newyorker--2020-07-22--Three Ways of Looking at Children and the Coronavirus

A good friend recently invited me to meet his spiritual guide via Zoom .
The spiritual guide does energy work , which he claims requires no physical proximity and works based on principles of Christianity and quantum mechanics .
After some introduction of his methods , the spiritual guide turned his attention to me , rotating a wooden bar in the air and snapping his fingers against his hand in order to confer on me protection from the novel coronavirus .
I could see his living room behind him , and his wife joined from a separate device elsewhere in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and shortly he pronounced me protected .
“ Is the baby protected , too , Lord ?
” he asked .
There was a scant pause and then “ Amen , ” he said , “ the baby , too.
” Humiliatingly , I started crying .
I could not explain it in that moment , so I allowed my friend to believe that I cried because of the power of being conferred such protection .
I exited the Zoom , thanking them both , and snapped my laptop closed .
The @ @ @ @ @ @ @ know there is no way to guarantee safety for my baby , who , at thirty-seven weeks , rides in my uterus through the hospital daily , while I work as a pediatric hospitalist and the pandemic blossoms here in Texas .
Nobody can say to me—or to any parent , at this point—what exactly will protect the little bodies that pertain to us .
This has always been true , and more pointedly so for some parents than others .
To have ever believed one could keep a child safe in this @ @ @ @ @ @ @ generally reserved for affluent white parents such as myself .
Yet I have never been asked so often or so fruitlessly what specific formula might confer protection on the children : if they have playdates but only with one neighbor , if they go to the park and wash hands afterward , if they start school but in the school everyone wears masks .
I tell parents about the data that supports their hope to safely liberate children from home .
Though it was initially reasonable to suspect that SARS-CoV-2 would behave like @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the little viral culture media which God created them to be , evidence is accumulating that , so far , children are not the primary drivers of this particular pandemic .
They absolutely do get sick from it , and many , around one in two hundred in some studies , get so sick that they require I.C.U.-level care .
But the most frightening manifestation of SARS-CoV-2 infection in children—multisystem inflammatory syndrome in children , or MIS-C , which often lands them in I.C.U.s but rarely seems to kill them—remains rare .
I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ however .
So far , the diagnostic criteria for MIS-C require proof of current or recent infection with ( or documented exposure to ) the novel coronavirus .
Most cases seem to be occurring two to four weeks after infection .
But the inflammatory sequelae of other viruses , such as measles , herpes , and chicken pox , may occur years after infection .
As many as one in twenty children infected with measles will develop pneumonia , and around one in a thousand develop encephalitis : swelling and inflammation of the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ two in a hundred thousand ) will develop subacute sclerosing panencephalitis ( S.S.P.E . )
generally seven to ten years after measles infection .
This slow , inflammatory scarring of the brain is fatal .
Just as we do not yet know what , if any , long-term complications may lay in wait for children infected with SARS-CoV-2 in utero , we do not yet know if this virus will carry any super-delayed sequelae of childhood infection .
Sometimes I think that the habit of mind that most clearly separates experienced physicians from @ @ @ @ @ @ @ prudence .
We physicians have seen enough irremediable suffering to know the limitations of our art .
We are acquainted with fortuna , the capricious force of destiny that deals suffering and healing without regard for our efforts .
We promise to work through the night for our patients , to explain every step , to be at their sides no matter what .
We do not , however , promise safety .
Even when I am caring for a baby with a very routine respiratory infection , I do not promise parents @ @ @ @ @ @ @ say , “ We ’ ll help your baby by giving her the extra oxygen , and we will watch her very closely .
If we see that she ’ s getting sicker even with the oxygen , then we ’ ll talk to the I.C.U .
doctors about the next steps to keep her safe.
” I know a lot of science , but I also engage with fortuna and a level of magical thinking that would be more appropriate in a four-year-old ; I can ’ t escape the fear that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I promise an easy recovery .
In the case of the novel coronavirus , prudence tells me that I should be at least as worried about actual measles and S.S.P.E .
as I am about theoretical risks of long-term sequelae of SARS-CoV-2 .
Worldwide , childhood-vaccination rates are declining and measles outbreaks are blossoming amid the coronavirus pandemic .
I should also worry about children losing their parents or grandparents , missing meals , and falling behind in school .
I should worry about kids whose learning disabilities will go undiagnosed without school @ @ @ @ @ @ @ unsafe homes , and children traumatized from witnessing domestic violence .
When my friends ask me how to keep their kids safe , though , they mean safe from infection .
I refer them to the guidelines of the C.D.C .
I get the sense , though , that parents don ’ t want my prudence ; they want my blessing .
They want to move out into the world under the glimmering umbrella of a pediatrician who has said , “ Amen , the child is safe.
” Early in the pandemic @ @ @ @ @ @ @ my hospital fell .
Kids were staying home and avoiding the usual respiratory viruses that drive hospitalization ; when kids did get sick , parents were likely avoiding the hospital for as long as possible .
With fewer sick kids , the service was dominated by trauma .
We saw plenty of injuries related to neglect : kids burned from having poured gasoline on fires while unsupervised , or shot from playing with unlocked guns .
Then there were the abuse cases : children with brain bleeds from abusive head trauma , or @ @ @ @ @ @ @ abdomen .
Although my hospital has not published data on these cases , pediatricians across the country are worried that abuse is on the rise .
Educators are often the people who detect early signs of child abuse and neglect ; with schools closed and fewer cases of suspected maltreatment being reported , some doctors are seeing more severe trauma among children .
When a child comes in with an injury that could be from abuse , we pediatricians go looking for other injuries .
We may do X-rays to look for evidence @ @ @ @ @ @ @ scan of the head to look for bleeds .
We may draw blood to look for evidence that the liver has been injured by blunt trauma .
We look for characteristic bruises and patterned scars .
Sometimes these investigations reveal a long history of physical abuse .
These are the children who keep pediatricians up at night : kids whom we probably saw in the office or in the hospital for a so-called sentinel injury—an early , less serious injury that was caused by abuse but went unrecognized .
In one study of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ just over twenty-seven per cent had a previous sentinel injury , and nearly forty-two per cent of those were reportedly evaluated by a physician .

