.
CONTENT
By taking me on this hike, you guarantee to provide me with quality content for Twitter and Instagram, and possibly a personal essay on Medium. The view from the top must be so incredibly worth our labor that my #NoFilter pic gets more likes than my latest-friend-to-get-married’s wedding portraits. I must also return home with at least one (1) perfect photo of me looking outdoorsy as fuck for my Tinder profile, or why did we even do this? Thank you in advance for capturing me out of my element.
PACING
I am not out of shape, but I am not in shape, either, which means I am just kind of . . . a shape. Please respect this as we ascend the mountainside, and pause with me as often as necessary to say a small prayer, hydrate, briefly lie down, or check if we have magically entered an area with cell service. If you hear me breathing heavily, I’m just doing it to be dramatic, but if you could pack a travel-size oxygen tank in your nature bag, that’d be great.
INTERACTION
Owing to breath-conservation, let’s not talk much on our way up, unless I ask “Are we there yet?” and your answer is “Yes.” I might also ask “What’s the Wi-Fi password on this mountain?” several times until it’s no longer funny, or someone actually gives it to me. Please note: you will be the designated greeter of passing hikers, as I am too busy making sure I don’t die in an off-brand way.
ANIMALS
Content-wise, I am open to having an encounter with chill wildlife from a safe distance, but if this is the type of hike where a bear or snake could make a startling appearance, you should be prepared to summon the strength to run with me on your back. Bugs will be tolerated on a case-by-case basis.
SUPPLIES
My fanny pack will contain snacks, celebratory beers, and several portable iPhone chargers. Your military-grade, waterproof camping backpack should have a first-aid kit, a second-aid kit, a keg of water, sharp knives (for the gourmet cheese I brought), and fireworks, in case we can’t drop a pin on Google Maps.
BATHROOMS
I have watched enough episodes of “Naked and Afraid” to understand how to use the forest as a toilet, but if at any point my latte kicks in, I will stop, drop, and roll back down the mountain to the nearest formal commode.
SURVIVAL
If we get lost and our hike becomes newsworthy, please let me have the spotlight after we’ve been rescued. This could be my only shot at stardom. If there are any hot park rangers or first responders—I call dibs. If something worse happens, please have Margot Robbie play me in the bio-pic. If everything goes according to plan, then cool—this was fun!
AGREEMENT
By inviting me on this Hiking Adventure, you agree to read, understand, and be bound by all of these completely valid Terms and Conditions.
☐ I agree.
☐ I would rather risk hiking alone.
☐ I would like to take this opportunity to opt out of our friendship entirely.


newyorker--2020-08-05--Searching with the Mothers of Mexico’s Disappeared

When I texted Mirna Medina on a Tuesday afternoon , a little more than a year ago , she replied with a voice message that was cordial but abrupt : “ Hi , yes , good afternoon , we ’ re working now , we just found a body , but yes , I ’ m available.
” I had flown to Culiacán , the capital of the west-coast state of Sinaloa , Mexico , several days before , not anticipating that she would be nearly impossible to get ahold of .
Replying to her message , I offered awkward @ @ @ @ @ @ @ could meet , but she didn ’ t respond that day , or the next .
Mirna lives in Los Mochis , a town three hours north of Culiacán , in a region called El Fuerte .
There she leads a group of about two hundred , with more than a hundred active members who scour the city ’ s surrounding countryside searching for the bodies of desaparecidos—the disappeared—men and women , usually in their twenties or thirties , victims of cartel-related violence .
The group consists mostly of mothers hoping to find @ @ @ @ @ @ @ journalist Javier Valdez Cárdenas , who reported on drug cartels before his death , dubbed Mirna ’ s group las Rastreadoras de El Fuerte , the Trackers of El Fuerte .
( Valdez was murdered in 2017 , likely by sicarios—assassins—working for one of the cartels . )
The story of the Rastreadoras is not unique .
