newyorker--2020-06-15--So Brutal a Death

So Brutal a Death

I was twenty when Yusuf K. Hawkins , a sixteen-year-old African-American man , was attacked by a mob of about thirty white teen-agers armed with baseball bats and then shot to death , on August 23 , 1989 , in Bensonhurst , Brooklyn .
Hawkins had gone to the predominantly white neighborhood to buy a car .
In the days and weeks following his death , there were marches , led by the Reverend Al Sharpton and a coalition of civil-rights organizations , through the neighborhood where Hawkins was killed .
At the time of Hawkins ’ s murder , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for only eight years .
Having spent my childhood living under a ruthless dictatorship in Haiti and being constantly reminded to avoid the wrath of soldiers and henchmen , I was already haunted by stories of beatings , torture , and extrajudicial killings .
This was , in part , why I went to a massive protest in downtown Brooklyn a week after the murder .
The march , called A Day of Outrage and Mourning , was attended by more than seven thousand people .
I took my teen-age brothers with me @ @ @ @ @ @ @ down Flatbush Avenue , shouting , “ No justice , no peace ” —that one day I might be chanting for them .
We came close on August 9 , 1997 , when a family friend , Abner Louima , in a case of mistaken identity , was arrested outside a Brooklyn night club , then pummelled with the fists , radios , flashlights , and nightsticks of several police officers , then sexually assaulted with a wooden broom handle inside a precinct bathroom .
Some black immigrant parents harbor the illusion that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the most polite , the best dressed , and the hardest working in school , they might somehow escape the brunt of systemic racism .
But the myth of the good immigrant as exempt from police assault and murder kept getting shattered around us .
By the February 4 , 1999 , killing of Amadou Diallo , a twenty-three-year-old Guinean , slaughtered on his doorstep by nineteen of the forty-one police bullets aimed at him as he reached for his wallet ; by the March 16 , 2000 , shooting of Patrick Dorismond @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , by undercover officers .
Thousands of people , in the United States and around the world , have had their own awakenings—from joining protests to becoming part of movements—after watching the on-camera asphyxiation of George Floyd , his neck crushed beneath the bent knee of Derek Chauvin for nearly nine minutes , as two other officers dug their knees into Floyd ’ s back .
It is the stuff of many African-American families ’ worst nightmares , a public torture and execution by uniformed representatives of the state , who seem equally @ @ @ @ @ @ @ extinguishing and the consequences they appear certain they will never face .
It is also the type of thing that many immigrants thought they were leaving behind when they moved here .
Describing the reaction of some of Minnesota ’ s Somali refugees to the sadistic killing of Floyd , Fartun Weli , the executive director of Isuroon—a nonprofit organization that supports Somali families—told the Minneapolis Star Tribune , “ They were like , ‘ We can ’ t believe it .
This is America.
’ ” At the same time , the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ life out of Floyd might serve as a metaphor for the way U.S .
Administrations have , for generations , dealt with the countries many of us come from—through invasions , occupations , wars , the buttressing of dictators , and the removal of democratically elected governments , among other tactics .
In the agony of his final moments , while crying out for his mama , water , and breath , George Floyd reached out to and became all of us .
He has joined a vast community of people , across @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the injustices and the inequalities of their own societies in his American story , and recognize their own torment in his suffering .
Floyd ’ s seemingly unending death , in the midst of a pandemic that has disproportionately killed black , brown , and indigenous people , also underscores the fact that many of us are mourning , and are uncertain about how long we ourselves will be able to breathe .
In images of the solidarity protests from more than fifty countries around the world—Syria , Brazil , Australia , South @ @ @ @ @ @ @ justice , no peace ” and “ Black lives matter.
” George Floyd ’ s name is not the only one being called .
The names of their own Breonna Taylors , Ahmaud Arberys , Sandra Blands , and Trayvon Martins also ring out , as part of a long and growing list .
“ It ’ s always the same story .
Only the names change ” read a cardboard sign held up by a protester in Paris .
Another sign reads “ STOP KILLING US.
” This “ us ” has @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and more visible than George Floyd or his killers could have ever imagined .
At recent rallies and protests near my home , in Miami , in addition to cries for justice for George Floyd and other victims of police and vigilante murder , I have observed spoken-word recitals , calls to defund the police and to end mass incarceration , and pleas for people to go out and vote .
I have also heard music , drumming , and political hip-hop blasting from cars trailing the crowds .
At times , also @ @ @ @ @ @ @ are the words of the Miami-based poet and activist Aja Monet , from her poem “ # sayhername ” :

I was twenty when Yusuf K. Hawkins, a sixteen-year-old African-American man, was attacked by a mob of about thirty white teen-agers armed with baseball bats and then shot to death, on August 23, 1989, in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. Hawkins had gone to the predominantly white neighborhood to buy a car. In the days and weeks following his death, there were marches, led by the Reverend Al Sharpton and a coalition of civil-rights organizations, through the neighborhood where Hawkins was killed.
At the time of Hawkins’s murder, I had been in the United States for only eight years. Having spent my childhood living under a ruthless dictatorship in Haiti and being constantly reminded to avoid the wrath of soldiers and henchmen, I was already haunted by stories of beatings, torture, and extrajudicial killings. This was, in part, why I went to a massive protest in downtown Brooklyn a week after the murder. The march, called A Day of Outrage and Mourning, was attended by more than seven thousand people. I took my teen-age brothers with me, and I remember fearing—as we marched down Flatbush Avenue, shouting, “No justice, no peace”—that one day I might be chanting for them.
We came close on August 9, 1997, when a family friend, Abner Louima, in a case of mistaken identity, was arrested outside a Brooklyn night club, then pummelled with the fists, radios, flashlights, and nightsticks of several police officers, then sexually assaulted with a wooden broom handle inside a precinct bathroom. Some black immigrant parents harbor the illusion that if their émigré and U.S.-born children are the most polite, the best dressed, and the hardest working in school, they might somehow escape the brunt of systemic racism. But the myth of the good immigrant as exempt from police assault and murder kept getting shattered around us. By the February 4, 1999, killing of Amadou Diallo, a twenty-three-year-old Guinean, slaughtered on his doorstep by nineteen of the forty-one police bullets aimed at him as he reached for his wallet; by the March 16, 2000, shooting of Patrick Dorismond, the twenty-six-year-old son of Haitian immigrants, by undercover officers.
Thousands of people, in the United States and around the world, have had their own awakenings—from joining protests to becoming part of movements—after watching the on-camera asphyxiation of George Floyd, his neck crushed beneath the bent knee of Derek Chauvin for nearly nine minutes, as two other officers dug their knees into Floyd’s back. It is the stuff of many African-American families’ worst nightmares, a public torture and execution by uniformed representatives of the state, who seem equally unconcerned about the life they’re extinguishing and the consequences they appear certain they will never face. It is also the type of thing that many immigrants thought they were leaving behind when they moved here.
Describing the reaction of some of Minnesota’s Somali refugees to the sadistic killing of Floyd, Fartun Weli, the executive director of Isuroon—a nonprofit organization that supports Somali families—told the Minneapolis Star Tribune, “They were like, ‘We can’t believe it. This is America.’ ”
At the same time, the image of these police officers squeezing the life out of Floyd might serve as a metaphor for the way U.S. Administrations have, for generations, dealt with the countries many of us come from—through invasions, occupations, wars, the buttressing of dictators, and the removal of democratically elected governments, among other tactics. In the agony of his final moments, while crying out for his mama, water, and breath, George Floyd reached out to and became all of us. He has joined a vast community of people, across the globe, who see echoes of the injustices and the inequalities of their own societies in his American story, and recognize their own torment in his suffering. Floyd’s seemingly unending death, in the midst of a pandemic that has disproportionately killed black, brown, and indigenous people, also underscores the fact that many of us are mourning, and are uncertain about how long we ourselves will be able to breathe.
In images of the solidarity protests from more than fifty countries around the world—Syria, Brazil, Australia, South Africa—people march, chanting, “No justice, no peace” and “Black lives matter.” George Floyd’s name is not the only one being called. The names of their own Breonna Taylors, Ahmaud Arberys, Sandra Blands, and Trayvon Martins also ring out, as part of a long and growing list. “It’s always the same story. Only the names change” read a cardboard sign held up by a protester in Paris.
Another sign reads “STOP KILLING US.” This “us” has grown exponentially and has become more vocal and more visible than George Floyd or his killers could have ever imagined.
At recent rallies and protests near my home, in Miami, in addition to cries for justice for George Floyd and other victims of police and vigilante murder, I have observed spoken-word recitals, calls to defund the police and to end mass incarceration, and pleas for people to go out and vote. I have also heard music, drumming, and political hip-hop blasting from cars trailing the crowds. At times, also playing in the back of my mind are the words of the Miami-based poet and activist Aja Monet, from her poem “#sayhername”:
I am not here to say look at me how I died
so brutal a death I deserve a name to fit all the horror in


