newyorker--2020-07-20--The Stranded Babies of the Coronavirus Disaster

Ben and Abbie Rosenberg ’ s relationship got its start the old-fashioned way .
Not their initial meeting—that happened on Jdate , a Jewish dating site—but their courtship , which took place mostly in writing .
They were both living in New York at the time , but Abbie , an event planner , was on a business trip , opening a restaurant in Miami , when Ben first messaged her .
Then Ben went to visit family in Israel .
They exchanged Jdate messages , which turned into e-mails , texts , Skype sessions , and , finally , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” while talking on the phone .
By the time they met in person , a month later , “ we were already friends , and were on our way to falling in love , ” Abbie recalled .
Ben pulled his car up alongside Fort Greene Park , and Abbie got in the passenger seat .
They held hands and talked for so long that the engine died .
Three years later , they were married and trying to have children .
They were both thirty-eight .
The desire to procreate had @ @ @ @ @ @ @ who is petite with dark-brown hair , was running events at Chelsea Market , a fancy mall in Manhattan .
Ben , who has a close-cut beard , was managing a small group of properties in Queens .
Their friends were having babies ; Abbie said , “ Suddenly , we just knew this would be the next step for us—becoming parents.
” But Abbie had trouble getting pregnant .
There were medical issues—she had a uterine fibroid removed—and she underwent a series of fertility treatments , all of which failed .
After @ @ @ @ @ @ @ fertilization—endless visits to doctors , ovulation-tracker apps , disappointing phone calls—they threw in the towel .
“ I was , like , ‘ Forget it .
I just want to be a mom .
Let ’ s adopt , ’ ” Abbie said .
A friend connected them with an adoption agency in Texas , and they flew down for a weekend orientation .
There , they learned about the complexities of the endeavor , including the fact that , in some open adoptions , the birth mother chooses the adoptive parents .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ is also wrapped up in Christian , pro-life beliefs .
They watched a video of a teen-age girl weeping as she handed her baby over to a set of adoptive parents .
On their way back to New York , Ben said , “ This doesn ’ t feel right for us .
Let ’ s not do this.
” They still wanted a baby , but their next step was unclear .
Their doctor had previously recommended that they try gestational surrogacy—hiring another woman to carry their biological child—but the process would @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , which was more than they could afford .
At one point , a friend ’ s sister had agreed to carry the baby for a nominal fee of twenty thousand dollars .
They had travelled to New Mexico , where she lives , for the medical procedures , but two embryos had failed to implant .
One night after their trip to Texas , Abbie was hosting an event at Chelsea Market when one of the guests , a chatty Latvian man , told her about a friend of his who was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Ukraine , where the process costs a fraction of what it does in the United States .
Abbie ’ s ears perked up .
She grew up in Massachusetts , but her family has Ukrainian roots ; “ My mom was always making chicken Kiev , ” she said .
She joined a Facebook group called Intended Parents Surrogacy Support Ukraine , where she found couples from all over the world—India , Australia , the U.K.—trading notes .
A few weeks later , the Rosenbergs signed up with a small reproductive agency in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ them with a surrogate , a thirty-year-old woman who lives outside of Kyiv .
It was the woman ’ s second job with the agency ; Abbie said , “ I found it encouraging that she was coming back for more , so to speak.
” By August of 2019 , the surrogate was pregnant with the Rosenbergs ’ baby , a girl whom they ’ d decided to name Odessa , for both the Ukrainian city and the hero of Homer ’ s “ The Odyssey.
” Although they never met in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ friendship via Facebook messages .
They shared pictures of their cats and of their mothers , whom they ’ d both lost that year .
Abbie said , “ We ’ d cry together over chat.
” Odessa was scheduled to be born , by C-section , on April 24th , and the Rosenbergs planned to arrive a month early , to prepare .
By March , COVID-19 was making headlines .
Abbie and the surrogate exchanged anxious messages .
“ I ’ m very worried about you , ” the Ukrainian woman @ @ @ @ @ @ @ about the virus in New York .
But flights were still running between J.F.K .
and Kyiv , and no one was sure how serious the situation was .
Abbie said , “ We were , like , ‘ It ’ s going to work out.
’ ” Instead , the opposite happened .
Public gatherings were cancelled .
On March 9th , Abbie was laid off , along with the rest of her team , shortly before the city ’ s shelter-in-place order went into effect .
Countries around the world began @ @ @ @ @ @ @ watching in awe , ” Abbie said .
On March 15th , Ukraine closed its borders .
Flights to Kyiv were cancelled .
The Rosenbergs frantically e-mailed Julia Osiyevska , who runs New Hope , but , like everyone else , she was at a loss .
When she contacted the Ukrainian Ministry of Foreign Affairs on the Rosenbergs ’ behalf , she told me , “ The first word from the officials was , like , ‘ Maybe they ’ ll open the border up in September.
’ ” What had begun @ @ @ @ @ @ @ be there for their daughter ’ s birth—started to seem like an emergency .
Under Ukrainian law , healthy newborns are only allowed to stay in the hospital for twenty-eight days .
Osiyevska was willing to take Odessa home after that , but the maternity hospital said that she could only be discharged to her legal parents .
The director of the hospital suggested an alternate plan : when her term was up , Odessa would be transferred to a nearby orphanage .
The hospital would rent out a wing where nurses would @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and no visitors would be permitted , owing to COVID-19 .
“ This is when I finally started crying , ” Abbie told me .
“ We were , like , what do you mean ‘ an orphanage ?
’ ” The Rosenbergs were not alone .
As the virus spread , and travel froze , parents around the world suddenly found themselves separated , by thousands of miles , from newborns who were , in fact , their biological children .
Commercial surrogacy is growing more popular , thanks to a number @ @ @ @ @ @ @ technology , a wave of restrictive adoption laws , the rise of gay rights , and the fact that women in developed countries are waiting longer before having children , leading to more problems with fertility .
But it ’ s also illegal in most of the world , including in almost all of mainland Europe .
Opponents of the practice argue that it makes surrogates vulnerable to exploitation , especially if they are poor , and creates risks for the children .
( A few countries , such as Australia and the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s not done for payment . )
As a result , every year , thousands of would-be parents travel abroad , to the handful of countries where surrogacy is legal .
One of the biggest destinations is the United States , which has cutting-edge reproductive technology and the most permissive laws : both same-sex couples and unmarried people can have children via a surrogate .
But the price tag is out of reach for many people , and , in the past decade , Ukraine has emerged as a cheaper alternative .
Ukrainian @ @ @ @ @ @ @ every year , the majority of whom have foreign parents .
The country has around fifty reproductive clinics and numerous agencies that act as middlemen , matching couples with egg donors and surrogates .