Across Mexico , there are more than sixty similar collectives : groups of civilians , the family and friends of those who have vanished , combing the fields for the bodies of people who might otherwise @ @ @ @ @ @ @ fifteen years ago , shortly after Felipe Calderón became the President of Mexico and launched the country ’ s war on drug trafficking—a war that Calderón waged , in part , with the Mexican Army .
In December , 2006 , his first month in office , he dispatched six and a half thousand soldiers to the state of Michoacán .
Soon after that , he sent troops to Sinaloa , home of one of the world ’ s most powerful cartels , and the state where I spent my adolescence , in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s election .
I remember horror stories from the earlier years , but they were mostly about things that happened in the countryside .
During the last few years that I lived there , military vehicles began to multiply on the streets , their cargo beds carrying men in balaclavas who patrolled the city , rifles pointed at the sky .
Encobijados—dead bodies wrapped in blankets—started regularly turning up in the river that crosses the city .
Then the bodies stopped turning up at all and began to simply disappear .
The @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and male .
They were not all involved in the drug trade ; sicarios tasked with abductions often mistook people for their real targets , then killed and disposed of them anyway , as a precaution .
The cartels had so much power that local police forces were believed to be working for them .
In the country ’ s most violent places , it is said that assassins charged as little as two hundred pesos , about ten dollars , to “ disappear ” someone .
They buried the bodies in shallow @ @ @ @ @ @ @ farmland .
At the time Calderón was elected , two such pits had been identified .
Five years later , the number had grown to three hundred and fifty .
By the beginning of this year , secret graves—fosas clandestinas—were being found , on average , nearly every other day .
In the nineteen-seventies , when politically motivated disappearances were rampant in Mexico , the journalist Elena Poniatowska reported on the particular sorrow of women whose children had gone missing .
In her book “ Silence Is Strong , ” she wrote , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of a child signifies a truceless torment , an eternal anguish in which there is no resignation , no consolation , no time for the wound to heal .
Death kills hope , but a disappearance is intolerable because it neither kills nor allows one to live.
” Clinical psychologists use the term “ ambiguous loss ” to describe the agony , not yet grief , experienced by people whose loved ones have disappeared .
The idea is that , in order to fully grasp that someone has died , we need to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in the traditions of mourning .
This past January , the Mexican government reported that the official tally of the disappeared had surpassed sixty thousand .
I recall the number seemed staggering to me then .
( The total is now above seventy-three thousand . )
It was around this time that the first reports of a novel coronavirus that appeared to have originated in Wuhan , China , were published in North American news outlets .
In the ensuing months , as much of this continent shut down , and public funerals @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , millions of people became newly familiar with an awkward and uncertain sort of mourning .
Meanwhile , in a corner of Sinaloa , one of the states in Mexico that has been hardest hit by the pandemic , women wept for their missing children , sequestered in their modest homes , with no indication of when their search could resume .
Several days after my first exchange with Mirna , she agreed to meet me on a Monday morning in Los Mochis .
I headed north from Culiacán , and settled in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ t get through to Mirna ’ s phone .
Then I saw on Facebook that she had just left for another search .
Around noon , she texted me the location of her office , and explained that she ’ d be headed there shortly .
Los Mochis is a small city , a tidy grid of streets surrounded by farmland .
A few chain hotels have opened , but most buildings are simple concrete structures , many without paint .
Locals speak in the brash Sinaloan accent that other Mexicans often @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , I walked along a dirt path that lines the city ’ s roads , passing homes and shops ; outside an abandoned house , dogs hovered over a pile of old oranges .
Next door was the office of the Rastreadoras : a small building with a glass façade plastered with signs for missing people .
There were ninety-one photos ; eighty-five of them were of men .
Many of those pictured had names tattooed on their bodies , listed under “ Particular Traits.
” “ Christopher ” on a right hand @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ankle , “ Jesús ” and “ Esther ” on a pair of wrists .
One man ’ s chest bore the name Luis Armando on the right side and a baby ’ s footprints on the left .
Prior to the pandemic , the office had become a place where the family members of the disappeared , particularly those who are hesitant to go to the police , could find guidance and support—many of the rastreadoras joined the group after going there for help .
