newyorker--2020-04-22--The Body Collectors of the Coronavirus Pandemic

The dead man ’ s nurse was waiting in the hallway when Kim Zambito and Al Johnson stepped off the elevator on the third floor of an apartment building in Midwood , Brooklyn .
The sight of them startled her .
Zambito and Johnson wore surgical masks , body-length plastic protective gowns , and thick blue gloves .
A stretcher rattled behind them .
The body was visible through the apartment ’ s open door .
A long interior hallway , cluttered with cardboard boxes and shoes , led to the bathroom , where a man in a striped button-down @ @ @ @ @ @ @ down on the floor .
He was seventy-one and , according to the nurse , had been having trouble breathing .
Several hours had passed since she found him there , she said .
His mouth was still open .
Funeral directors making house calls have to treat each new death as a potential case of COVID-19 .
“ We don ’ t want anything escaping his lungs when we turn him over , ” Zambito said .
Johnson tucked a tissue between the man ’ s lips and covered his face with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ over .
Zambito peeled off one of the three pairs of gloves she was wearing , and let them fall to the floor ; she then reached for her cell phone in the back pocket of her jeans .
Typically , a detective from the police department is required to inspect a body in person , to rule out foul play , but all of them were busy on other calls .
A police officer who was waiting downstairs had asked Zambito to take a photograph of the body instead .
Zambito sprayed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Because the apartment ’ s hallway was too narrow to accommodate the stretcher , she and Johnson slid a clear plastic pouch onto the floor of the bathroom .
They angled the body into the bag and zipped it shut .
With Zambito holding the legs and Johnson lifting the torso , they carried the man to the stretcher .
Prior to the pandemic , Zambito later told me , she found some solace in knowing that a person ’ s family and friends would have another chance to say goodbye at @ @ @ @ @ @ @ victims , it feels like shit , because this is the last time anyone is going to see them , ” she said .
“ If they ’ re COVID-positive , we ’ ll have to immediately casket them .
You ’ re walking out the door with someone ’ s loved one , and you ’ re taking them away forever.
” It was 5 p.m. on April 8th .
This was the sixth body that Zambito and Johnson had picked up that day , and there were still three more retrievals @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to Maimonides Hospital .
In the first six weeks of the coronavirus outbreak in New York City , the death toll surpassed that of not just every American city but also that of many other countries worldwide .
More than thirty-three New Yorkers were dying every hour from COVID-19 , according to Governor Andrew Cuomo .
Still , the statistics only captured a part of the over-all devastation .
Earlier this month , when Cuomo announced eight hundred deaths on a single day in New York City , he was relying on figures @ @ @ @ @ @ @ who had tested positive for COVID-19 .
But , in just the first eight days of April , the office of the city medical examiner recorded 1,891 deaths in people ’ s homes .
The day before Zambito visited the apartment in Midwood , the city ’ s emergency medical services logged two hundred and fifty-six home deaths across the city , compared with a rate of roughly twenty-five such deaths per day in March .
Zambito , who is twenty-nine , grew up on Staten Island .
She used to tell her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ be a mortician just to get them off her back .
“ It creeped them out , ” she said .
“ But I kind of wanted to do it , too.
” She went on to attend St. John ’ s University , which she was surprised to learn offered a bachelor ’ s degree in funeral-service administration .
“ It was , like , Oh , this actually is something I can do , ” she recalled .
“ And then , when I saw my first dead body , I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ began her career at a trade house , which performed removals for funeral homes in New York City and New Jersey .
Two years ago , she took a job in Midwood , at two funeral homes that shared an office and staff : Sherman ’ s Flatbush Memorial Chapel , which served a mainly Jewish clientele , and Lisovetsky Memorial Home , which catered to Russian customers .
It didn ’ t matter to Zambito which faith or ethnicity she was dealing with ; preparing people for their last rites , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ closure , she told me , was meaningful work .
“ It made you feel like you were doing something for someone.
” Lately , though , the job has changed .
She used to pick up , at most , two bodies a day , and when she went to the hospital morgue she made a habit of offering her condolences to the family ; orderlies would help her carry the body to the car .
Now hospital morgues have so many bodies that they ’ ve been storing them outside , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ under strict orders to avoid prolonged contact with the infected corpses .
Every morning around seven-thirty , Zambito arrives at work to find that six or seven new cases have been called in overnight .
They have been taking her to Brooklyn , Queens , and the Bronx , and each body appears to have some connection to COVID-19 .
“ You look at a death certificate , and it might not say coronavirus , ” she told me .
“ But you look at it and you see pneumonia or respiratory failure @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Where are all the regular deaths ?
Where ’ s cancer ?
Where ’ s heart disease ?
All of a sudden , I ’ m only seeing people dying of pneumonia.
” In Midwood , Zambito and Johnson brought the body out to their van , but they couldn ’ t leave until a detective inspected the photo that Zambito had taken .
The police officer had begun pacing the sidewalk , trying to get a detective on the phone .
An hour passed .
Although the unprecedented caseload had Zambito feeling @ @ @ @ @ @ @ she found herself waiting aimlessly on the job .
To maintain social distancing , funeral directors were no longer allowed to enter the office of the Brooklyn Medical Examiner , which meant that she often spent more than an hour sitting in a caravan of cars in the parking lot .
It might be several hours before a medical investigator could find a doctor to sign a death certificate and then complete the file on the deceased .
Bodies were hard to locate in the chaotic refrigeration units of beleaguered hospital morgues .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ and recording death certificates , called eVital , kept freezing from overuse .
When a detective finally called back , the officer put him on speakerphone .
Zambito and Johnson were sitting in the car , with the windows down .
They craned their necks to listen .
“ You ’ re good to go , ” the detective said .
“ Natural causes .
”

The dead man’s nurse was waiting in the hallway when Kim Zambito and Al Johnson stepped off the elevator on the third floor of an apartment building in Midwood, Brooklyn. The sight of them startled her. Zambito and Johnson wore surgical masks, body-length plastic protective gowns, and thick blue gloves. A stretcher rattled behind them. The body was visible through the apartment’s open door. A long interior hallway, cluttered with cardboard boxes and shoes, led to the bathroom, where a man in a striped button-down shirt and gray cardigan was lying face down on the floor. He was seventy-one and, according to the nurse, had been having trouble breathing. Several hours had passed since she found him there, she said. His mouth was still open.
Funeral directors making house calls have to treat each new death as a potential case of COVID-19. “We don’t want anything escaping his lungs when we turn him over,” Zambito said. Johnson tucked a tissue between the man’s lips and covered his face with a sheet. They gently rolled him over. Zambito peeled off one of the three pairs of gloves she was wearing, and let them fall to the floor; she then reached for her cell phone in the back pocket of her jeans. Typically, a detective from the police department is required to inspect a body in person, to rule out foul play, but all of them were busy on other calls. A police officer who was waiting downstairs had asked Zambito to take a photograph of the body instead.
Zambito sprayed everything she planned to touch with disinfectant. Because the apartment’s hallway was too narrow to accommodate the stretcher, she and Johnson slid a clear plastic pouch onto the floor of the bathroom. They angled the body into the bag and zipped it shut. With Zambito holding the legs and Johnson lifting the torso, they carried the man to the stretcher. Prior to the pandemic, Zambito later told me, she found some solace in knowing that a person’s family and friends would have another chance to say goodbye at the funeral home. “With COVID victims, it feels like shit, because this is the last time anyone is going to see them,” she said. “If they’re COVID-positive, we’ll have to immediately casket them. You’re walking out the door with someone’s loved one, and you’re taking them away forever.”
It was 5 p.m. on April 8th. This was the sixth body that Zambito and Johnson had picked up that day, and there were still three more retrievals to do—two house calls and a trip to Maimonides Hospital. In the first six weeks of the coronavirus outbreak in New York City, the death toll surpassed that of not just every American city but also that of many other countries worldwide. More than thirty-three New Yorkers were dying every hour from COVID-19, according to Governor Andrew Cuomo. Still, the statistics only captured a part of the over-all devastation. Earlier this month, when Cuomo announced eight hundred deaths on a single day in New York City, he was relying on figures from hospitals, which only included people who had tested positive for COVID-19. But, in just the first eight days of April, the office of the city medical examiner recorded 1,891 deaths in people’s homes. The day before Zambito visited the apartment in Midwood, the city’s emergency medical services logged two hundred and fifty-six home deaths across the city, compared with a rate of roughly twenty-five such deaths per day in March.
Kim Zambito in the courtyard of Sherman’s Flatbush Memorial Chapel.
Zambito, who is twenty-nine, grew up on Staten Island. She used to tell her high-school guidance counsellors that she planned to be a mortician just to get them off her back. “It creeped them out,” she said. “But I kind of wanted to do it, too.” She went on to attend St. John’s University, which she was surprised to learn offered a bachelor’s degree in funeral-service administration. “It was, like, Oh, this actually is something I can do,” she recalled. “And then, when I saw my first dead body, I didn’t throw up.”
Zambito began her career at a trade house, which performed removals for funeral homes in New York City and New Jersey. Two years ago, she took a job in Midwood, at two funeral homes that shared an office and staff: Sherman’s Flatbush Memorial Chapel, which served a mainly Jewish clientele, and Lisovetsky Memorial Home, which catered to Russian customers. It didn’t matter to Zambito which faith or ethnicity she was dealing with; preparing people for their last rites, and helping families to find some measure of closure, she told me, was meaningful work. “It made you feel like you were doing something for someone.”
Lately, though, the job has changed. She used to pick up, at most, two bodies a day, and when she went to the hospital morgue she made a habit of offering her condolences to the family; orderlies would help her carry the body to the car. Now hospital morgues have so many bodies that they’ve been storing them outside, in refrigerated trailers, and employees are under strict orders to avoid prolonged contact with the infected corpses. Every morning around seven-thirty, Zambito arrives at work to find that six or seven new cases have been called in overnight. They have been taking her to Brooklyn, Queens, and the Bronx, and each body appears to have some connection to COVID-19. “You look at a death certificate, and it might not say coronavirus,” she told me. “But you look at it and you see pneumonia or respiratory failure listed as the cause of death. Where are all the regular deaths? Where’s cancer? Where’s heart disease? All of a sudden, I’m only seeing people dying of pneumonia.”
In Midwood, Zambito and Johnson brought the body out to their van, but they couldn’t leave until a detective inspected the photo that Zambito had taken. The police officer had begun pacing the sidewalk, trying to get a detective on the phone. An hour passed. Although the unprecedented caseload had Zambito feeling more rushed than ever, increasingly, she found herself waiting aimlessly on the job. To maintain social distancing, funeral directors were no longer allowed to enter the office of the Brooklyn Medical Examiner, which meant that she often spent more than an hour sitting in a caravan of cars in the parking lot. It might be several hours before a medical investigator could find a doctor to sign a death certificate and then complete the file on the deceased. Bodies were hard to locate in the chaotic refrigeration units of beleaguered hospital morgues. And the city-wide electronic system for generating and recording death certificates, called eVital, kept freezing from overuse.
When a detective finally called back, the officer put him on speakerphone. Zambito and Johnson were sitting in the car, with the windows down. They craned their necks to listen. “You’re good to go,” the detective said. “Natural causes.”