Ben and Abbie Rosenberg’s relationship got its start the old-fashioned way. Not their initial meeting—that happened on Jdate, a Jewish dating site—but their courtship, which took place mostly in writing. They were both living in New York at the time, but Abbie, an event planner, was on a business trip, opening a restaurant in Miami, when Ben first messaged her. Then Ben went to visit family in Israel. They exchanged Jdate messages, which turned into e-mails, texts, Skype sessions, and, finally, synchronized viewings of “The Colbert Report” while talking on the phone. By the time they met in person, a month later, “we were already friends, and were on our way to falling in love,” Abbie recalled. Ben pulled his car up alongside Fort Greene Park, and Abbie got in the passenger seat. They held hands and talked for so long that the engine died.
Three years later, they were married and trying to have children. They were both thirty-eight. The desire to procreate had crept up on them. Abbie, who is petite with dark-brown hair, was running events at Chelsea Market, a fancy mall in Manhattan. Ben, who has a close-cut beard, was managing a small group of properties in Queens. Their friends were having babies; Abbie said, “Suddenly, we just knew this would be the next step for us—becoming parents.” But Abbie had trouble getting pregnant. There were medical issues—she had a uterine fibroid removed—and she underwent a series of fertility treatments, all of which failed. After years on the roller coaster of in-vitro fertilization—endless visits to doctors, ovulation-tracker apps, disappointing phone calls—they threw in the towel. “I was, like, ‘Forget it. I just want to be a mom. Let’s adopt,’ ” Abbie said.
A friend connected them with an adoption agency in Texas, and they flew down for a weekend orientation. There, they learned about the complexities of the endeavor, including the fact that, in some open adoptions, the birth mother chooses the adoptive parents. At some agencies, the whole process is also wrapped up in Christian, pro-life beliefs. They watched a video of a teen-age girl weeping as she handed her baby over to a set of adoptive parents. On their way back to New York, Ben said, “This doesn’t feel right for us. Let’s not do this.” They still wanted a baby, but their next step was unclear. Their doctor had previously recommended that they try gestational surrogacy—hiring another woman to carry their biological child—but the process would cost more than a hundred thousand dollars, which was more than they could afford. At one point, a friend’s sister had agreed to carry the baby for a nominal fee of twenty thousand dollars. They had travelled to New Mexico, where she lives, for the medical procedures, but two embryos had failed to implant.
One night after their trip to Texas, Abbie was hosting an event at Chelsea Market when one of the guests, a chatty Latvian man, told her about a friend of his who was having a baby through a surrogate in Ukraine, where the process costs a fraction of what it does in the United States. Abbie’s ears perked up. She grew up in Massachusetts, but her family has Ukrainian roots; “My mom was always making chicken Kiev,” she said. She joined a Facebook group called Intended Parents Surrogacy Support Ukraine, where she found couples from all over the world—India, Australia, the U.K.—trading notes. A few weeks later, the Rosenbergs signed up with a small reproductive agency in Ukraine called New Hope, which matched them with a surrogate, a thirty-year-old woman who lives outside of Kyiv. It was the woman’s second job with the agency; Abbie said, “I found it encouraging that she was coming back for more, so to speak.” By August of 2019, the surrogate was pregnant with the Rosenbergs’ baby, a girl whom they’d decided to name Odessa, for both the Ukrainian city and the hero of Homer’s “The Odyssey.” Although they never met in person, the two women developed a friendship via Facebook messages. They shared pictures of their cats and of their mothers, whom they’d both lost that year. Abbie said, “We’d cry together over chat.”
Odessa was scheduled to be born, by C-section, on April 24th, and the Rosenbergs planned to arrive a month early, to prepare. By March, COVID-19 was making headlines. Abbie and the surrogate exchanged anxious messages. “I’m very worried about you,” the Ukrainian woman wrote, after seeing a news report about the virus in New York. But flights were still running between J.F.K. and Kyiv, and no one was sure how serious the situation was. Abbie said, “We were, like, ‘It’s going to work out.’ ” Instead, the opposite happened. Public gatherings were cancelled. On March 9th, Abbie was laid off, along with the rest of her team, shortly before the city’s shelter-in-place order went into effect. Countries around the world began issuing travel restrictions. “We were watching in awe,” Abbie said. On March 15th, Ukraine closed its borders. Flights to Kyiv were cancelled.
The Rosenbergs frantically e-mailed Julia Osiyevska, who runs New Hope, but, like everyone else, she was at a loss. When she contacted the Ukrainian Ministry of Foreign Affairs on the Rosenbergs’ behalf, she told me, “The first word from the officials was, like, ‘Maybe they’ll open the border up in September.’ ” What had begun as a minor tragedy—the Rosenbergs might not be there for their daughter’s birth—started to seem like an emergency. Under Ukrainian law, healthy newborns are only allowed to stay in the hospital for twenty-eight days. Osiyevska was willing to take Odessa home after that, but the maternity hospital said that she could only be discharged to her legal parents. The director of the hospital suggested an alternate plan: when her term was up, Odessa would be transferred to a nearby orphanage. The hospital would rent out a wing where nurses would care for babies born to surrogates, and no visitors would be permitted, owing to COVID-19. “This is when I finally started crying,” Abbie told me. “We were, like, what do you mean ‘an orphanage?’ ”
The Rosenbergs were not alone. As the virus spread, and travel froze, parents around the world suddenly found themselves separated, by thousands of miles, from newborns who were, in fact, their biological children. Commercial surrogacy is growing more popular, thanks to a number of converging factors: advances in reproductive technology, a wave of restrictive adoption laws, the rise of gay rights, and the fact that women in developed countries are waiting longer before having children, leading to more problems with fertility. But it’s also illegal in most of the world, including in almost all of mainland Europe. Opponents of the practice argue that it makes surrogates vulnerable to exploitation, especially if they are poor, and creates risks for the children. (A few countries, such as Australia and the U.K., permit surrogacy if it’s not done for payment.)
As a result, every year, thousands of would-be parents travel abroad, to the handful of countries where surrogacy is legal. One of the biggest destinations is the United States, which has cutting-edge reproductive technology and the most permissive laws: both same-sex couples and unmarried people can have children via a surrogate. But the price tag is out of reach for many people, and, in the past decade, Ukraine has emerged as a cheaper alternative. Ukrainian surrogates give birth to several thousand babies every year, the majority of whom have foreign parents. The country has around fifty reproductive clinics and numerous agencies that act as middlemen, matching couples with egg donors and surrogates.
COVID-19 threw this system into chaos. There are no official numbers on how many babies were stranded around the world. Robin Pope, an Oregon-based lawyer who represents intended parents, estimates that at least two hundred babies were stuck in the U.S., cared for by an improvised network of surrogates, relatives, baby nurses, and Good Samaritans. She told me that the son of one of her Chinese clients is still in the care of his surrogate mother. “The dad can’t get a flight out, and his baby is almost five months old,” she said. According to Ukraine’s human-rights ombudsman, at least a hundred and twenty-five babies have been stranded in the country since the pandemic began.
The problem there made headlines when the country’s largest reproductive agency, BioTexCom, released a video showing forty-five screaming newborns lined up in trolleys under the chandeliers of a hotel ballroom. The company had transformed the hotel, which it owns, into a giant nursery for babies who were awaiting their parents. A handful of nurses circulated among the children, feeding and cuddling them. “We show babies to their parents online and our managers arrange video calls,” one of the nurses said, in a voice-over. “It’s heartbreaking to see how the parents miss their little ones.” The video set off a fierce debate in Ukraine about the country’s surrogacy industry. Several politicians called for a ban on the service for foreigners. Mykola Kuleba, the country’s commissioner for children’s rights, lamented that Ukraine had become “an international online store for babies.” The video also revived criticism of BioTexCom: the company was involved in one notorious case where a set of parents abandoned their baby in Ukraine after she was born with health problems. In 2019, the company’s director, Albert Tochilovsky, was briefly placed under house arrest, following allegations of child trafficking, document forgery, and tax avoidance. (A spokesperson for the company noted that the director was not convicted, saying, “He was charged, but the investigation didn’t find any evidence.”)
Osiyevska, the director of the Rosenbergs’ agency, New Hope, was dismayed by the BioTexCom video. “The image”—of the industry—“was really bad,” she told me. Osiyevska runs a much smaller operation than BioTexCom, but her agency’s situation was still overwhelming: besides Odessa, she was responsible for four babies with due dates in April and May. It might take months for their parents to collect them. “It was a nightmare,” she said. “I wanted to die.” She didn’t feel comfortable putting them in the care of hired nannies, as some agencies were doing. “What if there’s a medical problem, and, God forbid, the baby dies?” she said. “Who is responsible?” She came up with a backup plan: if the Rosenbergs couldn’t get to Ukraine within twenty-eight days, she’d have Odessa transferred from the maternity hospital to a public hospital in Kyiv. This was only marginally better than the orphanage. Marjorie Rosenthal, a general pediatrician at the Yale School of Medicine, told me that most babies who stay for weeks or months in a hospital or nursery setting will “probably be totally fine, especially if they’re going home to loving parents.” But the newborn brain develops through interaction with a caregiver. “Everyone worries that if the child-to-caregiver ratio gets too big, and their needs aren’t being met, or they’re not interacting, it increases the risk of developmental problems,” Rosenthal said.


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Each week, we provide a cartoon in need of a caption. You, the reader, submit your caption here, we choose three finalists, and you vote for your favorite. Anyone age thirteen or older can enter or vote. To read the complete rules, click here.
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newyorker--2020-07-20--Chance the Rapper’s Art and Activism

Chance the Rapper’s Art and Activism

“ My generation was taught that the civil-rights movement ended in the sixties , and that the Civil Rights Act put things as they should be , ” Chance the Rapper tells David Remnick .
“ That belief was reinforced with the election of Barack Obama ” —who loomed especially large to a boy from the South Side of Chicago .
One of the biggest stars in hip-hop , Chance is also one of the most political , and his art has always been closely tied to his commitment to lift up his community .
Quite early in his career @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , that invests in education in Chicago , and he has advocated for progressive candidates in city politics .
But , as politically aware as he is , Chance says that the protests following the death of George Floyd have given him a new consciousness of the struggle for racial justice .
“ This movement has shown us that we are very far from an equitable or an equal society , ” he says .
“ And that we will be the generation that fixes it.
” • The death of George Floyd @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lawyer Bryan Stevenson examines the frustration and despair behind the protests .
• Who , David Remnick asks , is the true agitator behind the racial unrest ?
• A sociologist examines the so-called pillars of whiteness that prevent white Americans from confronting racism .
• The Black Lives Matter co-founder Opal Tometi on what it would mean to defund police departments , and what comes next .
• The quest to transform the United States can not be limited to challenging its brutal police .