A good friend recently invited me to meet his spiritual guide via Zoom. The spiritual guide does energy work, which he claims requires no physical proximity and works based on principles of Christianity and quantum mechanics. After some introduction of his methods, the spiritual guide turned his attention to me, rotating a small wooden bar in the air and snapping his fingers against his hand in order to confer on me protection from the novel coronavirus. I could see his living room behind him, and his wife joined from a separate device elsewhere in the apartment.
The procedure was brief, and shortly he pronounced me protected. “Is the baby protected, too, Lord?” he asked. There was a scant pause and then “Amen,” he said, “the baby, too.”
Humiliatingly, I started crying. I could not explain it in that moment, so I allowed my friend to believe that I cried because of the power of being conferred such protection. I exited the Zoom, thanking them both, and snapped my laptop closed.
The fact is I was crying because I know there is no way to guarantee safety for my baby, who, at thirty-seven weeks, rides in my uterus through the hospital daily, while I work as a pediatric hospitalist and the pandemic blossoms here in Texas. Nobody can say to me—or to any parent, at this point—what exactly will protect the little bodies that pertain to us.
This has always been true, and more pointedly so for some parents than others. To have ever believed one could keep a child safe in this world is a marker of privilege, generally reserved for affluent white parents such as myself. Yet I have never been asked so often or so fruitlessly what specific formula might confer protection on the children: if they have playdates but only with one neighbor, if they go to the park and wash hands afterward, if they start school but in the school everyone wears masks.
I tell parents about the data that supports their hope to safely liberate children from home. Though it was initially reasonable to suspect that SARS-CoV-2 would behave like other respiratory viruses and use children as the little viral culture media which God created them to be, evidence is accumulating that, so far, children are not the primary drivers of this particular pandemic. They absolutely do get sick from it, and many, around one in two hundred in some studies, get so sick that they require I.C.U.-level care. But the most frightening manifestation of SARS-CoV-2 infection in children—multisystem inflammatory syndrome in children, or MIS-C, which often lands them in I.C.U.s but rarely seems to kill them—remains rare.
I have my own fears about infection, however. So far, the diagnostic criteria for MIS-C require proof of current or recent infection with (or documented exposure to) the novel coronavirus. Most cases seem to be occurring two to four weeks after infection. But the inflammatory sequelae of other viruses, such as measles, herpes, and chicken pox, may occur years after infection. As many as one in twenty children infected with measles will develop pneumonia, and around one in a thousand develop encephalitis: swelling and inflammation of the brain. A much smaller percentage (two in a hundred thousand) will develop subacute sclerosing panencephalitis (S.S.P.E.) generally seven to ten years after measles infection. This slow, inflammatory scarring of the brain is fatal. Just as we do not yet know what, if any, long-term complications may lie in wait for children infected with SARS-CoV-2 in utero, we do not yet know if this virus will carry any super-delayed sequelae of childhood infection.
Sometimes I think that the habit of mind that most clearly separates experienced physicians from faith healers is not scientific rigor but prudence. We physicians have seen enough irremediable suffering to know the limitations of our art. We are acquainted with fortuna, the capricious force of destiny that deals suffering and healing without regard for our efforts. We promise to work through the night for our patients, to explain every step, to be at their sides no matter what. We do not, however, promise safety. Even when I am caring for a baby with a very routine respiratory infection, I do not promise parents that their child will recover. I say, “We’ll help your baby by giving her the extra oxygen, and we will watch her very closely. If we see that she’s getting sicker even with the oxygen, then we’ll talk to the I.C.U. doctors about the next steps to keep her safe.” I know a lot of science, but I also engage with fortuna and a level of magical thinking that would be more appropriate in a four-year-old; I can’t escape the fear that some horror will befall any baby whom I promise an easy recovery.
In the case of the novel coronavirus, prudence tells me that I should be at least as worried about actual measles and S.S.P.E. as I am about theoretical risks of long-term sequelae of SARS-CoV-2. Worldwide, childhood-vaccination rates are declining and measles outbreaks are blossoming amid the coronavirus pandemic. I should also worry about children losing their parents or grandparents, missing meals, and falling behind in school. I should worry about kids whose learning disabilities will go undiagnosed without school screenings, L.G.B.T.Q. teens trapped in unsafe homes, and children traumatized from witnessing domestic violence. When my friends ask me how to keep their kids safe, though, they mean safe from infection. I refer them to the guidelines of the C.D.C.
I get the sense, though, that parents don’t want my prudence; they want my blessing. They want to move out into the world under the glimmering umbrella of a pediatrician who has said, “Amen, the child is safe.”
Early in the pandemic, the number of children admitted to my hospital fell. Kids were staying home and avoiding the usual respiratory viruses that drive hospitalization; when kids did get sick, parents were likely avoiding the hospital for as long as possible.
With fewer sick kids, the service was dominated by trauma. We saw plenty of injuries related to neglect: kids burned from having poured gasoline on fires while unsupervised, or shot from playing with unlocked guns. Then there were the abuse cases: children with brain bleeds from abusive head trauma, or liver lacerations from being pummelled in the abdomen. Although my hospital has not published data on these cases, pediatricians across the country are worried that abuse is on the rise. Educators are often the people who detect early signs of child abuse and neglect; with schools closed and fewer cases of suspected maltreatment being reported, some doctors are seeing more severe trauma among children.
When a child comes in with an injury that could be from abuse, we pediatricians go looking for other injuries. We may do X-rays to look for evidence of old broken bones, or a scan of the head to look for bleeds. We may draw blood to look for evidence that the liver has been injured by blunt trauma. We look for characteristic bruises and patterned scars. Sometimes these investigations reveal a long history of physical abuse. These are the children who keep pediatricians up at night: kids whom we probably saw in the office or in the hospital for a so-called sentinel injury—an early, less serious injury that was caused by abuse but went unrecognized. In one study of infants hospitalized for serious physical abuse, just over twenty-seven per cent had a previous sentinel injury, and nearly forty-two per cent of those were reportedly evaluated by a physician.
Most kids hospitalized for abusive trauma, however, had no known sentinel injury. Researchers sometimes describe pediatric physical abuse—especially abusive head trauma—as an impulsive event: a parent or caregiver, frustrated by an infant’s persistent crying, picks up a baby and slams the child’s head against a hard surface. The pandemic could worsen both systematic and impulsive child abuse. Kids who were never safe at home are trapped there now, while many parents who cared for children responsibly before are facing new levels of stress—stemming from illness, job losses, looming evictions, lack of child-care support, cramped living conditions, and more—that could trigger impulsive abuse.


newyorker--2020-07-22--In Major Setback for Trump, Court Rules He May Send Troops Only to Cities He Can Identify on Map

WASHINGTON ( The Borowitz Report ) —In what is widely seen as a major setback for Donald J. Trump , a federal district court has ruled that he may send Department of Homeland Security agents only to cities that he can correctly identify on a map .
According to the ruling , before Trump can deploy forces to any American city , he must first indicate their intended destination on an unmarked map and can not let anyone else take this test for him .
White House sources said that , after the ruling was announced , a furious Trump @ @ @ @ @ @ @ map of the United States and a Sharpie .
After hovering his marker over the map for more than an hour , Trump finally brought it down on what he thought was Detroit but was , in actuality , East Hampton , New York .
In East Hampton , a town board member , Carol Foyler , expressed concern about Trump ’ s decision to send D.H.S .
agents to the beach community .
“ At this time of year , I think it will be next to impossible for them to find @ @ @ @ @ @ @

WASHINGTON (The Borowitz Report)—In what is widely seen as a major setback for Donald J. Trump, a federal district court has ruled that he may send Department of Homeland Security agents only to cities that he can correctly identify on a map.
According to the ruling, before Trump can deploy forces to any American city, he must first indicate their intended destination on an unmarked map and cannot let anyone else take this test for him.
White House sources said that, after the ruling was announced, a furious Trump repaired to the Oval Office with a map of the United States and a Sharpie.
After hovering his marker over the map for more than an hour, Trump finally brought it down on what he thought was Detroit but was, in actuality, East Hampton, New York.
In East Hampton, a town board member, Carol Foyler, expressed concern about Trump’s decision to send D.H.S. agents to the beach community.
“At this time of year, I think it will be next to impossible for them to find a rental,” she said.
Read More Satire from the Borowitz Report


newyorker--2020-07-22--Breonna Taylor Can’t Tell Her Story of Police Abuse, but I’m Here to Tell Mine

The truth is , I didn ’ t commit a crime , but I still feel as if I did .
It was around 8 A.M. on April 25 , 2018 , and I was asleep—which was unusual for me , because I ’ m a very early riser .
When the sun rises , I rise .
Like Breonna Taylor on the date of her death , I had been up late—having suffered through a long day of teaching and then writing until after midnight , I decided to sleep late .
Since then , I have wondered whether @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
An act that my great-grandmother would call lazy is why my bedroom door was locked when an officer banged on it , yelling , “ This is the Dallas police .
Open the door , or I ’ ll kick it down.
” A friend had told me that Taylor was killed in her Louisville , Kentucky , apartment while she was dreaming .
I can only wish that had been true , and that she hadn ’ t been conscious enough to hear the shots that rang out as the bullets @ @ @ @ @ @ @ t here to tell her story , but I ’ m here to tell mine .
I want to—need to—share it on behalf of all of the women whom the police have brutalized .
There are no cell-phone videos of my encounter with them .
No celebrity lawyer represents me .
My story is all on me .
And it isn ’ t easy to tell .
Two things you should know : my doorbell was broken , and there was a ladder leaning against my townhome , from the ground to the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ roof replaced .
( I hate that roof . )
The morning when I heard the loud knocks on my bedroom door , I sat up in bed and tried to remember where I was , because , if I was home , something had gone seriously wrong .
“ How do I know you ’ re the police ?
” I asked , as I reached across the bed for my pajamas , a robe—anything I could use to cover myself .
“ This is the Dallas police .
I will knock @ @ @ @ @ @ @ menacing reply .
I thought about all of the things I had prepared in case there was a burglary or fire .
There was the ladder—which promised to hold up to five hundred pounds—that I ’ d tested , and I could hang from the bedroom balcony and then climb down it .
Had I forgotten to check the date on the fire extinguisher ?
Would it work after the expiration date ?
Should I dial 911 while climbing down the ladder ?
“ This is the Dallas police , ” a man @ @ @ @ @ @ @ banging on my bedroom door and threatening me .
Now what ?
I opened the door and looked up at what seemed like a ten-foot-tall man , who was as wide as my bedroom door .
I had forgotten to put on a bra .
I looked back to see whether I had left one lying on the bed , the floor , anywhere that was within arm ’ s reach .
My shirt was thin , almost see-through .
“ Is anybody in there with you ?
” the officer asked .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ again , maybe I didn ’ t .
“ Just me , ” I replied .
I can ’ t remember exactly how many seconds passed before I saw the other police officer , crouched on the stairway , with an assault rifle pointed directly at my chest .
The weirdest things went through my mind .
I thought , Granny warned me to always wear clean panties in case of an emergency—but now I was about to die without a bra .
The coroner was going to pronounce me dead , braless @ @ @ @ @ @ @ you ?
” the first officer asked again .
“ Is there any place in here someone could hide ?
” he asked me .
“ Is there any place in here someone could hide ?
” Now he was not asking ; he was demanding .
So this is how we ’ re going to do it , I thought .
I nodded my head .
“ Yes , this is a four-story home.
” Were we going to play hide-and-seek ?
I can ’ t remember whether the officer with the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ while the other one roamed through the corners and crannies of my home , but I do remember standing frozen in place .
I heard the tall officer ’ s footsteps as he stomped down the stairs .
I heard doors open and close .
I couldn ’ t have moved if I ’ d wanted to .
I believe that the roving one searched the rooms twice because he came up the stairs , looked at me , and headed back down .
Did I look guilty ?
What crime did I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ did something yesterday , last year , or five , ten , twenty years ago .
What was the statute of limitations ?
I don ’ t remember whether the officers left by way of the roof or through the front door , three stories down .
I do know that I stood alone , in my bedroom doorway , for what seemed like a week before I moved .
I walked to the window and saw several police cars in the driveway , a white van that appeared to be a C.S.I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with guns .
An officer in a tan cap and a shirt that read H.S.I.—Homeland Security Investigations—stood next to a black vehicle .
Other officers were covered in black , from head to toe , wearing ski masks .
I could tell that one of the masked men was Black because I glimpsed his hand and , bizarrely , wondered whether he was good-looking .
Suddenly , the men who were repairing my roof and women from a service who clean my house walked up to my front door .
I moved , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I had flown down the stairs to let them inside .
“ What ’ s going on ?
” one of them asked .
The women started cleaning while I told them , breathlessly , what had happened .
Then one of the roofers asked me to follow him up to the rooftop patio .
“ Ma ’ am , they knocked in your door , ” he said .
The police had knocked down the door leading from the patio into my home .
So the ten-foot-tall officer wasn ’ t kidding @ @ @ @ @ @ @ down my bedroom door .
My head throbbed .
The reality was more than my legs could handle .
I sat on the floor until I realized that I was scaring the roofers .
They wanted to know what to do about the door .
I didn ’ t know what to say .
One of them said that they would get a new one at Home Depot .
I nodded and walked down the stairs behind them .
I smelled Pine-Sol .
I remember thinking that it was too late to tell @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , environmentally friendly products .
I walked outside behind the men , who seemed happy to be leaving .
Police officers were walking back and forth , going inside the townhouse next to mine and bringing items back to the van .
I walked up to one of the officers and asked what had happened .
“ Did you know your neighbor ?
” he asked .
Was this part of his training ?
“ No , ” I answered .
He looked at me , as if to say , “ You @ @ @ @ @ @ @ don ’ t know him ?
” “ Maybe I ’ ve seen him a couple of times , ” I told him .
I hadn ’ t .
I ’ d heard his loud music , but if I had seen him , I didn ’ t know he lived next door .