newyorker--2020-04-22--New Yorker Crossword Constructors on the Best Games to Play While Social-Distancing

If you ’ re looking for more virtual games , try out Partner Mode , a new feature of our crossword that lets you solve with a friend online .
All the best games are party games disguised as strategy games , and CodeNames is no exception .
How it works : everyone sees a board of twenty-five words .
There are two teams , Red and Blue , and two positions , Cluer—called the “ Spymaster ” in the game ’ s James Bond-esque lingo—and Guesser .
( Its setup easily translates to Zoom ; my friends and I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ) The Spymasters , in addition to seeing the words , can see a colored key with some words bathed in red and some in blue .
The Spymaster ’ s job is to get his teammates to guess his team ’ s words , by giving one-word prompts that enumerate connections .
If two of your words are “ England ” and “ chocolate , ” for example , you might give the clue “ Cadbury , for two.
” But be sure that your clue won ’ t mislead your teammates @ @ @ @ @ @ @ words : if “ egg ” is a blue word , Team Red should abandon that Cadbury clue .
Although CodeNames is competitive—a race to get your team to successfully guess your words first—everyone can appreciate an incredible clue : a friend once trotted out “ commissary ” for the words “ food , ” “ cell , ” and “ military , ” to all-around applause .
The pleasure , as with all party games , is in the sociology .
Couples or siblings will always talk up their mind melds , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ errant guess to test a relationship ’ s semantic mettle .
My friends and I gleefully trash-talk the Spymasters while they spend minutes deep in associative concentration , scrawling and contemplating like John Nash in “ A Beautiful Mind.
” The downtime for guessers means both that the game is very forgiving of lag and that the jokes are always flowing ; it ’ s fun to get your “ sandy , for two ” and listen to the other team ’ s parodic advice ( “ ‘ Sandy ’ —that ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Andrew only eats sandy plums ” ) .
CodeNames is a word game for people who find Scrabble cultish or stuffy .
It ’ s a funny game where the humor is incidental to the rules ; a deduction game whose strategy will be pretty intuitive to both your preteen cousins and your great-aunts .
And while your dad is deep in thought about how to link “ magazine ” and “ Australia , ” you can change your Zoom background to a screenshot of him pondering .
I picked up my quarantine @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s yet to venture into gaming : Netflix .
The Netflix docuseries , which gives housebound viewers vicarious access to the emotions and activities of pre-quarantine days , is the breakout genre of 2020 .
“ Cheer ” reminds us of ambition , going to the gym .
“ How to Fix a Drug Scandal ” : intrigue , going to a nonessential workplace .
“ Tiger King ” : abjection , crossing state borders .
In “ Formula One ” —both the Netflix docuseries and the Xbox game that ’ s scratching @ @ @ @ @ @ @ accessed recklessness on an international scale .
I ’ ve discovered a couch-bound outlet for the death drive more compulsive than a sleeve of Oreos , and a tragicomic indoor proxy for the thrill of the great outdoors .
“ Formula One ” the docuseries has inexplicably failed to hit , but it ’ s a natural fit for our newly confined conditions .
Following the ten most successful teams in the cosmopolitan racing league—including Mercedes , Ferrari , and Red Bull , with tracks in Baku , Singapore , and Monte Carlo—the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of the spectacular glass-façades of global capitalism , only to plunge us behind the wheel of a compact race-car cockpit .
The bodily risks are as devastating as the prolific waste of resources on display : fuel , feats of engineering , charisma .
The drivers—twinky teen-agers with thick accents and hard bodies—take us with them beyond the pleasure principle .
They ’ re periodically caught on hot mics saying things like “ fuck Netflix ” and “ Netflix are a bunch of wankers.
” Their ire is never explained .
Very little @ @ @ @ @ @ @ fast .
After speeding through the two seasons currently available , my husband and I purchased F1 for Xbox .
The aerial tours and driver P.O.V .
shots are perfectly replicated .
So , too , are the quasi-fascist coaches delivering facts and figures in your ear , the cyborgian pit crews , and the champions ’ inevitably homoerotic champagne showers after a race is won .
Most exhilarating , though , is the simulated ride itself : some days , after moving from my stationary exercise bike to my stationary couch , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Abu Dhabi Grand Prix .
Moving in more virtual circles , I court the crash .
When it comes to party games , I ’ m easy to please .
Taboo , Charades , Celebrity : if it involves lateral thinking and opportunities to laugh at my friends , then I ’ m here for it .
Unfortunately , party games are tough to orchestrate under quarantine .
Between video lags and audio lapses , virtual game play is more likely to end with groans than with laughter .
Fibbage , offered by @ @ @ @ @ @ @ party games like You Don ’ t Know Jack and Trivia Murder Party ) can be played on Xbox , Steam , and other digital platforms .
The game involves equal parts trivia knowledge , improv ability , and lie-detection skills .
Each round centers on an arcane piece of trivia with one detail left out : for example , “ The official bird of Redondo Beach , California is ______.
” Your job is to fill in that blank with a fib that your friends might believe is true : maybe you @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ Mother Goose , ” or even “ a middle finger.
” You get points for every friend you trick ; you also get points for correctly identifying the true answer ( which , in this case , is the Goodyear Blimp ) .
The strategy is to be funny , but not too funny ; smart , but not too smart ; witty , but impersonal .
Because if you sound like yourself , rather than like the state-bird selection committee of Redondo Beach , California , no one will believe your @ @ @ @ @ @ @ if you can persuasively channel that state-bird selection committee—or , say , a South Korean hotline for reporting spies , or the writer who decided that Sonic the Hedgehog ’ s real name should be “ Maurice ” —then you win the virtual trophy .
And you can bask in the glory of how easy it was to lie to your closest friends .
• How to practice social distancing , from responding to a sick housemate to the pros and cons of ordering food .
• Can survivors help cure the disease @ @ @ @ @ @ @ long crusade of Dr. Anthony Fauci , the infectious-disease expert pinned between Donald Trump and the American people .
• The success of Hong Kong and Singapore in stemming the spread holds lessons for how to contain it in the United States .
• The coronavirus is likely to spread for more than a year before a vaccine is widely available .
• With each new virus , we have scrambled for a new treatment .
Can we prepare antivirals to combat the next global crisis ?
• How pandemics have propelled public-health @ @ @ @ @ @ @ maps .
• What to read , watch , cook , and listen to under coronavirus quarantine .