“My generation was taught that the civil-rights movement ended in the sixties, and that the Civil Rights Act put things as they should be,” Chance the Rapper tells David Remnick. “That belief was reinforced with the election of Barack Obama”—who loomed especially large to a boy from the South Side of Chicago. One of the biggest stars in hip-hop, Chance is also one of the most political, and his art has always been closely tied to his commitment to lift up his community. Quite early in his career, he founded a nonprofit, SocialWorks, that invests in education in Chicago, and he has advocated for progressive candidates in city politics. But, as politically aware as he is, Chance says that the protests following the death of George Floyd have given him a new consciousness of the struggle for racial justice. “This movement has shown us that we are very far from an equitable or an equal society,” he says. “And that we will be the generation that fixes it.”
Race, Policing, and Black Lives Matter Protests


newyorker--2020-07-20--How the N.B.A. Has Changed Since “The Jordan Rules”

In November , 1991 , when the Chicago Bulls were in their second championship season of the decade , the journalist Sam Smith published “ The Jordan Rules , ” an insider ’ s account of the previous season , in which Jordan won his first ring .
The book documented the star ’ s hyper-competitive personality and frequently off-putting , egotistical behavior .
Smith had spent many years writing for the sports section of the Chicago Tribune , and his book aired numerous stories about Jordan that had , until then , only circulated through rumors and gossip .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ be known as an unvarnished look at one of the most famous athletes in the United States .
Smith went on to write two more books about Jordan : “ Second Coming ” and “ There Is No Next.
” The abrasive demeanor originally chronicled in “ The Jordan Rules ” became a topic of conversation again this spring , when ESPN released “ The Last Dance , ” a ten-part documentary series about Jordan ’ s life and career .
The series , which arrived on Netflix on July 19th , does @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it was made with his oversight : Jordan gave the filmmakers exclusive rights to decades-old video , and he was given the opportunity to give notes on episodes .
I recently spoke by phone with Smith , who now writes for Bulls.com , the official Chicago Bulls Web site .
His most recent book is “ Hard Labor : The Battle That Birthed the Billion-Dollar NBA.
” During our conversation , which has been edited for length and clarity , we discussed his relationship with Jordan over the past three decades , his @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a book like “ The Jordan Rules ” could be written today .
Did you have any role in the making of the documentary ?
Other than being interviewed , other than being furniture , no .
I was around , basically , through Jordan ’ s entire career , so I guess they had to get around to me eventually .
I wasn ’ t sure they would , though .
Did you hear anything from the director about what Jordan felt about your being interviewed ?
I knew they were doing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , which was fine .
I had written three books on him , [ the last of which was ] “ There Is No Next ” —the title referring to the idea that there was Kobe [ Bryant ] and LeBron [ James ] and all these “ next Jordans.
” I just wanted to make the case that there is no next Jordan—this is the last in the mold , because of his impact in the world and society , and just beyond basketball .
That he ’ s just not only @ @ @ @ @ @ @ an influencer , as they say these days .
In terms of being an influencer , if that ’ s the word we ’ re going to use , I think LeBron is similar in certain ways .
No .
I don ’ t think so at all .
I ’ ve never seen anybody skipping down in the commercials , saying , “ Be like LeBron.
” Obviously , it was commercial and marketing and all , but Jordan changed so much in the world and society—the long shorts , the shaved @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sneakers .
The sneakers were a revolution .
Nobody thought that sneakers would be a fashion statement back in the early nineteen-eighties .
Nobody thought it mattered if you put a player ’ s name on a sneaker .
Bill Walton tells this story : Nike came to him and said , “ We ’ d like to produce this sneaker , the Bill Walton sneaker.
” And Bill said , “ Who ’ s going to buy sneakers because my name ’ s on it ?
It ’ s ridiculous.
” Jordan @ @ @ @ @ @ @ remember friends of mine would be in Russia , and they sent me home these nesting dolls—the Bulls with Jordan and Pippen—things you would never see anywhere else .
And you don ’ t see that with LeBron .
LeBron ’ s a big figure and a great player , and he has an influence in society , but it didn ’ t change anything .
Nobody has changed anything because of LeBron James .
What about the ways in which people see athletes , and the way athletes have power within the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ so-called player-empowerment era .
Yeah , that ’ s in basketball .
And that ’ s why I say there ’ s always been guys in basketball—if you want to talk about that , nobody changed it more than Wilt [ Chamberlain ] .
Jordan had an influence on society .
I ’ m not going to diminish LeBron .
I think LeBron ’ s great .
I love LeBron .
I think he ’ s a great figure .
We got derailed , but I had asked you if you heard that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I had an uneasy history with Michael over the years .
It was fine .
Michael became a billionaire , and I ’ m doing the same job .
I ’ m pleased , and I ’ m happy with what I do .
And I ’ m fortunate to be able to continue to write about basketball and the N.B.A .
It ’ s not like I hindered Michael , given his financial success .
But “ The Jordan Rules ” was bothersome to him at the time , and controversial .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ with him before the book came out .
I wasn ’ t a close friend , but we would joke when I was around the team .
We travelled commercial together , and all that sort of stuff .
When he came back to the N.B.A.
, in 1995 , he was fine .
He ’ d gotten a lot out of his system , playing baseball and all , and I had a couple of one-on-one interviews , but it was sort of a professional , arm ’ s-length relationship .
And @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of times in Charlotte , when I travelled with the Bulls in recent years .
And he would say , “ Hey , how are you doing ?
” That kind of stuff .
Anyway , I ’ d heard they ’ d done a lot of these interviews .
And people I was friendly with , like Phil Jackson , would say to me , “ Hey , I did this interview for this Jordan thing .
Did you ?
” I thought , Well , hey , they ’ re just @ @ @ @ @ @ @ fine .
I didn ’ t need to be in it .
I ’ d done enough Jordan .
I really was moving on .
In fact , going back , I wouldn ’ t say it was painful and all , but I adjudicated this thirty years ago .
I didn ’ t want to go through it again .
Then I got a call from the director , and he said , “ Hey , could you sit down ?
We ’ re doing this.
” I tell people I ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and asking for their time , so it would be inappropriate for me to say , “ No , I ’ m too busy , ” or “ I don ’ t want to do it.
” So I do these things .
Jordan has never said a word to me about “ The Jordan Rules.
” Never once , in thirty years .
At the end of the interview , I said , “ Hey , tell me something .
Did you have to ask Michael permission to talk to me ?
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ a little bit .
And he said , “ Well , we actually did ask him if it was O.K.
” And I said , “ Well , what ’ d he say ?
” He said , “ I don ’ t give a fuck who you talk to.
” The way I understood it is , he didn ’ t say whether they could or could not .
They weren ’ t sure whether they should .
Was it the director who said this ?
Yeah , I think so .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ I was talking to .
There ’ s always a bunch of guys who come and do these things ; it ’ s always , like , six people .
And I didn ’ t know who they were .
I ’ d never heard of them or talked to them before .