The truth is, I didn’t commit a crime, but I still feel as if I did. It was around 8 A.M. on April 25, 2018, and I was asleep—which was unusual for me, because I’m a very early riser. When the sun rises, I rise. Like Breonna Taylor on the date of her death, I had been up late—having suffered through a long day of teaching and then writing until after midnight, I decided to sleep late. Since then, I have wondered whether that decision is what saved my life. An act that my great-grandmother would call lazy is why my bedroom door was locked when an officer banged on it, yelling, “This is the Dallas police. Open the door, or I’ll kick it down.”
A friend had told me that Taylor was killed in her Louisville, Kentucky, apartment while she was dreaming. I can only wish that had been true, and that she hadn’t been conscious enough to hear the shots that rang out as the bullets hit her body. She isn’t here to tell her story, but I’m here to tell mine. I want to—need to—share it on behalf of all of the women whom the police have brutalized. There are no cell-phone videos of my encounter with them. No celebrity lawyer represents me. My story is all on me. And it isn’t easy to tell.
Two things you should know: my doorbell was broken, and there was a ladder leaning against my townhome, from the ground to the roof, because I was having the roof replaced. (I hate that roof.) The morning when I heard the loud knocks on my bedroom door, I sat up in bed and tried to remember where I was, because, if I was home, something had gone seriously wrong.
“How do I know you’re the police?” I asked, as I reached across the bed for my pajamas, a robe—anything I could use to cover myself.
“This is the Dallas police. I will knock this door down,” came the menacing reply.
I thought about all of the things I had prepared in case there was a burglary or fire. There was the ladder—which promised to hold up to five hundred pounds—that I’d tested, and I could hang from the bedroom balcony and then climb down it. Had I forgotten to check the date on the fire extinguisher? Would it work after the expiration date? Should I dial 911 while climbing down the ladder?
“This is the Dallas police,” a man shouted again.
Here was 911, banging on my bedroom door and threatening me. Now what? I opened the door and looked up at what seemed like a ten-foot-tall man, who was as wide as my bedroom door. I had forgotten to put on a bra. I looked back to see whether I had left one lying on the bed, the floor, anywhere that was within arm’s reach. My shirt was thin, almost see-through.
“Is anybody in there with you?” the officer asked.
I wish, I thought. Then again, maybe I didn’t. “Just me,” I replied.
I can’t remember exactly how many seconds passed before I saw the other police officer, crouched on the stairway, with an assault rifle pointed directly at my chest. The weirdest things went through my mind. I thought, Granny warned me to always wear clean panties in case of an emergency—but now I was about to die without a bra. The coroner was going to pronounce me dead, braless.
“Is anybody in here with you?” the first officer asked again.
“No, just me,” I repeated.
Our dialogue quickly grew very strange.
“Is there any place in here someone could hide?” he asked me.
“Who?” I asked.
“Is there any place in here someone could hide?” Now he was not asking; he was demanding.
So this is how we’re going to do it, I thought. I nodded my head. “Yes, this is a four-story home.” Were we going to play hide-and-seek?
“Wait here,” he said.
I can’t remember whether the officer with the gun stayed and pointed it at me while the other one roamed through the corners and crannies of my home, but I do remember standing frozen in place. I heard the tall officer’s footsteps as he stomped down the stairs. I heard doors open and close. I couldn’t have moved if I’d wanted to. I believe that the roving one searched the rooms twice because he came up the stairs, looked at me, and headed back down. Did I look guilty? What crime did I commit before I awoke? Maybe I did something yesterday, last year, or five, ten, twenty years ago. What was the statute of limitations?
I don’t remember whether the officers left by way of the roof or through the front door, three stories down. I do know that I stood alone, in my bedroom doorway, for what seemed like a week before I moved. I walked to the window and saw several police cars in the driveway, a white van that appeared to be a C.S.I. truck, and some police officers with guns. An officer in a tan cap and a shirt that read H.S.I.—Homeland Security Investigations—stood next to a black vehicle. Other officers were covered in black, from head to toe, wearing ski masks. I could tell that one of the masked men was Black because I glimpsed his hand and, bizarrely, wondered whether he was good-looking.
Suddenly, the men who were repairing my roof and women from a service who clean my house walked up to my front door. I moved, and the next thing I knew, I had flown down the stairs to let them inside.
“What’s going on?” one of them asked.
“I don’t know. I’ll find out,” I assured them.
The women started cleaning while I told them, breathlessly, what had happened. Then one of the roofers asked me to follow him up to the rooftop patio.
“Ma’am, they knocked in your door,” he said.
The police had knocked down the door leading from the patio into my home. So the ten-foot-tall officer wasn’t kidding when he’d threatened to knock down my bedroom door. My head throbbed. The reality was more than my legs could handle. I sat on the floor until I realized that I was scaring the roofers. They wanted to know what to do about the door. I didn’t know what to say. One of them said that they would get a new one at Home Depot. I nodded and walked down the stairs behind them. I smelled Pine-Sol. I remember thinking that it was too late to tell the cleaners that I had bought unscented, environmentally friendly products.
Photograph by Sanderia Faye
I walked outside behind the men, who seemed happy to be leaving. Police officers were walking back and forth, going inside the townhouse next to mine and bringing items back to the van. I walked up to one of the officers and asked what had happened.
“Did you know your neighbor?” he asked.
Was this part of his training? “No,” I answered. He looked at me, as if to say, “You mean your homes are attached and you don’t know him?”
“Maybe I’ve seen him a couple of times,” I told him. I hadn’t. I’d heard his loud music, but if I had seen him, I didn’t know he lived next door.
“What did he do?” I asked. The cop told me that my neighbor and his girlfriend were selling drugs on the dark Web. My voice raised, I asked him why it took so many officers to arrest him. He told me that they were accompanying undercover police from New York, who investigate crimes on the dark Web. I only knew about the TV show “New York Undercover.” (I had a crush on one of the stars, Malik Yoba.) What was the dark Web?


newyorker--2020-07-22--TV’s Most Iconic Couples on Day Four Hundred and Thirteen of Quarantine