If you’re looking for more virtual games, try out Partner Mode, a new feature of our crossword that lets you solve with a friend online.
All the best games are party games disguised as strategy games, and CodeNames is no exception. How it works: everyone sees a board of twenty-five words. There are two teams, Red and Blue, and two positions, Cluer—called the “Spymaster” in the game’s James Bond-esque lingo—and Guesser. (Its setup easily translates to Zoom; my friends and I play using this open-source board generator.) The Spymasters, in addition to seeing the words, can see a colored key with some words bathed in red and some in blue. The Spymaster’s job is to get his teammates to guess his team’s words, by giving one-word prompts that enumerate connections. If two of your words are “England” and “chocolate,” for example, you might give the clue “Cadbury, for two.” But be sure that your clue won’t mislead your teammates to guess the rival team’s words: if “egg” is a blue word, Team Red should abandon that Cadbury clue.
Although CodeNames is competitive—a race to get your team to successfully guess your words first—everyone can appreciate an incredible clue: a friend once trotted out “commissary” for the words “food,” “cell,” and “military,” to all-around applause. The pleasure, as with all party games, is in the sociology. Couples or siblings will always talk up their mind melds, and there’s nothing like an errant guess to test a relationship’s semantic mettle. My friends and I gleefully trash-talk the Spymasters while they spend minutes deep in associative concentration, scrawling and contemplating like John Nash in “A Beautiful Mind.” The downtime for guessers means both that the game is very forgiving of lag and that the jokes are always flowing; it’s fun to get your “sandy, for two” and listen to the other team’s parodic advice (“ ‘Sandy’—that’s gotta be ‘plum.’ Famously Andrew only eats sandy plums”).
CodeNames is a word game for people who find Scrabble cultish or stuffy. It’s a funny game where the humor is incidental to the rules; a deduction game whose strategy will be pretty intuitive to both your preteen cousins and your great-aunts. And while your dad is deep in thought about how to link “magazine” and “Australia,” you can change your Zoom background to a screenshot of him pondering.
—Natan Last
I picked up my quarantine video-game habit from a company that’s yet to venture into gaming: Netflix. The Netflix docuseries, which gives housebound viewers vicarious access to the emotions and activities of pre-quarantine days, is the breakout genre of 2020. “Cheer” reminds us of ambition, going to the gym. “How to Fix a Drug Scandal”: intrigue, going to a nonessential workplace. “Tiger King”: abjection, crossing state borders. In “Formula One”—both the Netflix docuseries and the Xbox game that’s scratching my newly developed gaming itch—I’ve accessed recklessness on an international scale. I’ve discovered a couch-bound outlet for the death drive more compulsive than a sleeve of Oreos, and a tragicomic indoor proxy for the thrill of the great outdoors.
“Formula One” the docuseries has inexplicably failed to hit, but it’s a natural fit for our newly confined conditions. Following the ten most successful teams in the cosmopolitan racing league—including Mercedes, Ferrari, and Red Bull, with tracks in Baku, Singapore, and Monte Carlo—the show takes viewers on a drone-shot tour of the spectacular glass-façades of global capitalism, only to plunge us behind the wheel of a compact race-car cockpit. The bodily risks are as devastating as the prolific waste of resources on display: fuel, feats of engineering, charisma. The drivers—twinky teen-agers with thick accents and hard bodies—take us with them beyond the pleasure principle. They’re periodically caught on hot mics saying things like “fuck Netflix” and “Netflix are a bunch of wankers.” Their ire is never explained. Very little is; they just want to go fast.
After speeding through the two seasons currently available, my husband and I purchased F1 for Xbox. The aerial tours and driver P.O.V. shots are perfectly replicated. So, too, are the quasi-fascist coaches delivering facts and figures in your ear, the cyborgian pit crews, and the champions’ inevitably homoerotic champagne showers after a race is won. Most exhilarating, though, is the simulated ride itself: some days, after moving from my stationary exercise bike to my stationary couch, I race for Team Renault in the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix. Moving in more virtual circles, I court the crash.
—Anna Shechtman
When it comes to party games, I’m easy to please. Taboo, Charades, Celebrity: if it involves lateral thinking and opportunities to laugh at my friends, then I’m here for it. Unfortunately, party games are tough to orchestrate under quarantine. Between video lags and audio lapses, virtual game play is more likely to end with groans than with laughter.
Enter: Fibbage.
Fibbage, offered by Jackbox Games (the company behind virtual party games like You Don’t Know Jack and Trivia Murder Party) can be played on Xbox, Steam, and other digital platforms. The game involves equal parts trivia knowledge, improv ability, and lie-detection skills. Each round centers on an arcane piece of trivia with one detail left out: for example, “The official bird of Redondo Beach, California is ______.” Your job is to fill in that blank with a fib that your friends might believe is true: maybe you enter “Uncle Toucan,” or “Mother Goose,” or even “a middle finger.” You get points for every friend you trick; you also get points for correctly identifying the true answer (which, in this case, is the Goodyear Blimp). The strategy is to be funny, but not too funny; smart, but not too smart; witty, but impersonal. Because if you sound like yourself, rather than like the state-bird selection committee of Redondo Beach, California, no one will believe your answer.
On the other hand, if you can persuasively channel that state-bird selection committee—or, say, a South Korean hotline for reporting spies, or the writer who decided that Sonic the Hedgehog’s real name should be “Maurice”—then you win the virtual trophy. And you can bask in the glory of how easy it was to lie to your closest friends.
—Aimee Lucido
A Guide to the Coronavirus


newyorker--2020-04-22--“Buyer & Cellar,” a Play That Will Make You Want to Watch Theatre Online

If you ’ re sitting at home—and you are—gazing dully out the window , half-reading half of whatever ’ s open on your Web browser and thinking how weary , flat , and unprofitable all the uses of this world seem to be , then click on over to YouTube and watch Michael Urie reprise his 2013 performance of “ Buyer & Cellar , ” Jonathan Tolins ’ s one-man show about an actor who takes a job staffing a fake mall in Barbra Streisand ’ s basement .
Yes , it ’ s digital live theatre—Urie performed the show @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Rattlestick Theatre , and the Pride Plays , in his living room on Monday night , to raise money for the Broadway Cares/Equity Fights AIDS ’ s COVID-19 Emergency Assistance Fund—and , yes , it ’ s good .
In fact , it ’ s great : frothy and hilarious , satisfyingly seasoned with treachery , bitchery , idolatry , and punctured celebrity hero-worship .
Here I ’ ve been scouring the Web for works of theatre that seem suited to the moment and have been coming up with sombre , worthy stuff @ @ @ @ @ @ @ watch .
I lasted five minutes into a three-hour-plus recording of a Krzysztof Warlikowski play , in Polish , with English subtitles , billed as a commentary on sacrifice and the Holocaust , which opened with a man and a woman voicing stiff-armed mannequins the size of small children , and I tapped out early from the great Billie Whitelaw ’ s rendition of Samuel Beckett ’ s monologue “ Rockaby , ” whose depiction of isolation and decay seemed , for once , just a bit too on the nose .
But @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Buyer & Cellar ” for its full hour and forty minutes , because that ’ s what we all need right now : to be trapped in Barbra ’ s Malibu dream house instead of our own .
As Tolins , who briefly appears at the start of the video stream , explains , the play sprang from an unlikely source : Streisand ’ s 2010 coffee-table book , “ My Passion for Design ” ( it seems important to note that she did the principal photography for it herself ) , in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ shopping street , complete with an antique store and “ Gift Shoppe , ” that she built in her basement to show off her costumes and possessions to—herself .
What if , Tolins wondered , Streisand hired an employee to work down there ?
Enter Alex , a struggling actor—he can ’ t even hold a job at Disney World—who lucks into the gig and soon shows a talent for catering to the lady of the house .
As he haggles over the price of an antique doll ( Barbra wants a discount @ @ @ @ @ @ @ entertains guests upstairs , to man the mall ’ s frozen-yogurt machine , in case anyone wants to come down for a scoop , Alex falls under the diva ’ s spell .
He becomes her confidant and encourager .
She ’ s wily ; he outfoxes her .
She ’ s needy ; he affirms her .
Alex is living the American fantasy of proximity to fame and fortune , and , though he thinks he ’ s protected by a jaded attitude , he ’ s as susceptible as anyone to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Over at Vulture , the critic Helen Shaw pointed out that , in technical terms , “ Buyer & Cellar ” should be the model for digital theatre going forward , and she ’ s absolutely right .
I don ’ t know what Urie ’ s living room usually looks like , and I don ’ t care to .
He ’ s pulled the shades down over his windows and moved his furniture somewhere else , making the space a blank slate ; the lighting is clean and bright .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ , who directed the digital production , Stephen Brackett , who directed the original show , and Paul Wontorek , who directed the live stream , which featured—miracle of miracles—a second camera angle , a thrill in the age of the relentless Zoom closeup .
( The totally adequate camerawork was done by Urie ’ s partner , the actor Ryan Spahn . )
And then there ’ s Urie , with his antic charisma , consummate pacing , and endearing , confessional manner , amplified by direct addresses into the iPhone camera @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Barbra but also Alex ’ s boyfriend and Streisand ’ s jaded property manager .
One pleasure of the show is seeing him move .
He leaps around his living room , and gives Streisand a special slouching walk , part sexy panther , part Hunchback of Notre-Dame .
Watching him work his way through Tolins ’ s pleasurably digressive and cannily structured script is like listening to a story being told by a slightly hapless , hugely entertaining friend .
Go watch , and , if you feel so inclined , donate @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on Wednesday .

