newyorker--2020-08-25--Juan Carlos’s Fall from Grace in Spain and the Precarious Future of the World’s Monarchies

It has been a hundred years since the bloodbath of the First World War finished off several of Europe and the Middle East ’ s most iconic monarchies—including the Russian , the Austro-Hungarian , and the Ottoman .
Along with them went the sacrosanct notions of God , king ( or queen ) , and country that had buttressed them through centuries of dynastic rule and , indeed , driven millions of young soldiers to their deaths in the trenches as cannon fodder .
A dozen royal houses have endured since then , but these are decorative fripperies .
The @ @ @ @ @ @ @ their offspring may be entertaining to American and Chinese tourists , and help sell copies of Hello !
, but the royalist fire in the belly is long gone for most Europeans .
The one monarchy with any punch left is the British Crown , mainly thanks to the fact that Queen Elizabeth II , who is now ninety-four , is an authentically historic figure and has been in the public eye since the hallowed days of Winston Churchill and the Blitz .
In the diminished Britain of the Boris Johnson era—amid the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of Brexit—the Queen is practically the only remaining national institution .
The same can not be said for her children or their spouses .
After a bad patch following the tabloid-chronicled divorce of Prince Charles and Princess Diana , and Diana ’ s subsequent death , the House of Windsor had in recent years recovered a patina of stability and decorum .
But much of that has gone over the parapets with the noisome evacuation ( “ Megxit ” ) from the royal circle by Meghan and Harry and the abominable spectacle of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ participant in Jeffrey Epstein ’ s sexual abuse of underage girls .
( Andrew has denied the allegations . )
In the economically depressed Little Britain of the near future—with Elizabeth II ’ s death likely over the next decade and the future integrity of the United Kingdom itself in doubt , thanks to Brexit—will there really be room for a new generation of Windsors on the throne ?
Perhaps not .
In the end , reruns of “ The Crown ” and “ Downton Abbey ” may be all that ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for blue-blood porn .
With the remaining European monarchies so inconsequential as to beg credulity ( Luxembourg , Monaco , and Belgium , among others ) , the only other royals with a whiff of modern relevance have , until recently , been Spain ’ s Bourbons .
But , after the country ’ s once venerated King Juan Carlos I announced , on August 3rd , that he was leaving Spain in the midst of a spiralling corruption scandal , their future also looked increasingly precarious .
Yet , by bolting the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ fact , upholding a long-standing , if sometimes conveniently forgotten , Bourbon family tradition of subterfuge , flight , and exile .
In 1931 , Juan Carlos ’ s grandfather , Alfonso XIII , fled the royal palace , in Madrid , and Spain itself , just two days after a municipal election overwhelmingly won by republicans ended the monarchy and established Spain ’ s Second Republic .
The First Republic had lasted a mere ten months , from February 11 , 1873 , to December 29 , 1874 .
Along with the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ uprising called the “ Glorious Revolution , ” it was one of the shorter interruptions to Bourbon rule in Spain since the dynasty ’ s beginnings , in 1700 .
The interruption in the Spanish monarchy that followed Alfonso XIII ’ s downfall would be the longest ever , lasting forty-seven years .
After leaving Spain , Alfonso XIII moved to Mussolini ’ s Italy , where he remained , eventually abdicating the throne , a month before his death , in 1941 , in favor of his son and heir , Don @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
But Don Juan ’ s claim to the throne was thwarted by Spain ’ s Fascist dictator , General Francisco Franco , who had seized power , in 1939 , after destroying the Second Republic in a bloody three-year civil war that he had waged with the help of Mussolini and Hitler .
Franco disliked Don Juan , whom he suspected of being an Anglophile ( Franco despised the British and referred to Great Britain as “ perfidious Albion ” ) ; he was also determined to be the sole arbiter of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ he was .
For the next thirty-six years , Franco remained the country ’ s unchallenged caudillo , or strongman , and although he declared Spain a monarchy once again , in 1947 , he kept the throne empty , leaving Don Juan to languish and fret in neighboring Portugal , even as Franco himself assumed the role of dispenser of noble titles .
In a cruelly Shakespearean twist , Franco asked Don Juan to send him his son , Juan Carlos , who was then ten , to be educated and groomed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ 1969 , when Juan Carlos was thirty-one , Franco summoned him and informed the young man of his decision to make him his successor , with the title of King of Spain .
To accept Franco ’ s decision meant that Juan Carlos had to step in line in front of his father , which he did , participating in a formal ceremony with Franco in which the caudillo announced his intentions .
Juan Carlos didn ’ t tell his father about the usurpation beforehand , and the breach caused by his betrayal @ @ @ @ @ @ @ part , because of—his act of filial betrayal , the young and dashing king , who assumed the throne after Franco ’ s death , in 1975 , became a beloved national figure .
He went out of his way to promote a democratic transition that reduced his own powers but turned Spain into a constitutional monarchy .
Later , in 1981 , he personally stood down a right-wing military coup , the leaders of which had evidently hoped he ’ d back them .
His biographer Paul Preston , musing about Juan @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the monarch as a man who knew how to seize his opportunities .
“ Considering that Juan Carlos had been brought up and brainwashed in Francoist thinking , it ’ s a valid historical question to ask why he opened the way for democracy .
It wasn ’ t like he was a democrat , ” Preston told me .
“ At the time , they were all predicting that he ’ d be known as Juan Carlos the Brief , and the only way for him not to be that was to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ which he did.
” Over the course of the next several decades , despite persistent rumors of his philandering and corruption , Juan Carlos could officially do no wrong .
Successive Spanish governments , whether conservative or left-wing , stood firmly by him , and Spain ’ s media also exercised self-censorship on news about the King .
Probing stories were routinely suppressed .
In 1998 , I wrote a Profile of Juan Carlos for The New Yorker in which I mentioned rumors about his receiving commissions on international business deals involving Spanish @ @ @ @ @ @ @ King ’ s senior minions at the Palacio de la Zarzuela , the royal palace , called the editors of a major Spanish magazine to warn them not to republish the article in Spanish .
They obeyed .
One day , during my time on the edges of the royal circle , a courtier showed me around the palace—a mansion set in rolling parkland outside Madrid .
As she walked with me , she remarked that it could “ hardly be called a palace , it ’ s really just a big house @ @ @ @ @ @ @ whisper , she added that , unlike some of the other European royals , Spain ’ s royal family was not very wealthy ; their budget was “ really quite modest.
” In subsequent years , I ’ ve often thought back to that conversation and wondered whether the courtier was subtly trying to tell me something .