They ’ re on a break .
They were happy on day four hundred and twelve , but Ross made an insensitive comment about the triviality of Rachel ’ s fashion job , which caused Rachel to smash one of Ross ’ s dinosaur fossils , so they split .
They swear they won ’ t get back together , despite their three children and the fact that they haven ’ t spoken to anyone else in years .
Ross is overextended on child-support payments as it is—he can ’ t afford another divorce .
They have broken up and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Homer doesn ’ t want to help out around the house , so he ’ s on day fifty-nine of pretending to have COVID-19 , which we ’ re not sure animated characters can even get .
Self-isolating , Homer watches TV , drinks beer , and burps .
Marge desperately wishes she could afford a cleaning person—her one refuge is the grocery store , where she ’ s gone each of the past four hundred and thirteen days , whether or not she needs groceries .
Josh is in charge of the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ not taken a single minute off in four hundred and thirteen days of quarantine , or before that .
Donna tells him on a perpetual loop to relax and take this chance to rest , which has always been her role in the relationship .
Still , he chugs Red Bulls and spends an exorbitant amount of time starting fights in the Twitter comments of the hosts of “ Pod Save America.
” Donna sometimes finds herself wondering if Toby is still single—he got out of prison and sold a book for eight @ @ @ @ @ @ @ quarantined somewhere with a pool .
J.D .
and Turk were not allowed to quarantine together—their wives wouldn ’ t permit it .
And they work at different hospitals now , since Sacred Heart could sustain only so much incompetence .
By day four hundred and thirteen , J.D .
has set up an entire home studio so that he can Zoom Turk from three different angles , but he wishes for more—specifically , to see the top of Turk ’ s head .
J.D .
has started on Wellbutrin to deal with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Thank god he can write his own prescriptions—just imagine how hard quarantine is for people without meds , he and Turk say to themselves , laughing , twenty-six times a day .
The many acres of Dwight ’ s beet farm provide ample space for social distancing , though Angela becomes upset when Dwight tries to create a vaccine using horse manure , which he assures her is an old Schrute recipe that was used to treat the bubonic plague .
Still , she could have it much , much worse .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ of food , even if it is just beets .
Carrie and Big ( “ Sex and the City ” ) On day four hundred and thirteen , Big returns , after having vanished for the weekend .
He first offers a fake explanation , then admits that he was cheating on Carrie .
She cries , but quickly forgives him for no apparent reason , because that ’ s just what she does .
She wants to know if he was exposed to anyone with the virus , but asking seems too @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and Carrie have sex for the first time in three hundred and sixty-two days , and Big suggests a mini-vacation to his home in the Hamptons .
Carrie writes off all their problems .
Imagine quarantining without a country house—yikes .
Arizona can not understand why Callie isn ’ t crying more .
“ We ’ re surgeons , ” Callie explains .
“ We ’ re the toughest , most intense , hottest , and most important people who ’ ve ever lived .
How did you miss the thesis of this @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and thirteen , Arizona has had enough—she buys a three-bedroom apartment just for her and her feelings , because she ’ s a surgeon and she can afford it .
She throws in a diamond ring because she ’ s sad .
After Season 3 of “ Fresh Prince , ” Aunt Viv was famously replaced , with no explanation .
On day four hundred and thirteen of the quarantine , with tensions running high , Aunt Vivs are shuffling in and out at a dizzying speed .
We ’ re on our @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the house seems to notice—their mansion is large enough to contain an ark ’ s worth of Vivs .
Thank god for that .
Replacing an Aunt Viv while quarantining in a one-bedroom—how could anyone deal ?
Chuck and Blair absolutely thrive every single day of quarantine .
They bought the island of Nantucket and haven ’ t seen each other or their kids once .
They don ’ t really understand why other people are struggling so much under quarantine—there are plenty of islands .
Advice from TV couples : if you @ @ @ @ @ @ @ writers to make you rich .

Ross and Rachel (“Friends”)
They’re on a break. They were happy on day four hundred and twelve, but Ross made an insensitive comment about the triviality of Rachel’s fashion job, which caused Rachel to smash one of Ross’s dinosaur fossils, so they split. They swear they won’t get back together, despite their three children and the fact that they haven’t spoken to anyone else in years. Ross is overextended on child-support payments as it is—he can’t afford another divorce. They have broken up and reunited thirty-six times since quarantine began.
Homer and Marge (“The Simpsons”)
Homer doesn’t want to help out around the house, so he’s on day fifty-nine of pretending to have COVID-19, which we’re not sure animated characters can even get. Self-isolating, Homer watches TV, drinks beer, and burps. Marge desperately wishes she could afford a cleaning person—her one refuge is the grocery store, where she’s gone each of the past four hundred and thirteen days, whether or not she needs groceries.
Josh and Donna (“The West Wing”)
Josh is in charge of the D.N.C.’s midterm efforts and has not taken a single minute off in four hundred and thirteen days of quarantine, or before that. Donna tells him on a perpetual loop to relax and take this chance to rest, which has always been her role in the relationship. Still, he chugs Red Bulls and spends an exorbitant amount of time starting fights in the Twitter comments of the hosts of “Pod Save America.” Donna sometimes finds herself wondering if Toby is still single—he got out of prison and sold a book for eight figures, so he’s probably quarantined somewhere with a pool.
J.D. and Turk (“Scrubs”)
J.D. and Turk were not allowed to quarantine together—their wives wouldn’t permit it. And they work at different hospitals now, since Sacred Heart could sustain only so much incompetence. By day four hundred and thirteen, J.D. has set up an entire home studio so that he can Zoom Turk from three different angles, but he wishes for more—specifically, to see the top of Turk’s head. J.D. has started on Wellbutrin to deal with how much he misses his best friend. Thank god he can write his own prescriptions—just imagine how hard quarantine is for people without meds, he and Turk say to themselves, laughing, twenty-six times a day.
Dwight and Angela (“The Office”)
The many acres of Dwight’s beet farm provide ample space for social distancing, though Angela becomes upset when Dwight tries to create a vaccine using horse manure, which he assures her is an old Schrute recipe that was used to treat the bubonic plague. Still, she could have it much, much worse. At least they have their own supply of food, even if it is just beets.
Carrie and Big (“Sex and the City”)
On day four hundred and thirteen, Big returns, after having vanished for the weekend. He first offers a fake explanation, then admits that he was cheating on Carrie. She cries, but quickly forgives him for no apparent reason, because that’s just what she does. She wants to know if he was exposed to anyone with the virus, but asking seems too needy. Later that night, Big and Carrie have sex for the first time in three hundred and sixty-two days, and Big suggests a mini-vacation to his home in the Hamptons. Carrie writes off all their problems. Imagine quarantining without a country house—yikes.
Callie and Arizona (“Grey’s Anatomy”)
Arizona cannot understand why Callie isn’t crying more. “We’re surgeons,” Callie explains. “We’re the toughest, most intense, hottest, and most important people who’ve ever lived. How did you miss the thesis of this show?” By day four hundred and thirteen, Arizona has had enough—she buys a three-bedroom apartment just for her and her feelings, because she’s a surgeon and she can afford it. She throws in a diamond ring because she’s sad.
Uncle Phil and Aunt Viv (“The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air”)
After Season 3 of “Fresh Prince,” Aunt Viv was famously replaced, with no explanation. On day four hundred and thirteen of the quarantine, with tensions running high, Aunt Vivs are shuffling in and out at a dizzying speed. We’re on our seventy-ninth Aunt Viv. No one in the house seems to notice—their mansion is large enough to contain an ark’s worth of Vivs. Thank god for that. Replacing an Aunt Viv while quarantining in a one-bedroom—how could anyone deal?
Chuck and Blair (“Gossip Girl”)
Chuck and Blair absolutely thrive every single day of quarantine. They bought the island of Nantucket and haven’t seen each other or their kids once. They don’t really understand why other people are struggling so much under quarantine—there are plenty of islands.
Advice from TV couples: if you want to survive quarantine, ask your writers to make you rich.


newyorker--2020-07-21--What Could Happen If Donald Trump Rejects Electoral Defeat?