If you’re sitting at home—and you are—gazing dully out the window, half-reading half of whatever’s open on your Web browser and thinking how weary, flat, and unprofitable all the uses of this world seem to be, then click on over to YouTube and watch Michael Urie reprise his 2013 performance of “Buyer & Cellar,” Jonathan Tolins’s one-man show about an actor who takes a job staffing a fake mall in Barbra Streisand’s basement. Yes, it’s digital live theatre—Urie performed the show, which was produced by Broadway.com, Rattlestick Theatre, and the Pride Plays, in his living room on Monday night, to raise money for the Broadway Cares/Equity Fights AIDS’s COVID-19 Emergency Assistance Fund—and, yes, it’s good. In fact, it’s great: frothy and hilarious, satisfyingly seasoned with treachery, bitchery, idolatry, and punctured celebrity hero-worship. Here I’ve been scouring the Web for works of theatre that seem suited to the moment and have been coming up with sombre, worthy stuff that I in no way want to watch. I lasted five minutes into a three-hour-plus recording of a Krzysztof Warlikowski play, in Polish, with English subtitles, billed as a commentary on sacrifice and the Holocaust, which opened with a man and a woman voicing stiff-armed mannequins the size of small children, and I tapped out early from the great Billie Whitelaw’s rendition of Samuel Beckett’s monologue “Rockaby,” whose depiction of isolation and decay seemed, for once, just a bit too on the nose. But I was delighted to stay with “Buyer & Cellar” for its full hour and forty minutes, because that’s what we all need right now: to be trapped in Barbra’s Malibu dream house instead of our own.
As Tolins, who briefly appears at the start of the video stream, explains, the play sprang from an unlikely source: Streisand’s 2010 coffee-table book, “My Passion for Design” (it seems important to note that she did the principal photography for it herself), in which Babs displayed the frankly terrifying Potemkin shopping street, complete with an antique store and “Gift Shoppe,” that she built in her basement to show off her costumes and possessions to—herself. What if, Tolins wondered, Streisand hired an employee to work down there? Enter Alex, a struggling actor—he can’t even hold a job at Disney World—who lucks into the gig and soon shows a talent for catering to the lady of the house. As he haggles over the price of an antique doll (Barbra wants a discount) and stays late, while Barbra entertains guests upstairs, to man the mall’s frozen-yogurt machine, in case anyone wants to come down for a scoop, Alex falls under the diva’s spell. He becomes her confidant and encourager. She’s wily; he outfoxes her. She’s needy; he affirms her. Alex is living the American fantasy of proximity to fame and fortune, and, though he thinks he’s protected by a jaded attitude, he’s as susceptible as anyone to the promise of intimacy with a star.
Over at Vulture, the critic Helen Shaw pointed out that, in technical terms, “Buyer & Cellar” should be the model for digital theatre going forward, and she’s absolutely right. I don’t know what Urie’s living room usually looks like, and I don’t care to. He’s pulled the shades down over his windows and moved his furniture somewhere else, making the space a blank slate; the lighting is clean and bright. Three directors are credited: Nic Cory, who directed the digital production, Stephen Brackett, who directed the original show, and Paul Wontorek, who directed the live stream, which featured—miracle of miracles—a second camera angle, a thrill in the age of the relentless Zoom closeup. (The totally adequate camerawork was done by Urie’s partner, the actor Ryan Spahn.)
And then there’s Urie, with his antic charisma, consummate pacing, and endearing, confessional manner, amplified by direct addresses into the iPhone camera. He plays not only Alex and Barbra but also Alex’s boyfriend and Streisand’s jaded property manager. One pleasure of the show is seeing him move. He leaps around his living room, and gives Streisand a special slouching walk, part sexy panther, part Hunchback of Notre-Dame. Watching him work his way through Tolins’s pleasurably digressive and cannily structured script is like listening to a story being told by a slightly hapless, hugely entertaining friend. Go watch, and, if you feel so inclined, donate to a worthy cause—you have until midnight on Wednesday.


newyorker--2020-04-23--Some Different Scary Things to Dwell on All Day

If you , like me , are tired of dwelling on the scary thing but find that you ’ re the kind of person who must be dwelling on some scary thing at any given moment , it may benefit you to put in some time dwelling on other scary things .
Perhaps take a moment to turn your focus to one of these scary things : • None There are two kinds of people in the world—people who will accidentally turn the light off on you when you ’ re in the bathroom , and people who will purposely @ @ @ @ @ @ @ you ’ re in the bathroom .
• None You keep your entire life on your laptop , but , if you trip and spill even one giant bowl of punch on it , it ’ s done .
• None You did a lot of things in middle school to get popular enough to be invited to Ian Gallagher ’ s pool party , none of which you ’ ve thought about in a while .
• None There ’ s been no clinical research done on whether if you die in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , with regard to Animal Crossing .
• None Annette Bening has never won an Oscar .
Nominated four times .
Has always gone home empty-handed .
That isn ’ t scary—it ’ s just sad .
What ’ s scary is that there ’ s nothing you can do to change that .
• None You ’ ve probably spent two hundred dollars on photo-booth group photos in the course of your adult life , and I bet you couldn ’ t even tell me who half the people in them are @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Cleveland Torso Murderer !
Active from 1935 to 1938 , the Mad Butcher of Kingsbury Run claimed twelve victims in the Cleveland , Ohio , area .
If he got started when he was , I don ’ t know , five , he could still be out there .
.
.
.
• None People gossip , like , two hundred per cent more than they claim to .
And they do it about really personal stuff , like how good at sex you are and how many TV shows you haven @ @ @ @ @ @ @ through .
• None It ’ s a cliché to say that you could get hit by a meteor or an asteroid , but I bet you haven ’ t spent nearly enough time worrying about satellites , which fall from the sky onto well-meaning people all the time .
• None Everything you ever put on the Internet is still there , somewhere , just waiting for someone to find it and put you in jail for writing fan fiction in which Snape and Odysseus kiss .
• None If none of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ just get really into archery , and then you won ’ t be scared of anything .

If you, like me, are tired of dwelling on the scary thing but find that you’re the kind of person who must be dwelling on some scary thing at any given moment, it may benefit you to put in some time dwelling on other scary things. Perhaps take a moment to turn your focus to one of these scary things:
There are two kinds of people in the world—people who will accidentally turn the light off on you when you’re in the bathroom, and people who will purposely turn the light off on you when you’re in the bathroom.
You keep your entire life on your laptop, but, if you trip and spill even one giant bowl of punch on it, it’s done.
You did a lot of things in middle school to get popular enough to be invited to Ian Gallagher’s pool party, none of which you’ve thought about in a while.
Sharks may have feelings, but they sure as hell don’t care about yours.
There’s been no clinical research done on whether if you die in the game you die in real life, with regard to Animal Crossing.
Annette Bening has never won an Oscar. Nominated four times. Has always gone home empty-handed. That isn’t scary—it’s just sad. What’s scary is that there’s nothing you can do to change that.
You’ve probably spent two hundred dollars on photo-booth group photos in the course of your adult life, and I bet you couldn’t even tell me who half the people in them are.
They never caught the Cleveland Torso Murderer! Active from 1935 to 1938, the Mad Butcher of Kingsbury Run claimed twelve victims in the Cleveland, Ohio, area. If he got started when he was, I don’t know, five, he could still be out there. . . .
People gossip, like, two hundred per cent more than they claim to. And they do it about really personal stuff, like how good at sex you are and how many TV shows you haven’t made it all the way through.
It’s a cliché to say that you could get hit by a meteor or an asteroid, but I bet you haven’t spent nearly enough time worrying about satellites, which fall from the sky onto well-meaning people all the time.
Everything you ever put on the Internet is still there, somewhere, just waiting for someone to find it and put you in jail for writing fan fiction in which Snape and Odysseus kiss.