It has been a hundred years since the bloodbath of the First World War finished off several of Europe and the Middle East’s most iconic monarchies—including the Russian, the Austro-Hungarian, and the Ottoman. Along with them went the sacrosanct notions of God, king (or queen), and country that had buttressed them through centuries of dynastic rule and, indeed, driven millions of young soldiers to their deaths in the trenches as cannon fodder. A dozen royal houses have endured since then, but these are decorative fripperies. The ongoing pomp of kings and queens and their offspring may be entertaining to American and Chinese tourists, and help sell copies of Hello!, but the royalist fire in the belly is long gone for most Europeans.
The one monarchy with any punch left is the British Crown, mainly thanks to the fact that Queen Elizabeth II, who is now ninety-four, is an authentically historic figure and has been in the public eye since the hallowed days of Winston Churchill and the Blitz. In the diminished Britain of the Boris Johnson era—amid the bungled coronavirus-pandemic response and the never-ending chaos of Brexit—the Queen is practically the only remaining national institution. The same cannot be said for her children or their spouses.
After a bad patch following the tabloid-chronicled divorce of Prince Charles and Princess Diana, and Diana’s subsequent death, the House of Windsor had in recent years recovered a patina of stability and decorum. But much of that has gone over the parapets with the noisome evacuation (“Megxit”) from the royal circle by Meghan and Harry and the abominable spectacle of Prince Andrew, accused of being a participant in Jeffrey Epstein’s sexual abuse of underage girls. (Andrew has denied the allegations.) In the economically depressed Little Britain of the near future—with Elizabeth II’s death likely over the next decade and the future integrity of the United Kingdom itself in doubt, thanks to Brexit—will there really be room for a new generation of Windsors on the throne? Perhaps not. In the end, reruns of “The Crown” and “Downton Abbey” may be all that’s necessary to satisfy the lingering British appetite for blue-blood porn.
With the remaining European monarchies so inconsequential as to beg credulity (Luxembourg, Monaco, and Belgium, among others), the only other royals with a whiff of modern relevance have, until recently, been Spain’s Bourbons. But, after the country’s once venerated King Juan Carlos I announced, on August 3rd, that he was leaving Spain in the midst of a spiralling corruption scandal, their future also looked increasingly precarious.
Yet, by bolting the country, Juan Carlos was, in fact, upholding a long-standing, if sometimes conveniently forgotten, Bourbon family tradition of subterfuge, flight, and exile. In 1931, Juan Carlos’s grandfather, Alfonso XIII, fled the royal palace, in Madrid, and Spain itself, just two days after a municipal election overwhelmingly won by republicans ended the monarchy and established Spain’s Second Republic.
The First Republic had lasted a mere ten months, from February 11, 1873, to December 29, 1874. Along with the Napoleonic invasion of 1809 and an 1868 uprising called the “Glorious Revolution,” it was one of the shorter interruptions to Bourbon rule in Spain since the dynasty’s beginnings, in 1700. The interruption in the Spanish monarchy that followed Alfonso XIII’s downfall would be the longest ever, lasting forty-seven years.
After leaving Spain, Alfonso XIII moved to Mussolini’s Italy, where he remained, eventually abdicating the throne, a month before his death, in 1941, in favor of his son and heir, Don Juan de Borbón—Juan Carlos’s father. But Don Juan’s claim to the throne was thwarted by Spain’s Fascist dictator, General Francisco Franco, who had seized power, in 1939, after destroying the Second Republic in a bloody three-year civil war that he had waged with the help of Mussolini and Hitler.
Franco disliked Don Juan, whom he suspected of being an Anglophile (Franco despised the British and referred to Great Britain as “perfidious Albion”); he was also determined to be the sole arbiter of Spain’s destiny. And so he was. For the next thirty-six years, Franco remained the country’s unchallenged caudillo, or strongman, and although he declared Spain a monarchy once again, in 1947, he kept the throne empty, leaving Don Juan to languish and fret in neighboring Portugal, even as Franco himself assumed the role of dispenser of noble titles. In a cruelly Shakespearean twist, Franco asked Don Juan to send him his son, Juan Carlos, who was then ten, to be educated and groomed under Franco’s supervision. In 1969, when Juan Carlos was thirty-one, Franco summoned him and informed the young man of his decision to make him his successor, with the title of King of Spain.
To accept Franco’s decision meant that Juan Carlos had to step in line in front of his father, which he did, participating in a formal ceremony with Franco in which the caudillo announced his intentions. Juan Carlos didn’t tell his father about the usurpation beforehand, and the breach caused by his betrayal was long-lasting. Despite—or perhaps, in part, because of—his act of filial betrayal, the young and dashing king, who assumed the throne after Franco’s death, in 1975, became a beloved national figure. He went out of his way to promote a democratic transition that reduced his own powers but turned Spain into a constitutional monarchy. Later, in 1981, he personally stood down a right-wing military coup, the leaders of which had evidently hoped he’d back them. His biographer Paul Preston, musing about Juan Carlos’s true motivations, described the monarch as a man who knew how to seize his opportunities. “Considering that Juan Carlos had been brought up and brainwashed in Francoist thinking, it’s a valid historical question to ask why he opened the way for democracy. It wasn’t like he was a democrat,” Preston told me. “At the time, they were all predicting that he’d be known as Juan Carlos the Brief, and the only way for him not to be that was to turn Spain into a constitutional monarchy, which he did.”
Over the course of the next several decades, despite persistent rumors of his philandering and corruption, Juan Carlos could officially do no wrong. Successive Spanish governments, whether conservative or left-wing, stood firmly by him, and Spain’s media also exercised self-censorship on news about the King. Probing stories were routinely suppressed. In 1998, I wrote a Profile of Juan Carlos for The New Yorker in which I mentioned rumors about his receiving commissions on international business deals involving Spanish companies. Afterward, one of the King’s senior minions at the Palacio de la Zarzuela, the royal palace, called the editors of a major Spanish magazine to warn them not to republish the article in Spanish. They obeyed.
One day, during my time on the edges of the royal circle, a courtier showed me around the palace—a mansion set in rolling parkland outside Madrid. As she walked with me, she remarked that it could “hardly be called a palace, it’s really just a big house,” and, in a sympathetic whisper, she added that, unlike some of the other European royals, Spain’s royal family was not very wealthy; their budget was “really quite modest.” In subsequent years, I’ve often thought back to that conversation and wondered whether the courtier was subtly trying to tell me something.
The King’s downfall began, in 2012, when it was revealed that he had flown with a lover to Botswana on a private jet for a luxury safari that had been organized and paid for by a Saudi lobbyist. After breaking his hip in a fall during the trip, Juan Carlos had been rushed back home for surgery. With Spain deep in a recession and suffering one of the worst unemployment rates in Western Europe, the King’s profligacy felt like a betrayal, and his public popularity plummeted. When photos were published showing him posing with a gun in front of a dead elephant, it symbolized more than the monarchy’s being out of touch with the plebeian mood. At the time, he was the honorary president of the Spanish branch of the World Wildlife Fund.


newyorker--2020-08-25--David Wright Faladé Reads “The Sand Banks, 1861”

David Wright Faladé reads his story from the August 31 , 2020 , issue of the magazine .
Wright Faladé @ @ @ @ @ nonfiction book “ Fire on the Beach : Recovering the Lost Story of Richard Etheridge @ @ @ @ @ ” and the young-adult novel “ Away Running.
” This story was adapted from his @ @ @ @ @ a Brother , ” which will be published in 2022 .

Photograph by Jonathan Wei
David Wright Faladé reads his story from the August 31, 2020, issue of the magazine. Wright Faladé is the author of the nonfiction book “Fire on the Beach: Recovering the Lost Story of Richard Etheridge and the Pea Island Lifesavers” and the young-adult novel “Away Running.” This story was adapted from his novel in progress “Nigh-On a Brother,” which will be published in 2022.


newyorker--2020-08-25--Kimberly Guilfoyle’s High-Volume Trumpism at the Republican National Convention

The first hour or so of the Republican National Convention ’ s prime-time lineup on Monday included dog whistles about defending “ Western civilization , ” shout-outs to the discredited COVID-19 treatment hydroxychloroquine , riffs about Democrats keeping Black people on “ mental plantations , ” and denunciations of the “ China virus.
” There were effusive expressions of gratitude directed at President Trump for , among other things , giving up his “ life of luxury ” to rule the country .
There was a speech from Mark and Patricia McCloskey , a St. Louis couple , who recently @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and a cameo from another couple , an elderly pair , who , in voice-over , spoke of wanting “ this nation to continue to be the beacon of hope for the world , ” as video played of them looking lovingly at a section of border wall being installed .
There was talk of Donald Trump not being racist , juxtaposed without irony against racist warnings to white voters that Democrats want to “ abolish the suburbs.
” And yet , even with all of this buildup , Kimberly Guilfoyle , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ campaign official and girlfriend to Donald Trump , Jr. , managed to stand out .
Quietly , Guilfoyle has become a key figure in the preservation and furthering of Trumpism .
This week , the journalist Jason Zengerle wrote in the Times Magazine that Guilfoyle and Donald , Jr. , “ have become fund-raising powerhouses , ” helping to amass the war chest that is keeping Trump—despite a pandemic , an economic crisis , and widespread civil unrest—within at least striking distance of a win in November .
In early March , in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the final pre-pandemic fêtes of Trump ’ s first term in office , Guilfoyle celebrated her fifty-first birthday during a big donor retreat at Mar-a-Lago , the President ’ s private club in Palm Beach , Florida .
“ It was like a Gatsbyesque extravaganza , ” one guest told Zengerle .
The President stood by Guilfoyle as the crowd of a hundred people sang “ Happy Birthday.
” Afterward , Trump kissed her on the head .
“ Four more years !
” Guilfoyle shouted .
On Monday , Guilfoyle shouted some @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , the Trump campaign held a call with reporters , one of whom asked whether Guilfoyle , in her prerecorded speech , might go after Kamala Harris , the California senator and Democratic Vice-Presidential nominee .
( Guilfoyle was formerly married to California Governor Gavin Newsom , who has been described as Harris ’ s political “ sibling.
” ) The campaign demurred , not wanting to give anything away .
But the expectation that Guilfoyle might be deployed in some kind of surgical political strike proved misguided .
At the podium , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ might be described as high-key dystopian .
Going into the Convention , the Trump campaign had suggested that it was looking to strike a note of sunny optimism .
Guilfoyle ’ s speech wasn ’ t it .
“ They want to destroy this country , and everything that we have fought for and hold dear , ” she said .
“ They want to steal your liberty , your freedom .
They want to control what you see and think , and believe , so that they can control how you live @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the weak , dependent , liberal , victim ideology , to the point that you will not recognize this country or yourself.
” Howard Dean ’ s Presidential aspirations are popularly remembered as falling apart after one misdeployed yelp .
On Monday , Guilfoyle went on for six minutes .
There is a risk in reading too much into the surface of these things .
Four years ago , the popular consensus coming out of the party Conventions was that Democrats had held a crisp , A-list-celebrity-filled event , while Republicans put on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ more nights of the Republican Convention to go , and the polls will tell us more about how these speeches register with the public than any postgame analysis can .
But the featured speakers this week will be making choices about how to define and defend the politics of the man who has taken over and essentially become the Republican Party .
Guilfoyle and others who appeared onstage Monday night—including the conservative activist Charlie Kirk and the Florida Representative Matt Gaetz—are part of a circle of close Donald , Jr. , associates who @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ the wolf pack.
” Each of them , in turn , addressed criticisms of Trump and Trumpism by demonizing Joe Biden and the Democratic Party .
Guilfoyle talked about her Puerto Rican mother and the American Dream in one breath and , in the next , warned that Democrats would brainwash people and destroy their families .
“ Don ’ t let them step on you , ” she told the country that has been paralyzed since her birthday .
A hundred and seventy-seven thousand Americans have died of the coronavirus—a fact @ @ @ @ @ @ @ millions are out of work , facing rent and mortgage crises .
On Sunday , in Kenosha , Wisconsin , a white police officer shot a Black man , Jacob Blake , seven times in the back as his children watched .
That , too , went unmentioned .
At the end of her time , Guilfoyle raised her arms and declared , “ The best is yet to come !
”