Tulsa’s Hopeful Anger

Whenever a black man dies at the hands of police , Tiffany Crutcher must bear witness .
This is what people seem to think .
She does not seek out the initial headlines hesitant to assign blame , the cries for transparency on social media , the eventual gruesome video evidence .
They flood her in-boxes anyway , as her friends and online followers assume she will know how to make sense of things .
As if she has peered beyond the veil and returned with a wisdom that she can share at a time of crisis .
The torrent @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , when people began sending her articles about George Floyd .
Crutcher , a physical therapist turned criminal-justice-reform activist , was on her sofa in Tulsa , Oklahoma , working from home , owing to COVID-19 .
She saw a picture of a police officer with his knee on Floyd ’ s neck .
She felt nauseated .
She watched a short video clip of Floyd calling out for his mother as the life was choked out of him .
She felt angry .
Over the next few days , a cruel cocktail @ @ @ @ @ @ @ black people—rage , fear , sadness—made it difficult for her to sleep .
But there was work to be done , and certain expectations for how to respond properly .
Over the last several years , as cell-phone videos have documented with increased frequency the killings of unarmed black people , Americans have developed an intuitive understanding of the prescribed boundaries of outrage .
On Facebook , Crutcher encouraged people to call leaders in Minneapolis and demand justice for Floyd .
She used all the familiar hashtags : # blacklivesmatter , # icantbreathe @ @ @ @ @ @ @ 28th press conference organized by black community leaders , at a North Tulsa church , she spoke with a halting exhaustion that carried the weight of much more than the past few days ’ events .
“ Here we are , yet again , angry and devastated at the killing of another unarmed black man by law enforcement , ” she said , in front of a phalanx of impassive cameras .
“ The compounded trauma that my family , that our community , that we endure is real.
” Crutcher had exchanged @ @ @ @ @ @ @ city-council meetings , social-media posts , town halls , and press conferences .
“ Is this going to help anything ?
” she recalls thinking that day .
“ They ’ re not hearing us.
” In the aftermath of Floyd ’ s death , she felt hopeless , pantomiming solutions that didn ’ t seem to be moving the criminal-justice system far enough or fast enough .
And , even as her allies made similar comments in the lobby of the church , denouncing racism and calling for change , her pain @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , too .
“ It was almost as if Terence had died all over again , ” she told me .
Terence Crutcher loved to sing .
When he and Tiffany , his twin sister , were children , they developed a mutual love of music .
She played the viola and he played the cello .
The pair celebrated their fortieth birthday , in August of 2016 , with a phone call discussing Terence ’ s plans to return to school and one day open a music-production studio .
They spoke of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ half of their lives .
One month later , on the evening of September 16th , Terence ’ s car was left idling in the middle of a North Tulsa road .
He had recently left Tulsa Community College , where he was enrolled in a music-appreciation class .
Terence abandoned the vehicle and was behaving erratically , according to eyewitness accounts .
One witness said that , when his wife saw a distressed man walking down the road , she wanted to help the man , because he appeared to be in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ witness said that he was afraid to approach Terence .
Instead , at least two observers on the scene called 911 .
Terence ’ s next encounter was with a Tulsa Police Department officer named Betty Shelby .
Aerial footage from a police helicopter showed Terence walking toward his vehicle with his hands up as Shelby walked behind him , gun drawn .
“ That looks like a bad dude , ” the helicopter ’ s pilot , Michael Richert , said in the video clip .
“ Could be on something.
” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Shelby and two other officers pointed weapons at Terence , and he walked back toward his car with his hands up .
As Terence stood by the driver-side door of his vehicle , Shelby fired a shot into his chest , causing him to crumple to the ground .
She would later claim that Terence was reaching into his car window , though lawyers for the Crutcher family said the window was closed .
Terence was unarmed , and police found no weapons in his vehicle .
He was pronounced dead at @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was arrested six days after killing Terence , and charged with first-degree manslaughter .
She chose to stage an unusually public defense .
In an interview with “ 60 Minutes ” before her trial , Shelby said that Terence caused his own death .
“ I saw a threat , and I used the force I felt necessary to stop a threat , ” she said .
Tiffany Crutcher , who had always shared in her twin brother ’ s pain , became Terence ’ s public advocate .
“ She wasn ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was committing a crime , ” Crutcher said , of Shelby .
“ She just noticed a car in the middle of the road , and the outcome was my brother was murdered.
” Shelby ’ s legal defense built on the arguments she had laid out on “ 60 Minutes.
” At her trial , the following month , she said that she had feared for her life because of Terence ’ s behavior .
She said that Terence had refused to comply with her repeated orders to stop and get on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as “ very big ” and looking like a “ zombie , ” she overestimated his height by three inches and his weight by forty-six pounds .
Defense lawyers suggested that Terence had been dangerous in the past , as well as on the night he was shot by Shelby .
They outlined portions of his criminal record during the trial , and hinged much of their argument on a toxicology report that revealed that PCP , a hallucinogenic drug , had been in Terence ’ s system at the time of his @ @ @ @ @ @ @ had behaved in an aggressive or violent manner .
The perceived threat of violence , Shelby and her lawyers said , was enough .
A jury consisting of nine white people and three black people agreed .
Shelby was acquitted of all charges on May 17th , 2017 , and whisked out of the courtroom within moments of the announcement of the verdict .
( After resigning from the Tulsa Police Department , she was hired by the Rogers County Sheriff ’ s Office , and taught a class to other officers on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ someone while in uniform . )
Crutcher , standing with her father before the news cameras in the courthouse , was left to stew in the aftermath of the verdict .
Her grief quickly crystallized into conviction .
“ I ’ m going to make sure that I don ’ t rest until we get reform for this police department in Tulsa , Oklahoma , ” she said .
It was a monumental task .
The relationship between Tulsa police and the black residents they are bound to protect was poisoned nearly a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ when white rioters burned down the thriving black neighborhood of Greenwood , destroying more than a thousand homes and killing as many as three hundred residents .
Many of the vandals were deputized by police , and they herded black Tulsans into internment camps , where the detainees were held by armed guards for as long as two weeks .
None of the perpetrators faced serious criminal prosecution .
For decades afterward , Tulsa police followed an unspoken rule that white cops would not follow African-American suspects across the railroad tracks and into @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Such policies extended nearly into the twenty-first century , with black officers claiming , in a 1994 lawsuit , that they were often denied backup from their white colleagues and were routinely deprived of raises and promotions .
( The suit was settled in 2002 , with the department agreeing to multiple reforms . )

Whenever a black man dies at the hands of police, Tiffany Crutcher must bear witness. This is what people seem to think. She does not seek out the initial headlines hesitant to assign blame, the cries for transparency on social media, the eventual gruesome video evidence. They flood her in-boxes anyway, as her friends and online followers assume she will know how to make sense of things. As if she has peered beyond the veil and returned with a wisdom that she can share at a time of crisis. The torrent began anew on Tuesday, May 26th, when people began sending her articles about George Floyd.
Crutcher, a physical therapist turned criminal-justice-reform activist, was on her sofa in Tulsa, Oklahoma, working from home, owing to COVID-19. She saw a picture of a police officer with his knee on Floyd’s neck. She felt nauseated. She watched a short video clip of Floyd calling out for his mother as the life was choked out of him. She felt angry. Over the next few days, a cruel cocktail of emotions familiar to far too many black people—rage, fear, sadness—made it difficult for her to sleep.
But there was work to be done, and certain expectations for how to respond properly. Over the last several years, as cell-phone videos have documented with increased frequency the killings of unarmed black people, Americans have developed an intuitive understanding of the prescribed boundaries of outrage. On Facebook, Crutcher encouraged people to call leaders in Minneapolis and demand justice for Floyd. She used all the familiar hashtags: #blacklivesmatter, #icantbreathe, #policereformNOW. At a May 28th press conference organized by black community leaders, at a North Tulsa church, she spoke with a halting exhaustion that carried the weight of much more than the past few days’ events. “Here we are, yet again, angry and devastated at the killing of another unarmed black man by law enforcement,” she said, in front of a phalanx of impassive cameras. “The compounded trauma that my family, that our community, that we endure is real.”
Crutcher had exchanged so many words over the years in city-council meetings, social-media posts, town halls, and press conferences. “Is this going to help anything?” she recalls thinking that day. “They’re not hearing us.” In the aftermath of Floyd’s death, she felt hopeless, pantomiming solutions that didn’t seem to be moving the criminal-justice system far enough or fast enough. And, even as her allies made similar comments in the lobby of the church, denouncing racism and calling for change, her pain was different. Her urgency would be, too. “It was almost as if Terence had died all over again,” she told me.
After Tiffany Crutcher’s twin brother, Terence, was killed by a Tulsa police officer, she became a criminal-justice-reform activist. Photograph by Zora J Murff for The New Yorker
Terence Crutcher loved to sing. When he and Tiffany, his twin sister, were children, they developed a mutual love of music. She played the viola and he played the cello. The pair celebrated their fortieth birthday, in August of 2016, with a phone call discussing Terence’s plans to return to school and one day open a music-production studio. They spoke of their hopes and dreams for the second half of their lives.
One month later, on the evening of September 16th, Terence’s car was left idling in the middle of a North Tulsa road. He had recently left Tulsa Community College, where he was enrolled in a music-appreciation class. Terence abandoned the vehicle and was behaving erratically, according to eyewitness accounts. One witness said that, when his wife saw a distressed man walking down the road, she wanted to help the man, because he appeared to be in need of medical attention. But the witness said that he was afraid to approach Terence. Instead, at least two observers on the scene called 911. Terence’s next encounter was with a Tulsa Police Department officer named Betty Shelby.
Aerial footage from a police helicopter showed Terence walking toward his vehicle with his hands up as Shelby walked behind him, gun drawn. “That looks like a bad dude,” the helicopter’s pilot, Michael Richert, said in the video clip. “Could be on something.” Three more officers arrived at the scene. Shelby and two other officers pointed weapons at Terence, and he walked back toward his car with his hands up. As Terence stood by the driver-side door of his vehicle, Shelby fired a shot into his chest, causing him to crumple to the ground. She would later claim that Terence was reaching into his car window, though lawyers for the Crutcher family said the window was closed. Terence was unarmed, and police found no weapons in his vehicle. He was pronounced dead at a nearby hospital that night.
Shelby was arrested six days after killing Terence, and charged with first-degree manslaughter. She chose to stage an unusually public defense. In an interview with “60 Minutes” before her trial, Shelby said that Terence caused his own death. “I saw a threat, and I used the force I felt necessary to stop a threat,” she said. Tiffany Crutcher, who had always shared in her twin brother’s pain, became Terence’s public advocate. “She wasn’t called to the scene because Terence was committing a crime,” Crutcher said, of Shelby. “She just noticed a car in the middle of the road, and the outcome was my brother was murdered.”
Shelby’s legal defense built on the arguments she had laid out on “60 Minutes.” At her trial, the following month, she said that she had feared for her life because of Terence’s behavior. She said that Terence had refused to comply with her repeated orders to stop and get on his knees. While she described him as “very big” and looking like a “zombie,” she overestimated his height by three inches and his weight by forty-six pounds. Defense lawyers suggested that Terence had been dangerous in the past, as well as on the night he was shot by Shelby. They outlined portions of his criminal record during the trial, and hinged much of their argument on a toxicology report that revealed that PCP, a hallucinogenic drug, had been in Terence’s system at the time of his death. No one claimed that Terence had behaved in an aggressive or violent manner. The perceived threat of violence, Shelby and her lawyers said, was enough.
A jury consisting of nine white people and three black people agreed. Shelby was acquitted of all charges on May 17th, 2017, and whisked out of the courtroom within moments of the announcement of the verdict. (After resigning from the Tulsa Police Department, she was hired by the Rogers County Sheriff’s Office, and taught a class to other officers on “surviving the aftermath” of shooting someone while in uniform.) Crutcher, standing with her father before the news cameras in the courthouse, was left to stew in the aftermath of the verdict. Her grief quickly crystallized into conviction. “I’m going to make sure that I don’t rest until we get reform for this police department in Tulsa, Oklahoma,” she said.
It was a monumental task. The relationship between Tulsa police and the black residents they are bound to protect was poisoned nearly a hundred years ago, in 1921, when white rioters burned down the thriving black neighborhood of Greenwood, which had become known as Black Wall Street because of its success. Whites destroyed more than a thousand homes and killed as many as three hundred residents. Many of the vandals were deputized by police, and they herded black Tulsans into internment camps, where the detainees were held by armed guards for as long as two weeks. None of the perpetrators faced serious criminal prosecution. For decades afterward, Tulsa police followed an unspoken rule that white cops would not follow African-American suspects across the railroad tracks and into North Tulsa, which is predominantly black. Such policies extended nearly into the twenty-first century, with black officers claiming, in a 1994 lawsuit, that they were often denied backup from their white colleagues and were routinely deprived of raises and promotions. (The suit was settled in 2002, with the department agreeing to multiple reforms.)
But, beyond the calluses of history, Terence’s murder was characterized by the wounds of the current moment. Shortly before he was killed, Tulsa-area officers had shot two other unarmed black men. In 2014, an off-duty Tulsa Police Department officer drove to the home of Jeremy Lake, his daughter’s black boyfriend, and shot him twice, killing him. In 2015, a Tulsa County volunteer sheriff’s deputy accidentally fired his gun instead of his Taser, killing a fleeing suspect, Eric Harris. Both officers were found guilty of manslaughter, though Lake’s killer was only convicted after three mistrials. A study released by the city of Tulsa and the Rockefeller Foundation in 2018, called the Equality Indicators Report, found that black residents were more than twice as likely as white ones to experience the use of force from police officers.