On Sunday , in an interview with Chris Wallace of Fox News , Donald Trump refused to commit to recognizing the outcome of the 2020 election .
“ I ’ m not going to just say yes , ” the President said .
“ And I didn ’ t last time , either.
” ( Back in October , 2016 , Trump was proclaiming that the election he went on to win was “ rigged ” against him . )
He wasn ’ t telling us anything new , and yet we still have not learned to think of ourselves @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lose an election and refuse to leave office .
Lawrence Douglas , a legal scholar and a professor at Amherst College , gave himself the task of methodically thinking through the unthinkable .
The result is a slim book , “ Will He Go ?
Trump and the Looming Election Meltdown in 2020.
” Douglas begins by taking the President at his word .
“ While his defeat is far from certain , ” he writes , “ what is not uncertain is how Donald Trump would react to electoral defeat , especially @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the result.
” Douglas argues that Trump ’ s evident intent to hold on to his office , regardless of the will of the voters , is not the best measure of the damage he has wrought or the power he has accumulated .
He writes , “ A more powerful authoritarian would never let himself get into this situation in the first place ; he would have already so corrupted the process that his chance of losing would have been effectively eliminated.
” By the standards of entrenched autocracies , Trump ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as his grip on reality .
Still , the system of government that he has hijacked is not designed to protect itself against his kind of attack .
“ Our Constitution does not secure the peaceful transition of power , but rather presupposes it , ” Douglas writes .
Worse , the peculiar institution of the Electoral College , which separates the outcome of the election from the popular vote , practically invites abuse .
When electoral crises have arisen , past political leaders have stepped up , or stepped aside , to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Al Gore , to take a painful example , did not have to accept the Supreme Court ’ s order stopping a recount in Florida , in December , 2000 , as the last word on that year ’ s election ; Douglas details constitutional avenues Gore could have pursued to claim victory .
Though he had won the popular vote , Gore saw it as his duty to avoid escalating the electoral crisis .
The Presidential elections of 1800 and 1876 ended in compromises , too , in the spirit of the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ faith—all things alien to Donald Trump .
It ’ s not the compromise that functions as precedent here but the conflict : election results have been unclear in the past , and they can be unclear again .
Douglas conjures three detailed scenarios , which he calls Catastrophe No .
1 , Catastrophe No .
2 , and Catastrophe No .
3 .
In the first story , Trump gets five million fewer votes than Joe Biden , but appears to win the Electoral College—that is , until two Republican electors from Pennsylvania @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Mitt Romney .
Douglas , who is also the author of two novels , imagines the ensuing chaos in vivid detail , down to Trump ’ s tweets ( “ BULLSHIT rains [ sic ] in PA !
!
!
TREASONOUS ‘ electors ’ trying to DEFRAUD the American People ” ) and “ Faithful not Faithless ” bumper stickers for supporters of the rogue electors .
In Douglas ’ s second scenario , hackers attack the power grid of Detroit on Election Day .
Much of the city is in the dark @ @ @ @ @ @ @ votes are not counted .
The outcome of the election in Michigan , and the country , hangs in the balance .
The Democrats demand a revote , as does the mayor of the city .
Trump tweets , “ DETROIT doesn ’ t get a revote because very LOW IQ mayor doesn ’ t know how to HOLD AN ELECTION !
” A revote is held and improbably recognized by the Supreme Court , but not by Donald Trump .
In the third scenario , the drama unfolds slowly—too slowly .
On @ @ @ @ @ @ @ race for Trump , but an unprecedented number of Americans have voted by mail , and as their votes are counted , the balance shifts : Americans have chosen Biden .
The process of counting absentee ballots is so cumbersome and labor-intensive , however , that in some states it necessarily misses the filing deadline .
As a result , three states each file two conflicting vote reports , certified by separate agencies : one that privileges the deadline and one that reflects the total number of ballots collected .
The first count @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the second in favor of Biden .
The mortifying beauty of Douglas ’ s scenarios is that each is based on historical precedent .
Electors have broken ranks before .
Russia has used computer hacking to interfere in American elections , and it has brought down digital infrastructure in other countries as a gesture of domination : Ukraine in 2015 , Georgia in 2008 , and Estonia in 2007 .
States have organized revotes , which have taken an extraordinarily long time .
And states have filed conflicting vote reports—in 1876 , three @ @ @ @ @ @ @ imagines in his third scenario .
What happens next ?
We know that Trump will work to exacerbate any crisis , not resolve it ; the Constitution assumes good faith , and laws intended to regulate voting outcomes are disastrously vague .
In each of Douglas ’ s three scenarios , Trump would continue to consider himself President , although Biden may consider himself the victor of the race .
According to the Constitution , if the Presidential race can not be called , the Speaker of the House becomes the acting President @ @ @ @ @ @ @ swearing in Nancy Pelosi while Justice Clarence Thomas administers the oath of office to Trump—or , alternatively , no one being sworn in and Trump and Biden and/or Pelosi claiming the rights and responsibilities of the Presidency .
Because Americans no longer live in a shared reality , different Americans will have different Presidents .
All the while , Trump ’ s tweets incite violent clashes .
“ And let us not forget , ” Douglas writes , “ that guns in this country remain in profuse supply and are largely concentrated in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ most fervent , distrustful , and easily unsettled supporters.
” “ Can the crisis be contained ?
” Douglas asks .
His answer is not reassuring .
Suppose no major catastrophe befalls the election .
( By the time the reader reaches the end of Douglas ’ s book , this supposition will seem naïve . )
Suppose Biden wins .
“ The best we can expect from President Donald Trump after an electoral defeat is self-pitying , peevish submission , ” Douglas writes .
If he goes—which will require an overwhelming electoral @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the victim , blaming the Deep State and undocumented immigrants for his loss , but also likely to linger and delay his departure .
The ragged end of his Presidency , if it comes , will be full of conflict and resentment .
There will be no orderly handover , no constructive transition—a disastrous prospect during a pandemic and a deep recession , and yet another blow to our perceptions of how elections and government operate .
This is the best-case scenario .
The worst case , as Douglas ’ s three catastrophes @ @ @ @ @ @ @ result of the vote , which leads to a constitutional implosion and an explosion of violence .
“ This would represent a greater disaster for America than an outright victory by Trump , ” Douglas writes .
It ’ s a jarring conclusion , and an entirely convincing one .

On Sunday, in an interview with Chris Wallace of Fox News, Donald Trump refused to commit to recognizing the outcome of the 2020 election. “I’m not going to just say yes,” the President said. “And I didn’t last time, either.” (Back in October, 2016, Trump was proclaiming that the election he went on to win was “rigged” against him.) He wasn’t telling us anything new, and yet we still have not learned to think of ourselves as a country where the President can lose an election and refuse to leave office.
Lawrence Douglas, a legal scholar and a professor at Amherst College, gave himself the task of methodically thinking through the unthinkable. The result is a slim book, “Will He Go? Trump and the Looming Election Meltdown in 2020.” Douglas begins by taking the President at his word. “While his defeat is far from certain,” he writes, “what is not uncertain is how Donald Trump would react to electoral defeat, especially a narrow one. He will reject the result.”
Douglas argues that Trump’s evident intent to hold on to his office, regardless of the will of the voters, is not the best measure of the damage he has wrought or the power he has accumulated. He writes, “A more powerful authoritarian would never let himself get into this situation in the first place; he would have already so corrupted the process that his chance of losing would have been effectively eliminated.” By the standards of entrenched autocracies, Trump’s grip on power is as weak as his grip on reality. Still, the system of government that he has hijacked is not designed to protect itself against his kind of attack. “Our Constitution does not secure the peaceful transition of power, but rather presupposes it,” Douglas writes. Worse, the peculiar institution of the Electoral College, which separates the outcome of the election from the popular vote, practically invites abuse.
When electoral crises have arisen, past political leaders have stepped up, or stepped aside, to insure the peaceful transfer of power. Al Gore, to take a painful example, did not have to accept the Supreme Court’s order stopping a recount in Florida, in December, 2000, as the last word on that year’s election; Douglas details constitutional avenues Gore could have pursued to claim victory. Though he had won the popular vote, Gore saw it as his duty to avoid escalating the electoral crisis. The Presidential elections of 1800 and 1876 ended in compromises, too, in the spirit of the Constitution, common cause, and good faith—all things alien to Donald Trump. It’s not the compromise that functions as precedent here but the conflict: election results have been unclear in the past, and they can be unclear again.
Douglas conjures three detailed scenarios, which he calls Catastrophe No. 1, Catastrophe No. 2, and Catastrophe No. 3. In the first story, Trump gets five million fewer votes than Joe Biden, but appears to win the Electoral College—that is, until two Republican electors from Pennsylvania decide to break ranks and vote for Mitt Romney. Douglas, who is also the author of two novels, imagines the ensuing chaos in vivid detail, down to Trump’s tweets (“BULLSHIT rains [sic] in PA!!! TREASONOUS ‘electors’ trying to DEFRAUD the American People”) and “Faithful not Faithless” bumper stickers for supporters of the rogue electors.
In Douglas’s second scenario, hackers attack the power grid of Detroit on Election Day. Much of the city is in the dark for much of the day, and votes are not counted. The outcome of the election in Michigan, and the country, hangs in the balance. The Democrats demand a revote, as does the mayor of the city. Trump tweets, “DETROIT doesn’t get a revote because very LOW IQ mayor doesn’t know how to HOLD AN ELECTION!” A revote is held and improbably recognized by the Supreme Court, but not by Donald Trump.
In the third scenario, the drama unfolds slowly—too slowly. On Election Day, Fox News calls the race for Trump, but an unprecedented number of Americans have voted by mail, and as their votes are counted, the balance shifts: Americans have chosen Biden. The process of counting absentee ballots is so cumbersome and labor-intensive, however, that in some states it necessarily misses the filing deadline. As a result, three states each file two conflicting vote reports, certified by separate agencies: one that privileges the deadline and one that reflects the total number of ballots collected. The first count comes out in favor of Trump, the second in favor of Biden.
The mortifying beauty of Douglas’s scenarios is that each is based on historical precedent. Electors have broken ranks before. Russia has used computer hacking to interfere in American elections, and it has brought down digital infrastructure in other countries as a gesture of domination: Ukraine in 2015, Georgia in 2008, and Estonia in 2007. States have organized revotes, which have taken an extraordinarily long time. And states have filed conflicting vote reports—in 1876, three states did so, just as Douglas imagines in his third scenario.
What happens next? We know that Trump will work to exacerbate any crisis, not resolve it; the Constitution assumes good faith, and laws intended to regulate voting outcomes are disastrously vague. In each of Douglas’s three scenarios, Trump would continue to consider himself President, although Biden may consider himself the victor of the race. According to the Constitution, if the Presidential race cannot be called, the Speaker of the House becomes the acting President. Douglas imagines Chief Justice John Roberts swearing in Nancy Pelosi while Justice Clarence Thomas administers the oath of office to Trump—or, alternatively, no one being sworn in and Trump and Biden and/or Pelosi claiming the rights and responsibilities of the Presidency. Because Americans no longer live in a shared reality, different Americans will have different Presidents. All the while, Trump’s tweets incite violent clashes. “And let us not forget,” Douglas writes, “that guns in this country remain in profuse supply and are largely concentrated in the hands of the president’s most fervent, distrustful, and easily unsettled supporters.”
“Can the crisis be contained?” Douglas asks. His answer is not reassuring. Suppose no major catastrophe befalls the election. (By the time the reader reaches the end of Douglas’s book, this supposition will seem naïve.) Suppose Biden wins. “The best we can expect from President Donald Trump after an electoral defeat is self-pitying, peevish submission,” Douglas writes. If he goes—which will require an overwhelming electoral defeat—Trump is not only sure to play the victim, blaming the Deep State and undocumented immigrants for his loss, but also likely to linger and delay his departure. The ragged end of his Presidency, if it comes, will be full of conflict and resentment. There will be no orderly handover, no constructive transition—a disastrous prospect during a pandemic and a deep recession, and yet another blow to our perceptions of how elections and government operate.
This is the best-case scenario. The worst case, as Douglas’s three catastrophes illustrate, is a close or contested result of the vote, which leads to a constitutional implosion and an explosion of violence. “This would represent a greater disaster for America than an outright victory by Trump,” Douglas writes. It’s a jarring conclusion, and an entirely convincing one.