The first hour or so of the Republican National Convention’s prime-time lineup on Monday included dog whistles about defending “Western civilization,” shout-outs to the discredited COVID-19 treatment hydroxychloroquine, riffs about Democrats keeping Black people on “mental plantations,” and denunciations of the “China virus.” There were effusive expressions of gratitude directed at President Trump for, among other things, giving up his “life of luxury” to rule the country. There was a speech from Mark and Patricia McCloskey, a St. Louis couple who recently brandished firearms at Black Lives Matter demonstrators, and a cameo from another couple, an elderly pair who, in voice-over, spoke of wanting “this nation to continue to be the beacon of hope for the world,” as video played of them looking lovingly at a section of border wall being installed. There was talk of Donald Trump not being racist, juxtaposed without irony against racist warnings to white voters that Democrats want to “abolish the suburbs.” And yet, even with all of this buildup, Kimberly Guilfoyle, a former Fox News personality turned Trump campaign official and girlfriend to Donald Trump, Jr., managed to stand out.
Quietly, Guilfoyle has become a key figure in the preservation and furthering of Trumpism. This week, the journalist Jason Zengerle wrote in the Times Magazine that Guilfoyle and Donald, Jr., “have become fund-raising powerhouses,” helping to amass the war chest that is keeping Trump—despite a pandemic, an economic crisis, and widespread civil unrest—within at least striking distance of a win in November. In early March, in what might go down as one of the final pre-pandemic fêtes of Trump’s first term in office, Guilfoyle celebrated her fifty-first birthday during a big-donor retreat at Mar-a-Lago, the President’s private club in Palm Beach, Florida. “It was like a Gatsbyesque extravaganza,” one guest told Zengerle. The President stood by Guilfoyle as the crowd of a hundred people sang “Happy Birthday.” Afterward, Trump kissed her on the head. “Four more years!” Guilfoyle shouted.
On Monday, Guilfoyle shouted some more things. Earlier in the day, the Trump campaign held a call with reporters, one of whom asked whether Guilfoyle, in her prerecorded speech, might go after Kamala Harris, the California senator and Democratic Vice-Presidential nominee. (Guilfoyle was formerly married to California Governor Gavin Newsom, who has been described as Harris’s political “sibling.”) The campaign demurred, not wanting to give anything away. But the expectation that Guilfoyle might be deployed in some kind of surgical political strike proved misguided. At the lectern, she delivered a short speech whose tone might be described as high-key dystopian. Going into the Convention, the Trump campaign had suggested that it was looking to strike a note of sunny optimism. Guilfoyle’s speech wasn’t it. “They want to destroy this country, and everything that we have fought for and hold dear,” she said. “They want to steal your liberty, your freedom. They want to control what you see and think, and believe, so that they can control how you live! They want to enslave you to the weak, dependent, liberal, victim ideology, to the point that you will not recognize this country or yourself.” Howard Dean’s Presidential aspirations are popularly remembered as falling apart after one misdeployed yelp. On Monday, Guilfoyle went on for six minutes.
There is a risk in reading too much into the surface of these things. Four years ago, the popular consensus coming out of the party Conventions was that Democrats had held a crisp, A-list-celebrity-filled event, while Republicans put on a shabby proceeding. There are three more nights of the Republican Convention to go, and the polls will tell us more about how these speeches register with the public than any postgame analysis can. But the featured speakers this week will be making choices about how to define and defend the politics of the man who has taken over and essentially become the Republican Party. Guilfoyle and others who appeared onstage Monday night—including the conservative activist Charlie Kirk and the Florida congressman Matt Gaetz—are part of a circle of close Donald, Jr., associates who, according to Zengerle, call themselves “the wolf pack.” Each of them, in turn, addressed criticisms of Trump and Trumpism by demonizing Joe Biden and the Democratic Party. Guilfoyle talked about her Puerto Rican mother and the American Dream in one breath and, in the next, warned that Democrats would brainwash people and destroy their families. “Don’t let them step on you,” she told the country that has been paralyzed since her birthday. A hundred and seventy-seven thousand Americans have died of the coronavirus—a fact that went conspicuously unmentioned on Monday night—and millions are out of work, facing rent and mortgage crises. On Sunday, in Kenosha, Wisconsin, a white police officer shot a Black man, Jacob Blake, seven times in the back as his children watched. That, too, went unmentioned. At the end of her time, Guilfoyle raised her arms and declared, “The best is yet to come!”


newyorker--2020-08-27--Trump’s Convention and the Allure of the Politics of Fear

Despite the historic chaos of recent months , Donald Trump ’ s message in the 2020 campaign remains largely unchanged @ @ @ @ @ on “ law and order ” in the streets , the dangerous agenda of the @ @ @ @ @ and protecting the country from nefarious outsiders .
That message has proved remarkably effective at @ @ @ @ @ party .
Can Joe Biden convince enough voters that “ hope is more powerful than @ @ @ @ @ joins Dorothy Wickenden to discuss the Republican National Convention and Trump ’ s strategy for @ @ @ @ @

Photograph by Brian Snyder / Reuters
Despite the historic chaos of recent months, Donald Trump’s message in the 2020 campaign remains largely unchanged. He continues to focus on “law and order” in the streets, the dangerous agenda of the “radical left,” and protecting the country from nefarious outsiders. That message has proved remarkably effective at securing the allegiance of his party. Can Joe Biden convince enough voters that “hope is more powerful than fear”? Peter Slevin joins Dorothy Wickenden to discuss the Republican National Convention and Trump’s strategy for winning a second term.


newyorker--2020-08-27--Trump Warns That Biden Presidency Would Mean Regular Mail Service and Sports

WASHINGTON ( The Borowitz Report ) —In an apocalyptic vision of life under his Democratic rival , Donald Trump will warn on Thursday night that a Biden Presidency would mean regular mail service and sports .
An advance copy of Trump ’ s final R.N.C .
speech reveals that Trump will paint an ominous picture of a nation living under the tyranny of uninterrupted postal delivery and athletic events .
“ Joe Biden and his left-wing puppet masters will take whatever measures they deem necessary to insure that the mail is delivered in a timely fashion , ” he will @ @ @ @ @ @ @ henchwomen , Nancy Pelosi and Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez , will stop at nothing to make that nightmare a reality.
” Additionally , Trump will charge , “ If Joe Biden is allowed to wipe out the pandemic and institute police reforms , professional sports will be played like never before.
” “ No city will be safe from sports , ” he will add .
Trump will end his relentlessly downbeat speech on a note of optimism , however .
“ Only one thing can protect America from the sinister threat of mail and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ Me .
”

WASHINGTON (The Borowitz Report)—In an apocalyptic vision of life under his Democratic rival, Donald Trump will warn on Thursday night that a Biden Presidency would mean regular mail service and sports.
An advance copy of Trump’s final R.N.C. speech reveals that Trump will paint an ominous picture of a nation living under the tyranny of uninterrupted postal delivery and athletic events.
“Joe Biden and his left-wing puppet masters will take whatever measures they deem necessary to insure that the mail is delivered in a timely fashion,” he will warn. “Biden and his radical henchwomen, Nancy Pelosi and Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, will stop at nothing to make that nightmare a reality.”
Additionally, Trump will charge, “If Joe Biden is allowed to wipe out the pandemic and institute police reforms, professional sports will be played like never before.”
“No city will be safe from sports,” he will add.
Trump will end his relentlessly downbeat speech on a note of optimism, however. “Only one thing can protect America from the sinister threat of mail and sports,” he will declare. “Me.”