newyorker--2020-06-16--My Cat Just Said “Feed Me, Woman” Out Loud—Is This Normal?

Hey , N.Y.C .
Cat Lovers Facebook group !
As a new cat owner , I ’ m so excited to be a part of this online community of a-meow-zing cat people !
I ’ m hoping you guys can help me out .
You see , I was a little late in feeding Speckles this morning .
Out of nowhere , he placed his paw on my foot and , in a mocking tone , said , “ Feed me , woman.
” Is this normal ?
My favorite part of having a cat is coming home to him @ @ @ @ @ @ @ he rubs against my legs !
Sometimes , when I get home , I notice that stuff has been moved around .
Occasionally , it ’ s big stuff , like rugs or lamps .
Other times , it ’ s small stuff that I almost don ’ t notice .
Last Tuesday , my favorite mug had been moved close to the edge of the shelf , and when I opened the cabinet it fell out and shattered on the floor .
I heard a smug little laugh from the other room @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was Speckles .
Do your fuzzy friends ever pointedly set traps like this ?
At least he never scratches the furniture !
Speckles is a spunky little guy with a big personality .
He likes to be right by my side every minute of the day , even when I ’ m trying to get work done !
One time , he kept stepping his cute furry paws on my laptop keyboard .
While my back was turned , he ordered a copy of  “ Infinite Jest ” from Amazon using my @ @ @ @ @ @ @ my card number ?
Have any of your cats ever stolen money from you and used it to buy a David Foster Wallace novel ?
When I adopted him , I knew that he might pee on the couch—it ’ s just odd that no one warned me about this !
My kitty is always leaving funny surprises around the house—I ’ ll find a bit of fur in the corner , or a torn-up receipt that he mistook for a toy !
Once , I found a note taped to my bathroom @ @ @ @ @ @ @ makeup today , ugly.
” I was certain it was Speckles , because he ’ s the only one who knows I have that insecurity .
Does anyone else ’ s cat target their innermost uncertainties in this way ?
Seriously , I ’ ve been reading a lot of cat forums , and it seems like cats generally just lie around all day , so this is throwing me for a loop , is all .
Anyway , after that incident , things started getting a bit better with Speckles .
That @ @ @ @ @ @ @ came home to find him and five other cats I didn ’ t recognize smoking American Spirit cigarettes in my living room .
When I walked in , Speckles told me to “ go mind my business , ” and then he and all the other cats laughed at me .
Am I not playing with him enough ?
Is his litter box too dirty ?
Does he need more time outdoors ?
Seriously , cat lovers , I need some help here !
I read that I ’ m supposed to tire @ @ @ @ @ @ @ him , but he just keeps telling me that he doesn ’ t have time for my “ little games , ” and then demands that I buy him a Bowflex machine .
Does Purina make those ?
I ’ m sorry this post is so long , but I hope that someone on this paw-some page can help me out !
I ’ ve got to go—Speckles just started blaring Father John Misty .
They never said it was easy being a cat mom !

Hey, N.Y.C. Cat Lovers Facebook group! As a new cat owner, I’m so excited to be a part of this online community of a-meow-zing cat people! I’m hoping you guys can help me out. You see, I was a little late in feeding Speckles this morning. Out of nowhere, he placed his paw on my foot and, in a mocking tone, said, “Feed me, woman.” Is this normal?
My favorite part of having a cat is coming home to him each day—it’s so cute when he rubs against my legs! Sometimes, when I get home, I notice that stuff has been moved around. Occasionally, it’s big stuff, like rugs or lamps. Other times, it’s small stuff that I almost don’t notice. Last Tuesday, my favorite mug had been moved close to the edge of the shelf, and when I opened the cabinet it fell out and shattered on the floor. I heard a smug little laugh from the other room. I have reason to suspect it was Speckles. Do your fuzzy friends ever pointedly set traps like this? At least he never scratches the furniture!
Speckles is a spunky little guy with a big personality. He likes to be right by my side every minute of the day, even when I’m trying to get work done! One time, he kept stepping his cute furry paws on my laptop keyboard. While my back was turned, he ordered a copy of “Infinite Jest” from Amazon using my credit card. How did he memorize my card number? Have any of your cats ever stolen money from you and used it to buy a David Foster Wallace novel? When I adopted him, I knew that he might pee on the couch—it’s just odd that no one warned me about this!
My kitty is always leaving funny surprises around the house—I’ll find a bit of fur in the corner, or a torn-up receipt that he mistook for a toy! Once, I found a note taped to my bathroom mirror that said, “Consider more makeup today, ugly.” I was certain it was Speckles, because he’s the only one who knows I have that insecurity. Does anyone else’s cat target their innermost uncertainties in this way? Seriously, I’ve been reading a lot of cat forums, and it seems like cats generally just lie around all day, so this is throwing me for a loop, is all.
Anyway, after that incident, things started getting a bit better with Speckles. That is, until one day when I came home to find him and five other cats I didn’t recognize smoking American Spirit cigarettes in my living room. When I walked in, Speckles told me to “go mind my business,” and then he and all the other cats laughed at me.
Am I not playing with him enough? Is his litter box too dirty? Does he need more time outdoors? Seriously, cat lovers, I need some help here! I read that I’m supposed to tire him out before bed by playing with him, but he just keeps telling me that he doesn’t have time for my “little games,” and then demands that I buy him a Bowflex machine. Does Purina make those?
I’m sorry this post is so long, but I hope that someone on this paw-some page can help me out! I’ve got to go—Speckles just started blaring Father John Misty. They never said it was easy being a cat mom!


newyorker--2020-06-16--Judd Apatow’s “The King of Staten Island,” Reviewed: Pete Davidson’s Apprenticeship in Comedy and Ma

Judd Apatow’s “The King of Staten Island,” Reviewed: Pete Davidson’s Apprenticeship in Comedy and Manhood