newyorker--2020-04-23--Finding Real Life in Teaching Law Online

During my first year teaching at Harvard Law School , I fell flat on my face .
In addition to prepping for class like a maniac , I spent an inordinate amount of time cultivating a professional aura .
I always dressed up for class , did my hair , and put on makeup .
One day , I found myself late getting to class .
In my pencil skirt and heels , I entered the amphitheatre-style classroom from the back .
My fifty students were already seated and ready .
Rushing down the gauntlet of steps toward the podium @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , seating chart , and a hot tea , I felt my ankle buckle .
Everything flew out of my hands and I face-planted .
The univocal gasp of my students still haunts my nightmares .
I thought , in that moment , that my teaching career was over , but I got up , walked to the podium , and began teaching the class , because I didn ’ t know what else to do .
I was immediately more relaxed and comfortable than I ’ d ever been in the classroom—and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ students , who loosened up immensely .
Earlier this month , I logged in to Zoom to teach my constitutional-law class .
That day , we were covering the gay-rights and same-sex-marriage cases .
I looked at my hundred and fifteen students ’ faces Brady Bunched onscreen and got the first sentence out—and realized my voice was quivering and my face was contorting .
I was crying in class .
A friend had died in the hospital the previous evening , after years of serious pulmonary illness and a double lung transplant .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ a minute to turn off my camera .
When I returned , the group chat had exploded with messages of support from students , which made me cry more .
Loss and sadness now in the open , we continued on with learning the Supreme Court ’ s due-process and equal-protection doctrines .
As we move toward the end of the school year in lockdown , the need to practice social distancing has made teaching and learning online the norm .
And , though most schools have not made official decisions about what @ @ @ @ @ @ @ they are being forced to consider continuing with online instruction if the pandemic doesn ’ t abate .
Indeed , it ’ s difficult to imagine how , having sent students away as the virus spread , universities could welcome them back to classrooms and dormitories in the absence of a vaccine .
Teaching over Zoom has revealed the role that spatial distance plays in education in the first place .
The geography of a large classroom , with the professor at the front , automatically communicates the hierarchy that separates teacher and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in a Zoom class , where there ’ s no podium , or front or back of the room .
The face of the professor appears onscreen in the same way as the faces of students when they speak .
The closeup view brings everyone in close .
In my teaching , I ’ ve always used the Socratic method , which means calling on dozens of students during the class hour , and engaging them in dialogue with me and with each other .
I ’ ve found that this is not @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in some respects it ’ s easier , and better .
Facial expressions are closer and more legible .
The difference in volume between those who speak loudly and those who respond quietly is minimized .
Students seem less self-conscious and less intimidated than they did in a room of a hundred people , perhaps because speaking on a screen doesn ’ t feel too different from FaceTime conversations they ’ re used to having with friends .
For me , the performative aspects of teaching—the ways in which it can resemble a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ tenable online .
Students ’ microphones stay muted on Zoom when they ’ re not speaking , and taking up time with a monologue in the absence of aural feedback—whether laughs or other signals of amusement or boredom—feels unnerving , even solipsistic .
But the give-and-take of the one-on-one exchange feels both urgent and viable .
There ’ s something strangely more intimate about online teaching , which makes the attention to each student feel more live and personalized , not less .
This new intimacy surely has something to do with the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ glimpses into home life and has meant some erosion of strict divisions between professional and personal , between public and private .
As my class studied the Supreme Court ’ s doctrine on the privacy of the bedroom , they could see each other onscreen sitting in bedrooms .
Classes are routinely interrupted by children and pets , or sounds of doorbells and vacuums .
A Berkeley Law colleague ’ s dog let out an enormous fart in the middle of her class on federal courts .
A recent post on Inside Higher @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Your Hair , ” criticized professors who are allowing students to see messy houses and unfolded laundry .
“ In these trying times , the last thing that they need to see is their adult , professional , highly educated instructor falling apart at the seams , ” Kristie Kiser wrote .
She specifically called out the “ strong female role model , ” now “ wearing her Pokémon pajamas with disheveled , unwashed hair , lamenting the added workload associated with social distancing.
” ( Kiser later apologized for her “ tone-deaf @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to the charge that my professorial take on professionalism has been changed by this crisis .
Teaching at a podium , I might well have choked down tears and not acknowledged what was happening with me .
With a closeup of my face , that wasn ’ t really plausible .
My disorganized room has been in plain view .
Like many colleagues middle-aged and older , I have been imperfect in online proficiency : while trying to show students PowerPoint slides , I accidentally exposed to them my entire desktop , which @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the fact that there was nothing embarrassing on there at that moment .
( And , yes , I have showered less and taught in clothes I wouldn ’ t wear for teaching in person . )
I have openly acknowledged feeling fear and distress , and recognized my students ’ fear and distress , melting the professional and emotional distance that teaching law normally entails .
In the past , like many female professors , I have probably expended extra energy holding up boundaries to keep signs of vulnerability at bay .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ teachers might be the students ’ only connection to a university and a profession that may feel more impersonal than ever , it ’ s possible that the relaxing of appearances humanizes these institutions .
I hope it does .
But the bridging of distance online also accentuates gaps that would ordinarily be less visible .
Students who arrived in a classroom on supposedly equal terms are now appearing to each other in the settings of relative comfort or hardship , wealth or poverty , in which they are quarantined .
Students have @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of the country or the world that may be hot spots for the virus ; they ’ ve mentioned difficulties finding a place to stay and access to an internet connection , or circumstances and responsibilities at home that make it difficult to prepare for or attend classes .
And , at a time when the pandemic is having an immensely unequal impact on vulnerable groups , the constitutional doctrines of equality I have been teaching , with their stringent requirement of proof of discriminatory intent , seem particularly absurdist and insidious .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ federal government ’ s disastrous responses to the pandemic will be ruled to have intentionally discriminated against the racial minorities that are so disproportionately harmed .

During my first year teaching at Harvard Law School, I fell flat on my face. In addition to prepping for class like a maniac, I spent an inordinate amount of time cultivating a professional aura. I always dressed up for class, did my hair, and put on makeup. One day, I found myself late getting to class. In my pencil skirt and heels, I entered the amphitheatre-style classroom from the back. My fifty students were already seated and ready. Rushing down the gauntlet of steps toward the podium, carrying my casebook, teaching notes, seating chart, and a hot tea, I felt my ankle buckle. Everything flew out of my hands and I face-planted. The univocal gasp of my students still haunts my nightmares. I thought, in that moment, that my teaching career was over, but I got up, walked to the podium, and began teaching the class, because I didn’t know what else to do. I was immediately more relaxed and comfortable than I’d ever been in the classroom—and so, it seemed, were my students, who loosened up immensely.
Earlier this month, I logged in to Zoom to teach my constitutional-law class. That day, we were covering the gay-rights and same-sex-marriage cases. I looked at my hundred and fifteen students’ faces Brady Bunched onscreen and got the first sentence out—and realized my voice was quivering and my face was contorting. I was crying in class. A friend had died in the hospital the previous evening, after years of serious pulmonary illness and a double lung transplant. I told my students and asked for a minute to turn off my camera. When I returned, the group chat had exploded with messages of support from students, which made me cry more. Loss and sadness now in the open, we continued on with learning the Supreme Court’s due-process and equal-protection doctrines.
As we move toward the end of the school year in lockdown, the need to practice social distancing has made teaching and learning online the norm. And, though most schools have not made official decisions about what to do for this coming fall, they are being forced to consider continuing with online instruction if the pandemic doesn’t abate. Indeed, it’s difficult to imagine how, having sent students away as the virus spread, universities could welcome them back to classrooms and dormitories in the absence of a vaccine.
Teaching over Zoom has revealed the role that spatial distance plays in education in the first place. The geography of a large classroom, with the professor at the front, automatically communicates the hierarchy that separates teacher and students. That distance is visually erased in a Zoom class, where there’s no podium, or front or back of the room. The face of the professor appears onscreen in the same way as the faces of students when they speak. The closeup view brings everyone in close.
In my teaching, I’ve always used the Socratic method, which means calling on dozens of students during the class hour, and engaging them in dialogue with me and with each other. I’ve found that this is not harder to do on Zoom, and in some respects it’s easier, and better. Facial expressions are closer and more legible. The difference in volume between those who speak loudly and those who respond quietly is minimized. Students seem less self-conscious and less intimidated than they did in a room of a hundred people, perhaps because speaking on a screen doesn’t feel too different from FaceTime conversations they’re used to having with friends. For me, the performative aspects of teaching—the ways in which it can resemble a live act before a captive audience—feel less tenable online. Students’ microphones stay muted on Zoom when they’re not speaking, and taking up time with a monologue in the absence of aural feedback—whether laughs or other signals of amusement or boredom—feels unnerving, even solipsistic. But the give-and-take of the one-on-one exchange feels both urgent and viable. There’s something strangely more intimate about online teaching, which makes the attention to each student feel more live and personalized, not less.
This new intimacy surely has something to do with the change of setting, which has afforded glimpses into home life and has meant some erosion of strict divisions between professional and personal, between public and private. As my class studied the Supreme Court’s doctrine on the privacy of the bedroom, they could see each other onscreen sitting in bedrooms. Classes are routinely interrupted by children and pets, or sounds of doorbells and vacuums. A Berkeley Law colleague’s dog let out an enormous fart in the middle of her class on federal courts. A recent post on Inside Higher Ed, “Instructors, Please Wash Your Hair,” criticized professors who are allowing students to see messy houses and unfolded laundry. “In these trying times, the last thing that they need to see is their adult, professional, highly educated instructor falling apart at the seams,” Kristie Kiser wrote. She specifically called out the “strong female role model,” now “wearing her Pokémon pajamas with disheveled, unwashed hair, lamenting the added workload associated with social distancing.” (Kiser later apologized for her “tone-deaf” column.)
I plead guilty to the charge that my professorial take on professionalism has been changed by this crisis. Teaching at a podium, I might well have choked down tears and not acknowledged what was happening with me. With a closeup of my face, that wasn’t really plausible. My disorganized room has been in plain view. Like many colleagues middle-aged and older, I have been imperfect in online proficiency: while trying to show students PowerPoint slides, I accidentally exposed to them my entire desktop, which felt like a big faux pas despite the fact that there was nothing embarrassing on there at that moment. (And, yes, I have showered less and taught in clothes I wouldn’t wear for teaching in person.) I have openly acknowledged feeling fear and distress, and recognized my students’ fear and distress, melting the professional and emotional distance that teaching law normally entails. In the past, like many female professors, I have probably expended extra energy holding up boundaries to keep signs of vulnerability at bay. During this period, though, when teachers might be the students’ only connection to a university and a profession that may feel more impersonal than ever, it’s possible that the relaxing of appearances humanizes these institutions. I hope it does.
But the bridging of distance online also accentuates gaps that would ordinarily be less visible. Students who arrived in a classroom on supposedly equal terms are now appearing to each other in the settings of relative comfort or hardship, wealth or poverty, in which they are quarantined. Students have described having to move back to areas of the country or the world that may be hot spots for the virus; they’ve mentioned difficulties finding a place to stay and access to an internet connection, or circumstances and responsibilities at home that make it difficult to prepare for or attend classes. And, at a time when the pandemic is having an immensely unequal impact on vulnerable groups, the constitutional doctrines of equality I have been teaching, with their stringent requirement of proof of discriminatory intent, seem particularly absurdist and insidious. It’s highly unlikely that the federal government’s disastrous responses to the pandemic will be ruled to have intentionally discriminated against the racial minorities that are so disproportionately harmed.
As the Supreme Court announced that its oral arguments for March were postponed due to COVID-19, I decided to run the oral argument of one of its scheduled constitutional cases, Trump v. Vance, with my students in class online. Nine students took the roles of Justices, and a number of others volunteered to make the attorneys’ arguments on each side. Playing the Marshal of the Court, I announced, “Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! All persons having business before the Honorable, the Supreme Court of the United States, are admonished to draw near and give their attention, for the Court is now sitting.” For the next hour, students simulated on Zoom how the Supreme Court oral argument would go. There was no sign of anyone having just rolled out of bed. Some even dressed up for court. They showed that it was totally viable to have court hearings online during a lockdown, even for the highest court in the land. Finally, the Supreme Court announced that it would hold oral arguments in May, via teleconference—not video, likely because of Justices’ long-standing concern about the possibly distorting pressures and inducements of televised performance.