newyorker--2020-08-27--The Wonderful World of Probability

The Wonderful World of Probability

In a group of just twenty-three people , there ’ s a fifty per cent chance that two of them share a birthday , a fun fact that can liven up even the most tepid orgy .
Say you ’ re watching a game show where the contestant must open one of three doors to win a prize .
The Monty Hall problem says that if the contestant picks a door to open , and then the host opens a different door , it actually makes sense for you to switch the channel to a better show .
One with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ should be a fifty-fifty shot , but it always takes me at least six tries to insert a USB dongle into my mouth .
You ’ re more likely to be crushed by a vending machine than attacked by a shark , though that percentage changes if you ’ re in the ocean and bleeding .
And , to be honest , the numbers get even hairier if those new Jet Skiing vending machines are involved .
It may not seem like it , but with enough tosses a coin will always land @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Go ahead , flip a coin .
You got heads ?
Do it again .
Heads a second time ?
Go again .
Heads ?
O.K.
, I think this one ’ s broken .
No one can ever truly know the probability of a benevolent God existing , but it ’ s always fun to go around the dinner table and have everyone give ’ er a guesstimate .
• Rolling a one : one in six .
• Rolling a two : one in six .
• Rolling it off the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in three .
• Emerging from under the ottoman and announcing that you rolled a four , placing your piece directly on the Champion Square : one in two .
• Everyone saying that ’ s horseshit : six in six .
• “ No , it ’ s not.
” : six in six .
• “ Yes , it is .
Return to beneath the ottoman.
” : six in six .
• “ O.K.
” : six in six .
• “ You live there now.
” : six in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I live now.
” : six in six .
A wheel is perfectly divided into fifths , each a different color : red , blue , green , yellow , and purple .
Now give it a spin .
Man , look at that baby purr .
There are 8.06e + 67 different ways to shuffle a deck of cards .
Most people can ’ t wrap their head around the magnitude of this number .
It helps if you think of something pretty big , like a horse , or one of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ more likely to die in a plane crash than to live in a plane crash .
A Magic 8-Ball has twenty equally probable answers , and none of them makes sense if you ask why everyone ’ s mad at you for consulting it when the priest has just asked if you take so-and-so to be your wife .
There are 7.56e + 64 different possible orientations of a Rubik ’ s Cube .
Or not .
What are you going to do , check ?
Flip a coin into the air .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ mouth really wide .

In a group of just twenty-three people, there’s a fifty per cent chance that two of them share a birthday, a fun fact that can liven up even the most tepid orgy.
Say you’re watching a game show where the contestant must open one of three doors to win a prize. The Monty Hall problem says that if the contestant picks a door to open, and then the host opens a different door, it actually makes sense for you to switch the channel to a better show. One with less door-opening and more violence.
It should be a fifty-fifty shot, but it always takes me at least six tries to insert a USB dongle into my mouth.
You’re more likely to be crushed by a vending machine than attacked by a shark, though that percentage changes if you’re in the ocean and bleeding. And, to be honest, the numbers get even hairier if those new Jet Skiing vending machines are involved.
It may not seem like it, but with enough tosses a coin will always land on tails half of the time. Go ahead, flip a coin. You got heads? Do it again. Heads a second time? Go again. Heads? O.K., I think this one’s broken.
No one can ever truly know the probability of a benevolent God existing, but it’s always fun to go around the dinner table and have everyone give ’er a guesstimate.
Probability breakdown of a six-sided die:
Rolling a one: one in six.
Rolling a two: one in six.
Rolling it off the table and under the ottoman: one in three.
Emerging from under the ottoman and announcing that you rolled a four, placing your piece directly on the Champion Square: one in two.
Everyone saying that’s horseshit: six in six.
“No, it’s not.”: six in six.
“Yes, it is. Return to beneath the ottoman.”: six in six.
“O.K.”: six in six.
“You live there now.”: six in six.
“This is where I live now.”: six in six.
A wheel is perfectly divided into fifths, each a different color: red, blue, green, yellow, and purple. Now give it a spin. Man, look at that baby purr.
There are 8.06e + 67 different ways to shuffle a deck of cards. Most people can’t wrap their head around the magnitude of this number. It helps if you think of something pretty big, like a horse, or one of those larger-sized microwaves.
You’re more likely to die in a plane crash than to live in a plane crash.
A Magic 8-Ball has twenty equally probable answers, and none of them makes sense if you ask why everyone’s mad at you for consulting it when the priest has just asked if you take so-and-so to be your wife.
There are 7.56e + 64 different possible orientations of a Rubik’s Cube. Or not. What are you going to do, check?
Flip a coin into the air. Now look straight up and open your mouth really wide.


newyorker--2020-08-27--The Manic Denialism of the Republican National Convention

The problems in your life aren ’ t real ; the real problems are the ones that nobody , except for everybody on this stage , has the courage to talk about .
The media wants to brainwash you ; the Marxists are massing outside your idyllic suburban lawn ; if the enemy gets its way , small businesses will be decimated , Thomas Jefferson will be cancelled , and 911 will go straight to voice mail .
The speakers at the Republican National Convention keep ringing the same notes : fabricated panic followed by hoarse , manic Panglossianism .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ and they would be lost under future Democrats , but with President Trump there is only milk and honey .
Joe Biden is a stultifying agent of the status quo , too boring to mention by name ; he is also an unprecedented break with tradition , a threat to all that we hold dear .
Climate change , of course , is waved away as mass hysteria ; even the coronavirus pandemic is mentioned rarely and almost always in the past tense , as if the decision to deliver speeches in a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ whim of a quirky location scout .
Anyone watching from quarantine , during a once-in-a-century unemployment crisis , would not need a fact check to know that this is all a stretch , to say the least .
Still , who doesn ’ t like a bit of flattering escapism now and then ?
A disaster movie is supposed to have a clean arc : hero nukes asteroid before it can collide with Earth .
Who wants a muddled plotline about a real and intractable disaster—a hurricane supercharged by global warming , or @ @ @ @ @ @ @ or a President who may or may not be on the verge of stealing an election and triggering a constitutional crisis ?
Sounds depressing .
Besides , movie theatres are closed right now , for reasons it would be too much of a bummer to mention .
“ America is not a racist country , ” Nikki Haley , the former governor of South Carolina , said on Monday night , twenty seconds before referring to the “ discrimination and hardship ” she and her Indian-American family had faced .
On Tuesday night @ @ @ @ @ @ @ chanted the name of Jacob Blake , an African-American father of six who had been shot in the back , on video , by a white police officer .
Melania Trump , in her keynote address from the White House Rose Garden , said , “ While debate rages on about issues of race , let ’ s focus on the strides we have made and work together for a better tomorrow for everyone.
” Mistakes were made in the past ; fewer mistakes should be made in the future ; in the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ focus on anything so mundane as the present .
The point was to stay positive .
Beyond that , no one seemed too hung up on the details .
Rand Paul , the libertarian senator from Kentucky , praised Trump for winding down foreign wars ; Eric Trump , perhaps the dimmest star in the Trumpian firmament , praised his father for dropping “ the mighty MOAB , ” which stands for Mother of All Bombs .
“ Hello , folks , ” President Trump ’ s top economic adviser said , employing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ can never quite remember your name .
“ You know me from TV and radio .
I ’ m Larry Kudlow.
” He declared the Trump Administration ’ s economic policies “ a roaring success ” —hopefulness repackaged as blithe , obstinate blindness—and asked , “ Do you want economic health , prosperity , opportunity , and optimism , or do you want to turn back to the dark days of stagnation , recession , and pessimism ?
” A desire for both opportunity and reality—say , a nod toward the obvious fact @ @ @ @ @ @ @ recession , which would seem like a prerequisite for finding a way out—was not on offer .
“ Our enemies fear us because Americans fight for good , ” Dan Crenshaw , a representative from Texas , said on Wednesday night .
“ The defeat of ISIS was the result of America believing in our heroes.
” Then , before Vice-President Mike Pence ’ s acceptance speech , came a five-minute trailer , an orgy of white picket fences , amber waves of grain , and sun-drenched American flags billowing in slow motion @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Conventions are pageants of paradox and puffery .
One of the challenges of the Trump era , as we know well by now , is to continue to recognize it as abnormal while also noting its continuities with the past .
“ Never before in our history have Americans been called upon to face three grave threats to our very existence , any one of which could destroy us , ” Ronald Reagan said during his acceptance speech at the 1980 Republican National Convention , in Detroit .
“ We face a disintegrating @ @ @ @ @ @ @ an energy policy based on the sharing of scarcity.
” The list was tendentious at best .
Reagan ’ s opponent , President Jimmy Carter , had already proposed a sizable increase in military spending and had pledged to find commensurate cuts that would allow him to balance the budget .
As far as energy policy went , Carter ’ s diagnosis—that unchecked consumption of fossil fuels would wreak havoc on the planet—wasn ’ t wrong , but it was the opposite of what Americans wanted to hear .
“ Those who preside @ @ @ @ @ @ @ history tell us to use less so that we will run out of oil , gasoline , and natural gas a little more slowly , ” Reagan continued .
“ The Republican program for solving economic problems is based on growth and productivity.
” More hopefulness repackaged as willful blindness .
In “ Reaganland , ” his new book chronicling “ America ’ s right turn ” between 1976 and 1980 , the journalist and historian Rick Perlstein describes the Detroit speech as “ Reagan ’ s familiar liturgy of absolution , his @ @ @ @ @ @ @ they said the things you believed were immoral—that , actually , they were the immoral ones.
” A few weeks later , during the Democratic Convention in New York , a young libertine named Donald Trump hosted a party in Greenwich Village—a hoedown for the Texas delegation—while “ undocumented Polish immigrants .
.
.
without gloves , hard hats , or masks ” worked overtime to build Trump Tower .
Then Reagan kicked off his general-election campaign in Neshoba County , Mississippi , where , sixteen years earlier , three civil-rights volunteers had @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
“ The sort of open racists that the civil rights revolution had supposedly vanquished now seemed almost ubiquitous , ” Perlstein writes .
“ And here was Ronald Reagan , ducking in on what you might call one of their sacred sites.
” Still , somehow , the candidate whose “ meanness ” became an issue in that race—the candidate about whom the Philadelphia Inquirer ran a column called “ The Low Road to High Office ” —was Carter .
Reagan won in a landslide , although Perlstein notes that “ 84 @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for a change ’ as their major reason for choosing him—not any ideological reason at all.
” “ Reaganland ” is the fourth and final book in a monumental series , more than three thousand pages in total , which Perlstein started working on twenty-three years ago .
Beginning with Barry Goldwater ’ s failed Presidential campaign in 1964 , continuing with the rise and fall of Richard Nixon , and ending with the fall and rise of Reagan , Perlstein shows how ideological conservatism managed to thrive and to push both parties @ @ @ @ @ @ @ mainstream pundits declared it dead .
“ The major theme of all my work , ” Perlstein told me in a recent interview , “ is a certain kind of denial that you hear again and again , especially among gatekeeping media élites ” —the assumption that divisive partisan rhetoric will be self-defeating , that racist or reactionary gestures will be punished at the ballot box , and that , after the dogmatism of Goldwater and the ruthlessness of Nixon and the mendacity of Reagan , the Republican Party can ’ t possibly @ @ @ @ @ @ @ liberals tend to see the world in enlightened terms , that the grand story of our history is reason chasing out unreason , ” he said .
“ But there is this constant appeal of reactionary ways of seeing the world .
The world is a scary place , America is a scary place , and people want to revert to easy truths and binary black-and-white ways of seeing the world .
And that ’ s just a constant in American history.
” Reagan was the modern master of the politics of blithe @ @ @ @ @ @ @ while downplaying real ones , exploiting racism and jingoism with an aw-shucks grin .
For long stretches of the 1980 campaign , Gallup polls showed Reagan losing to Carter , sometimes by as much as thirty percentage points .
Some pundits found it impossible to imagine that the American electorate could be swindled by a has-been entertainer , a notorious prevaricator , a man so out of touch with the nation ’ s anxious mood .
Heading into the fall , Perlstein pointed out , Democrats felt a surge of confidence : “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s smart , we ’ ll run away with the election.
” Actually , “ confidence ” is my word .
The word Perlstein used was “ hubris .
”