If directors ’ films were gathered as albums , Judd Apatow ’ s career would borrow a title from Jimi Hendrix : “ Are You Experienced.
” Apprenticeships , self-transformations , the emergence from irresponsible innocence to life-tested maturity—and the boundaries between amateur status and professionalism—provide the through line of Apatow ’ s work as a director , including in his new film , “ The King of Staten Island.
” It ’ s the story of a twenty-four-year-old man-boy , Scott Carlin ( Pete Davidson ) , who is miserably yet proudly idle , emotionally needy yet utterly ungiving @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the misery around—and who , through tough love and good luck , acquires self-discipline , finds purpose , and learns to love .
Scott lives in a small but comfortable house on Staten Island , with his mother , Margie ( Marisa Tomei ) , a nurse , and his sister , Claire ( Maude Apatow ) , who , when the action begins , is graduating from high school .
His father , Stan , is the movie ’ s central absent presence : a firefighter , he died in action , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ when Scott was seven .
Scott ’ s memories of Stan are vague , but Scott ’ s sense of loss is keen , and his sense of his father ’ s greatness is reaffirmed daily by a shrine in the family ’ s living room , and by the hushed and reverent tones with which Margie and the extended family speak of him .
( Davidson , who wrote the script with Apatow and Dave Sirus , based the character of Scott on his own father , Scott Davidson , a firefighter @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Trade Center on 9/11 . )
The film ’ s first scene displays the depth of Scott ’ s agony : he is driving at high speed on a highway with his eyes closed and his seat belt off , a clear suicide attempt .
At the last moment , he opens his eyes and saves himself—causing other drivers to have a minor accident—and , in terror and remorse , apologizes aloud and fastens his seat belt .
Scott is deeply traumatized .
He endures pain that he doesn ’ t hesitate to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of work , constantly abrasive , callous , and withdrawn , quick with insults and cantankerous with refusals , a young curmudgeon whose comedic negativity is sapped of its humor by his dour delivery and his passive manner .
He could rank as a nihilist if he had any ideas ; instead , he ’ s just a sinkhole of gloom who throws sand in the gears of the social machine and sucks the good will out of relationships and the conviviality out of gatherings—starting with Claire ’ s graduation party , which @ @ @ @ @ @ @ What ’ s more , Scott ’ s bad manners are accompanied by bad judgment ; he can be relied upon only to be utterly unreliable .
He is in a sexual relationship with a woman named Kelsey ( Bel Powley ) , whom he ’ s known since fourth grade ; he thinks it ’ s just sex and she thinks it ’ s a relationship , and , by keeping their whatever-it-is a complete secret from friends and family , he manages to ruin both .
He didn ’ t graduate @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a job , and takes antidepressants ( which stifle his sex life ) .
He ’ s possessed of one passion in life , for tattoos .
He ’ s copiously tattooed , all over his torso , and claims that the pain is the point .
He hopes to become a tattoo artist , and he ’ s been practicing , with ludicrously bad results , on his friends ; his big dream is to open a tattoo restaurant .
( He jokes that it will be called “ Ruby Tat-Tuesdays.
” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ friends , Igor ( Moisés Arias ) , Richie ( Lou Wilson ) , and Oscar ( Ricky Velez ) , are hanging out at a desolate beachside park , Scott , tattoo gun in hand , desperate to practice , encounters—and tattoos—a ten-year-old boy named Harold ( Luke David Blumm ) .
When Harold ’ s father , Ray ( Bill Burr ) , comes to the Carlin house to berate Scott , he also meets Margie .
A few days later , Ray—a firefighter who ’ s aware of the legend @ @ @ @ @ @ @ They soon become a couple ; it ’ s Margie ’ s first relationship in the seventeen years since Stan ’ s death , and Scott , jealous over her affections , does his best to break them up .
He succeeds—but also gets thrown out of the house .
Scott ’ s sense of the future , and his path to healing , depends on his confronting the loss of his father , the trauma that has warped his life .
It also involves his bonding with Ray and with other firefighters @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Buscemi , who knew Stan well ) , who provide a surrogate fatherhood and instill pride and principle .
And it involves Scott learning from them a fuller truth about his father than Margie was ever willing to share .
“ The King of Staten Island ” is full of wondrous antic ricochets of bilious dialogue , which seem to bounce in from unexpected directions .
Its comedy , though , is less outrageous—and less physical—than in Apatow ’ s other films , and centered more on the causes and effects of psychology—perhaps @ @ @ @ @ @ @ world remote from Apatow ’ s own .
All of his other films ( even , glancingly , “ The 40-Year-Old Virgin ” ) are set in the world of media , and media fanatics , pop-culture nerds , aspirants , and insiders .
His aspirants learn to harness their chaotic or diffident abilities , his insiders break through the conventions of professionalism to rekindle the passion that launched them .
By contrast , Apatow ’ s connection to the world of firefighters appears tenuous , borrowed , approximate , evasive .
All @ @ @ @ @ @ @ comes off as a mere plot mechanism , sketched only anecdotally , on the edge of stereotype .
There is , for instance , a sequence in which the incarceration of several of Scott ’ s friends is played for laughs , and it ’ s not the only one that feels as if it were taken from a drawer of obsolete sketch-comedy ideas .
The movie is a tale of education , a belated comic bildungsroman , centered on the emotional relationship of teachers and students .
The men in the firehouse @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the student , and he learns from them not only about his own father but about manhood itself—that it involves not the denial or repression of his temperamental wildness but , rather , the harnessing of its power in pursuit of a clear purpose .
Which is to say that “ The King of Staten Island ” is intensely gendered , and that this gendering is particularly unexamined .
Apatow ’ s past films have been criticized for the meagreness of their female characters ; here , they are even less substantial .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ firehouse , a black woman , played by Giselle King , and , though IMDb gives the character the name of Jaylen Patterson , it ’ s never heard in the film , and she has only a perfunctory , practical line or two of dialogue .
Margie is the movie ’ s center of gravity , the poised decision-maker who takes control of her life while also facing Scott ’ s failings and exposing Ray ’ s wishy-washy accommodations and flustered self-justifications .
Yet her own character nonetheless consists of little more @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Kelsey , who makes her ambition clear—to work in city planning and make Staten Island “ like Williamsburg ” —nonetheless seems merely to be responding to Scott throughout , as an appendage to his journey .
“ The King of Staten Island ” runs two and a quarter hours long , and there isn ’ t another American comedy director working now who could sustain that duration with such balance and bounce .
Apatow is the only one who has a marked affinity with John Cassavetes , with dialogue scenes that distill grand @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Apatow ’ s films all evoke an absent but implied segment that I call the Cassavetes hour—an emotionally bruising stretch of dialogue in which the protagonists ’ agonies play out in drama instead of comedy .
Cassavetes , too , made movies about manhood , and even untimely manhood—stories of ravaged survivors of decades spent without introspection .
But for Cassavetes the untimeliness of these ravages , the living history of the era , is the urgent core of his stories ; Apatow often does something similar with generational differences , whereas @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” he seems merely to borrow them in isolation from a repertory of templates .

If directors’ films were gathered as albums, Judd Apatow’s career would borrow a title from Jimi Hendrix: “Are You Experienced.” Apprenticeships, self-transformations, the emergence from irresponsible innocence to life-tested maturity—and the boundaries between amateur status and professionalism—provide the through line of Apatow’s work as a director, including in his new film, “The King of Staten Island.” It’s the story of a twenty-four-year-old man-boy, Scott Carlin (Pete Davidson), who is miserably yet proudly idle, emotionally needy yet utterly ungiving, deeply unhappy and glad to spread the misery around—and who, through tough love and good luck, acquires self-discipline, finds purpose, and learns to love.
Scott lives in a small but comfortable house on Staten Island, with his mother, Margie (Marisa Tomei), a nurse, and his sister, Claire (Maude Apatow), who, when the action begins, is graduating from high school. His father, Stan, is the movie’s central absent presence: a firefighter, he died in action, while heroically attempting a dangerous rescue, when Scott was seven. Scott’s memories of Stan are vague, but Scott’s sense of loss is keen, and his sense of his father’s greatness is reaffirmed daily by a shrine in the family’s living room, and by the hushed and reverent tones with which Margie and the extended family speak of him. (Davidson, who wrote the script with Apatow and Dave Sirus, based the character of Scott on his own father, Scott Davidson, a firefighter who died in action at the World Trade Center on 9/11.)
The film’s first scene displays the depth of Scott’s agony: he is driving at high speed on a highway with his eyes closed and his seat belt off, a clear suicide attempt. At the last moment, he opens his eyes and saves himself—causing other drivers to have a minor accident—and, in terror and remorse, apologizes aloud and fastens his seat belt. Scott is deeply traumatized. He endures pain that he doesn’t hesitate to inflict; he’s a piece of work, constantly abrasive, callous, and withdrawn, quick with insults and cantankerous with refusals, a young curmudgeon whose comedic negativity is sapped of its humor by his dour delivery and his passive manner. He could rank as a nihilist if he had any ideas; instead, he’s just a sinkhole of gloom who throws sand in the gears of the social machine and sucks the good will out of relationships and the conviviality out of gatherings—starting with Claire’s graduation party, which he does his best to spoil.
What’s more, Scott’s bad manners are accompanied by bad judgment; he can be relied upon only to be utterly unreliable. He is in a sexual relationship with a woman named Kelsey (Bel Powley), whom he’s known since fourth grade; he thinks it’s just sex and she thinks it’s a relationship, and, by keeping their whatever-it-is a complete secret from friends and family, he manages to ruin both. He didn’t graduate from high school, has never held a job, and takes antidepressants (which stifle his sex life). He’s possessed of one passion in life, for tattoos. He’s copiously tattooed, all over his torso, and claims that the pain is the point. He hopes to become a tattoo artist, and he’s been practicing, with ludicrously bad results, on his friends; his big dream is to open a tattoo restaurant. (He jokes that it will be called “Ruby Tat-Tuesdays.”)
While Scott and his three best friends, Igor (Moisés Arias), Richie (Lou Wilson), and Oscar (Ricky Velez), are hanging out at a desolate beachside park, Scott, tattoo gun in hand, desperate to practice, encounters—and tattoos—a ten-year-old boy named Harold (Luke David Blumm). When Harold’s father, Ray (Bill Burr), comes to the Carlin house to berate Scott, he also meets Margie. A few days later, Ray—a firefighter who’s aware of the legend of Stan—returns and asks her out. They soon become a couple; it’s Margie’s first relationship in the seventeen years since Stan’s death, and Scott, jealous over her affections, does his best to break them up. He succeeds—but also gets thrown out of the house. Scott’s sense of the future, and his path to healing, depends on his confronting the loss of his father, the trauma that has warped his life. It also involves his bonding with Ray and with other firefighters (especially one, played by Steve Buscemi, who knew Stan well), who provide a surrogate fatherhood and instill pride and principle. And it involves Scott learning from them a fuller truth about his father than Margie was ever willing to share.
“The King of Staten Island” is full of wondrous antic ricochets of bilious dialogue, which seem to bounce in from unexpected directions. Its comedy, though, is less outrageous—and less physical—than in Apatow’s other films, and centered more on the causes and effects of psychology—perhaps because it’s set in a world remote from Apatow’s own. All of his other films (even, glancingly, “The 40-Year-Old Virgin”) are set in the world of media, and media fanatics, pop-culture nerds, aspirants, and insiders. His aspirants learn to harness their chaotic or diffident abilities, his insiders break through the conventions of professionalism to rekindle the passion that launched them. By contrast, Apatow’s connection to the world of firefighters appears tenuous, borrowed, approximate, evasive. All of Scott’s Staten Island kingdom comes off as a mere plot mechanism, sketched only anecdotally, on the edge of stereotype. There is, for instance, a sequence in which the incarceration of several of Scott’s friends is played for laughs, and it’s not the only one that feels as if it were taken from a drawer of obsolete sketch-comedy ideas.
The movie is a tale of education, a belated comic bildungsroman, centered on the emotional relationship of teachers and students. The men in the firehouse are the teachers, and Scott is the student, and he learns from them not only about his own father but about manhood itself—that it involves not the denial or repression of his temperamental wildness but, rather, the harnessing of its power in pursuit of a clear purpose. Which is to say that “The King of Staten Island” is intensely gendered, and that this gendering is particularly unexamined. Apatow’s past films have been criticized for the meagreness of their female characters; here, they are even less substantial. There is only one woman in the firehouse, a black woman, played by Giselle King, and, though IMDb gives the character the name of Jaylen Patterson, it’s never heard in the film, and she has only a perfunctory, practical line or two of dialogue. Margie is the movie’s center of gravity, the poised decision-maker who takes control of her life while also facing Scott’s failings and exposing Ray’s wishy-washy accommodations and flustered self-justifications. Yet her own character nonetheless consists of little more than a function in the plot. Kelsey, who makes her ambition clear—to work in city planning and make Staten Island “like Williamsburg”—nonetheless seems merely to be responding to Scott throughout, as an appendage to his journey.
“The King of Staten Island” runs two and a quarter hours long, and there isn’t another American comedy director working now who could sustain that duration with such balance and bounce. Apatow is the only one who has a marked affinity with John Cassavetes, with dialogue scenes that distill grand shifts and long wrangles into comedic turbulence. Apatow’s films all evoke an absent but implied segment that I call the Cassavetes hour—an emotionally bruising stretch of dialogue in which the protagonists’ agonies play out in drama instead of comedy. Cassavetes, too, made movies about manhood, and even untimely manhood—stories of ravaged survivors of decades spent without introspection. But for Cassavetes the untimeliness of these ravages, the living history of the era, is the urgent core of his stories; Apatow often does something similar with generational differences, whereas in “The King of Staten Island” he seems merely to borrow them in isolation from a repertory of templates.