newyorker--2020-07-21--The Force Is Still Strong with the “Star Wars” Composer John Williams

On January 10 , 1977 , during the final days of the Ford Administration , John Williams began writing music for “ Star Wars , ” a forthcoming sci-fi adventure film created by George Lucas .
More than forty-two years later , on November 21 , 2019 , Williams presided over the final recording session for “ The Rise of Skywalker , ” the ninth and ostensibly last installment of the main “ Star Wars ” saga .
Williams scored every film in the series , and there is no achievement quite like it in movie history , or , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Williams composed more than twenty hours of music for the cycle , working with five different directors .
He developed a library of dozens of distinct motifs , many of them instantly recognizable to a billion or more people .
The “ Star Wars ” scores have entered the repertories of the most venerable orchestras around the world .
When , earlier this year , Williams made his début conducting the Vienna Philharmonic , several musicians asked him for autographs .
Williams is a courtly , soft-voiced , inveterately self-effacing man of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the extraordinary worldwide impact of his “ Star Wars ” music—not to mention his scores for “ Jaws , ” “ Close Encounters of the Third Kind , ” “ E.T.
, ” the “ Indiana Jones ” movies , the “ Harry Potter ” movies , the “ Jurassic Park ” movies , and dozens of other blockbusters—but he makes no extravagant claims for his music , even if he allows that some of it could be considered “ quite good.
” A lifelong workhorse , he resists looking back and immerses @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the coronavirus period , he has been at home , on the west side of Los Angeles , focussing on a new concert work—a concerto , for the violinist Anne-Sophie Mutter , which will have its première next year .
In February , I visited Williams in his bungalow office on the Universal Studios back lot—part of an adobe-style complex belonging to Amblin Entertainment , Steven Spielberg ’ s production company .
Spielberg ’ s office is nearby .
The two men first worked together on “ The Sugarland Express , ” in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ films to date—all but four of Spielberg ’ s features .
At a tribute , in 2012 , Spielberg said , “ John Williams has been the single most significant contributor to my success as a filmmaker.
” It is , however , “ Star Wars ” that anchors the composer ’ s fame .
Williams poured himself a glass of water in the bungalow kitchenette , settled into a chair in front of his desk , and addressed the topic of the “ Star Wars ” cycle .
He is a tall @ @ @ @ @ @ @ face framed by a trim , vaguely clerical white beard .
“ Thinking about it , and trying to speak about it , connects us with the idea of trying to understand time , ” he said .
“ How do you understand forty years ?
I mean , if someone said to you , ‘ Alex , here ’ s a project .
Start on it , spend forty years on it , see where you get ’ ?
Mercifully , I had no idea it was going to be forty years @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I started , and I feel , in retrospect , enormously fortunate to have had the energy to be able to finish it—put a bow on it , as it were.
” In the mid-nineteen-seventies , when Williams formed links to the young blockbuster directors Spielberg and Lucas , he was already well established in Hollywood .
He was , in a sense , born into the business ; his father , Johnny Williams , was a percussionist who played in the Raymond Scott Quintette and later performed on movie soundtracks .
Williams @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , perhaps the greatest American film composer , celebrated for his scores for “ Citizen Kane , ” “ Vertigo , ” “ Psycho , ” and “ Taxi Driver.
” Williams , who sometimes joined his father at rehearsals , told me , “ Benny liked the way my father played the timpani .
‘ Old Man Williams isn ’ t afraid to break the head , ’ he ’ d say .
Benny was a famously irascible character , but in later years he was always very encouraging to me .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ I arranged ‘ Fiddler on the Roof.
’ ‘ Write your own music , ’ he said.
” The Williamses moved from the New York area to Los Angeles in 1947 , when John was fifteen .
A skilled pianist , he won notice for organizing a jazz group with classmates from North Hollywood High ; a brief piece in Time referred to him as Curley Williams .
In 1955 , he went to New York and studied at Juilliard with the great piano pedagogue Rosina Lhévinne .
“ It became clear , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ could write better than I could play.
” He composed his first feature-film score in 1958 , for a race-car comedy called “ Daddy-O.
” Because of his skills as a jazz stylist and as a song arranger , he specialized at first in such comedic fare—other assignments included “ Gidget Goes to Rome ” and “ Not with My Wife , You Don ’ t !
” —but he branched out into Westerns and period dramas .
Recordings of two of his scores , for “ The Reivers ” and “ The @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of the young Spielberg , who was working as a writer and as a television director .
When Spielberg undertook his first major theatrical film , “ The Sugarland Express , ” in 1974 , he informed the studio that he wanted to collaborate with the composer of “ The Reivers.
” Williams told me , “ I met what looked to be this seventeen-year-old kid , this very sweet boy , who knew more about film music than I did—every Max Steiner and Dimitri Tiomkin score .
We had a meeting in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ by executives .
It was very cute—you had the feeling Steven had never been in a restaurant like that before .
It was like having lunch with a teen-age kid , but a brilliant one.
” After “ Sugarland ” came “ Jaws.
” As Spielberg happily acknowledged , Williams ’ s two-note double-bass ostinato played a crucial role in that movie ’ s colossal success , particularly when mechanical-shark malfunctions left it to the composer to evoke the murderous beast at full power .
Williams went on , “ One day , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Do you know George Lucas ?
’ I said , ‘ No , I have no idea who he is.
’ ‘ Well , he ’ s got this thing called “ Star Wars , ” and he wants to have a classical ’ —his term , he didn ’ t say Romantic— ‘ classical score , and I ’ ve convinced George he should meet you , because he admired the score for “ Jaws.
” ’ I came out here one night , to Universal Studios , and met George.
” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ been entertaining the idea of using preëxisting classical works on the “ Star Wars ” soundtrack .
The composer argued for an original score , in which newly created themes could be manipulated and developed to best serve the drama .
Lucas , through a representative , says that he never intended to use extant music in the film .
What ’ s not in doubt is that the director wanted a soundtrack with an old-Hollywood atmosphere , in keeping with the film ’ s reliance on chivalric swashbuckler tropes .
When Williams @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of January , 1977—he gave me the date after consulting an old diary—he fell back on the techniques of golden-age Hollywood : brief , sharply defined motifs ; brilliant , brassy orchestration ; a continuous fabric of underscoring .
The film-music scholar Emilio Audissino has described the “ Star Wars ” score and others by Williams as “ neoclassical , ” meaning that they draw on a sumptuously orchestrated style associated with such Central European émigrés as Steiner and Erich Wolfgang Korngold .
“ Neoclassical ” is a better label than “ neo-Romantic @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in mid-twentieth-century influences : jazz , popular standards , Stravinsky , and Aaron Copland , among others .
When he writes for a Wagnerian or Straussian orchestra , he airs out the textures and gives them rhythmic bounce .
“ The Imperial March , ” from “ The Empire Strikes Back , ” for example , has a bright , brittle edge , with skittering figures in winds and strings surrounding an expected phalanx of brass .