The problems in your life aren’t real; the real problems are the ones that nobody, except for everybody on this stage, has the courage to talk about. The media wants to brainwash you; the Marxists are massing outside your idyllic suburban lawn; if the enemy gets its way, small businesses will be decimated, Thomas Jefferson will be cancelled, and 911 will go straight to voice mail. The speakers at the Republican National Convention keep ringing the same notes: fabricated panic followed by hoarse, manic Panglossianism. Jobs were lost under past Democrats, and they would be lost under future Democrats, but with President Trump there is only milk and honey. Joe Biden is a stultifying agent of the status quo, too boring to mention by name; he is also an unprecedented break with tradition, a threat to all that we hold dear. Climate change, of course, is waved away as mass hysteria; even the coronavirus pandemic is mentioned rarely and almost always in the past tense, as if the decision to deliver speeches in a cavernous, empty auditorium were merely the whim of a quirky location scout. Anyone watching from quarantine, during a once-in-a-century unemployment crisis, would not need a fact check to know that this is all a stretch, to say the least. Still, who doesn’t like a bit of flattering escapism now and then? A disaster movie is supposed to have a clean arc: hero nukes asteroid before it can collide with Earth. Who wants a muddled plotline about a real and intractable disaster—a hurricane supercharged by global warming, or the long struggle against police brutality, or a President who may or may not be on the verge of stealing an election and triggering a constitutional crisis? Sounds depressing. Besides, movie theatres are closed right now, for reasons it would be too much of a bummer to mention.
“America is not a racist country,” Nikki Haley, the former governor of South Carolina, said on Monday night, twenty seconds before referring to the “discrimination and hardship” she and her Indian-American family had faced. On Tuesday night, in Kenosha, Wisconsin, demonstrators chanted the name of Jacob Blake, an African-American father of six who had been shot in the back, on video, by a white police officer. Melania Trump, in her keynote address from the White House Rose Garden, said, “While debate rages on about issues of race, let’s focus on the strides we have made and work together for a better tomorrow for everyone.” Mistakes were made in the past; fewer mistakes should be made in the future; in the meantime, it would be unseemly to focus on anything so mundane as the present. The point was to stay positive. Beyond that, no one seemed too hung up on the details. Rand Paul, the libertarian senator from Kentucky, praised Trump for winding down foreign wars; Eric Trump, perhaps the dimmest star in the Trumpian firmament, praised his father for dropping “the mighty MOAB,” which stands for Mother of All Bombs. “Hello, folks,” President Trump’s top economic adviser said, employing the faux-familiar tone of a neighbor who can never quite remember your name. “You know me from TV and radio. I’m Larry Kudlow.” He declared the Trump Administration’s economic policies “a roaring success”—hopefulness repackaged as blithe, obstinate blindness—and asked, “Do you want economic health, prosperity, opportunity, and optimism, or do you want to turn back to the dark days of stagnation, recession, and pessimism?” A desire for both opportunity and reality—say, a nod toward the obvious fact that we’re currently in a recession, which would seem like a prerequisite for finding a way out—was not on offer. “Our enemies fear us because Americans fight for good,” Dan Crenshaw, a representative from Texas, said on Wednesday night. “The defeat of ISIS was the result of America believing in our heroes.” Then, before Vice-President Mike Pence’s acceptance speech, came a five-minute trailer, an orgy of white picket fences, amber waves of grain, and sun-drenched American flags billowing in slow motion.
To some extent, all party Conventions are pageants of paradox and puffery. One of the challenges of the Trump era, as we know well by now, is to continue to recognize it as abnormal while also noting its continuities with the past. “Never before in our history have Americans been called upon to face three grave threats to our very existence, any one of which could destroy us,” Ronald Reagan said during his acceptance speech at the 1980 Republican National Convention, in Detroit. “We face a disintegrating economy, a weakened defense, and an energy policy based on the sharing of scarcity.” The list was tendentious at best. Reagan’s opponent, President Jimmy Carter, had already proposed a sizable increase in military spending and had pledged to find commensurate cuts that would allow him to balance the budget. As far as energy policy went, Carter’s diagnosis—that unchecked consumption of fossil fuels would wreak havoc on the planet—wasn’t wrong, but it was the opposite of what Americans wanted to hear. “Those who preside over the worst energy shortage in our history tell us to use less so that we will run out of oil, gasoline, and natural gas a little more slowly,” Reagan continued. “The Republican program for solving economic problems is based on growth and productivity.” More hopefulness repackaged as willful blindness.
In “Reaganland,” his new book chronicling “America’s right turn” between 1976 and 1980, the journalist and historian Rick Perlstein describes the Detroit speech as “Reagan’s familiar liturgy of absolution, his decades-long argument why liberals were wrong when they said the things you believed were immoral—that, actually, they were the immoral ones.” A few weeks later, during the Democratic Convention in New York, a young libertine named Donald Trump hosted a party in Greenwich Village—a hoedown for the Texas delegation—while “undocumented Polish immigrants . . . without gloves, hard hats, or masks” worked overtime to build Trump Tower. Then Reagan kicked off his general-election campaign in Neshoba County, Mississippi, where, sixteen years earlier, three civil-rights volunteers had been assassinated by the Ku Klux Klan. “The sort of open racists that the civil rights revolution had supposedly vanquished now seemed almost ubiquitous,” Perlstein writes. “And here was Ronald Reagan, ducking in on what you might call one of their sacred sites.” Still, somehow, the candidate whose “meanness” became an issue in that race—the candidate about whom the Philadelphia Inquirer ran a column called “The Low Road to High Office”—was Carter. Reagan won in a landslide, although Perlstein notes that “84 percent of Reagan voters gave ‘time for a change’ as their major reason for choosing him—not any ideological reason at all.”
“Reaganland” is the fourth and final book in a monumental series, more than three thousand pages in total, which Perlstein started working on twenty-three years ago. Beginning with Barry Goldwater’s failed Presidential campaign in 1964, continuing with the rise and fall of Richard Nixon, and ending with the fall and rise of Reagan, Perlstein shows how ideological conservatism managed to thrive and to push both parties rightward, no matter how many times mainstream pundits declared it dead. “The major theme of all my work,” Perlstein told me in a recent interview, “is a certain kind of denial that you hear again and again, especially among gatekeeping media élites”—the assumption that divisive partisan rhetoric will be self-defeating, that racist or reactionary gestures will be punished at the ballot box, and that, after the dogmatism of Goldwater and the ruthlessness of Nixon and the mendacity of Reagan, the Republican Party can’t possibly get more extreme. “I think liberals tend to see the world in enlightened terms, that the grand story of our history is reason chasing out unreason,” he said. “But there is this constant appeal of reactionary ways of seeing the world. The world is a scary place, America is a scary place, and people want to revert to easy truths and binary black-and-white ways of seeing the world. And that’s just a constant in American history.”
Reagan was the modern master of the politics of blithe optimism, drawing attention to manufactured crises while downplaying real ones, exploiting racism and jingoism with an aw-shucks grin. For long stretches of the 1980 campaign, Gallup polls showed Reagan losing to Carter, sometimes by as much as thirty percentage points. Some pundits found it impossible to imagine that the American electorate could be swindled by a has-been entertainer, a notorious prevaricator, a man so out of touch with the nation’s anxious mood. Heading into the fall, Perlstein pointed out, Democrats felt a surge of confidence: “Reagan’s dumb, Carter’s smart, we’ll run away with the election.” Actually, “confidence” is my word. The word Perlstein used was “hubris.”