newyorker--2020-06-16--Taxpayers Have a Right to Know Who Is Getting Their Stimulus Money

Sunlight is said to be the best of disinfectants , as Louis D. Brandeis—the future Supreme Court Justice—remarked , in his 1913 essay “ What Publicity Can Do.
” Seldom has this dictum been more apposite than it is now , when American taxpayers are handing out gobs of money to businesses affected by the coronavirus pandemic , the vast majority of which remain anonymous .
On Sunday , the Treasury Department and the Small Business Administration published an update on the Paycheck Protection Program , which was designed to keep Americans employed during the shutdowns by providing financial support @ @ @ @ @ @ @ workers .
As of June 12th , the S.B.A.
, which is administrating the P.P.P.
, had approved about 4.6 million loans .
The average size of the loans was about a hundred and twelve thousand dollars .
The total amount committed was $ 512.3 billion , equivalent to about 2.4 per cent of G.D.P .
That ’ s a large sum to spend on what are effectively grants .
( As long as a business participating in the P.P.P .
maintains its payroll , most or all of its loan will be @ @ @ @ @ @ @ yet , with a few exceptions , taxpayers don ’ t know who has received all this money .
Despite pressure from Congress and the filing of a Freedom of Information lawsuit by a number of media companies , Treasury Secretary Steven Mnuchin has refused to publish a list of P.P.P.-loan recipients and the sizes of their loans .
The Trump Administration has not yet provided such data to the Government Accountability Office .
Appearing before the Senate Small Business Committee last week , Mnuchin said the secrecy was necessary to protect the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
The Administration ’ s argument is that if it publishes how much a certain business has received its competitors will be able to figure out its revenues , because the size of a P.P.P .
loan is linked to a firm ’ s total outlays on payroll .
But this argument flies in the face of at least two realities .
In April , the S.B.A.
, which has routinely published the names of the businesses it has lent to , indicated that it would do the same for loans issued under @ @ @ @ @ @ @ form that borrowers have to fill out for a P.P.P .
loan says that , under the Freedom of Information Act , “ subject to certain exceptions , ” the S.B.A .
is obliged to supply information including “ the names of the borrowers ( and their officers , directors , stockholders or partners ) , the collateral pledged to secure the loan , the amount of the loan , its purpose in general terms and the maturity.
” It ’ s all there in black and white .
The Administration ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it is trying to hide something .
Shortly after the P.P.P .
was rolled out , in April , it was revealed that three firms controlled by a prominent Trump donor , the Texas hotelier Monty Bennett , had received close to sixty million dollars in loans .
( In early May , Bennett ’ s businesses said that they would return the money . )
NBC News reported that at least three other businesses “ with ties to the Trump administration received a total of $ 18.3 million under the program.
” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Trump family , however .
And , at a press conference on April 21st , Trump insisted that none of his businesses had received money under the P.P.P .
program .
“ Well , I know one thing—I didn ’ t get any , that ’ s for sure , ” he said .
Despite this denial , Democrats in Congress are demanding the disclosure of the full list of recipients , which seems entirely reasonable .
After all , the Federal Reserve has promised to provide a list of firms that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ set up by the CARES Act : a lending fund of five hundred and fifty billion dollars for medium-sized businesses , states , and municipalities .
This program , which is administered in conjunction with the Treasury Department , hasn ’ t distributed any loans to businesses yet .
But , in April , the Fed said it would publish , on a monthly basis , the names of all borrowers , how much they received , and what interest rate they agreed to pay .
The Fed ’ s program also has @ @ @ @ @ @ @ which were designed to prevent loans from being distributed to firms linked to the Trump family , senior officials in the executive branch , or members of Congress .
Furthermore , in response to fears that the program could turn into a “ slush fund ” for companies with close ties to the Trump Administration , the CARES Act created an independent COVID-19 Congressional Oversight Commission , with appointees from both parties , to monitor how the scheme works .
Oversight of the P.P.P.
, on the other hand , is left to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for pandemic recovery , a post held by a former White House lawyer , Brian Miller .
Weak oversight , combined with stonewalling by Administration officials like Mnuchin , have raised the suspicions of Democrats , who are demanding more openness and accountability .
“ Part of what they could be hiding is that businesses linked to the Trump organization got money through this program , or that businesses linked to members of Congress got money through the program , ” Bharat Ramamurti , a Democratic appointee to the CARES Act oversight commission @ @ @ @ @ @ @ What is particularly suspicious is that , in April , the Small Business Administration said that this information would be made publicly available .
They reversed course after the money had started flowing.
” On Tuesday , some of the concerns that Ramamurti and others have registered appeared to be confirmed when Politico reported that “ at least four members of Congress have reaped benefits in some way from the half-trillion-dollar small-business loan program they helped create.
” The four—Vicky Hartzler , of Missouri , and Roger Williams , of Texas , who @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of Nevada , and Debbie Mucarsel-Powell , of Florida , who are Democrats—have “ acknowledged close ties to companies that have received loans from the program—businesses that are either run by their families or employ their spouse as a senior executive , ” the report went on .
“ And there are almost certainly more , according to aides and lawmakers , but only the Small Business Administration and Treasury Department have that information , and the Trump administration is refusing to provide any details.
” ( Mucarsel—Powell released a statement that said @ @ @ @ @ @ @ returned the loan in full . )
Mnuchin could quickly allay any suspicions by asking the S.B.A .
to publish a full list of businesses that have received money through the P.P.P .
If he is genuinely concerned about releasing “ proprietary information , ” he could order the S.B.A .
to withhold the precise amount that each business received and simply identify which size group the loan fell into .
In Sunday ’ s update , the Treasury Department split the loans that have been issued into eight loan categories .
The @ @ @ @ @ @ @ below , and almost three million loans fell into this group .
The largest category was loans of more than five million dollars and less than ten million dollars , which is the maximum allowed .
There were 4,807 of these .
Facing an outpouring of protests , including some murmurs of disquiet from congressional Republicans , Mnuchin tweeted on Monday that he will engage in further talks with lawmakers to “ strike the appropriate balance for proper oversight of # ppploans and appropriate protection of small business information.
” Evidently , he @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s eminently clear where the balance should be struck : with full disclosure .
This is the taxpayers ’ money , and they have a right to know where it ’ s going .