On January 10, 1977, during the final days of the Ford Administration, John Williams began writing music for “Star Wars,” a forthcoming sci-fi adventure film created by George Lucas. More than forty-two years later, on November 21, 2019, Williams presided over the final recording session for “The Rise of Skywalker,” the ninth and ostensibly last installment of the main “Star Wars” saga. Williams scored every film in the series, and there is no achievement quite like it in movie history, or, for that matter, in musical history. Williams composed more than twenty hours of music for the cycle, working with five different directors. He developed a library of dozens of distinct motifs, many of them instantly recognizable to a billion or more people. The “Star Wars” scores have entered the repertories of the most venerable orchestras around the world. When, earlier this year, Williams made his début conducting the Vienna Philharmonic, several musicians asked him for autographs.
Williams is a courtly, soft-voiced, inveterately self-effacing man of eighty-eight. He is well aware of the extraordinary worldwide impact of his “Star Wars” music—not to mention his scores for “Jaws,” “Close Encounters of the Third Kind,” “E.T.,” the “Indiana Jones” movies, the “Harry Potter” movies, the “Jurassic Park” movies, and dozens of other blockbusters—but he makes no extravagant claims for his music, even if he allows that some of it could be considered “quite good.” A lifelong workhorse, he resists looking back and immerses himself in the next task. In the coronavirus period, he has been at home, on the west side of Los Angeles, focussing on a new concert work—a concerto, for the violinist Anne-Sophie Mutter, which will have its première next year.
In February, I visited Williams in his bungalow office on the Universal Studios back lot—part of an adobe-style complex belonging to Amblin Entertainment, Steven Spielberg’s production company. Spielberg’s office is nearby. The two men first worked together on “The Sugarland Express,” in 1974, and have collaborated on twenty-eight films to date—all but four of Spielberg’s features. At a tribute, in 2012, Spielberg said, “John Williams has been the single most significant contributor to my success as a filmmaker.” It is, however, “Star Wars” that anchors the composer’s fame.
Williams poured himself a glass of water in the bungalow kitchenette, settled into a chair in front of his desk, and addressed the topic of the “Star Wars” cycle. He is a tall man, still physically vigorous, his face framed by a trim, vaguely clerical white beard. “Thinking about it, and trying to speak about it, connects us with the idea of trying to understand time,” he said. “How do you understand forty years? I mean, if someone said to you, ‘Alex, here’s a project. Start on it, spend forty years on it, see where you get’? Mercifully, I had no idea it was going to be forty years. I was not a youngster when I started, and I feel, in retrospect, enormously fortunate to have had the energy to be able to finish it—put a bow on it, as it were.”
In the mid-nineteen-seventies, when Williams formed links to the young blockbuster directors Spielberg and Lucas, he was already well established in Hollywood. He was, in a sense, born into the business; his father, Johnny Williams, was a percussionist who played in the Raymond Scott Quintette and later performed on movie soundtracks. Williams père worked several times with Bernard Herrmann, perhaps the greatest American film composer, celebrated for his scores for “Citizen Kane,” “Vertigo,” “Psycho,” and “Taxi Driver.” Williams, who sometimes joined his father at rehearsals, told me, “Benny liked the way my father played the timpani. ‘Old Man Williams isn’t afraid to break the head,’ he’d say. Benny was a famously irascible character, but in later years he was always very encouraging to me. One time he got irritated was when I arranged ‘Fiddler on the Roof.’ ‘Write your own music,’ he said.”
The Williamses moved from the New York area to Los Angeles in 1947, when John was fifteen. A skilled pianist, he won notice for organizing a jazz group with classmates from North Hollywood High; a brief piece in Time referred to him as Curley Williams. In 1955, he went to New York and studied at Juilliard with the great piano pedagogue Rosina Lhévinne. “It became clear,” he says, “that I could write better than I could play.” He composed his first feature-film score in 1958, for a race-car comedy called “Daddy-O.” Because of his skills as a jazz stylist and as a song arranger, he specialized at first in such comedic fare—other assignments included “Gidget Goes to Rome” and “Not with My Wife, You Don’t!”—but he branched out into Westerns and period dramas.
Recordings of two of his scores, for “The Reivers” and “The Cowboys,” fell into the hands of the young Spielberg, who was working as a writer and as a television director. When Spielberg undertook his first major theatrical film, “The Sugarland Express,” in 1974, he informed the studio that he wanted to collaborate with the composer of “The Reivers.” Williams told me, “I met what looked to be this seventeen-year-old kid, this very sweet boy, who knew more about film music than I did—every Max Steiner and Dimitri Tiomkin score. We had a meeting in a fancy Beverly Hills restaurant, arranged by executives. It was very cute—you had the feeling Steven had never been in a restaurant like that before. It was like having lunch with a teen-age kid, but a brilliant one.” After “Sugarland” came “Jaws.” As Spielberg happily acknowledged, Williams’s two-note double-bass ostinato played a crucial role in that movie’s colossal success, particularly when mechanical-shark malfunctions left it to the composer to evoke the murderous beast at full power.
Williams went on, “One day, Steven called me and said, ‘Do you know George Lucas?’ I said, ‘No, I have no idea who he is.’ ‘Well, he’s got this thing called “Star Wars,” and he wants to have a classical’—his term, he didn’t say Romantic—‘classical score, and I’ve convinced George he should meet you, because he admired the score for “Jaws.” ’ I came out here one night, to Universal Studios, and met George.”
As Williams remembers it, Lucas had been entertaining the idea of using preëxisting classical works on the “Star Wars” soundtrack. The composer argued for an original score, in which newly created themes could be manipulated and developed to best serve the drama. Lucas, through a representative, says that he never intended to use extant music in the film. What’s not in doubt is that the director wanted a soundtrack with an old-Hollywood atmosphere, in keeping with the film’s reliance on chivalric swashbuckler tropes.
When Williams set to work in the second week of January, 1977—he gave me the date after consulting an old diary—he fell back on the techniques of golden-age Hollywood: brief, sharply defined motifs; brilliant, brassy orchestration; a continuous fabric of underscoring. The film-music scholar Emilio Audissino has described the “Star Wars” score and others by Williams as “neoclassical,” meaning that they draw on a sumptuously orchestrated style associated with such Central European émigrés as Steiner and Erich Wolfgang Korngold. “Neoclassical” is a better label than “neo-Romantic,” since Williams is so steeped in mid-twentieth-century influences: jazz, popular standards, Stravinsky, and Aaron Copland, among others. When he writes for a Wagnerian or Straussian orchestra, he airs out the textures and gives them rhythmic bounce. “The Imperial March,” from “The Empire Strikes Back,” for example, has a bright, brittle edge, with skittering figures in winds and strings surrounding an expected phalanx of brass.
The nine “Star Wars” scores make use of a vast library of leitmotifs—more than sixty of them, according to the scholar Frank Lehman. I showed Williams a copy of Lehman’s “Complete Catalogue of the Musical Themes of ‘Star Wars,’ ” which left him a bit nonplussed. (“Oh, wow,” he said, paging through it. “How exhausting.”) Talk of leitmotifs leads inevitably to the topic of Richard Wagner, with whom they are inextricably associated. Williams leaned back in his chair and smiled ruefully.
“Well, I saw the ‘Ring’ at the Hamburg Opera, years ago, and found it somewhat inaccessible, mostly because I didn’t know German,” he said. “I don’t really know the Wagner operas at all. If Mr. Hanslick were alive, I think I’d be sitting on the side of Brahms in the debate.” (The Viennese critic Eduard Hanslick campaigned for Brahms and against Wagner in the late nineteenth century.) “People say they hear Wagner in ‘Star Wars,’ and I can only think, It’s not because I put it there. Now, of course, I know that Wagner had a great influence on Korngold and all the early Hollywood composers. Wagner lives with us here—you can’t escape it. I have been in the big river swimming with all of them.”


newyorker--2020-07-23--Reading Between the Captions: Hidden Truths of 2020 Instagram Posts

Happy twelfth anniversary to my soul mate and best friend !
There ’ s no one I ’ d rather shelter in place with than you , babe .
Except maybe Chris Hemsworth .
Or a young Colin Firth .
Or that guy at Home Depot who helped us load the wet vac into the car .
Digging this colorful mural that reads “ LOVE EACH OTHER ” !
Please accept this as an ambiguous declaration of my support for the/a movement that also allows me to avoid challenging comments from my uncle Jeff or Carly from book club .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ for keeping me sane !
I hope this filtered photo of my shadow , cast over a running track , conveys my love of cardio exercise !
And that the object in my shadow hand looks like a water bottle , and not the hot dog I am purposely holding vertically .
Lo , the tangled webs we weave .
.
.
.
Just had to pause and snap a pic of this intricate spider web glinting in the sun .
Also , I am so bored I would like to walk into @ @ @ @ @ @ @ so good !
Woohoo bring on the su-u-u-u-mmer !
And quite possibly a second wave of fatal illness-s-s-s-s-s as I sit in this tight cluster of friends at Dave & Buster ’ s , hoisting aloft my Mang-O-Rita .
Because , whatevs—the governor said I co-o-o-o-ould .
Thanks , @ Pinterest , for this awesome sidewalk-chalk mosaic idea !
My six-year-old loved it !
And is totally only squinting in this photo because he ’ s shy , and not because his eyes can no longer adjust to natural light because of watching @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of a man in a safari hat purposely letting himself be stung by a variety of insects .
# gettingcreative All lives matter .
And by this I hope to signal that I am either quietly racist , loudly racist , or wildly uninformed and feeling vaguely threatened but would rather post a nonsensical phrase than read a news article in its entirety .

Happy twelfth anniversary to my soul mate and best friend! There’s no one I’d rather shelter in place with than you, babe. Except maybe Chris Hemsworth. Or a young Colin Firth. Or that guy at Home Depot who helped us load the wet vac into the car.
Digging this colorful mural that reads “LOVE EACH OTHER”! Please accept this as an ambiguous declaration of my support for the/a movement that also allows me to avoid challenging comments from my uncle Jeff or Carly from book club.
Big thanks to the @Peloton app for keeping me sane! I hope this filtered photo of my shadow, cast over a running track, conveys my love of cardio exercise! And that the object in my shadow hand looks like a water bottle, and not the hot dog I am purposely holding vertically.
Lo, the tangled webs we weave. . . . Just had to pause and snap a pic of this intricate spider web glinting in the sun. Also, I am so bored I would like to walk into oncoming traffic.
Reunited and it feels so good! Woohoo bring on the su-u-u-u-mmer! And quite possibly a second wave of fatal illness-s-s-s-s-s as I sit in this tight cluster of friends at Dave & Buster’s, hoisting aloft my Mang-O-Rita. Because, whatevs—the governor said I co-o-o-o-ould.
Thanks, @Pinterest, for this awesome sidewalk-chalk mosaic idea! My six-year-old loved it! And is totally only squinting in this photo because he’s shy, and not because his eyes can no longer adjust to natural light because of watching fifteen hours of YouTube videos each day of a man in a safari hat purposely letting himself be stung by a variety of insects. #gettingcreative
All lives matter. And by this I hope to signal that I am either quietly racist, loudly racist, or wildly uninformed and feeling vaguely threatened but would rather post a nonsensical phrase than read a news article in its entirety.