Photograph by Jonathan Daniel / Getty
In November, 1991, when the Chicago Bulls were in their second championship season of the decade, the journalist Sam Smith published “The Jordan Rules,” an insider’s account of the previous season, in which Jordan won his first ring. The book documented the star’s hyper-competitive personality and frequently off-putting, egotistical behavior. Smith had spent many years writing for the sports section of the Chicago Tribune, and his book aired numerous stories about Jordan that had, until then, only circulated through rumors and gossip. “The Jordan Rules” came to be known as an unvarnished look at one of the most famous athletes in the United States. Smith went on to write two more books about Jordan: “Second Coming” and “There Is No Next.”
The abrasive demeanor originally chronicled in “The Jordan Rules” became a topic of conversation again this spring, when ESPN released “The Last Dance,” a ten-part documentary series about Jordan’s life and career. The series, which arrived on Netflix on July 19th, does not present Jordan as flawless, but it was made with his oversight: Jordan gave the filmmakers exclusive rights to decades-old video, and he was given the opportunity to give notes on episodes.
I recently spoke by phone with Smith, who now writes for Bulls.com, the official Chicago Bulls Web site. His most recent book is “Hard Labor: The Battle That Birthed the Billion-Dollar NBA.” During our conversation, which has been edited for length and clarity, we discussed his relationship with Jordan over the past three decades, his problems with the documentary, and whether a book like “The Jordan Rules” could be written today.
Did you have any role in the making of the documentary?
Other than being interviewed, other than being furniture, no. I was around, basically, through Jordan’s entire career, so I guess they had to get around to me eventually. I wasn’t sure they would, though.
Did you hear anything from the director about what Jordan felt about your being interviewed?
I knew they were doing these interviews over more than a year, which was fine. I had written three books on him, [the last of which was] “There Is No Next”—the title referring to the idea that there was Kobe [Bryant] and LeBron [James] and all these “next Jordans.” I just wanted to make the case that there is no next Jordan—this is the last in the mold, because of his impact in the world and society, and just beyond basketball. That he’s just not only a basketball player. He’s an influencer, as they say these days.
In terms of being an influencer, if that’s the word we’re going to use, I think LeBron is similar in certain ways.
No. I don’t think so at all. I’ve never seen anybody skipping down in the commercials, saying, “Be like LeBron.” Obviously, it was commercial and marketing and all, but Jordan changed so much in the world and society—the long shorts, the shaved head, and, obviously, the sneakers. The sneakers were a revolution. Nobody thought that sneakers would be a fashion statement back in the early nineteen-eighties. Nobody thought it mattered if you put a player’s name on a sneaker.
Bill Walton tells this story: Nike came to him and said, “We’d like to produce this sneaker, the Bill Walton sneaker.” And Bill said, “Who’s going to buy sneakers because my name’s on it? It’s ridiculous.” Jordan comes along and endorses it. I remember friends of mine would be in Russia, and they sent me home these nesting dolls—the Bulls with Jordan and Pippen—things you would never see anywhere else. And you don’t see that with LeBron. LeBron’s a big figure and a great player, and he has an influence in society, but it didn’t change anything. Nobody has changed anything because of LeBron James.
What about the ways in which people see athletes, and the way athletes have power within the sport, particularly within basketball? The so-called player-empowerment era.
Yeah, that’s in basketball. And that’s why I say there’s always been guys in basketball—if you want to talk about that, nobody changed it more than Wilt [Chamberlain]. Jordan had an influence on society. I’m not going to diminish LeBron. I think LeBron’s great. I love LeBron. I think he’s a great figure.
We got derailed, but I had asked you if you heard that Jordan was upset about you—
Yeah. I had an uneasy history with Michael over the years. It was fine. Michael became a billionaire, and I’m doing the same job. I’m pleased, and I’m happy with what I do. And I’m fortunate to be able to continue to write about basketball and the N.B.A. It’s not like I hindered Michael, given his financial success. But “The Jordan Rules” was bothersome to him at the time, and controversial. I used to have a good relationship with him before the book came out. I wasn’t a close friend, but we would joke when I was around the team. We travelled commercial together, and all that sort of stuff.
When he came back to the N.B.A., in 1995, he was fine. He’d gotten a lot out of his system, playing baseball and all, and I had a couple of one-on-one interviews, but it was sort of a professional, arm’s-length relationship. And I’ve seen him a couple of times in Charlotte, when I travelled with the Bulls in recent years. And he would say, “Hey, how are you doing?” That kind of stuff.
Anyway, I’d heard they’d done a lot of these interviews. And people I was friendly with, like Phil Jackson, would say to me, “Hey, I did this interview for this Jordan thing. Did you?” I thought, Well, hey, they’re just skipping me. And that’s fine. I didn’t need to be in it. I’d done enough Jordan. I really was moving on. In fact, going back, I wouldn’t say it was painful and all, but I adjudicated this thirty years ago. I didn’t want to go through it again.
Then I got a call from the director, and he said, “Hey, could you sit down? We’re doing this.” I tell people I’ve spent a career asking people questions and asking for their time, so it would be inappropriate for me to say, “No, I’m too busy,” or “I don’t want to do it.” So I do these things.
Jordan has never said a word to me about “The Jordan Rules.” Never once, in thirty years. At the end of the interview, I said, “Hey, tell me something. Did you have to ask Michael permission to talk to me?” And the guy kind of stammered a little bit. And he said, “Well, we actually did ask him if it was O.K.” And I said, “Well, what’d he say?” He said, “I don’t give a fuck who you talk to.” The way I understood it is, he didn’t say whether they could or could not. They weren’t sure whether they should.
Was it the director who said this?
Yeah, I think so. But I don’t know who I was talking to. There’s always a bunch of guys who come and do these things; it’s always, like, six people. And I didn’t know who they were. I’d never heard of them or talked to them before.
I read your book as arguing that Jordan embracing team concepts was helpful to him finally winning, while it seemed like the documentary was arguing that Jordan’s hyper-competitiveness was fundamentally all about winning. Do those seem like different theses to you?
That’s an interesting point. I hadn’t thought about it that way. I thought there were a couple of team-oriented events that validated Phil Jackson’s belief that Jordan had to integrate himself among this team. When he first met Michael, as an assistant on the Bulls, he said, “You can’t be the scoring champion and win a title.” Michael initially was offended. So Phil was trying to bring him along, and it ended up this great scene, which they mention in the documentary, and I wrote about in “The Jordan Rules,” of Phil saying, “Who’s open?” And Paxson makes the shot, so he gets his title.


newyorker--2020-07-20--In “Showbiz Kids,” Alex Winter Weighs the Costs of Child Stardom

Diana Serra Cary , who passed away in February of this year , at the age of a hundred and one , was the last surviving major star of the silent-film era .
As Baby Peggy , she delivered poised-beyond-her-years performances in over a hundred and fifty films during the first half of the nineteen-twenties .
She worked eight-hour days and performed dangerous stunts without a double .
She risked drowning , braved fires , and was often tossed around like a small piece of Samsonite .
She was also a national sensation , known to fans as the “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ helped sell a wide variety of licensed products , and she ’ s said to have received over 1.2 million pieces of fan mail in 1922 alone .
Then , in 1925 , her father—a stuntman who ’ d worked with the Western star Tom Mix—had a falling-out with the producer Sol Lesser over money .
Cary ’ s studio contract was cancelled , and her Hollywood career came to an abrupt end .
She was seven years old .
In a new documentary for HBO , “ Showbiz Kids , ” the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ fame and its discontents with Cary and other performers who ’ ve experienced it , including Henry Thomas , the star of “ E.T .
: The Extra-Terrestrial ” ; Todd Bridges , of the eighties sitcom “ Diff ’ rent Strokes ” ; Wil Wheaton , of “ Stand by Me ” and “ Star Trek : The Next Generation ” ; the model turned zombie hunter Milla Jovovich ; Evan Rachel Wood , of “ Westworld ” ; and Cameron Boyce , the Disney Channel star who died of an epileptic @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Winter was a child actor , too .
He ’ s still best known for playing the San Dimas metalhead Bill S. Preston , Esq.
, in “ Bill & Ted ’ s Excellent Adventure , ” from 1989 , and its 1991 sequel , “ Bill & Ted ’ s Bogus Journey.
” ( A third Bill & Ted film , “ Bill & Ted Face the Music , ” has been complete for some time and is scheduled for release in August . )
By the time Winter first stepped @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Reeves , though , he had been acting for more than a decade .
He did his first play at age ten , and by 1979 , when he was thirteen , he ’ d been cast as John Darling in the Broadway revival of “ Peter Pan.
” That same year , Winter endured a period of what he later described as “ hellish ” sexual abuse .
He didn ’ t discuss this experience publicly until 2018 .
By then , Winter had reëmerged as a director , primarily of nonfiction @ @ @ @ @ @ @ outpace the law .
He ’ s made documentaries about Napster and its founders , Shawn Fanning and Sean Parker ; the Panama Papers scandal ; blockchain technology ; and the dark-net marketplace known as Silk Road .
“ Showbiz Kids ” is obviously a different kind of story , highly personal if not overtly autobiographical , but Winter says he was still surprised by how cathartic it was to make it .
Everyone he spoke to had a different story to tell , but almost everyone described struggling through some version of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Winter went through after stepping away from the business—including Diana Cary , who peaked as a public figure during the Coolidge Administration .
“ Her experience and mine were almost identical , ” Winter told me .
“ It was a very strange thing , to be sitting across from a hundred-and-one-year-old woman and feeling this intense pull of identification.
” Cary grew up to be a writer and film historian ; her books include a memoir of her own experiences as Baby Peggy and a biography of Jackie Coogan , whose performance @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in “ The Kid , ” from 1921 , made him one of Hollywood ’ s first child stars .
Coogan also faced a now-familiar child-star reckoning ; when he turned twenty-one , he discovered that his mother and a stepfather who ’ d once been his family ’ s financial adviser refused to turn over to him the estimated four million dollars he ’ d earned from his acting career .
At first , Winter says , Cary was unwilling to acknowledge that her life after Hollywood had been difficult .
“ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” he said .
“ ‘ I was great .
I didn ’ t have any problems as a five-year-old .
I knew exactly who I was.
’ And , at one point , I said to her , ‘ Look , you said you had your identity all sewn up , and yet , in your late teens or early twenties , you had a nervous breakdown.
’ And she said , ‘ Yes , that ’ s true .
The identity that I constructed for myself was a false identity .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ n't have an underlying identity to replace it with.
’ And I was , like , ‘ Holy shit ’ —that was literally what happened to me.
” After enduring abuse at thirteen , Winter said , “ I just sort of slapped a Band-Aid on it and kept moving and didn ’ t talk about it .
I smiled and showed up .
I never missed a single performance .
I did two long-running Broadway shows , eight shows a week .
My understudy never went on.
” For years afterward , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and went , like the Energizer Bunny .
And I guess around ‘ Bill & Ted 2 ’ something inside was just , like , we ’ re done.
” By the time “ Bill & Ted ’ s Bogus Journey ” was released , Winter had started directing music videos and commercials and co-created “ The Idiot Box , ” a late-night music-comedy series for MTV .
In 1993 , he co-wrote and co-directed the instant cult film “ Freaked , ” and starred in it as an arrogant former child star @ @ @ @ @ @ @ deformed mutant by Randy Quaid .
It would be the last movie Winter would make for a while ; in the mid-nineties , he dismissed his acting agents , left Los Angeles for New York and then London , and began doing the difficult psychological work he ’ d been putting off for years .
“ I didn ’ t have resentment toward the business , ” Winter says .
“ I didn ’ t have resentment towards my agents .
But I was headed for some serious problems if I ’ d @ @ @ @ @ @ @ familiar with the worst-case scenarios for former child stars .
Winter ’ s movie uses a few brief news clips—Corey Haim dead at thirty-eight , Britney Spears in the back of an ambulance , Shia LaBoeuf under arrest , Lindsay Lohan crying in court—to stand in for a sea of other sad stories .
The issue of sexual abuse and assault comes up about an hour in , when Todd Bridges describes how the shame he felt after being abused at eleven and twelve by his publicist and mentor set him on a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ cocaine and methamphetamine addiction after “ Diff ’ rent Strokes ” was cancelled , in 1986 , and was acquitted on charges of shooting a drug dealer , in 1990 .
The first words of his memoir , “ Killing Willis : From Diff ’ rent Strokes to the Mean Streets to the Life I Always Wanted , ” from 2010 , are “ Suicide by cop .
It was my only way out.
” Evan Rachel Wood—who is also a domestic- and sexual-abuse survivor , and is seen in the film addressing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of the Sexual Assault Survivors ’ Bill of Rights Act , at a 2018 House Judiciary Committee hearing—tells a story about wanting to quit acting after watching a man she says she knew to be a pedophile win a Golden Globe .
She suggests to Winter that Hollywood predators are able to take advantage of young performers in part because , even in the non-predatory parts of the business , a culture of unhealthy endurance is the norm .
“ Any industry that has that much power and is that competitive , because @ @ @ @ @ @ @ become [ about ] well who can take the most abuse , ” Wood tells Winter .
“ Because somebody ’ s waiting in line to take your place .
So you just start to allow yourself to be abused in some form or another—every actor is guilty of that .
They ’ re lying if they say they ’ re not.…There ’ s always going to be somebody willing to take abuse and stay quiet .
”