Sunlight is said to be the best of disinfectants, as Louis D. Brandeis—the future Supreme Court Justice—remarked, in his 1913 essay “What Publicity Can Do.” Seldom has this dictum been more apposite than it is now, when American taxpayers are handing out gobs of money to businesses affected by the coronavirus pandemic, the vast majority of which remain anonymous. On Sunday, the Treasury Department and the Small Business Administration published an update on the Paycheck Protection Program, which was designed to keep Americans employed during the shutdowns by providing financial support to businesses with fewer than five hundred workers. As of June 12th, the S.B.A., which is administrating the P.P.P., had approved about 4.6 million loans. The average size of the loans was about a hundred and twelve thousand dollars. The total amount committed was $512.3 billion, equivalent to about 2.4 per cent of G.D.P.
That’s a large sum to spend on what are effectively grants. (As long as a business participating in the P.P.P. maintains its payroll, most or all of its loan will be eligible to be forgiven.) And yet, with a few exceptions, taxpayers don’t know who has received all this money. Despite pressure from Congress and the filing of a Freedom of Information lawsuit by a number of media companies, Treasury Secretary Steven Mnuchin has refused to publish a list of P.P.P.-loan recipients and the sizes of their loans. The Trump Administration has not yet provided such data to the Government Accountability Office.
Appearing before the Senate Small Business Committee last week, Mnuchin said the secrecy was necessary to protect the “proprietary information” of loan recipients. The Administration’s argument is that if it publishes how much a certain business has received its competitors will be able to figure out its revenues, because the size of a P.P.P. loan is linked to a firm’s total outlays on payroll. But this argument flies in the face of at least two realities. In April, the S.B.A., which has routinely published the names of the businesses it has lent to, indicated that it would do the same for loans issued under the P.P.P. Moreover, the application form that borrowers have to fill out for a P.P.P. loan says that, under the Freedom of Information Act, “subject to certain exceptions,” the S.B.A. is obliged to supply information including “the names of the borrowers (and their officers, directors, stockholders or partners), the collateral pledged to secure the loan, the amount of the loan, its purpose in general terms and the maturity.” It’s all there in black and white.
The Administration’s hard-line stance has inevitably generated suspicions that it is trying to hide something. Shortly after the P.P.P. was rolled out, in April, it was revealed that three firms controlled by a prominent Trump donor, the Texas hotelier Monty Bennett, had received close to sixty million dollars in loans. (In early May, Bennett’s businesses said that they would return the money.) NBC News reported that at least three other businesses “with ties to the Trump administration received a total of $18.3 million under the program.” None of these firms was connected to the Trump family, however. And, at a press conference on April 21st, Trump insisted that none of his businesses had received money under the P.P.P. program. “Well, I know one thing—I didn’t get any, that’s for sure,” he said.
Despite this denial, Democrats in Congress are demanding the disclosure of the full list of recipients, which seems entirely reasonable. After all, the Federal Reserve has promised to provide a list of firms that receive money through another big relief program set up by the CARES Act: a lending fund of five hundred and fifty billion dollars for medium-sized businesses, states, and municipalities. This program, which is administered in conjunction with the Treasury Department, hasn’t distributed any loans to businesses yet. But, in April, the Fed said it would publish, on a monthly basis, the names of all borrowers, how much they received, and what interest rate they agreed to pay.
The Fed’s program also has strict conflict-of-interest rules attached to it, which were designed to prevent loans from being distributed to firms linked to the Trump family, senior officials in the executive branch, or members of Congress. Furthermore, in response to fears that the program could turn into a “slush fund” for companies with close ties to the Trump Administration, the CARES Act created an independent COVID-19 Congressional Oversight Commission, with appointees from both parties, to monitor how the scheme works.
Oversight of the P.P.P., on the other hand, is left to congressional committees and a special inspector general for pandemic recovery, a post held by a former White House lawyer, Brian Miller. Weak oversight, combined with stonewalling by Administration officials like Mnuchin, have raised the suspicions of Democrats, who are demanding more openness and accountability. “Part of what they could be hiding is that businesses linked to the Trump organization got money through this program, or that businesses linked to members of Congress got money through the program,” Bharat Ramamurti, a Democratic appointee to the CARES Act oversight commission, told me on Monday. “What is particularly suspicious is that, in April, the Small Business Administration said that this information would be made publicly available. They reversed course after the money had started flowing.”
On Tuesday, some of the concerns that Ramamurti and others have registered appeared to be confirmed when Politico reported that “at least four members of Congress have reaped benefits in some way from the half-trillion-dollar small-business loan program they helped create.” The four—Vicky Hartzler, of Missouri, and Roger Williams, of Texas, who are Republicans, and Susie Lee, of Nevada, and Debbie Mucarsel-Powell, of Florida, who are Democrats—have “acknowledged close ties to companies that have received loans from the program—businesses that are either run by their families or employ their spouse as a senior executive,” the report went on. “And there are almost certainly more, according to aides and lawmakers, but only the Small Business Administration and Treasury Department have that information, and the Trump administration is refusing to provide any details.” (Mucarsel-Powell released a statement that said her husband’s restaurant chain had returned the loan in full.)
Mnuchin could quickly allay any suspicions by asking the S.B.A. to publish a full list of businesses that have received money through the P.P.P. If he is genuinely concerned about releasing “proprietary information,” he could order the S.B.A. to withhold the precise amount that each business received and simply identify which size group the loan fell into. In Sunday’s update, the Treasury Department split the loans that have been issued into eight loan categories. The smallest category was fifty thousand dollars and below, and almost three million loans fell into this group. The largest category was loans of more than five million dollars and less than ten million dollars, which is the maximum allowed. There were 4,807 of these.
Facing an outpouring of protests, including some murmurs of disquiet from congressional Republicans, Mnuchin tweeted on Monday that he will engage in further talks with lawmakers to “strike the appropriate balance for proper oversight of #ppploans and appropriate protection of small business information.” Evidently, he is feeling the pressure, and it’s eminently clear where the balance should be struck: with full disclosure. This is the taxpayers’ money, and they have a right to know where it’s going.


newyorker--2020-06-16--Don’t Throw Away the Marcella Hazan Tomato-Sauce Onion

Marcella Hazan ’ s classic tomato sauce is so good and right and simple that describing it feels superfluous .
The recipe comprises just three ingredients : a can of tomatoes , five tablespoons of butter , and a peeled onion , cut in half and simmered in the sauce .
Plus salt , of course .
( If that counts as an ingredient , I suppose there are four . )
The genius of Hazan ’ s sauce lies in the fact that , although it ’ s basically a convenience food , made of only inexpensive , shelf-stable @ @ @ @ @ @ @ improved upon .
Add fancy olive oil or fresh Genovese basil if you ’ re moved to ; they won ’ t make it any better .
The sauce is already as good as can be .
There ’ s nothing original in my high estimation of Hazan ’ s sauce .
If you look her recipe up online , you ’ ll find yourself in a mise en abyme of admiration .
I ’ m adding to the already sizable œuvre of sauce commentary only to address an often overlooked detail : @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the onion once the sauce is done ?
The butter and salt dissolve , melting together with the tomatoes and cohering into sauce .
The sauce goes on to anoint spaghetti , get simmered with eggs for shakshuka , top pizza , and so on .
The onion , though , gets plucked out of the sauce and discarded .
It ’ s a remainder , an odd bit , a cracked eggshell , absent-mindedly swept into the garbage .
It ’ s understandable that this issue hasn ’ t been widely dealt @ @ @ @ @ @ @ already too good to be true .
Why be so bold as to ask for something more ?
I appreciate the collective grace of not worrying about the onion .
But it ’ s a great onion !
With the same ingredients , combined in a different ratio , it could just as well be the final product of your cooking as the refuse .
The onion , after all , has been simmered in sweet acid and a lot of butter .
Recipes that celebrate this exact union—of long-cooked onion , fat @ @ @ @ @ @ @ South Indian soup vengaya rasam , tarte Provençal , and more recent variants on pasta all ’ amatriciana .
All are united by a reliance on the same old and unimprovable formula that defines Hazan ’ s sauce .
Once you reconceive of the simmered onion as something that could have been intentionally produced , you begin to see its possibilities .
The sweet , lightly acidic , tomatoey , buttery Hazan onion could be used , with a little coaxing , in any of the dishes I mentioned above .
I haven @ @ @ @ @ @ @ have two reliable uses for my onions , and I like them so much that I haven ’ t found reason to stray .
The first is to make the onion a fast , if unconventional , replacement for the fresh tomato and scallion or chive in fān qié chǎo dàn , or , roughly , Chinese tomato-and-egg stir-fry .
If I have fresh tomatoes , I follow any of a number of traditional recipes for the dish , which call for cooking the eggs first in oil , then scooping them out @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in the same oil , adding the eggs back in , and finishing with salt and scallions or chives .
If I don ’ t have fresh tomatoes , or if I do have a Hazan onion , I chop it messily with all its tomatoey juices and do basically the same thing : cook eggs in oil , scoop them out , then add the onion and juices to the pan .
I sometimes add chopped ginger , per a recipe by Francis Lam , and a sprinkle of Shaoxing wine .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ little soupy , I add the cooked egg back in and serve it over rice .
( Lam ’ s version has some ketchup , too . )
Second : Think of how delicious hardy cooking greens ( such as kale or rapini or broccoli rabe ) are when they ’ re just lightly sweetened and enriched with sun-thickened tomato passata .
First , you would have softened garlic or onion with salt in olive oil , then added the tomato and greens , letting them darken and wilt into a savory slump @ @ @ @ @ @ @ same dish , I slice the Hazan onion into soft slivers , heat a pan , add olive oil , then don ’ t bother with garlic—or maybe do .
Then I add the onion and kale together with , if it ’ s summer , some extra cherry tomatoes , which will burst pleasantly , and let it all cook until any distinction among the ingredients has disappeared .
You might be in Greece or Sicily .
Or in your apartment as summer sets in , your vacation plans scuttled , with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ pot of Hazan ’ s sauce and use up every last ingredient .