newyorker--2020-08-27--The South Asian Speakers Series Presents the Archeologist and Adventurer Indiana Jones

This is the eighth story in this summer ’ s online Flash Fiction series .
You can read the entire series , and our Flash Fiction stories from previous years , here .
“ But , if you ask me , ” Indiana Jones said , “ it belongs in a museum.
” He paused to let that sink in .
He was sitting onstage across from the moderator , an Indian woman whose name he ’ d failed to catch .
Her legs were crossed at the knee .
( The legs he ’ d remember . )
He @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the tiny table between them and sipped .
The moderator uncrossed her legs and shifted to face the audience .
“ Let ’ s pause here and take some questions.
” He followed her gaze to the masses , overflowing into the aisles , lined up along the walls .
For the first time that evening , he tried to distinguish faces .
Many of them were colored .
Faces of color .
Not a bad thing .
His best friend was Egyptian .
A microphone was passed to the first questioner , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for your talk , Dr. Jones .
I ’ m wondering about the Indian village , the one that sent you on your quest to retrieve a mystical stone.
” “ The Sankara stone , correct .
The villagers sent me to retrieve it and save their kidnapped children from a demonic cult.
” “ I was just wondering what the village was called.
” “ I ’ d just ridden a raft down a waterfall .
You ’ ll forgive me if I don ’ t remember the name of the village.
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ he hoped was charming .
“ I believe it was Mayapore ?
” the moderator filled in , consulting her notes .
“ That ’ s it , Mayapore , ” Indy said .
“ And the leader of the village was named Shaman.
” “ So if I went to this Mayapore and went around asking for a guy named Shaman , people would be , like , yeah , Shaman lives over on , I dunno , Cherokee Street.
” “ Look , pal , I don ’ t know what @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is that all these names sound made up.
” “ All names are made up .
Hey , I was named after my pet dog !
” Some people laughed .
Indy prompted the next question .
It came from a pretty woman in a clingy skirt .
“ Hi , Dr. Jones , ” she said , and , as she went on , he found himself recalling a student , a girl , from his teaching days .
“ You mentioned that , at the Maharajah ’ s banquet , you @ @ @ @ @ @ @ brains ?
” He nodded , still thinking of the student who used to sit in the front row of his history class .
Once , on her eyelids , she ’ d written him a message .
“ Love ” on the right lid , and “ You ” on the left .
“ Some say this idea of Asians eating monkey brains is an urban legend , based on a misunderstanding of the Chinese hóu tóu gū , which translates to ‘ monkey-head mushroom.
’ Could it be that you ate @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Manchurian dish.
” Indy recalled the way his former student had closed and opened her eyes .
Love you .
Love you .
It was sort of disgusting to think of her writing on her own eyelids .
But kind of amazing , too .
What wouldn ’ t she do ?
Indy looked to the moderator , who was also looking at him , illegibly .
“ I just ate what I was told to eat , ” he said .
Silence .
He took a long gulp of water .
The @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of research .
What he wouldn ’ t give to be back in the jungles of Honduras or jumping trains across Nazi-occupied Europe , where he could let his whip do the talking .
He ’ d taken this gig for the honorarium , mainly .
For the final question , the moderator pointed to a tiny woman with billowing black hair .
“ Mr .
Jones , ” she said , already annoying him , for he had a Ph.D. “ How would you respond to the claim that you ’ re @ @ @ @ @ @ @ archeologist ?
And is there merit to the argument that these relics belong not in European museums but in the places they ’ ve been looted from ?
” “ You know what ?
” Indy said .
“ I have a coupla questions .
Have you been whipped and force-fed the blood of Kali ?
Have you been crippled by a voodoo doll ?
I did all that , not for myself but for the villagers of that village and their children .
I ’ m the good guy here , not @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Jones , ” the moderator said , “ the question had to do with looted objects— ” “ Well , guess what , joke ’ s on you .
.
.
.
” His voice trailed off .
He was thinking of the Holy Grail , the cup of the king of kings , falling out of his grasp , tumbling into a chasm beneath the Temple of the Sun .
And wasn ’ t it always like that ?
Hadn ’ t every object he ’ d ever loved finally eluded him @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of history ?
Quietly he said , “ I ’ ve never put anything in a museum.
” He looked at the floor .
The general murmur was excruciating .
Eventually , he heard the gentle voice of the moderator : “ Indiana .
.
.
Indiana .
.
.
” Her tone sounded so much like his father ’ s right then .
He looked into her warm brown eyes .
“ Indy , we brought you here to talk.
” “ No , so that we could talk to you.
” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ Indy , the truth is that many of us find you very heroic and very sexy .
But this India mission is confusing .
On the one hand , we ’ re flattered .
On the other hand , we ’ re angry .
It ’ s just a circle that ’ s hard to square , you know ?
” Indy sighed ; he knew .
Things had gotten weird in India .
Deep down , he had always known .
“ Can we agree , Indy , that India was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to fighting Nazis ?
” “ Theoretically , sure , but the Nazi party is defunct.
” “ And yet there are still Nazis .
There will always be Nazis.
” He frowned , suspicious .
As he looked out at the audience , he could see waves of nodding faces , confirming the ever-presence of Nazis .
His gaze fixed on the red exit sign , glowing like the fiery Sankara stone .
“ Well , then , ” he said , “ I guess I ’ ve got work to do.
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ and retrieved the fedora he ’ d stored behind his ankles all this time , the hat that had seen him through every adventure , and set it on his head .
He got up and jogged sideways down the stairs .
As he made his way down the center aisle , people began to clap , uncertainly at first .
It didn ’ t matter .
He was grateful .
They had saved him .