newyorker--2020-04-23--Fifty Thousand Americans Dead from the Coronavirus, and a President Who Refuses to Mourn Them

In just the past few days , President Trump has blamed immigrants , China , the “ fake news ” and , of course , “ the invisible enemy ” of the coronavirus for America ’ s present troubles .
He has opined extemporaneously about his plans to hold a grand Fourth of July celebration on the National Mall and has announced that he planted a tree on the White House lawn in honor of Earth Day .
He has offered his opinion on matters small and large , bragged about himself as “ the king of ventilators , ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ passing of what he invariably ( and inaccurately ) calls “ the greatest economy in the history of the world.
” Despite the flood of words , though , what has struck me the most this week is what Trump does not talk about : the mounting toll of those who have died in this crisis .
So voluble that he regularly talks well past dinnertime at his nightly briefings , the President somehow never seems to find time to pay tribute to those who have been lost , aside from reading an @ @ @ @ @ @ @ start of his lengthy press conferences , or a brief mention of a friend in New York who died of the disease soon after calling him at the White House .
“ He said , ‘ I tested positive.
’ Four days later he was dead , ” the President recounted .
“ So this is a tough deal.
” It was not exactly the prayerful , if often politically expedient , mournfulness Americans generally expect of their elected leaders .
Trump , for the most part , dispenses even with the ritualistic @ @ @ @ @ @ @ party or creed , have always offered in times of crisis .
But the numbers are the numbers , and , notwithstanding Trump ’ s relentless happy talk , the coronavirus epidemic has , as of this week , already produced some fifty thousand American dead .
This is not , needless to say , a best-case scenario , or anything close to it .
Just a few weeks ago , a survey of scientific experts predicted forty-seven thousand U.S. dead by the beginning of May , according to the Web site FiveThirtyEight @ @ @ @ @ @ @ recorded by this Wednesday , April 22nd , well before the experts had anticipated .
On April 8th , a leading model at the University of Washington had revised its projections downward to forecast a total of sixty thousand American deaths by the beginning of August .
But the nation now looks to hit that number by May 1st , meaning that , just a few days from now , more Americans will have died from COVID-19 than the entire toll from the Vietnam War .
Meanwhile , Trump talks of reopening the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ strides against this invisible enemy.
” You would think that no amount of Trumpian misdirection could disguise the awful fact that America has more confirmed coronavirus deaths than any country in the world , and that many of them might have been prevented by earlier , more decisive government action when the President was denying that the coronavirus even presented a threat to the United States .
But Trump is trying his hardest to ignore the COVID-19 deaths .
To the extent that he discusses those who have diedd , he tends to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ political terms , framing the pandemic as an externally imposed catastrophe that would have been much , much worse without him .
Earlier this deadly spring , Trump was briefly scared into a more sombre public presentation by projections that showed hundreds of thousands or even millions of U.S. deaths if no preventative actions were taken .
Now he cites the absence of those worst-case scenarios as proof of his own brilliant handling of the crisis .
The numbers of dead citizens he throws about , meanwhile , seem to be abstractions to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ subject of mass death is all about him .
“ If we didn ’ t do the moves that we made , you would have had a million , a million and a half , two million people dead , ” he said on Monday .
“ You would have had ten to twenty to twenty-five times more people dead than all of the people that we ’ ve been watching .
That ’ s not acceptable .
The fifty thousand is not acceptable .
It ’ s so horrible .
But can @ @ @ @ @ @ @ or more ?
It ’ s not acceptable.
” Trump did not pause to offer any sort of regret or sorrow , and instead claimed that the entire death toll in the United States would end up around fifty or sixty thousand as a result of his heroic moves .
Of course , this was not true ; that is , essentially , how many have already passed away .
Honoring the dead has long been one of the tests of American Presidential leadership .
Abraham Lincoln ’ s Gettysburg Address was , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ speech but a remembrance of those who were killed in the bloodiest single battle of the Civil War , in which some fifty thousand Americans became casualties and about eight thousand died .
Twenty-five years ago this week , Bill Clinton ’ s lip-bitingly empathetic response to the Oklahoma City bombing , in which a white supremacist blew up a federal building and killed a hundred and sixty-eight people , was seen as a key moment of his tenure .
He was dubbed the “ mourner-in-chief , ” at a time when he @ @ @ @ @ @ @ often said to have saved his Presidency .
More recently , Barack Obama wept from the White House lectern in speaking about the deaths of schoolchildren in Newtown , Connecticut , and gave arguably the speech of his lifetime in Charleston , South Carolina , in 2015 , singing “ Amazing Grace ” as he mourned at a funeral service for nine African-Americans killed by a white supremacist at a church massacre .
Even those Presidents who aren ’ t particularly good at speechifying—think of the two George Bushes—have considered public commiseration amid @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Have we ever had a President just take a pass on human empathy , even of the manufactured , politically clichéd kind ?
Trump ’ s departure from normal behavior is often most painfully evident during his nightly briefings , when his persistent disregard for the dead stands in stark contrast to the manner of others in his Administration .
Dr. Deborah Birx , the State Department official who has been named White House coördinator for the pandemic response , often mentions the human toll of the disease and thanks the medical @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , Vice-President Mike Pence began his brief remarks with a nod to the “ loss of more than forty-seven thousand of our countrymen.
” It was just the sort of thing you would expect Pence to say , and yet notable for how different it sounded compared with the President .
Trump began that very same briefing by saying “ our aggressive strategy to battle the virus is working.
” It is , he said , “ very exciting , even today , watching and seeing what ’ s happening.
” What was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on which more than two thousand Americans died of the coronavirus , a fact that Trump did not mention .
We know what a normal President would do and say at such a time .
He would comfort the afflicted , weep tears of sadness , whether real or not ; he would rally the country , or at least seek to .
It is hard to write about the absence of something but especially necessary in this case , with a President like Trump , who has relentlessly used his public platform @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the disease has proved .
His fear of the political consequences to himself that such contemplation might engender is painfully transparent .