The cookbook writer Marcella Hazan’s tomato-sauce recipe leaves you with a bonus cooked onion. Photograph by Chicago Tribune / Alamy
Marcella Hazan’s classic tomato sauce is so good and right and simple that describing it feels superfluous. The recipe comprises just three ingredients: a can of tomatoes, five tablespoons of butter, and a peeled onion, cut in half and simmered in the sauce. Plus salt, of course. (If that counts as an ingredient, I suppose there are four.) The genius of Hazan’s sauce lies in the fact that, although it’s basically a convenience food, made of only inexpensive, shelf-stable ingredients, it can’t be improved upon. Add fancy olive oil or fresh Genovese basil if you’re moved to; they won’t make it any better. The sauce is already as good as can be.
There’s nothing original in my high estimation of Hazan’s sauce. If you look her recipe up online, you’ll find yourself in a mise en abyme of admiration. I’m adding to the already sizable œuvre of sauce commentary only to address an often overlooked detail: What are you supposed to do with the onion once the sauce is done? The butter and salt dissolve, melting together with the tomatoes and cohering into sauce. The sauce goes on to anoint spaghetti, get simmered with eggs for shakshuka, top pizza, and so on. The onion, though, gets plucked out of the sauce and discarded. It’s a remainder, an odd bit, a cracked eggshell, absent-mindedly swept into the garbage.
It’s understandable that this issue hasn’t been widely dealt with. Hazan’s sauce is already too good to be true. Why be so bold as to ask for something more? I appreciate the collective grace of not worrying about the onion. But it’s a great onion! With the same ingredients, combined in a different ratio, it could just as well be the final product of your cooking as the refuse. The onion, after all, has been simmered in sweet acid and a lot of butter. Recipes that celebrate this exact union—of long-cooked onion, fat, and tomato—proliferate. Think of the South Indian soup vengaya rasam, tarte Provençal, and more recent variants on pasta all’amatriciana. All are united by a reliance on the same old and unimprovable formula that defines Hazan’s sauce.
Once you reconceive of the simmered onion as something that could have been intentionally produced, you begin to see its possibilities. The sweet, lightly acidic, tomatoey, buttery Hazan onion could be used, with a little coaxing, in any of the dishes I mentioned above. I haven’t tried them all because I have two reliable uses for my onions, and I like them so much that I haven’t found reason to stray.
The first is to make the onion a fast, if unconventional, replacement for the fresh tomato and scallion or chive in fān qié chǎo dàn, or, roughly, Chinese tomato-and-egg stir-fry. If I have fresh tomatoes, I follow any of a number of traditional recipes for the dish, which call for cooking the eggs first in oil, then scooping them out of the pan, cooking tomatoes down in the same oil, adding the eggs back in, and finishing with salt and scallions or chives. If I don’t have fresh tomatoes, or if I do have a Hazan onion, I chop it messily with all its tomatoey juices and do basically the same thing: cook eggs in oil, scoop them out, then add the onion and juices to the pan. I sometimes add chopped ginger, per a recipe by Francis Lam, and a sprinkle of Shaoxing wine. Then, when the mixture is a little soupy, I add the cooked egg back in and serve it over rice. (Lam’s version has some ketchup, too.)
Second: Think of how delicious hardy cooking greens (such as kale or rapini or broccoli rabe) are when they’re just lightly sweetened and enriched with sun-thickened tomato passata. First, you would have softened garlic or onion with salt in olive oil, then added the tomato and greens, letting them darken and wilt into a savory slump. To make a version of the same dish, I slice the Hazan onion into soft slivers, heat a pan, add olive oil, then don’t bother with garlic—or maybe do. Then I add the onion and kale together with, if it’s summer, some extra cherry tomatoes, which will burst pleasantly, and let it all cook until any distinction among the ingredients has disappeared. You might be in Greece or Sicily. Or in your apartment as summer sets in, your vacation plans scuttled, with nothing planned now except to make a pot of Hazan’s sauce and use up every last ingredient.


newyorker--2020-06-16--Trump Proposes Overruling Supreme Court by Creating Supremer Court

WASHINGTON ( The Borowitz Report ) —One day after it issued decisions on L.G.B.T.Q .
rights and the Second Amendment that provoked his ire , Donald J. Trump said that he would overrule the Supreme Court by creating a “ Supremer Court.
” “ Right now , if the Supreme Court makes a bad decision , quite frankly , you ’ re screwed , ” he said .
“ The Supremer Court fixes that.
” Trump said that his Supremer Court would be a “ beautiful , perfect court ” that would make the Supreme Court “ look like exactly @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” Trump said that the Supremer Court would be housed in a “ giant , gleaming building ” overlooking the Supreme Court , enabling the Supremer Court Justices to “ look down at those pathetic little Supreme Court jerks and laugh.
” As for choosing Justices for the Supremer Court , Trump said that there were no Supreme Court Justices worth promoting , “ except maybe Brett Kavanaugh and Clarence Thomas.
” “ Judge Roberts is the beauty who gave us Obamacare , and Gorsuch is a total snake , ” Trump said @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Thomas you ’ ve got two terrific people .
”

WASHINGTON (The Borowitz Report)—One day after it issued decisions on L.G.B.T.Q. rights and the Second Amendment that provoked his ire, Donald J. Trump said that he would overrule the Supreme Court by creating a “Supremer Court.”
“Right now, if the Supreme Court makes a bad decision, quite frankly, you’re screwed,” he said. “The Supremer Court fixes that.”
Trump said that his Supremer Court would be a “beautiful, perfect court” that would make the Supreme Court “look like exactly what it is—a sad bunch of losers.”
Trump said that the Supremer Court would be housed in a “giant, gleaming building” overlooking the Supreme Court, enabling the Supremer Court Justices to “look down at those pathetic little Supreme Court jerks and laugh.”
As for choosing Justices for the Supremer Court, Trump said that there were no Supreme Court Justices worth promoting, “except maybe Brett Kavanaugh and Clarence Thomas.”
“Judge Roberts is the beauty who gave us Obamacare, and Gorsuch is a total snake,” Trump said. “At least with Kavanaugh and Thomas you’ve got two terrific people.”
Read More Satire from the Borowitz Report


newyorker--2020-06-16--James Joyce’s Bloomsday Becomes a Zoomsday

It ’ s Bloomsday , the nerd holiday celebrating the day in fiction—June 16 , 1904—that Leopold Bloom spent wandering the streets of Dublin , in James Joyce ’ s “ Ulysses.
” But this year will be a very different Bloomsday : admirers will celebrate a novel of the Dublin streets while sheltering in place , as the “ Heart of the Hibernian Metropolis ” has been rendered off limits by COVID-19 .
In “ Ulysses , ” Bloom gets a little work done , attends a funeral , furthers a chaste epistolary dalliance—but mostly he avoids home , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , will that afternoon consummate a quite vigorous , fleshly dalliance with the improbably named bounder Blazes Boylan .
The two male protagonists who share top billing , Bloom and Stephen Dedalus , each leave their respective domiciles at about 9:00 A.M. and stay out until the wee small hours .
Around 2:00 A.M. , the two make their way to the Bloom home ( 7 Eccles Street ) , where they share a cup of cocoa , and a piss in the yard under the stars ; afterward , Stephen sets off @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and bed ) unknown .
( He ’ s vowed not to return to the place he ’ s been sharing with his frenemy Buck Mulligan , but has also broken decisively with his family : “ I will not sleep here tonight .
Home also I can not go.
” ) All of which is to say that “ Ulysses ” belongs to a genre that we wouldn ’ t have recognized until recently : it ’ s an anti-sheltering novel .
While Bloom and Stephen enjoy their hot chocolate , Molly @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in bed , and once again alone .
To the best of our knowledge , she hasn ’ t left the house—but what she ’ s done while sheltering in place passionately flaunts all social-distancing guidelines .
Throughout the day , Molly is frequently in Bloom ’ s thoughts , as well as in the sotto-voce off-color comments of a handful of his male friends and acquaintances .
But as an actual , bodily presence , she principally bookends the novel .
She ’ s seen together with Bloom as his section opens @ @ @ @ @ @ @ mike to herself for her famous soliloquy in the final chapter—but otherwise appears only as the glimpse of a “ generous white arm , ” uncredited , in Chapter 10 .
Devotees of the novel have tended to reënact Bloom ’ s and Stephen ’ s walking hours rather than Molly ’ s waking hours .
And that participatory style of fan culture ( and , increasingly in recent years , cosplay ) started quite early .
The novel was published in 1922 .
By 1924 , enthusiasts had begun trying to add @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , to Joyce ’ s mixed bewilderment and delight .
As he wrote to his patron Harriet Shaw Weaver : “ There is a group of people who observe what they call Bloom ’ s day—16 June .
They sent me hortensias , white and blue , dyed .
I have to convince myself that I wrote that book.
” The tradition of Bloomsday , as it has evolved , consists of two essential elements : an engagement or reëngagement with “ Ulysses ” ( ideally by retracing the steps of Leopold Bloom @ @ @ @ @ @ @ good company in which to do it .
Guinness is optional but highly recommended .
( When asked , “ Could you make a hole in another pint ?
, ” the narrator of Chapter 12 replies , sensibly , “ Could a swim duck ?
” ) These elements all came together in the first major Dublin-based Bloomsday celebration , in 1954 , designed to honor the fiftieth anniversary of the date .
The participants were Irish luminaries , including the comic writer Brian O ’ Nolan ( a.k.a .
Flann O @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Kavanagh , and a man of letters and pub owner named John Ryan .
As the film that Ryan shot makes clear , the results were shambolic .
O ’ Brien , who had started drinking at about eight in the morning , turned up drunk and only got more so ; the planned tour of Ulyssean sites was abandoned prematurely .
“ Good puzzle would be cross Dublin without passing a pub , ” Bloom thinks to himself , in the first pages of his odyssey : it ’ s a test @ @ @ @ @ @ @ It would technically be possible , under current coronavirus guidelines , for a solitary seeker ( masked and socially-distanced ) to walk the path of either Leopold Bloom or Stephen Dedalus this summer ; but to do so would be to miss entirely the spirit of the thing .
For Bloomsday is meant to be celebrated in a group .
In 1988 , having disavowed Joyce and his work for more than a quarter-century following his death , Dublin ’ s officials installed fourteen brass plaques into the pavement throughout the city , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ —surely the parallel to the Stations of the Cross is a coincidence ?
—enabling pilgrims to read the novel with their feet .
Every year on that June day , the streets teem with literary life .
In 2004 , for the hundredth anniversary of Bloomsday , the city was inundated with a combination of Joyce pilgrims ( like myself ) and ordinary Dubliners who were taking advantage of an uncharacteristically brilliant June afternoon by enjoying the carnival vibe .
Throughout the day , street-theatre groups performed on the city center ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s works ; music referenced in or inspired by “ Ulysses ” filled the air .
Ordinary citizens strolled about in Joycean costume : dresses of crinoline and velvet , or striped vests , straw boaters , and walking sticks .
Friends and families absorbed the sunshine and gentle breeze , enjoying a pint or a Pepsi at a sidewalk table .
Over the years , Bloomsday haters have become as familiar a feature as the revellers .
Back in 2004 , Ronan Farren of the Irish Independent called the centennial Bloomsday celebration @ @ @ @ @ @ @ offensive , the vulgarity and silliness of straw boaters and blazers , the raucous roistering of people who have never read a line of Ulysses and never will.
” But the Bloomsday celebrations I ’ ve attended in Dublin were enjoyed by both the learned and the unlettered , the young and the old , the locals and the tourists .
In the breadth of its characters , concerns , and sympathies , “ Ulysses ” has been described by many of its readers as one of the most catholic ( not just @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ; if scholarly and institutional forces early on took Joyce away from the broader readership he sought , events like the annual Bloomsday celebration help to return “ Ulysses ” to those prospective readers .
Bloomsday wrests what is arguably the twentieth century ’ s most important novel ( and one of its most difficult ) away from the specialists , and takes it into the streets .
What , then , does it mean to celebrate Bloomsday in the midst of a pandemic ?
This year , Bloomsday will be celebrated the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ mean .
Ireland ’ s “ Road Map for Reopening Society and Business ” has compelled the Dublin James Joyce Centre , sponsor of the city ’ s annual Bloomsday festival , to take things virtual .
According to Darina Gallagher , the Centre ’ s acting director , “ This year ’ s festival is going to be hugely different due to the pandemic , but we will not lose any of its fun , inspiration , and excitement.
” Although one has to admire Gallagher ’ s putting a good face @ @ @ @ @ @ @ certainly feel like a diminished thing .
Bloomsday is , in part , about getting out of the house , something the housebound among us now desire more keenly than ever .
An online Bloomsday is far preferable to none at all , but the situation is analogous to that of teachers who were forced suddenly online in March—most would readily acknowledge their gratitude for Zoom , while at the same time insisting that it ’ s but a pale shadow of face-to-face teaching .