This is the eighth story in this summer’s online Flash Fiction series. You can read the entire series, and our Flash Fiction stories from previous years, here.
“But, if you ask me,” Indiana Jones said, “it belongs in a museum.”
He paused to let that sink in.
He was sitting onstage across from the moderator, an Indian woman whose name he’d failed to catch. Her legs were crossed at the knee. (The legs he’d remember.) He reached for the glass of water on the tiny table between them and sipped.
The moderator uncrossed her legs and shifted to face the audience. “Let’s pause here and take some questions.”
He followed her gaze to the masses, overflowing into the aisles, lined up along the walls. For the first time that evening, he tried to distinguish faces. Many of them were colored. Faces of color. Not a bad thing. His best friend was Egyptian.
A microphone was passed to the first questioner, a brown-skinned man. “Thank you for your talk, Dr. Jones. I’m wondering about the Indian village, the one that sent you on your quest to retrieve a mystical stone.”
“The Sankara stone, correct. The villagers sent me to retrieve it and save their kidnapped children from a demonic cult.”
“I was just wondering what the village was called.”
“I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember?”
“I’d just ridden a raft down a waterfall. You’ll forgive me if I don’t remember the name of the village.” Indy grinned in a way that he hoped was charming.
“I believe it was Mayapore?” the moderator filled in, consulting her notes.
“That’s it, Mayapore,” Indy said. “And the leader of the village was named Shaman.”
“Shaman,” the questioner said. “Just . . . Shaman.”
“Correct.”
“So if I went to this Mayapore and went around asking for a guy named Shaman, people would be, like, yeah, Shaman lives over on, I dunno, Cherokee Street.”
“Look, pal, I don’t know what your problem is—”
“My problem is that all these names sound made up.”
“All names are made up. Hey, I was named after my pet dog!”
Some people laughed. Indy prompted the next question.
It came from a pretty woman in a clingy skirt. “Hi, Dr. Jones,” she said, and, as she went on, he found himself recalling a student, a girl, from his teaching days. “You mentioned that, at the Maharajah’s banquet, you were served a dessert of chilled monkey brains?”
He nodded, still thinking of the student who used to sit in the front row of his history class. Once, on her eyelids, she’d written him a message. “Love” on the right lid, and “You” on the left.
“Some say this idea of Asians eating monkey brains is an urban legend, based on a misunderstanding of the Chinese hóu tóu gū, which translates to ‘monkey-head mushroom.’ Could it be that you ate monkey-head-mushroom soup? It’s a Manchurian dish.”
Indy recalled the way his former student had closed and opened her eyes. Love you. Love you. It was sort of disgusting to think of her writing on her own eyelids. But kind of amazing, too. What wouldn’t she do?
“Dr. Jones?” the questioner said.
Indy looked to the moderator, who was also looking at him, illegibly. “I just ate what I was told to eat,” he said.
Silence. He took a long gulp of water.
The world had grown unfriendly to his form of research. What he wouldn’t give to be back in the jungles of Honduras or jumping trains across Nazi-occupied Europe, where he could let his whip do the talking. He’d taken this gig for the honorarium, mainly.
For the final question, the moderator pointed to a tiny woman with billowing black hair. “Mr. Jones,” she said, already annoying him, for he had a Ph.D. “How would you respond to the claim that you’re more of a grave robber than an archeologist? And is there merit to the argument that these relics belong not in European museums but in the places they’ve been looted from?”
“You know what?” Indy said. “I have a coupla questions. Have you been whipped and force-fed the blood of Kali? Have you been crippled by a voodoo doll? I did all that, not for myself but for the villagers of that village and their children. I’m the good guy here, not the bad guy.”
“Dr. Jones,” the moderator said, “the question had to do with looted objects—”
“Well, guess what, joke’s on you. . . .” His voice trailed off. He was thinking of the Holy Grail, the cup of the king of kings, falling out of his grasp, tumbling into a chasm beneath the Temple of the Sun. And wasn’t it always like that? Hadn’t every object he’d ever loved finally eluded him, vanishing even further into the vault of history? Quietly he said, “I’ve never put anything in a museum.”
He looked at the floor. The general murmur was excruciating.
Eventually, he heard the gentle voice of the moderator: “Indiana . . . Indiana . . .”
Her tone sounded so much like his father’s right then. He looked into her warm brown eyes.
“Indy, we brought you here to talk.”
“I am talking.”
“No, so that we could talk to you.” She gave him a sympathetic smile. “Indy, the truth is that many of us find you very heroic and very sexy. But this India mission is confusing. On the one hand, we’re flattered. On the other hand, we’re angry. It’s just a circle that’s hard to square, you know?”
Indy sighed; he knew. Things had gotten weird in India. Deep down, he had always known.
“Can we agree, Indy, that India was a misstep? That you should stick to fighting Nazis?”
“Theoretically, sure, but the Nazi party is defunct.”
“And yet there are still Nazis. There will always be Nazis.”
He frowned, suspicious. As he looked out at the audience, he could see waves of nodding faces, confirming the ever-presence of Nazis. His gaze fixed on the red exit sign, glowing like the fiery Sankara stone.
“Well, then,” he said, “I guess I’ve got work to do.”
He reached down beneath his chair and retrieved the fedora he’d stored behind his ankles all this time, the hat that had seen him through every adventure, and set it on his head. He got up and jogged sideways down the stairs. As he made his way down the center aisle, people began to clap, uncertainly at first. It didn’t matter. He was grateful. They had saved him.


newyorker--2020-08-27--Linking Allies to Action in the Heart of the Black-Bookstore Boom

When Onikah Asamoa-Caesar saw people arriving at Fulton Street Books & Coffee , in Tulsa , Oklahoma , an hour and a half before its grand opening , in July , she grew nervous .
The launch of her new store was supposed to be a quiet affair .
She ’ d asked some of her friends not to show up and had stopped promoting the date on social media weeks earlier .
The number of coronavirus cases in the city had been rising steadily for a month , and she didn ’ t want to risk people contracting the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
But , in the wake of protests over the killing of George Floyd , many people were seeking a salve for the more enduring ailment of racism in America .
They came to Fulton Street to find it .
“ There was something unique about being in a pandemic that allowed people the space to pay attention to what was happening , ” Asamoa-Caesar told me .
“ The question I kept asking myself was , ‘ Why is everybody wanting to read now ?
’ ” Asamoa-Caesar was facing the same @ @ @ @ @ @ @ this moment of racial awakening : there were simply too many people wanting too many books .
The night before Fulton Street opened , the floor of the store was covered in boxes , containing a thousand copies of Richard Rothstein ’ s “ The Color of Law ” and another thousand of Ijeoma Oluo ’ s “ So You Want to Talk About Race.
” The books were part of the Ally Box , a subscription service that Asamoa-Caesar created in response to the killings of Floyd and Breonna Taylor .
Each @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with race , Fulton Street-branded educational resources , and opportunities for online discussions with peers and scholars .
The first box included a series of flash cards with definitions of terms that many people feel uncomfortable uttering aloud , such as “ white supremacy , ” “ anti-Black , ” and “ racism.
” Asamoa-Caesar had hoped that a hundred people would buy the eighty-dollar-a-month subscriptions ; she quickly sold nearly fifteen hundred and had to start placing potential customers on a waiting list .
Asamoa-Caesar stayed at the store until 2:00 A.M. @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Ally Box books in a friend ’ s garage for safe keeping .
When the doors of Fulton Street officially opened , at 11:00 A.M. , the airy space looked like it had always been Instagram-ready .
A wall of the one-room store is lined with themed bookshelves focussed on hip-hop , history , and feminism , among other topics .
The opposite wall is dominated by large black-and-white covers of books that Asamoa-Caesar holds in particularly high esteem— “ The Warmth of Other Suns , ” by Isabel Wilkerson , “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Paulo Freire , and “ We Should All Be Feminists , ” by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie .
At least seventy per cent of the store ’ s titles are written by or prominently feature people of color .
“ Often times , our voices and stories are not a part of what ’ s considered ‘ classic ’ literature , ” she told me , as we walked past the colorful bookshelves .
“ It looks different , but to me , to us , these are also classics . ''
For decades @ @ @ @ @ @ @ role in Black neighborhoods , serving as venues for both education and activism .
Though they , like other independent bookstores , fell into decline during the rise of Amazon , with more than two hundred and fifty shuttering between 1999 and 2014 , they ’ ve seen a surge in popularity in recent years amid the rise of the Black Lives Matter movement .
What ’ s happening this summer is new , though .
Stores have reported sales boosts as high as four hundred per cent .
Owners are working around @ @ @ @ @ @ @ orders .
Stores that were once community-gathering spaces for Black people are now centers of intellectual triage for white people .
Asamoa-Caesar is searching for the equilibrium between these two needs .
Her literary taste , and her passion for history , were shaped by a childhood split between the sunny veneer of multiculturalism in Southern California and the sinewy roots of racism in the Deep South .
In Hazlehurst , Mississippi , a small rural town where she spent some of her teen-age years , racial contradictions were ambient .
Every day @ @ @ @ @ @ @ segregated high school , where the class graduation photos lining the hallways transitioned from all-white to all-Black as the years went by .
In California , where she returned for college , the contradictions were more disruptive .
While attending California State University , Fullerton , in Orange County , a carload of white boys yelled “ nigger ” at her and her friends as they walked to their first college party .
Black people are often forced to process these experiences in silence .
By studying history at Cal State , Asamoa-Caesar @ @ @ @ @ @ @ summer—that racism is and has always been an ideology taught , legislated , and profit-maximized at enormous scale in the United States , not a series of individual slights that victims must bear with quiet dignity .
“ As a high-schooler , I saw the Confederate flag , I saw the segregation , but I didn ’ t have the language to describe what I was living , ” she told me .
“ History gave me the language to articulate my experience , and why I was having that experience as a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ seemed to be the thing the patrons of Fulton Street were searching for on the shelves .
“ White Fragility , ” by Robin DiAngelo , overshadowed all the other works , literally , with hundreds of copies running clean across the length of the store on its top bookshelf .
Below it were nearly as many copies of “ How to Be an Antiracist , ” by Ibram X. Kendi .
( Combined , the two books sold nearly eight hundred thousand copies in the U.S. in the months of May and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , it feels good to see books flying off the shelves , ” she told me .
“ I also can ’ t let go of the fact that we have to go beyond just reading.
” The current Ally Box includes both DiAngelo ’ s and Kendi ’ s titles , along with a list of recommended direct actions that subscribers can take after reading , such as registering to vote or donating to a Black-led nonprofit .
One of the customers on opening day , Tara Rittler , a white woman @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , purchased “ How to Be an Antiracist ” and some children ’ s books for her five-year-old son .
She listed off a number of books that she ’ s read that helped her understand racism in theory— “ Just Mercy , ” “ The New Jim Crow ” —but said that she was hoping Kendi ’ s book would help her figure out how to navigate conversations on the subject .
She ’ s wary of antagonizing her conservative relatives in Kansas , even on Facebook .
“ I ’ m @ @ @ @ @ @ @ about being anti-racist , ” she told me .
“ I like reading books and education .
Actually doing the work is a lot harder.
” Kyra Manlove , a young Asian woman who came to Tulsa for college , picked up a copy of “ White Fragility.
” Although not white herself , she was raised in a white family and said that she had internalized some aspects of white culture , which she wanted to examine .
She was aware of the growing backlash against the book , which was written @ @ @ @ @ @ @ called “ condescending ” toward Black people , but she said that she saw the value in it .
“ While I don ’ t think it ’ s great , I think there is some merit to having a white lady explain it to other white ladies , because they have a similar frame of reference on some of these things to help them understand , ” she said .
“ But it shouldn ’ t be the end all , be all .
”