In just the past few days, President Trump has blamed immigrants, China, the “fake news” and, of course, “the invisible enemy” of the coronavirus for America’s present troubles. He has opined extemporaneously about his plans to hold a grand Fourth of July celebration on the National Mall and has announced that he planted a tree on the White House lawn in honor of Earth Day. He has offered his opinion on matters small and large, bragged about himself as “the king of ventilators,” and spent much time lamenting the pandemic-inflicted passing of what he invariably (and inaccurately) calls “the greatest economy in the history of the world.”
Despite the flood of words, though, what has struck me the most this week is what Trump does not talk about: the mounting toll of those who have died in this crisis. So voluble that he regularly talks well past dinnertime at his nightly briefings, the President somehow never seems to find time to pay tribute to those who have been lost, aside from reading an occasional scripted line or two at the start of his lengthy press conferences, or a brief mention of a friend in New York who died of the disease soon after calling him at the White House. “He said, ‘I tested positive.’ Four days later he was dead,” the President recounted. “So this is a tough deal.” It was not exactly the prayerful, if often politically expedient, mournfulness Americans generally expect of their elected leaders. Trump, for the most part, dispenses even with the ritualistic clichés that other politicians, regardless of party or creed, have always offered in times of crisis.
But the numbers are the numbers, and, notwithstanding Trump’s relentless happy talk, the coronavirus epidemic has, as of this week, already produced some fifty thousand American dead. This is not, needless to say, a best-case scenario, or anything close to it. Just a few weeks ago, a survey of scientific experts predicted forty-seven thousand U.S. dead by the beginning of May, according to the Web site FiveThirtyEight. Instead, forty-seven thousand deaths were recorded by this Wednesday, April 22nd, well before the experts had anticipated. On April 8th, a leading model at the University of Washington had revised its projections downward to forecast a total of sixty thousand American deaths by the beginning of August. But the nation now looks to hit that number by May 1st, meaning that, just a few days from now, more Americans will have died from COVID-19 than the entire toll from the Vietnam War. Meanwhile, Trump talks of reopening the country, and of the “tremendous strides against this invisible enemy.”
You would think that no amount of Trumpian misdirection could disguise the awful fact that America has more confirmed coronavirus deaths than any country in the world, and that many of them might have been prevented by earlier, more decisive government action when the President was denying that the coronavirus even presented a threat to the United States. But Trump is trying his hardest to ignore the COVID-19 deaths. To the extent that he discusses those who have died, he tends to do so largely in self-justifying, explicitly political terms, framing the pandemic as an externally imposed catastrophe that would have been much, much worse without him. Earlier this deadly spring, Trump was briefly scared into a more sombre public presentation by projections that showed hundreds of thousands or even millions of U.S. deaths if no preventative actions were taken. Now he cites the absence of those worst-case scenarios as proof of his own brilliant handling of the crisis. The numbers of dead citizens he throws about, meanwhile, seem to be abstractions to a President who believes that even the subject of mass death is all about him. “If we didn’t do the moves that we made, you would have had a million, a million and a half, two million people dead,” he said on Monday. “You would have had ten to twenty to twenty-five times more people dead than all of the people that we’ve been watching. That’s not acceptable. The fifty thousand is not acceptable. It’s so horrible. But can you imagine multiplying that out by twenty or more? It’s not acceptable.” Trump did not pause to offer any sort of regret or sorrow, and instead claimed that the entire death toll in the United States would end up around fifty or sixty thousand as a result of his heroic moves. Of course, this was not true; that is, essentially, how many have already passed away.
Honoring the dead has long been one of the tests of American Presidential leadership. Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address was, after all, not just another political speech but a remembrance of those who were killed in the bloodiest single battle of the Civil War, in which some fifty thousand Americans became casualties and about eight thousand died. Twenty-five years ago this week, Bill Clinton’s lip-bitingly empathetic response to the Oklahoma City bombing, in which a white supremacist blew up a federal building and killed a hundred and sixty-eight people, was seen as a key moment of his tenure. He was dubbed the “mourner-in-chief,” at a time when he was languishing politically. That speech is often said to have saved his Presidency. More recently, Barack Obama wept from the White House lectern in speaking about the deaths of schoolchildren in Newtown, Connecticut, and gave arguably the speech of his lifetime in Charleston, South Carolina, in 2015, singing “Amazing Grace” as he mourned at a funeral service for nine African-Americans killed by a white supremacist at a church massacre. Even those Presidents who aren’t particularly good at speechifying—think of the two George Bushes—have considered public commiseration amid national tragedy part of the job description. Have we ever had a President just take a pass on human empathy, even of the manufactured, politically clichéd kind?
Trump’s departure from normal behavior is often most painfully evident during his nightly briefings, when his persistent disregard for the dead stands in stark contrast to the manner of others in his Administration. Dr. Deborah Birx, the State Department official who has been named White House coördinator for the pandemic response, often mentions the human toll of the disease and thanks the medical caregivers risking their lives. On Wednesday, Vice-President Mike Pence began his brief remarks with a nod to the “loss of more than forty-seven thousand of our countrymen.” It was just the sort of thing you would expect Pence to say, and yet notable for how different it sounded compared with the President. Trump began that very same briefing by saying, “Our aggressive strategy to battle the virus is working.” It is, he said, “very exciting, even today, watching and seeing what’s happening.” What was happening, though, was another day on which more than two thousand Americans died of the coronavirus, a fact that Trump did not mention. We know what a normal President would do and say at such a time. He would comfort the afflicted, weep tears of sadness, whether real or not; he would rally the country, or at least seek to. It is hard to write about the absence of something but especially necessary in this case, with a President like Trump, who has relentlessly used his public platform to discourage the contemplation of how deadly the disease has proved. His fear of the political consequences to himself that such contemplation might engender is painfully transparent.


newyorker--2020-04-23--Immigrant Doctors Want to Help Fight COVID-19 but Are Stymied by State Licensing Laws

On the evening of April 3rd , the mobile phones of many New Yorkers began beeping with a push alert from City Hall .
“ Attention all health care workers : New York City is seeking licensed healthcare workers to support healthcare facilities in need , ” the message read , with a link to sign up .
Even before the coronavirus crisis , there was a shortage of doctors around the country ; since the pandemic hit , Mayor Bill de Blasio and Governor Andrew Cuomo have been urging retired doctors and nurses to help their colleagues on the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ early April , de Blasio told NPR that the city would need forty-five thousand more “ clinical personnel ” by the end of the month . )
The alert made its way to the cell phone of Aleksandra Prasolova , who was sheltering in her apartment in South Brooklyn , working on a jigsaw puzzle to help pass the time .
Prasolova , who is thirty-seven and moved to New York three years ago , is an anesthesiologist and intensive-care physician with nine years ’ experience in Moscow hospitals .
In 2009 , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ she was working in the intensive-care unit at an underfunded city hospital .
“ We couldn ’ t do a CT scan or MRI .
We had nothing—we had to work like in the nineteenth century , ” she told me .
“ Some days , we had to wash out our gloves because we didn ’ t have any others , and we just used them again.
” Prasolova registered online , but she knew it was unlikely that she ’ d be called , because she doesn ’ t have a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ She looked into getting one when she first arrived in the U.S. , but the process in New York—each state sets its own requirements—involves passing the three-part United States Medical Licensing Examination , which is expensive to prepare for and take , and also requires the completion of a hospital residency of at least three years ( four years , for anesthesiologists ) , which is difficult for a foreign-trained specialist to obtain .
So Prasolova worked at a local clinic , digitizing medical files , and taught anatomy and physiology part time @ @ @ @ @ @ @ In responding to the alert , she hoped to be able to volunteer in some other medical capacity .
On April 9th , the H.R .
office of a hospital in Queens promised to e-mail her forms meant to establish her qualifications .
She ’ s still waiting for them .
“ I ’ ve been checking my spam constantly , ” she told me .
“ I want to be useful somewhere , do something.
” According to the Migration Policy Institute , a think tank based in Washington , D.C. , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ immigrants in the United States with degrees in health-related fields who are either working in low-paying jobs or are out of work .
Many live in states that have been hit hard by the pandemic , such as New York and Florida .
“ Florida is the state with the highest number of college-educated migrants , but many are , for example , unemployed Cuban health professionals who can ’ t convert their degrees , ” Jeanne Batalova , a sociologist and a senior policy analyst at the Institute , told me .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ workers , or taxi and Uber drivers.
” In recent weeks , the governors of New York , New Jersey , Nevada , and a few other states have issued executive orders to relax the rules and issue temporary licenses , in certain cases .
Governor Phil Murphy , of New Jersey , has issued the most flexible order to date , allowing temporary medical licenses to physicians who have practiced in other countries within the past five years and have at least five years ’ work experience over all in hospitals or @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to have taken the U.S.M.L.E .
Prasolova easily fulfills these requirements .
But , in New York , Cuomo has taken a more limited approach : the state still requires passing the exams , though it has reduced the residency requirement to just one year .
Two weeks ago , in Massachusetts , Governor Baker issued an executive order that reduced his state ’ s residency requirement to two years .
But , Eva Millona , the executive director of the Massachusetts Immigrant and Refugee Advocacy Coalition , told CommonWealth Magazine , “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and other medical professionals in Massachusetts don ’ t fit that profile.
” The process became more difficult in 1976 , when Congress passed a law claiming that foreign-trained medical workers were not as professionally competent as U.S. graduates , and that there was “ no longer an insufficient number of physicians and surgeons in the United States such that there is no further need for affording preference to alien ” doctors .
Since then , a few states have passed small amendments to the law , but the path to licensing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , the vice-president of strategic outreach at Refugees International , who advocates for refugee doctors , told me that , even though the states control the process , “ the federal government still could put together a task force to develop guidelines.
” President Trump ’ s anti-immigrant stance , however—on Tuesday , he announced a sixty-day suspension of new green cards would likely stand in the way of such an initiative .
As the Times reported earlier this month , the White House has been making it difficult for four thousand foreign @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for which they have already been approved .
Gregory Maniatis , the director of the International Migration Initiative at the Open Society Foundations , has been discussing with organizations and officials in countries around the world ways to unlock their countries ’ credentialling processes .
“ There are all these people who can contribute , who want to contribute , and we are stopping them from doing that , ” he told me .
“ Any person who is not overtly anti-immigrant , ” he added , would say , “ of course @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Open Society , with More in Common and YouGov , conducted a survey asking Americans if they would approve of foreign doctors working on the front lines of the pandemic .
Seventy-five per cent said yes .
José Ramón Fernández-Peña was a primary-care physician in Mexico before coming to the United States in the nineteen-eighties , when the AIDS crisis was at its peak .
He earned a master ’ s degree in public administration , with a concentration in health policy , at New York University , then worked in administration at @ @ @ @ @ @ @ he met many foreign-trained doctors who wanted to get back into the field .
So , in 1999 , when he started teaching in the health-education department of San Francisco State University , he founded the Welcome Back Initiative , which helps immigrant health professionals pursue the credentials they need and find education and job opportunities .
It now has offices across the country .
“ From New York to Washington State , folks are coming into our offices asking , ‘ Is there any way I can help ?
’ ” he @ @ @ @ @ @ @ process is so challenging .
The U.S.M.L.E .
exams are intended for recent medical-school graduates , whereas foreign-trained physicians may have been working in specialized fields for years .
“ Imagine a cardiologist , ” he said , “ who has been training abroad for years on heart problems , if he would be able to recall the names of bones in each foot , after many years out of school.
” In addition , the fee to take the exams , plus the cost of textbooks and other expenses , can amount @ @ @ @ @ @ @ immigrant doctors may not be able to afford , especially if they have families to support .
“ The immigrant that left Iraq probably didn ’ t walk out with a hundred thousand dollars in his pocket , ” Fernández-Peña said .