Diana Serra Cary, who passed away in February of this year, at the age of a hundred and one, was the last surviving major star of the silent-film era. As Baby Peggy, she delivered poised-beyond-her-years performances in over a hundred and fifty films during the first half of the nineteen-twenties. She worked eight-hour days and performed dangerous stunts without a double. She risked drowning, braved fires, and was often tossed around like a small piece of Samsonite. She was also a national sensation, known to fans as the “Million Dollar Baby”; her likeness helped sell a wide variety of licensed products, and she’s said to have received over 1.2 million pieces of fan mail in 1922 alone. Then, in 1925, her father—a stuntman who’d worked with the Western star Tom Mix—had a falling-out with the producer Sol Lesser over money. Cary’s studio contract was cancelled, and her Hollywood career came to an abrupt end. She was seven years old.
In a new documentary for HBO, “Showbiz Kids,” the actor and director Alex Winter discusses early-in-life fame and its discontents with Cary and other performers who’ve experienced it, including Henry Thomas, the star of “E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial”; Todd Bridges, of the eighties sitcom “Diff’rent Strokes”; Wil Wheaton, of “Stand by Me” and “Star Trek: The Next Generation”; the model turned zombie hunter Milla Jovovich; Evan Rachel Wood, of “Westworld”; and Cameron Boyce, the Disney Channel star who died of an epileptic seizure last year, at age twenty. Winter was a child actor, too. He’s still best known for playing the San Dimas metalhead Bill S. Preston, Esq., in “Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure,” from 1989, and its 1991 sequel, “Bill & Ted’s Bogus Journey.” (A third Bill & Ted film, “Bill & Ted Face the Music,” has been complete for some time and is scheduled for release in August.) By the time Winter first stepped into a time-travelling phone booth with Keanu Reeves, though, he had been acting for more than a decade. He did his first play at age ten, and by 1979, when he was thirteen, he’d been cast as John Darling in the Broadway revival of “Peter Pan.”
That same year, Winter endured a period of what he later described as “hellish” sexual abuse. He didn’t discuss this experience publicly until 2018. By then, Winter had reëmerged as a director, primarily of nonfiction films about technology and its tendency to outpace the law. He’s made documentaries about Napster and its founders, Shawn Fanning and Sean Parker; the Panama Papers scandal; blockchain technology; and the dark-net marketplace known as Silk Road. “Showbiz Kids” is obviously a different kind of story, highly personal if not overtly autobiographical, but Winter says he was still surprised by how cathartic it was to make it. Everyone he spoke to had a different story to tell, but almost everyone described struggling through some version of the same “wilderness period” that Winter went through after stepping away from the business—including Diana Cary, who peaked as a public figure during the Coolidge Administration. “Her experience and mine were almost identical,” Winter told me. “It was a very strange thing, to be sitting across from a hundred-and-one-year-old woman and feeling this intense pull of identification.”
Cary grew up to be a writer and film historian; her books include a memoir of her own experiences as Baby Peggy and a biography of Jackie Coogan, whose performance as Charlie Chaplin’s tiny ward in “The Kid,” from 1921, made him one of Hollywood’s first child stars. Coogan also faced a now-familiar child-star reckoning; when he turned twenty-one, he discovered that his mother and a stepfather who’d once been his family’s financial adviser refused to turn over to him the estimated four million dollars he’d earned from his acting career.
At first, Winter says, Cary was unwilling to acknowledge that her life after Hollywood had been difficult. “She was giving me the rap,” he said. “ ‘I was great. I didn’t have any problems as a five-year-old. I knew exactly who I was.’ And, at one point, I said to her, ‘Look, you said you had your identity all sewn up, and yet, in your late teens or early twenties, you had a nervous breakdown.’ And she said, ‘Yes, that’s true. The identity that I constructed for myself was a false identity. And when it shattered, I didn't have an underlying identity to replace it with.’ And I was, like, ‘Holy shit’—that was literally what happened to me.”
After enduring abuse at thirteen, Winter said, “I just sort of slapped a Band-Aid on it and kept moving and didn’t talk about it. I smiled and showed up. I never missed a single performance. I did two long-running Broadway shows, eight shows a week. My understudy never went on.” For years afterward, he says, “I just went and went, like the Energizer Bunny. And I guess around ‘Bill & Ted 2’ something inside was just, like, we’re done.”
By the time “Bill & Ted’s Bogus Journey” was released, Winter had started directing music videos and commercials and co-created “The Idiot Box,” a late-night music-comedy series for MTV. In 1993, he co-wrote and co-directed the instant cult film “Freaked,” and starred in it as an arrogant former child star who gets kidnapped and turned into a deformed mutant by Randy Quaid. It would be the last movie Winter would make for a while; in the mid-nineties, he dismissed his acting agents, left Los Angeles for New York and then London, and began doing the difficult psychological work he’d been putting off for years. “I didn’t have resentment toward the business,” Winter says. “I didn’t have resentment towards my agents. But I was headed for some serious problems if I’d stuck around.”
We’re all familiar with the worst-case scenarios for former child stars. Winter’s movie uses a few brief news clips—Corey Haim dead at thirty-eight, Britney Spears in the back of an ambulance, Shia LaBoeuf under arrest, Lindsay Lohan crying in court—to stand in for a sea of other sad stories. The issue of sexual abuse and assault comes up about an hour in, when Todd Bridges describes how the shame he felt after being abused at eleven and twelve by his publicist and mentor set him on a “self-destruction course.” Bridges struggled with cocaine and methamphetamine addiction after “Diff’rent Strokes” was cancelled, in 1986, and was acquitted on charges of shooting a drug dealer, in 1990. The first words of his memoir, “Killing Willis: From Diff’rent Strokes to the Mean Streets to the Life I Always Wanted,” from 2010, are “Suicide by cop. It was my only way out.”
Evan Rachel Wood—who is also a domestic- and sexual-abuse survivor, and is seen in the film addressing Congress about the need for broader implementation of the Sexual Assault Survivors’ Bill of Rights Act, at a 2018 House Judiciary Committee hearing—tells a story about wanting to quit acting after watching a man she says she knew to be a pedophile win a Golden Globe. She suggests to Winter that Hollywood predators are able to take advantage of young performers in part because, even in the non-predatory parts of the business, a culture of unhealthy endurance is the norm. “Any industry that has that much power and is that competitive, because after a while, it starts to become [about] well who can take the most abuse,” Wood tells Winter. “Because somebody’s waiting in line to take your place. So you just start to allow yourself to be abused in some form or another—every actor is guilty of that. They’re lying if they say they’re not.… There’s always going to be somebody willing to take abuse and stay quiet.”
Bryan Singer and Kevin Spacey, both of whom have been accused of sexual misconduct involving young actors, appear briefly onscreen in file footage, as does the former child actor Corey Feldman, who’s lately reëmerged as a whistle-blower who claims his industry has turned a blind eye to an epidemic of pedophilia for years. Winter co-starred in “The Lost Boys,” from 1987, with both Haim and Feldman; given the extent of his personal stake in these stories, the attention that “Showbiz Kids” pays to sexual abuse in Hollywood may strike some viewers as cursory. Winter says this was as much an editorial decision as a narrative one. “The reason I don’t put the whole film’s focus on that issue,” he told me, “is because it isn’t an issue that is related in any unique manner to the entertainment industry . . . . The problem is societal, not institutional.” According to RAINN, one in nine girls and one in fifty-three boys will be sexually abused or assaulted by an adult before they turn eighteen; those numbers reflect only acts of abuse that are reported. If sexual abuse is endemic in Hollywood, Winter says, it’s because it’s endemic in American life as a whole.
“The things that I experienced at thirteen, which were pretty extreme, that happened within the industry—that came at me continually all through high school, and not from within the industry,” Winter said. “This was my school teachers, this was people following me down the street for twenty blocks. It was absolutely everywhere.”
What “Showbiz Kids” explores in greater detail is the personal and psychological consequences that child stardom can have, even for performers who don’t experience the worst that the business has to offer. The life of an actor can be psychologically gruelling for adults who’ve learned to regulate big emotions, contextualize professional setbacks, and comprehend the inherent precarity of a life in art; child actors endure all these things and more, usually before they’ve developed the tools to deal with them. At one point in “Showbiz Kids,” we see a clip of a nine-year-old Henry Thomas auditioning for the part of Elliott in Steven Spielberg’s “E.T.” His scene partner, playing the role of a NASA official, tells Thomas that the President has ordered him to take his alien friend away, and Thomas summons palpable sadness and anger. His lip quivers and his eyes fill with real tears. Eventually, an offscreen Spielberg breaks the spell. “O.K., kid, you got the job,” he says, and in the seconds that follow you can see Thomas’s face register confusion, followed by relief.
Thomas would later admit that he’d made himself cry by thinking about the recent death of his pet chihuahua. Whatever it took him to get there, though, in his audition tape, you are seeing a child taking himself, using the means at his disposal, to a place of real and painful feeling, before being sent spinning in another direction by an unexpected piece of good news. It’s hard to imagine there isn’t a cost in that kind of performance for a nine-year-old. More important, a kid who has a preternatural ability to connect emotionally on camera and a desire to make use of that gift may still not be mature enough to understand what he’s getting into—a kid who’s never had a job can’t understand what a job is, or the extent to which acting is ultimately a form of labor, or what he’ll be expected to sacrifice in order to make time for that labor. Some kids may enjoy acting, but, as Wil Wheaton points out in Winter’s film, no kid actually wants to go to work. The idea that child actors miss out on childhood is a truism and an abstraction; framing child acting as work is clarifying.