In six years , the Rastreadoras have @ @ @ @ @ @ @ DNA testing by government forensics teams has identified a hundred and twenty of them ; sixty-six were related to members of the Rastreadoras .
The forty-third body they identified was Mirna ’ s son , Roberto , who disappeared in July , 2014 .
The group found him three years later .
I sat on the sidewalk and waited .
At 3 P.M. , Mirna pulled up in a truck , smiling and beckoning to me to get in .
In the back seat was the smallest Chihuahua I had ever seen .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ plate of kibble that Mirna was coaxing it to finish .
Apologizing for the wait , Mirna told me that she had received an anonymous tip the night before : the exact location of a body .
When the searchers reached the spot , they found a dummy made of sandbags , fully dressed and drenched in an oily red liquid .
“ I ’ m sad but also a bit worried , ” she said .
“ We can ’ t really know if it was done just to mock us , @ @ @ @ @ @ @

When I texted Mirna Medina on a Tuesday afternoon, a little more than a year ago, she replied with a voice message that was cordial but abrupt: “Hi, yes, good afternoon, we’re working now, we just found a body, but yes, I’m available.” I had flown to Culiacán, the capital of the west-coast state of Sinaloa, Mexico, several days before, not anticipating that she would be nearly impossible to get ahold of. Replying to her message, I offered awkward condolences and asked when and where we could meet, but she didn’t respond that day, or the next.
Mirna lives in Los Mochis, a town three hours north of Culiacán, in a region called El Fuerte. There she leads a group of about two hundred, with more than a hundred active members who scour the city’s surrounding countryside searching for the bodies of desaparecidos—the disappeared—men and women, usually in their twenties or thirties, victims of cartel-related violence. The group consists mostly of mothers hoping to find their children’s remains. The journalist Javier Valdez Cárdenas, who reported on drug cartels before his death, dubbed Mirna’s group Las Rastreadoras de El Fuerte, the Trackers of El Fuerte. (Valdez was murdered in 2017, likely by sicarios—assassins—working for one of the cartels.)
The story of the Rastreadoras is not unique. Across Mexico, there are more than sixty similar collectives: groups of civilians, the family and friends of those who have vanished, combing the fields for the bodies of people who might otherwise be forgotten. The disappearances began nearly fifteen years ago, shortly after Felipe Calderón became the President of Mexico and launched the country’s war on drug trafficking—a war that Calderón waged, in part, with the Mexican Army. In December, 2006, his first month in office, he dispatched six and a half thousand soldiers to the state of Michoacán. Soon after that, he sent troops to Sinaloa, home of one of the world’s most powerful cartels, and the state where I spent my adolescence, in Culiacán, just before and after Calderón’s election. I remember horror stories from the earlier years, but they were mostly about things that happened in the countryside. During the last few years that I lived there, military vehicles began to multiply on the streets, their cargo beds carrying men in balaclavas who patrolled the city, rifles pointed at the sky. Encobijados—dead bodies wrapped in blankets—started regularly turning up in the river that crosses the city.
Then the bodies stopped turning up at all and began to simply disappear. The victims were overwhelmingly poor, brown, and male. They were not all involved in the drug trade; sicarios tasked with abductions often mistook people for their real targets, then killed and disposed of them anyway, as a precaution. The cartels had so much power that local police forces were believed to be working for them. In the country’s most violent places, it is said that assassins charged as little as two hundred pesos, about ten dollars, to “disappear” someone. They buried the bodies in shallow pits, atop low hills, in farmland. At the time Calderón was elected, two such pits had been identified. Five years later, the number had grown to three hundred and fifty. By the beginning of this year, secret graves—fosas clandestinas—were being found, on average, nearly every other day.