On the evening of April 3rd, the mobile phones of many New Yorkers began beeping with a push alert from City Hall. “Attention all health care workers: New York City is seeking licensed healthcare workers to support healthcare facilities in need,” the message read, with a link to sign up. Even before the coronavirus crisis, there was a shortage of doctors around the country; since the pandemic hit, Mayor Bill de Blasio and Governor Andrew Cuomo have been urging retired doctors and nurses to help their colleagues on the front lines against Covid-19. (In early April, de Blasio told NPR that the city would need forty-five thousand more “clinical personnel” by the end of the month.) The alert made its way to the cell phone of Aleksandra Prasolova, who was sheltering in her apartment in South Brooklyn, working on a jigsaw puzzle to help pass the time.
Prasolova, who is thirty-seven and moved to New York three years ago, is an anesthesiologist and intensive-care physician with nine years’ experience in Moscow hospitals. In 2009, when the swine-flu epidemic reached Russia, she was working in the intensive-care unit at an underfunded city hospital. “We couldn’t do a CT scan or MRI. We had nothing—we had to work like in the nineteenth century,” she told me. “Some days, we had to wash out our gloves because we didn’t have any others, and we just used them again.”
Prasolova registered online, but she knew it was unlikely that she’d be called, because she doesn’t have a medical license in New York State. She looked into getting one when she first arrived in the U.S., but the process in New York—each state sets its own requirements—involves passing the three-part United States Medical Licensing Examination, which is expensive to prepare for and take, and also requires the completion of a hospital residency of at least three years (four years, for anesthesiologists), which is difficult for a foreign-trained specialist to obtain. So Prasolova worked at a local clinic, digitizing medical files, and taught anatomy and physiology part time at a small private medical school. In responding to the alert, she hoped to be able to volunteer in some other medical capacity. On April 9th, the H.R. office of a hospital in Queens promised to e-mail her forms meant to establish her qualifications. She’s still waiting for them. “I’ve been checking my spam constantly,” she told me. “I want to be useful somewhere, do something.”
According to the Migration Policy Institute, a think tank based in Washington, D.C., there are two hundred and sixty-three thousand immigrants in the United States with degrees in health-related fields who are either working in low-paying jobs or are out of work. Many live in states that have been hit hard by the pandemic, such as New York and Florida. “Florida is the state with the highest number of college-educated migrants, but many are, for example, unemployed Cuban health professionals who can’t convert their degrees,” Jeanne Batalova, a sociologist and a senior policy analyst at the Institute, told me. Many work “as cashiers, child-care workers, or taxi and Uber drivers.”
In recent weeks, the governors of New York, New Jersey, Nevada, and a few other states have issued executive orders to relax the rules and issue temporary licenses, in certain cases. Governor Phil Murphy, of New Jersey, has issued the most flexible order to date, allowing temporary medical licenses to physicians who have practiced in other countries within the past five years and have at least five years’ work experience over all in hospitals or clinics. The physicians do not have to have taken the U.S.M.L.E. Prasolova easily fulfills these requirements. But, in New York, Cuomo has taken a more limited approach: the state still requires passing the exams, though it has reduced the residency requirement to just one year. Two weeks ago, in Massachusetts, Governor Baker issued an executive order that reduced his state’s residency requirement to two years. But, Eva Millona, the executive director of the Massachusetts Immigrant and Refugee Advocacy Coalition, told CommonWealth Magazine, “Sadly, many foreign-trained doctors, nurses, and other medical professionals in Massachusetts don’t fit that profile.”
The process became more difficult in 1976, when Congress passed a law claiming that foreign-trained medical workers were not as professionally competent as U.S. graduates, and that there was “no longer an insufficient number of physicians and surgeons in the United States such that there is no further need for affording preference to alien” doctors. Since then, a few states have passed small amendments to the law, but the path to licensing remains challenging for most. Cindy Huang, the vice-president of strategic outreach at Refugees International, who advocates for refugee doctors, told me that, even though the states control the process, “the federal government still could put together a task force to develop guidelines.” President Trump’s anti-immigrant stance, however—on Tuesday, he announced a sixty-day suspension of new green cards—would likely stand in the way of such an initiative. As the Times reported earlier this month, the White House has been making it difficult for four thousand foreign physicians to get visas to start residencies for which they have already been approved.
Gregory Maniatis, the director of the International Migration Initiative at the Open Society Foundations, has been discussing with organizations and officials in countries around the world ways to unlock their countries’ credentialling processes. “There are all these people who can contribute, who want to contribute, and we are stopping them from doing that,” he told me. “Any person who is not overtly anti-immigrant,” he added, would say, “of course we should be doing that.” The Open Society, with More in Common and YouGov, conducted a survey asking Americans if they would approve of foreign doctors working on the front lines of the pandemic. Seventy-five per cent said yes.
José Ramón Fernández-Peña was a primary-care physician in Mexico before coming to the United States in the nineteen-eighties, when the AIDS crisis was at its peak. He earned a master’s degree in public administration, with a concentration in health policy, at New York University, then worked in administration at Bellevue Hospital. Along the way, he met many foreign-trained doctors who wanted to get back into the field. So, in 1999, when he started teaching in the health-education department of San Francisco State University, he founded the Welcome Back Initiative, which helps immigrant health professionals pursue the credentials they need and find education and job opportunities. It now has offices across the country. “From New York to Washington State, folks are coming into our offices asking, ‘Is there any way I can help?’ ” he said.
Fernández-Peña explained why the licensing process is so challenging. The U.S.M.L.E. exams are intended for recent medical-school graduates, whereas foreign-trained physicians may have been working in specialized fields for years. “Imagine a cardiologist,” he said, “who has been training abroad for years on heart problems, if he would be able to recall the names of bones in each foot, after many years out of school.” In addition, the fee to take the exams, plus the cost of textbooks and other expenses, can amount to ten thousand dollars, which many immigrant doctors may not be able to afford, especially if they have families to support. “The immigrant that left Iraq probably didn’t walk out with a hundred thousand dollars in his pocket,” Fernández-Peña said.
He’s aware that some professionals who have been out of training might be too rusty to take on the pandemic’s most complicated patients. “I was a doctor in Mexico thirty-five years ago, so maybe don’t give me a license,” he said. “But I can take people’s temperatures, I can be in the testing sites, and I could do all that in Spanish,” he added, pointing out that Latinos are one of the groups on which the coronavirus is taking a disproportionate toll. “All the immigrant workforce could work in many roles during this crisis.”
Then there is the residency challenge. “There are high standards everywhere,” Fernández-Peña said. “But some countries have managed to make the process simpler, such as Australia, where you have to pass some exams and then you work with the supervision of a doctor for just one year.” In 2016, there were twenty-six thousand residencies available across the U.S., and thirty-five thousand applications. That year, Kristina Sokolovska Konieczny, a thirty-seven-year-old primary-care physician from Macedonia, applied for almost two hundred residency spots and was not accepted to any. Each year, the number of medical-school graduates increases, but the number of available residency positions does not. That’s because, in 1997, Congress capped the number of residents for which teaching hospitals could receive Medicare funds. A bill currently before the House, the Resident Physician Shortage Reduction Act, would, by 2025, increase the number of Medicare-funded residency slots by fifteen thousand. Konieczny, however, decided not to wait; she is now working as a nurse in Massachusetts. Nursing is another profession suffering from a shortage of personnel. According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, there are openings for more than two hundred thousand nursing positions a year; in 2018, only a hundred and seventy thousand were licensed.