It’s Bloomsday, the nerd holiday celebrating the day in fiction—June 16, 1904—that Leopold Bloom spent wandering the streets of Dublin, in James Joyce’s “Ulysses.” But this year will be a very different Bloomsday: admirers will celebrate a novel of the Dublin streets while sheltering in place, as the “Heart of the Hibernian Metropolis” has been rendered off limits by COVID-19.
In “Ulysses,” Bloom gets a little work done, attends a funeral, furthers a chaste epistolary dalliance—but mostly he avoids home, where he knows his wife, Molly, will that afternoon consummate a quite vigorous, fleshly dalliance with the improbably named bounder Blazes Boylan. The two male protagonists who share top billing, Bloom and Stephen Dedalus, each leave their respective domiciles at about 9:00 A.M. and stay out until the wee small hours. Around 2:00 A.M., the two make their way to the Bloom home (7 Eccles Street), where they share a cup of cocoa, and a piss in the yard under the stars; afterward, Stephen sets off on his own, for parts (and bed) unknown. (He’s vowed not to return to the place he’s been sharing with his frenemy Buck Mulligan, but has also broken decisively with his family: “I will not sleep here tonight. Home also I cannot go.”) All of which is to say that “Ulysses” belongs to a genre that we wouldn’t have recognized until recently: it’s an anti-sheltering novel.
While Bloom and Stephen enjoy their hot chocolate, Molly’s in the other room, in bed, and once again alone. To the best of our knowledge, she hasn’t left the house—but what she’s done while sheltering in place passionately flaunts all social-distancing guidelines. Throughout the day, Molly is frequently in Bloom’s thoughts, as well as in the sotto-voce off-color comments of a handful of his male friends and acquaintances. But as an actual, bodily presence, she principally bookends the novel. She’s seen together with Bloom as his section opens in Chapter 4, and has the mike to herself for her famous soliloquy in the final chapter—but otherwise appears only as the glimpse of a “generous white arm,” uncredited, in Chapter 10.
Devotees of the novel have tended to reënact Bloom’s and Stephen’s walking hours rather than Molly’s waking hours. And that participatory style of fan culture (and, increasingly in recent years, cosplay) started quite early. The novel was published in 1922. By 1924, enthusiasts had begun trying to add a new feast day to the calendar, to Joyce’s mixed bewilderment and delight. As he wrote to his patron Harriet Shaw Weaver: “There is a group of people who observe what they call Bloom’s day—16 June. They sent me hortensias, white and blue, dyed. I have to convince myself that I wrote that book.”
The tradition of Bloomsday, as it has evolved, consists of two essential elements: an engagement or reëngagement with “Ulysses” (ideally by retracing the steps of Leopold Bloom through the streets of Dublin) and good company in which to do it. Guinness is optional but highly recommended. (When asked, “Could you make a hole in another pint?,” the narrator of Chapter 12 replies, sensibly, “Could a swim duck?”) These elements all came together in the first major Dublin-based Bloomsday celebration, in 1954, designed to honor the fiftieth anniversary of the date. The participants were Irish luminaries, including the comic writer Brian O’Nolan (a.k.a. Flann O’Brien), the poet Patrick Kavanagh, and a man of letters and pub owner named John Ryan. As the film that Ryan shot makes clear, the results were shambolic. O’Brien, who had started drinking at about eight in the morning, turned up drunk and only got more so; the planned tour of Ulyssean sites was abandoned prematurely. “Good puzzle would be cross Dublin without passing a pub,” Bloom thinks to himself, in the first pages of his odyssey: it’s a test these early Bloomsday revellers soddenly failed.
It would technically be possible, under current coronavirus guidelines, for a solitary seeker (masked and socially-distanced) to walk the path of either Leopold Bloom or Stephen Dedalus this summer; but to do so would be to miss entirely the spirit of the thing. For Bloomsday is meant to be celebrated in a group. In 1988, having disavowed Joyce and his work for more than a quarter-century following his death, Dublin’s officials installed fourteen brass plaques into the pavement throughout the city, which evoke scenes from “Ulysses”—surely the parallel to the Stations of the Cross is a coincidence?—enabling pilgrims to read the novel with their feet. Every year on that June day, the streets teem with literary life. In 2004, for the hundredth anniversary of Bloomsday, the city was inundated with a combination of Joyce pilgrims (like myself) and ordinary Dubliners who were taking advantage of an uncharacteristically brilliant June afternoon by enjoying the carnival vibe. Throughout the day, street-theatre groups performed on the city center’s sidewalks and did readings from Joyce’s works; music referenced in or inspired by “Ulysses” filled the air. Ordinary citizens strolled about in Joycean costume: dresses of crinoline and velvet, or striped vests, straw boaters, and walking sticks. Friends and families absorbed the sunshine and gentle breeze, enjoying a pint or a Pepsi at a sidewalk table.
Over the years, Bloomsday haters have become as familiar a feature as the revellers. Back in 2004, Ronan Farren of the Irish Independent called the centennial Bloomsday celebration “the Joyce industry at its most offensive, the vulgarity and silliness of straw boaters and blazers, the raucous roistering of people who have never read a line of Ulysses and never will.” But the Bloomsday celebrations I’ve attended in Dublin were enjoyed by both the learned and the unlettered, the young and the old, the locals and the tourists. In the breadth of its characters, concerns, and sympathies, “Ulysses” has been described by many of its readers as one of the most catholic (not just Catholic) and most democratic of texts; if scholarly and institutional forces early on took Joyce away from the broader readership he sought, events like the annual Bloomsday celebration help to return “Ulysses” to those prospective readers. Bloomsday wrests what is arguably the twentieth century’s most important novel (and one of its most difficult) away from the specialists, and takes it into the streets.
What, then, does it mean to celebrate Bloomsday in the midst of a pandemic? This year, Bloomsday will be celebrated the way that Molly celebrated it—indoors, I mean. Ireland’s “Road Map for Reopening Society and Business” has compelled the Dublin James Joyce Centre, sponsor of the city’s annual Bloomsday festival, to take things virtual. According to Darina Gallagher, the Centre’s acting director, “This year’s festival is going to be hugely different due to the pandemic, but we will not lose any of its fun, inspiration, and excitement.” Although one has to admire Gallagher’s putting a good face on it, a virtual Bloomsday will certainly feel like a diminished thing. Bloomsday is, in part, about getting out of the house, something the housebound among us now desire more keenly than ever. An online Bloomsday is far preferable to none at all, but the situation is analogous to that of teachers who were forced suddenly online in March—most would readily acknowledge their gratitude for Zoom, while at the same time insisting that it’s but a pale shadow of face-to-face teaching.