In the nineteen-seventies, when politically motivated disappearances were rampant in Mexico, the journalist Elena Poniatowska reported on the particular sorrow of women whose children had gone missing. In her book “Silence Is Strong,” she wrote, “For a mother, the disappearance of a child signifies a truceless torment, an eternal anguish in which there is no resignation, no consolation, no time for the wound to heal. Death kills hope, but a disappearance is intolerable because it neither kills nor allows one to live.” Clinical psychologists use the term “ambiguous loss” to describe the agony, not yet grief, experienced by people whose loved ones have disappeared. The idea is that, in order to fully grasp that someone has died, we need to see their body, need to participate in the traditions of mourning.
This past January, the Mexican government reported that the official tally of the disappeared had surpassed sixty thousand. I recall the number seemed staggering to me then. (The total is now above seventy-three thousand.) It was around this time that the first reports of a novel coronavirus that appeared to have originated in Wuhan, China, were published in North American news outlets. In the ensuing months, as much of this continent shut down, and public funerals, in many places, were barred, millions of people became newly familiar with an awkward and uncertain sort of mourning. Meanwhile, in a corner of Sinaloa, one of the states in Mexico that has been hardest hit by the pandemic, women wept for their missing children, sequestered in their modest homes, with no indication of when their search could resume.
Several days after my first exchange with Mirna, she agreed to meet me on a Monday morning in Los Mochis. I headed north from Culiacán, and settled in at a café, but I couldn’t get through to Mirna’s phone. Then I saw on Facebook that she had just left for another search. Around noon, she texted me the location of her office, and explained that she’d be headed there shortly.
Los Mochis is a small city, a tidy grid of streets surrounded by farmland. A few chain hotels have opened, but most buildings are simple concrete structures, many without paint. Locals speak in the brash Sinaloan accent that other Mexicans often mistake for aggression. From the café, I walked along a dirt path that lines the city’s roads, passing homes and shops; outside an abandoned house, dogs hovered over a pile of old oranges. Next door was the office of the Rastreadoras: a small building with a glass façade plastered with signs for missing people. There were ninety-one photos; eighty-five of them were of men. Many of those pictured had names tattooed on their bodies, listed under “Particular Traits.” “Christopher” on a right hand, “José” scrawled across an ankle, “Jesús” and “Esther” on a pair of wrists. One man’s chest bore the name Luis Armando on the right side and a baby’s footprints on the left.
Prior to the pandemic, the office had become a place where the family members of the disappeared, particularly those who are hesitant to go to the police, could find guidance and support—many of the rastreadoras joined the group after going there for help. In six years, the Rastreadoras have located a hundred and ninety-eight bodies. DNA testing by government forensics teams has identified a hundred and twenty of them; sixty-six were related to members of the Rastreadoras. The forty-third body they identified was Mirna’s son, Roberto, who disappeared in July, 2014. The group found him three years later.
Official signs for disappeared people in the office of Las Rastreadoras de El Fuerte, in Los Mochis. Mirna Medina pictured outside of her home on the outskirts of Los Mochis.
I sat on the sidewalk and waited. At 3 P.M., Mirna pulled up in a truck, smiling and beckoning to me to get in. In the back seat was the smallest Chihuahua I had ever seen. It seemed determined to avoid a polystyrene plate of kibble that Mirna was coaxing it to finish. Apologizing for the wait, Mirna told me that she had received an anonymous tip the night before: the exact location of a body. When the searchers reached the spot, they found a dummy made of sandbags, fully dressed and drenched in an oily red liquid. “I’m sad but also a bit worried,” she said. “We can’t really know if it was done just to mock us, or to set us up.”
Mirna is average in height but seems taller, even when she isn’t teetering on a pair of platform shoes, which she usually is. Her dark brown hair is cropped, and streaked with platinum highlights. She has broad shoulders and skin that is perpetually tanned from her constant hunts under the Sinaloan sun. There is a lightheartedness about her that can seem perplexing, given the nature of her work. After describing the dummy doused in red liquid, she asked if I’d had lunch, and, before I could respond, told me about the mariscos spot we were headed to, which serves her favorite shrimp cocktail in Los Mochis. When we arrived, she led me in, her phone buzzing incessantly. We took our seats, and she placed the phone face down on the table, offering me her full attention.