newyorker--2020-07-20--Steve Earle and Lucinda Williams on Art and Empathy

The musicians Steve Earle and Lucinda Williams—longtime friends and twin titans of so-called alternative-country , though neither is especially keen on genre distinctions , especially that one—have been grounded by the coronavirus pandemic .
For Earle , who is sixty-five , and Williams , who is sixty-seven , sitting still is anathema ; both have been recording and touring since the late nineteen-seventies .
They ’ re both waiting out this strange season in Nashville , and considering , among other things , what the politics of this moment mean for the arts .
Earle ’ s most recent record @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” centers on the Upper Big Branch coal-mine explosion , in 2010 , one of the grisliest and most egregious mining disasters in American history .
Twenty-nine miners were killed in the explosion , which created a blast that was felt for miles around the mine .
Over the past four years , Earle collaborated with the playwrights Erik Jensen and Jessica Blank to develop a companion theatre piece , “ Coal Country , ” based on first-person accounts of the disaster .
The show opened at the Public Theatre , in New @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , of course , closed shortly thereafter , as the city shut down to staunch the spread of the coronavirus .
Williams ’ s new album , “ Good Souls Better Angels , ” is dark , bluesy , and urgent ; it was released in late April , and includes a scathing musical indictment of Donald Trump , a song pointedly titled “ Man Without a Soul.
” One afternoon in early July , Earle and Williams met up in a Nashville studio , and I joined them remotely .
We talked @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Dylan , the cruelty of online comments , protest music , poetry , compassion , and their decades-long friendship .
Some of their music is explicitly political—but even the songs that do not directly address a sitting President or narrate an industrial disaster have things to say about the state of the world ; both Earle and Williams are world renowned for their storytelling and the ways in which they structure and refine tender narratives about people getting by , or failing to .
During our time together , they both played a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Zoom .
You can see our conversation , and these performances , in the video above .
They finished with a collaborative cover of “ Deportee , ” which features lyrics by Woody Guthrie .
It ’ s a brutal , heartbreaking song about what happens when we stop regarding one another as human .
“ Making art in the United States of America is a political statement in and of itself , ” Earle said .
“ This is the most hostile environment to art that ’ s ever existed in the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ kept going .
That ’ s a lesson for all of us .

The musicians Steve Earle and Lucinda Williams—longtime friends and twin titans of so-called alternative-country, though neither is especially keen on genre distinctions, especially that one—have been grounded by the coronavirus pandemic. For Earle, who is sixty-five, and Williams, who is sixty-seven, sitting still is anathema; both have been recording and touring since the late nineteen-seventies. They’re both waiting out this strange season in Nashville, and considering, among other things, what the politics of this moment mean for the arts.
Earle’s most recent record, “Ghosts of West Virginia,” centers on the Upper Big Branch coal-mine explosion, in 2010, one of the grisliest and most egregious mining disasters in American history. Twenty-nine miners were killed in the explosion, which created a blast that was felt for miles around the mine. Over the past four years, Earle collaborated with the playwrights Erik Jensen and Jessica Blank to develop a companion theatre piece, “Coal Country,” based on first-person accounts of the disaster. The show opened at the Public Theatre, in New York, on March 3rd, and, of course, closed shortly thereafter, as the city shut down to staunch the spread of the coronavirus. Williams’s new album, “Good Souls Better Angels,” is dark, bluesy, and urgent; it was released in late April, and includes a scathing musical indictment of Donald Trump, a song pointedly titled “Man Without a Soul.”
One afternoon in early July, Earle and Williams met up in a Nashville studio, and I joined them remotely. We talked about songwriting, the legacy of Bob Dylan, the cruelty of online comments, protest music, poetry, compassion, and their decades-long friendship. Some of their music is explicitly political—but even the songs that do not directly address a sitting President or narrate an industrial disaster have things to say about the state of the world; both Earle and Williams are world renowned for their storytelling and the ways in which they structure and refine tender narratives about people getting by, or failing to.
During our time together, they both played a few new songs—a tiny concert conducted via Zoom. You can see our conversation, and these performances, in the video above. They finished with a collaborative cover of “Deportee,” which features lyrics by Woody Guthrie. It’s a brutal, heartbreaking song about what happens when we stop regarding one another as human. “Making art in the United States of America is a political statement in and of itself,” Earle said. “This is the most hostile environment to art that’s ever existed in the world.” Yet Earle and Williams have kept going. That’s a lesson for all of us.


newyorker--2020-07-20--Trump Says He Will Eventually Be Right About the Coronavirus Going Away When There Is No Human Life

Trump Says He Will Eventually Be Right About the Coronavirus Going Away When There Is No Human Life Left on Planet

WASHINGTON ( The Borowitz Report ) —Donald J. Trump said on Sunday that he will eventually be right about the coronavirus going away when there is no human life left on the face of the earth .
Speaking to Chris Wallace on “ Fox News Sunday , ” Trump said that , once there are no living humans left for it to infect , “ like I have said before , the virus will just disappear , like a miracle.
” “ The virus isn ’ t stupid , ” Trump said .
“ It wants to infect people .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ to infect , it ’ s not going to hang around doing nothing .
It ’ s going to go away .
And then I ’ ll be right.
” Trump added that , when the planet Earth no longer has any trace of human life , “ I ’ ll have the last laugh.
” “ In a way , it ’ s too bad that those beauties in the fake news media like Jim Acosta will be extinct at that point , because I wish they could be alive to see @ @ @ @ @ @ @ he added .
“ But I guess you can ’ t have everything.
” Trump offered no timeline for the disappearance of all human life from the planet , saying only , “ We ’ re moving quite strongly and powerfully on that .
”

WASHINGTON (The Borowitz Report)—Donald J. Trump said on Sunday that he will eventually be right about the coronavirus going away when there is no human life left on the face of the earth.
Speaking to Chris Wallace on “Fox News Sunday,” Trump said that, once there are no living humans left for it to infect, “like I have said before, the virus will just disappear, like a miracle.”
“The virus isn’t stupid,” Trump said. “It wants to infect people. And when there are no people left to infect, it’s not going to hang around doing nothing. It’s going to go away. And then I’ll be right.”
Trump added that, when the planet Earth no longer has any trace of human life, “I’ll have the last laugh.”
“In a way, it’s too bad that those beauties in the fake news media like Jim Acosta will be extinct at that point, because I wish they could be alive to see how I was eventually right,” he added. “But I guess you can’t have everything.”
Trump offered no timeline for the disappearance of all human life from the planet, saying only, “We’re moving quite strongly and powerfully on that.”


newyorker--2020-07-20--How a Potential Treatment for the Coronavirus Turned Up in a Scientist’s Freezer

