newyorker--2020-04-03--Digital Door Knocking: Voter Outreach in a Pandemic

Subscribers to The New Yorker ’ s new 2020 election newsletter , On the Trail , received this piece in their in-boxes .
Sign up to receive future installments .
Voter outreach used to be about homes , then it became about phones , the veteran Wisconsin political operative Joe Zepecki told me this week .
People have always lived in homes , and modern day campaigns have long tried to reach them there in as many ways as possible : door-knocking , mail , flyers , phone calls .
Then computer and mobile technology came along .
“ Really @ @ @ @ @ @ @ home anymore , ” Zepecki said .
“ Where we live is on our mobile devices .
And what digital organizing is about is all the different entry points into your phone.
” By this he meant e-mail , texts , Twitter , Facebook , Words with Friends , etc .
For years , these two approaches existed side by side .
Campaigns had field operations , and they had digital strategy .
The coronavirus crisis has turned this situation inside out .
“ The new world order : we ’ re trying @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , even though you ’ re trapped within your physical home , ” Zepecki said .
Across the country , people have been ordered to stay put .
In-person political campaigning is on pause , and campaigns , from the Presidential level to the school board , are trying to figure out what that means .
Although digital tools are more sophisticated than they used to be , they have never had to fully replace face-to-face canvassing before .
Those in-person conversations were still considered the most effective way to reach people .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ , as it ’ s likely to , no one can really say what it will mean for politicians ’ ability to engage with the public .
“ How do we bring the person-to-person interaction that we have at the doors to some other vehicle ?
” Alex Morgan , the executive director of Progressive Turnout Project , asked me recently .
His group , which employs a hundred and fifty people across more than a dozen states , focusses on making sure that inconsistent voters who are likely to support Democrats go @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to beef up their text messaging , phone banking , and digital ads , but he worries about losing the “ social-pressure ” aspect of door knocking .
“ Something that I ’ ve been thinking about is do we deploy people to find people online ?
” he said .
Rather than reaching people through impersonal Web ads or text messages , he wondered if digital canvassers should employ tactics like deliberate direct messages on social-media platforms .
He thinks campaigns might do well to pivot to simply checking in on people @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that candidates can do right now , in terms of continuing their outreach , is to just ask folks , ‘ How are you doing ?
How can I help ?
Can I connect you to resources ?
’ ” he said .
If you ’ ve been holed up at home , I ’ m curious to hear what kind of campaign outreach you ’ ve heard or seen .
Does it look any different than it used to ?
Is it cutting through the reports of human devastation , fear , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with now ?
Who is doing the best or most interesting online campaigning ?
Let us know at TNYinbox @ newyorker.com .
We ’ ll feature some reader responses in a future newsletter .

Subscribers to The New Yorker’s new 2020 election newsletter, On the Trail, received this piece in their in-boxes. Sign up to receive future installments.
Voter outreach used to be about homes, then it became about phones, the veteran Wisconsin political operative Joe Zepecki told me this week. People have always lived in homes, and modern day campaigns have long tried to reach them there in as many ways as possible: door-knocking, mail, flyers, phone calls. Then computer and mobile technology came along. “Really, we don’t live at home anymore,” Zepecki said. “Where we live is on our mobile devices. And what digital organizing is about is all the different entry points into your phone.” By this he meant e-mail, texts, Twitter, Facebook, Words with Friends, etc. For years, these two approaches existed side by side. Campaigns had field operations, and they had digital strategy. The coronavirus crisis has turned this situation inside out. “The new world order: we’re trying to reach you on your mobile device, even though you’re trapped within your physical home,” Zepecki said.
Across the country, people have been ordered to stay put. In-person political campaigning is on pause, and campaigns, from the Presidential level to the school board, are trying to figure out what that means. Although digital tools are more sophisticated than they used to be, they have never had to fully replace face-to-face canvassing before. Those in-person conversations were still considered the most effective way to reach people. If the current situation persists for months, as it’s likely to, no one can really say what it will mean for politicians’ ability to engage with the public.
“How do we bring the person-to-person interaction that we have at the doors to some other vehicle?” Alex Morgan, the executive director of Progressive Turnout Project, asked me recently. His group, which employs a hundred and fifty people across more than a dozen states, focusses on making sure that inconsistent voters who are likely to support Democrats go to the polls. He expects campaigns to beef up their text messaging, phone banking, and digital ads, but he worries about losing the “social-pressure” aspect of door knocking. “Something that I’ve been thinking about is do we deploy people to find people online?” he said. Rather than reaching people through impersonal Web ads or text messages, he wondered if digital canvassers should employ tactics like deliberate direct messages on social-media platforms. He thinks campaigns might do well to pivot to simply checking in on people. “I think the best thing that candidates can do right now, in terms of continuing their outreach, is to just ask folks, ‘How are you doing? How can I help? Can I connect you to resources?’ ” he said.
If you’ve been holed up at home, I’m curious to hear what kind of campaign outreach you’ve heard or seen. Does it look any different than it used to? Is it cutting through the reports of human devastation, fear, and risk that we’re living with now? Who is doing the best or most interesting online campaigning? Let us know at TNYinbox@newyorker.com. We’ll feature some reader responses in a future newsletter.