When Onikah Asamoa-Caesar saw people arriving at Fulton Street Books & Coffee, in Tulsa, Oklahoma, an hour and a half before its grand opening, in July, she grew nervous. The launch of her new store was supposed to be a quiet affair. She’d asked some of her friends not to show up and had stopped promoting the date on social media weeks earlier. The number of coronavirus cases in the city had been rising steadily for a month, and she didn’t want to risk people contracting the virus in a crowd of her making. But, in the wake of protests over the killing of George Floyd, many people were seeking a salve for the more enduring ailment of racism in America. They came to Fulton Street to find it. “There was something unique about being in a pandemic that allowed people the space to pay attention to what was happening,” Asamoa-Caesar told me. “The question I kept asking myself was, ‘Why is everybody wanting to read now?’ ”
Asamoa-Caesar was facing the same challenge of many Black bookstore owners in this moment of racial awakening: there were simply too many people wanting too many books. The night before Fulton Street opened, the floor of the store was covered in boxes, containing a thousand copies of Richard Rothstein’s “The Color of Law” and another thousand of Ijeoma Oluo’s “So You Want to Talk About Race.” The books were part of the Ally Box, a subscription service that Asamoa-Caesar created in response to the killings of Floyd and Breonna Taylor. Each month, subscribers receive two books dealing with race, Fulton Street-branded educational resources, and opportunities for online discussions with peers and scholars. The first box included a series of flash cards with definitions of terms that many people feel uncomfortable uttering aloud, such as “white supremacy,” “anti-Black,” and “racism.” Asamoa-Caesar had hoped that a hundred people would buy the eighty-dollar-a-month subscriptions; she quickly sold nearly fifteen hundred and had to start placing potential customers on a waiting list.
Asamoa-Caesar stayed at the store until 2:00 A.M. preparing for the opening day and stored the Ally Box books in a friend’s garage for safe keeping. When the doors of Fulton Street officially opened, at 11:00 A.M., the airy space looked like it had always been Instagram-ready. A wall of the one-room store is lined with themed bookshelves focussed on hip-hop, history, and feminism, among other topics. The opposite wall is dominated by large black-and-white covers of books that Asamoa-Caesar holds in particularly high esteem—“The Warmth of Other Suns,” by Isabel Wilkerson, “Pedagogy of the Oppressed,” by Paulo Freire, and “We Should All Be Feminists,” by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. At least seventy per cent of the store’s titles are written by or prominently feature people of color. “Often times, our voices and stories are not a part of what’s considered ‘classic’ literature,” she told me, as we walked past the colorful bookshelves. “It looks different, but to me, to us, these are also classics."
For decades, Black-owned bookstores have played a vital role in Black neighborhoods, serving as venues for both education and activism. Though they, like other independent bookstores, fell into decline during the rise of Amazon, with more than two hundred and fifty shuttering between 1999 and 2014, they’ve seen a surge in popularity in recent years amid the rise of the Black Lives Matter movement. What’s happening this summer is new, though. Stores have reported sales boosts as high as four hundred per cent. Owners are working around the clock to fill a crush of orders. Stores that were once community-gathering spaces for Black people are now centers of intellectual triage for white people.
Asamoa-Caesar is searching for the equilibrium between these two needs. Her literary taste, and her passion for history, were shaped by a childhood split between the sunny veneer of multiculturalism in Southern California and the sinewy roots of racism in the Deep South. In Hazlehurst, Mississippi, a small rural town where she spent some of her teen-age years, racial contradictions were ambient. Every day, she observed white flight in her segregated high school, where the class graduation photos lining the hallways transitioned from all-white to all-Black as the years went by. In California, where she returned for college, the contradictions were more disruptive. While attending California State University, Fullerton, in Orange County, a carload of white boys yelled “nigger” at her and her friends as they walked to their first college party.
Black people are often forced to process these experiences in silence. By studying history at Cal State, Asamoa-Caesar learned what many people are discovering this summer—that racism is and has always been an ideology taught, legislated, and profit-maximized at enormous scale in the United States, not a series of individual slights that victims must bear with quiet dignity. “As a high-schooler, I saw the Confederate flag, I saw the segregation, but I didn’t have the language to describe what I was living,” she told me. “History gave me the language to articulate my experience, and why I was having that experience as a Black person in this country.”
Language seemed to be the thing the patrons of Fulton Street were searching for on the shelves. “White Fragility,” by Robin DiAngelo, overshadowed all the other works, literally, with hundreds of copies running clean across the length of the store on its top bookshelf. Below it were nearly as many copies of “How to Be an Antiracist,” by Ibram X. Kendi. (Combined, the two books sold nearly eight hundred thousand copies in the U.S. in the months of May and June.) “As a bookseller, it feels good to see books flying off the shelves,” she told me. “I also can’t let go of the fact that we have to go beyond just reading.” The current Ally Box includes both DiAngelo’s and Kendi’s titles, along with a list of recommended direct actions that subscribers can take after reading, such as registering to vote or donating to a Black-led nonprofit.
One of the customers on opening day, Tara Rittler, a white woman who has lived in Tulsa since 2004, purchased “How to Be an Antiracist” and some children’s books for her five-year-old son. She listed off a number of books that she’s read that helped her understand racism in theory—“Just Mercy,” “The New Jim Crow”—but said that she was hoping Kendi’s book would help her figure out how to navigate conversations on the subject. She’s wary of antagonizing her conservative relatives in Kansas, even on Facebook. “I’m not super-active as far as being proactive about being anti-racist,” she told me. “I like reading books and education. Actually doing the work is a lot harder.”
Kyra Manlove, a young Asian woman who came to Tulsa for college, picked up a copy of “White Fragility.” Although not white herself, she was raised in a white family and said that she had internalized some aspects of white culture, which she wanted to examine. She was aware of the growing backlash against the book, which was written by a white woman and has been called “condescending” toward Black people, but she said that she saw the value in it. “While I don’t think it’s great, I think there is some merit to having a white lady explain it to other white ladies, because they have a similar frame of reference on some of these things to help them understand,” she said. “But it shouldn’t be the end all, be all.”
Not everyone ventured to Fulton Street seeking a lesson on race. Just outside the store’s entrance, a pair of Asamoa-Caesar’s friends were discussing the successful opening. One of them, Alexander Tamahn, a local artist, had painted a large mural of Nina Simone, Audre Lorde, and Frida Kahlo that adorned the bookstore’s eastern wall. (He plans to add temporary face masks to the figures this week.) Tiona Bowman, an educator from Tulsa who now lives in Dallas, had helped pack the huge number of Ally Boxes. Bowman raised the book she had just purchased, the novel “Speaking of Summer,” by Kalisha Buckhanon. “I’m very woke. I’m very aware,” Bowman said. “I don’t really need to read too many more books about ‘How Not To,’ or ‘How To.’ ”
"You do kind of want to unplug sometimes,” Tamahn said, “and just breathe.”