In 1998 , when the Dutch scientist Berend Bosch decided to make the study of coronaviruses his life ’ s work , the level of attention they garnered among medical researchers was such that the Ph.D. program he joined was in a department of veterinary science .
Coronaviruses that could cause severe infections were circulating among animals , but the types that people could contract seldom caused anything worse than the common cold .
“ For human health , it wasn ’ t that important , ” Bosch said .
That started to change around the time he was completing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ In 2002 and 2003 , SARS , a disease caused by a coronavirus that had leapt from bats to humans , caused widespread panic and killed about eight hundred people .
Bosch started working on potential therapies for it .
For a few months , he and his colleagues felt the eyes of the scientific world on them—he was invited to speak about the pathogen at several conferences—but , once the outbreak was contained , interest waned .
Life in the lab was low-pressure ; on weekends , he liked to rent a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , though , there was a new surge of attention when MERS , another disease caused by a coronavirus , killed almost nine hundred people , mainly in the Arabian Peninsula .
The MERS outbreak was an important lesson for Bosch and other scientists : coronaviruses that could species-jump were not a once-in-a-century thing , as some had assumed .
Already , they had proved to be a twice-in-a-decade thing .
Bosch , now on the faculty at Utrecht , sought to identify antibodies that showed promise in combating the disease .
Antibodies @ @ @ @ @ @ @ cells make in response to a foreign substance , an antigen , and are a critical part of the way our bodies fight off infection .
They mobilize against viruses by binding to part of the virus particle , or virion .
Some antibodies act like homing beacons , summoning attack by other components of the body ’ s immune system .
Others neutralize the virus directly , preventing it from invading cells .
All coronaviruses are enveloped in protein , and MERS , SARS , and a “ common cold ” type @ @ @ @ @ @ @ proteins .
A broadly reactive antibody , Bosch thought , could “ maybe help us against the next pandemic.
” He started with mice that had been genetically engineered so that they would respond to antigens with human-type antibodies , and gave the mice a protein that appears on human-infecting coronaviruses .
A few weeks or so later , his team extracted antibody-producing cells from the mice , and isolated the virus-binding antibodies .
From this collection of antibodies , Bosch and his colleagues identified fifty-one that worked against SARS , and several @ @ @ @ @ @ @ multiple coronaviruses .
“ They were of no immediate use , ” he said , but “ I don ’ t like to throw things away.
” Bosch ’ s team was playing the long game : they put their samples in the freezer and waited .
Today , COVID-19 patients are not so much treated as supported : in severe cases , they ’ re given anti-inflammatories—steroids , typically—and put on ventilators so that they can hold on until the virus , dubbed SARS-CoV-2 , succumbs to their immune system , or @ @ @ @ @ @ @ trying to find is a way to prevent the infection from getting established in the first place .
Here , there are three modes of attack .
The most valuable weapon is , of course , a vaccine .
A plentiful supply of an effective one could bring the pandemic to an end , and a great many candidates are in development .
Yet not everyone responds well to vaccines , especially the elderly , who are most at risk from the disease , and those with weakened immune systems .
Some people @ @ @ @ @ @ @ may not be able to take vaccines at all .
Other people will refuse the jab , no matter what randomized , controlled trials say about its safety and efficacy .
Also , vaccines take a few weeks to be effective , so if you ’ ve just been infected , it probably won ’ t help you .
And it will likely take years—and considerable infrastructure—to manufacture a sufficient supply of any vaccine and deliver it to billions of people .
Another approach is to devise an effective antiviral—something we could prescribe @ @ @ @ @ @ @ way we prescribe antibiotics for bacterial infections .
So far , a broad-spectrum antiviral has been elusive , and the more narrowly targeted antivirals currently being tested against the new coronavirus seem no more than modestly effective .
Gilead ’ s remdesivir has received a lot of attention , yet appears to speed recovery time by a just few days , and only in some COVID-19 patients .
This leaves the kind of treatment that Bosch , with his well-stocked freezer , had been banking would come in handy : an antibody drug @ @ @ @ @ @ @ antibodies , you could fight off a virus almost as if you ’ d already been immunized against it .
Antibody drugs could be a life- and job-saving prophylactic for health-care workers and others with a high risk of being exposed or a high risk of serious illness if they are exposed .
These drugs don ’ t have the long-term potency that vaccines do ; they don ’ t induce the body to produce antibodies of its own , and they steadily leave the bloodstream—a shot may not even last a month @ @ @ @ @ @ @ nearly as long-lasting as vaccines , they could be available sooner—an essential stopgap measure .
Bosch , at forty-five , is lithe , intent , and preternaturally boyish , a Tintin of virology .
He grew up in the Netherlands near the North Sea , and , with his father travelling frequently for his job as a chemist at Royal Dutch Shell , and his mother busy watching after his four siblings , he had ample freedom to traipse around the coastal dunes with his dog , watching shorebirds .
He still looks @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hair , even indoors .
When he first arrived at Utrecht , equipped with a degree in microbiology from Wageningen University , he studied how coronaviruses functioned , which was how he became fascinated with a key feature of the virus : the spike protein .
The coronavirus is covered in these proteins—hence its “ corona ” -like appearance .
By latching onto the proteins , these antibodies can prevent the virus from getting inside cells , multiplying , and creating a full-blown infection .
Along with Bosch ’ s team , researchers @ @ @ @ @ @ @ world have shown promising early results in cloning antibodies that could be effective against SARS-CoV-2 .
The discovery of antibodies ’ protective properties dates back to 1890 , when doctors in Berlin showed that administering blood serum from an animal that had been infected with diphtheria or tetanus could make another animal immune to the same disease .
In humans , so-called convalescent plasma has been used for various viral diseases .
But serum treatments can lead to complications—recipients can mount dangerous immune responses to extraneous proteins in the serum—and it ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Antibodies are precisely targeted : each kind responds to a particular foreign protein , and is manufactured by a specific white blood cell , or its descendants .
( A genetically identical cell line like this is known as a “ clone.
” ) In the nineteen-seventies , researchers at Cambridge University—Georges Köhler , a German biologist , and César Milstein , an Argentine biochemist—figured out a way to produce antibodies outside the body .
It involved fusing an antibody-producing white blood cell with a fast-proliferating kind of cancerous cell .
The method @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in sufficient quantity to be medically useful .

In 1998, when the Dutch scientist Berend Bosch decided to make the study of coronaviruses his life’s work, the level of attention they garnered among medical researchers was such that the Ph.D. program he joined was in a department of veterinary science. Coronaviruses that could cause severe infections were circulating among animals, but the types that people could contract seldom caused anything worse than the common cold. “For human health, it wasn’t that important,” Bosch said.
That started to change around the time he was completing his doctorate, at Utrecht University. In 2002 and 2003, SARS, a disease caused by a coronavirus that had leapt from bats to humans, caused widespread panic and killed about eight hundred people. Bosch started working on potential therapies for it. For a few months, he and his colleagues felt the eyes of the scientific world on them—he was invited to speak about the pathogen at several conferences—but, once the outbreak was contained, interest waned. Life in the lab was low-pressure; on weekends, he liked to rent a boat and go sailing.
In 2012, though, there was a new surge of attention when MERS, another disease caused by a coronavirus, killed almost nine hundred people, mainly in the Arabian Peninsula. The MERS outbreak was an important lesson for Bosch and other scientists: coronaviruses that could species-jump were not a once-in-a-century thing, as some had assumed. Already, they had proved to be a twice-in-a-decade thing. Bosch, now on the faculty at Utrecht, sought to identify antibodies that showed promise in combating the disease. Antibodies are Y-shaped proteins that certain white blood cells make in response to a foreign substance, an antigen, and are a critical part of the way our bodies fight off infection. They mobilize against viruses by binding to part of the virus particle, or virion. Some antibodies act like homing beacons, summoning attack by other components of the body’s immune system. Others neutralize the virus directly, preventing it from invading cells.
All coronaviruses are enveloped in protein, and MERS, SARS, and a “common cold” type of coronavirus share certain parts of those proteins. A broadly reactive antibody, Bosch thought, could “maybe help us against the next pandemic.” He started with mice that had been genetically engineered so that they would respond to antigens with human-type antibodies, and gave the mice a protein that appears on human-infecting coronaviruses. A few weeks or so later, his team extracted antibody-producing cells from the mice, and isolated the virus-binding antibodies. From this collection of antibodies, Bosch and his colleagues identified fifty-one that worked against SARS, and several that were “broadly reactive” against multiple coronaviruses. “They were of no immediate use,” he said, but “I don’t like to throw things away.” Bosch’s team was playing the long game: they put their samples in the freezer and waited.
Today, COVID-19 patients are not so much treated as supported: in severe cases, they’re given anti-inflammatories—steroids, typically—and put on ventilators so that they can hold on until the virus, dubbed SARS-CoV-2, succumbs to their immune system, or vice versa. What many researchers are trying to find is a way to prevent the infection from getting established in the first place. Here, there are three modes of attack.
The most valuable weapon is, of course, a vaccine. A plentiful supply of an effective one could bring the pandemic to an end, and a great many candidates are in development. Yet not everyone responds well to vaccines, especially the elderly, who are most at risk from the disease, and those with weakened immune systems. Some people, such as very young children, may not be able to take vaccines at all. Other people will refuse the jab, no matter what randomized, controlled trials say about its safety and efficacy. Also, vaccines take a few weeks to be effective, so if you’ve just been infected, it probably won’t help you. And it will likely take years—and considerable infrastructure—to manufacture a sufficient supply of any vaccine and deliver it to billions of people.
Another approach is to devise an effective antiviral—something we could prescribe for a viral infection in the routine way we prescribe antibiotics for bacterial infections. So far, a broad-spectrum antiviral has been elusive, and the more narrowly targeted antivirals currently being tested against the new coronavirus seem no more than modestly effective. Gilead’s remdesivir has received a lot of attention, yet appears to speed recovery time by a just few days, and only in some COVID-19 patients.
This leaves the kind of treatment that Bosch, with his well-stocked freezer, had been banking would come in handy: an antibody drug. Provided with the right kind of antibodies, you could fight off a virus almost as if you’d already been immunized against it. Antibody drugs could be a life- and job-saving prophylactic for health-care workers and others with a high risk of being exposed or a high risk of serious illness if they are exposed. These drugs don’t have the long-term potency that vaccines do; they don’t induce the body to produce antibodies of its own, and they steadily leave the bloodstream—a shot may not even last a month. Though antibody drugs aren’t nearly as long-lasting as vaccines, they could be available sooner—an essential stopgap measure.
Bosch, at forty-five, is lithe, intent, and preternaturally boyish, a Tintin of virology. He grew up in the Netherlands near the North Sea, and, with his father travelling frequently for his job as a chemist at Royal Dutch Shell, and his mother busy watching after his four siblings, he had ample freedom to traipse around the coastal dunes with his dog, watching shorebirds. He still looks a bit windswept, with tousled blond hair, even indoors. When he first arrived at Utrecht, equipped with a degree in microbiology from Wageningen University, he studied how coronaviruses functioned, which was how he became fascinated with a key feature of the virus: the spike protein.
The coronavirus is covered in these proteins—hence its “corona”-like appearance. By latching onto the proteins, these antibodies can prevent the virus from getting inside cells, multiplying, and creating a full-blown infection. Along with Bosch’s team, researchers at various biotechnology firms elsewhere in the world have shown promising early results in cloning antibodies that could be effective against SARS-CoV-2.
The discovery of antibodies’ protective properties dates back to 1890, when doctors in Berlin showed that administering blood serum from an animal that had been infected with diphtheria or tetanus could make another animal immune to the same disease. In humans, so-called convalescent plasma has been used for various viral diseases. But serum treatments can lead to complications—recipients can mount dangerous immune responses to extraneous proteins in the serum—and it’s hard to amass in useful quantities.
Antibodies are precisely targeted: each kind responds to a particular foreign protein, and is manufactured by a specific white blood cell, or its descendants. (A genetically identical cell line like this is known as a “clone.”) In the nineteen-seventies, researchers at Cambridge University—Georges Köhler, a German biologist, and César Milstein, an Argentine biochemist—figured out a way to produce antibodies outside the body. It involved fusing an antibody-producing white blood cell with a fast-proliferating kind of cancerous cell. The method proved capable of manufacturing any specific antibody in sufficient quantity to be medically useful.
Such “monoclonal” antibodies have since been developed as therapies for asthma, Crohn’s disease, rheumatoid arthritis, multiple sclerosis, various types of cancer, and more; in 2018, monoclonals represented six of the top ten pharmaceuticals by sales. Yet monoclonals, which are generally expensive to produce, have rarely been developed to fight infectious disease in humans. Instead, vaccines have been deployed against viral threats, and antibiotics against the bacterial ones.
In the time since the MERS outbreak had subsided and Bosch had closed his freezer of antibodies, he had continued studying coronaviruses, so when a story about an outbreak of a pneumonia-like illness in Wuhan, China, reached him early this year, he paid it more attention than most. The Wuhan Municipal Health Commission had announced twenty-seven cases of the unknown infection, and Bosch says he was “immediately alarmed.” Nobody yet knew the cause, but some thought that live-animal markets were implicated. Bosch suspected that another coronavirus might have crossed the species barrier. “And as a coronavirologist, you’re, like, What can you do in the lab to mitigate this?” he said. “I immediately thought of the antibodies we had in the freezer.”
In his first days back at work, Bosch called Frank Grosveld, a cell biologist at the Erasmus Medical Center, in Rotterdam, and his partner on the antibody project, and discussed thawing out all fifty-one samples. Within days, China publicly shared the genetic sequence of the novel pathogen, and Bosch’s hunch was confirmed—it was a coronavirus, like SARS and MERS.