Good Boys

This is the third story in this summer ’ s online Flash Fiction series .
You can read the entire series , and our Flash Fiction stories from previous years , here .
We ’ re on the rooftop with the boys .
The boys are calling girls dogs , like , “ She ’ s a dog , a total dog.
” They don ’ t mean bitches .
They just mean dogs .
If they wanted to tell us that a girl was a bitch they would say , “ She ’ s a bitch , a total @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , they mean it .
That ’ s why we like them .
We ’ re not dogs .
That ’ s why they like us .
That ’ s why we ’ re on the rooftop .
The house has three floors .
The ceilings are high .
I know that if one of the boys fell off the rooftop he ’ d die .
I know that none of the boys will fall off—not tonight , at least .
Tonight , they ’ re not roughhousing or drinking tequila or annoying @ @ @ @ @ @ @ tennis rackets on the second floor , and they want to tell us about their trip to Greece .
In Greece , the cigarettes are cheap .
They filled an entire suitcase with little yellow boxes of George Karelias and Sons .
They say we can smoke as many as we want .
They ’ re proud .
The cigarettes are so cheap .
The boys are so proud .
We laugh .
Zoe laughs like Tinkerbell , the air whistling between the gaps in her teeth .
She ’ s definitely not @ @ @ @ @ @ @ re high up .
I know our lives would be ruined if one of the boys fell , but tall plants are growing on the edge of the rooftop and I can ’ t see the cobblestones .
If I could see that little cobblestoned street and the boys ’ little Smart car , it would be easier to imagine them falling .
It would be easier to remember that I ’ m in Paris .
It would be easier to laugh like Zoe , like Tinkerbell , like a real girl , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
I can ’ t see the Panthéon or the observatory or the park .
I can see only the boys and their tanned stomachs and the scrapes they got from falling off the moped .
We could be anywhere .
We could be back in New York or near my house in L.A. or at some Airbnb in Berlin .
I ’ d like to go to Berlin , to dance with the boys at Berghain , to eat knafeh with Zoe , to see the Reichstag or whatever , but the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Athens is the new Berlin .
In Athens , the cigarettes are cheap .
I thought Kraków was the new Berlin .
The boys laugh and shake their heads .
I can smell their wet-puppy-dog hair .
The sun is setting and the sky is so pink .
Pink like the canopy bed I never got , like Kirby , like peonies , like the cheeks of a girl who the boys have just called a dog .
I stand at the edge of the rooftop holding my phone just above the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , trying not to drop it .
The boys tell me that if I want something to post on Instagram they ’ ll text me a Greek sunset .
I ’ m not going to post anything .
It ’ s just for my grandma .
They want me to show her a Greek sunset .
All their grandmas are dead .
In Greece , the sky gets even pinker , like , way pinker .
The Greeks have four words for sunset .
One for each of the boys .
Tomorrow , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sculptures at some studio space in Normandy .
Tonight , we ’ re in Paris , but all they want to talk about is Greece .
They wish they could have stayed , stayed away from Paris , from Normandy , from Bennington and Bard , from the rooftop , from all this .
Their moms have ovarian cancer .
Their girlfriends are pregnant again .
They ’ re sure to fail a class next semester .
In Greece , none of that matters .
In Greece , they sail on boats and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ all sleep in one king-size bed .
In Greece , they touch sculptures of gods .
In Greece , they put their art-history education to good use .
In Greece , they were happy .
We want them to be happy .
We let them tell us about the olives and the stray cats and the monks and the night they crashed the moped and the windmills and the dead dolphin and the economy .
I want to ask them how many dogs they saw , but then again I don ’ t @ @ @ @ @ @ @ care .
Girls who ask too many questions are dogs .
Dogs comment on how high the ceilings are .
Dogs want to know who this rooftop really belongs to .
Dogs ask what your dads do for work .
Dogs post sunsets on Instagram .
Dogs throw up when they drink tequila .
Dogs beg for games of rooftop tennis .
Dogs ask where the Eiffel Tower is .
Dogs wear too much perfume .
Dogs stink .
Dogs get mad when the boys kiss me or Zoe .
Dogs don ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Dogs whine .
Dogs don ’ t want the boys to be happy .
Dogs want to be held after sex , to be petted , to be taken care of .
Dogs make a big deal when you get them pregnant .
Dogs don ’ t know how to just take care of it while you ’ re with your boys in Greece .
Dogs are too loud .
Dogs get excited too fast .
Dogs need you .
Dogs just don ’ t get it .
Dogs don ’ t @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
It ’ s too high , they ’ re too wild , they might fall and then we ’ d have to catch them or something .

This is the third story in this summer’s online Flash Fiction series. You can read the entire series, and our Flash Fiction stories from previous years, here.
We’re on the rooftop with the boys. The boys are calling girls dogs, like, “She’s a dog, a total dog.” They don’t mean bitches. They just mean dogs. If they wanted to tell us that a girl was a bitch they would say, “She’s a bitch, a total bitch.” When the boys say something, they mean it. That’s why we like them. We’re not dogs. That’s why they like us. That’s why we’re on the rooftop.
The house has three floors. The ceilings are high. I know that if one of the boys fell off the rooftop he’d die. I know that none of the boys will fall off—not tonight, at least. Tonight, they’re not roughhousing or drinking tequila or annoying me. They’ve left the tennis rackets on the second floor, and they want to tell us about their trip to Greece. In Greece, the cigarettes are cheap. They filled an entire suitcase with little yellow boxes of George Karelias and Sons. They say we can smoke as many as we want. They’re proud. The cigarettes are so cheap. The boys are so proud. We laugh. Zoe laughs like Tinkerbell, the air whistling between the gaps in her teeth. She’s definitely not a dog.
I know we’re high up. I know our lives would be ruined if one of the boys fell, but tall plants are growing on the edge of the rooftop and I can’t see the cobblestones. If I could see that little cobblestoned street and the boys’ little Smart car, it would be easier to imagine them falling. It would be easier to remember that I’m in Paris. It would be easier to laugh like Zoe, like Tinkerbell, like a real girl, a girl who is not a dog.
I can’t see the Panthéon or the observatory or the park. I can see only the boys and their tanned stomachs and the scrapes they got from falling off the moped. We could be anywhere. We could be back in New York or near my house in L.A. or at some Airbnb in Berlin. I’d like to go to Berlin, to dance with the boys at Berghain, to eat knafeh with Zoe, to see the Reichstag or whatever, but the boys don’t want to go. Athens is the new Berlin. In Athens, the cigarettes are cheap. I thought Kraków was the new Berlin. The boys laugh and shake their heads. I can smell their wet-puppy-dog hair.
The sun is setting and the sky is so pink. Pink like the canopy bed I never got, like Kirby, like peonies, like the cheeks of a girl who the boys have just called a dog. I stand at the edge of the rooftop holding my phone just above the plants, trying to take a photo, trying not to drop it. The boys tell me that if I want something to post on Instagram they’ll text me a Greek sunset. I’m not going to post anything. It’s just for my grandma. They want me to show her a Greek sunset. All their grandmas are dead. In Greece, the sky gets even pinker, like, way pinker. The Greeks have four words for sunset. One for each of the boys. Tomorrow, they leave to work on their barbed-wire sculptures at some studio space in Normandy. Tonight, we’re in Paris, but all they want to talk about is Greece. They wish they could have stayed, stayed away from Paris, from Normandy, from Bennington and Bard, from the rooftop, from all this. Their moms have ovarian cancer. Their girlfriends are pregnant again. They’re sure to fail a class next semester. In Greece, none of that matters. In Greece, they sail on boats and make sketches of naked marble women and all sleep in one king-size bed. In Greece, they touch sculptures of gods. In Greece, they put their art-history education to good use. In Greece, they were happy. We want them to be happy. We let them tell us about the olives and the stray cats and the monks and the night they crashed the moped and the windmills and the dead dolphin and the economy. I want to ask them how many dogs they saw, but then again I don’t really care.
Dogs are girls who care. Girls who ask too many questions are dogs. Dogs comment on how high the ceilings are. Dogs want to know who this rooftop really belongs to. Dogs ask what your dads do for work. Dogs post sunsets on Instagram. Dogs throw up when they drink tequila. Dogs beg for games of rooftop tennis. Dogs ask where the Eiffel Tower is. Dogs wear too much perfume. Dogs stink. Dogs get mad when the boys kiss me or Zoe. Dogs don’t know how to keep it casual. Dogs whine. Dogs don’t want the boys to be happy. Dogs want to be held after sex, to be petted, to be taken care of. Dogs make a big deal when you get them pregnant. Dogs don’t know how to just take care of it while you’re with your boys in Greece. Dogs are too loud. Dogs get excited too fast. Dogs need you. Dogs just don’t get it. Dogs don’t get to hang out on the roof. It’s too high, they’re too wild, they might fall and then we’d have to catch them or something.