newyorker--2020-07-21--Join Me in My Blissful Seven-Day Yoga Challenge for Unsettling Times

In unsettling times , it ’ s important to find balance and connect with our breath .
Give yourself the gift of your whole presence in this class , and let go of the anxiety and fear that at any moment the foundational elements of your life—or even life itself—could swiftly be taken away .
Also , try to forget that overnight you ’ ve opened up a homeschool for two children who could not give fewer fucks .
Let ’ s begin .
This slightly shorter but still blissful flow will build on yesterday ’ s postures and include @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the sounds of your children knocking on the door , screaming for ham .
We ’ ll begin on all fours , in cat pose .
We ’ ll embrace simplicity today by using just our mat .
The truth is that my blanket is the roof of a pillow fort that ’ s taken over our living room , and when I tried to retrieve it I think my five-year-old tased me ?
Is it possible that my toddler smells like menthol cigarettes ?
But at least now they ’ re quiet @ @ @ @ @ @ @ dog .
This vinyasa will run twenty minutes , which is honestly a very short amount of time to devote to blissful self-care , but also the absolute most time I can leave my children unattended before I worry about fires .
We ’ ll begin in child ’ s pose .
Pranayamas are yogic breathing exercises that increase our energy , release tension , and awaken a clear mind .
Let ’ s build to breath of fire , accepting and loving the goddess within you , who is currently filling the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Chips and Gewürztraminer .
Let ’ s all quickly brush our teeth and then meet in a cross-legged , seated position .
We ’ ll start today at the top of our mats .
Or , in my case , a towel , since I had to staple my mat to the wall to soundproof the room , because the childless Fryes next door , in B4 , are comfortable with sharing my Netflix password but not with the “ sound of a pig leaving her children to go to slaughter , ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the tiniest bit of ritual night-crying .
We ’ ll begin in prayer pose .
Day Seven : somewhere between zero minutes and eternity , I guess ?
You ’ ll need : honestly , nothing—what is anything anymore ?
Lay down and play dead .
This is technically called shavasana , or corpse pose , but it is also an act of survival .
To sleep , perchance to dream that these monsters whom you made with your body can find their own goddam Nutri-Grain bars .
Namaste .

Day One: thirty minutes
You’ll need: a mat, a strap, and a blanket.
In unsettling times, it’s important to find balance and connect with our breath. Give yourself the gift of your whole presence in this class, and let go of the anxiety and fear that at any moment the foundational elements of your life—or even life itself—could swiftly be taken away. Also, try to forget that overnight you’ve opened up a homeschool for two children who could not give fewer fucks. Let’s begin.
Day Two: twenty-five minutes
You’ll need: a mat, a strap, and a blanket.
This slightly shorter but still blissful flow will build on yesterday’s postures and include a djembe track, to drown out the sounds of your children knocking on the door, screaming for ham. We’ll begin on all fours, in cat pose.
Day Three: twenty-five minutes
You’ll need: a mat.
We’ll embrace simplicity today by using just our mat. The truth is that my blanket is the roof of a pillow fort that’s taken over our living room, and when I tried to retrieve it I think my five-year-old tased me? Is it possible that my toddler smells like menthol cigarettes? But at least now they’re quiet. We’ll begin in downward-facing dog.
Day Four: twenty minutes
You’ll need: a mat.
This vinyasa will run twenty minutes, which is honestly a very short amount of time to devote to blissful self-care, but also the absolute most time I can leave my children unattended before I worry about fires. We’ll begin in child’s pose.
Day Five: fifteen minutes
You’ll need: a mat.
Pranayamas are yogic breathing exercises that increase our energy, release tension, and awaken a clear mind. Let’s build to breath of fire, accepting and loving the goddess within you, who is currently filling the room with the scent of expired Sun Chips and Gewürztraminer. Let’s all quickly brush our teeth and then meet in a cross-legged, seated position.
Day Six: fifteen minutes
You’ll need: a towel.
We’ll start today at the top of our mats. Or, in my case, a towel, since I had to staple my mat to the wall to soundproof the room, because the childless Fryes next door, in B4, are comfortable with sharing my Netflix password but not with the “sound of a pig leaving her children to go to slaughter,” which is an unfair way to describe the tiniest bit of ritual night-crying. We’ll begin in prayer pose.
Day Seven: somewhere between zero minutes and eternity, I guess?
You’ll need: honestly, nothing—what is anything anymore?
Lay down and play dead. This is technically called shavasana, or corpse pose, but it is also an act of survival. To sleep, perchance to dream that these monsters whom you made with your body can find their own goddam Nutri-Grain bars. Namaste.


newyorker--2020-07-21--A. M. Homes Reads “The Lottery”

A. M. Homes Reads “The Lottery”

A. M. Homes joins Deborah Treisman to read and discuss Shirley Jackson ’ s short story “ The Lottery , @ @ @ @ @ of the New Yorker Fiction Podcast .
The story was originally published in 1948 and @ @ @ @ @ 27 , 2020 , issue of The New Yorker—a bonus issue made up of pieces @ @ @ @ @ archive on the subject of American dissent .

Photograph by Erich Hartmann / Magnum
A. M. Homes joins Deborah Treisman to read and discuss Shirley Jackson’s short story “The Lottery,” in this 2008 episode of the New Yorker Fiction Podcast. The story was originally published in 1948 and is included in the July 27, 2020, issue of The New Yorker—a bonus issue made up of pieces from the magazine’s archive on the subject of American dissent.