My Hand-Washing Journal

Having learned that the twenty seconds required for a thorough antivirus hand washing can be timed by singing “ Happy Birthday ” twice , I start to sing as I lather up .
I ’ m grateful for the “ Happy Birthday ” information : checking your wristwatch while washing your hands can be awkward , and , let ’ s face it , it ’ s an invitation to splash .
However , as I try to think of someone whose birthday is anywhere near today , I lose track of where I was in the song .
The @ @ @ @ @ @ @ about calling the C.D.C .
to see if they have come up with any alternate songs .
But I figure that the folks over there have a lot on their plate , what with constantly having to concoct diplomatic ways to correct the President and all .
I don ’ t want to tie up their phone line .
I ’ ve decided to sing “ Happy Birthday ” to my cousin Keith , who reached the finals of the Kansas State Spelling Bee in what must have been around 1956 .
I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ believe that Keith ’ s birthday is approaching or just passed , but I ’ ve never thought that he got enough acclaim for that achievement back in Kansas .
True , Keith didn ’ t actually win the Kansas State Spelling Bee ; he just reached the finals .
Still , that was obviously the standout academic achievement of our family , even if you count my cousin Neil ’ s selection as the head drum major of the University of Nebraska marching band .
So I sing the first “ Happy @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and then I realize that I don ’ t have anyone in mind for the second go-around .
I ’ m stuck with saying “ one-Mississippi , two-Mississippi , ” etc.
, to finish out the twenty seconds .
It makes me feel like a third-grader playing hide-and-seek .
Having realized that I can choose my own alternatives to “ Happy Birthday ” —it ’ s what they now call D.I.Y.—I decide that a short Glasgow street song might fill the bill .
( How I happen to know a few Glasgow street @ @ @ @ @ @ @ don ’ t have the time to tell now that I ’ m so busy figuring out what to sing while washing my hands . )
I time “ Ye Cannae Shove Yer Granny Aff the Bus , ” but it clocks in at fifteen seconds—not enough for a thorough wash .
I try “ Ma Maw ’ s a Millionaire , ” but it turns out to be almost the same length .
I time a song from the University of Missouri Savitar Frolics of 1953 , “ I ’ d Rather @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ Cause Darling You ’ re Nowhere Tonight.
” Too long .
Thinking that a ballad might be soothing , considering the situation , I start to time “ Woman I Love You But Them Crooked Stockings Got to Go , ” but I can ’ t seem to remember the next line of the lyrics .
Temporarily stymied , I wash my hands while singing “ Happy Birthday ” to Anthony Fauci twice .
I ’ ve decided to stick with “ Happy Birthday , ” and I ’ m starting with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ most of whom I haven ’ t seen in years .
As I wish each person a happy birthday—Dogbite Donnelly and Rashy Gordon are the first two names that come to me—I wonder what that person is up to these days .
I imagine them barbecuing in their back yards or waving from a sailboat or sitting on the beach ; it ’ s sort of a sudsy version of Facebook .
When I get through with all the high-school classmates I can remember , I intend to go through the lineup of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ won the American Association pennant , besting such teams as the Minneapolis Millers and the Toledo Mud Hens .
After that , I ’ ll start on my college class .
This thing could go on for a long time .

8:30 A.M.
Having learned that the twenty seconds required for a thorough antivirus hand washing can be timed by singing “Happy Birthday” twice, I start to sing as I lather up. I’m grateful for the “Happy Birthday” information: checking your wristwatch while washing your hands can be awkward, and, let’s face it, it’s an invitation to splash. However, as I try to think of someone whose birthday is anywhere near today, I lose track of where I was in the song. The hand washing is aborted.
8:42 A.M.
I think about calling the C.D.C. to see if they have come up with any alternate songs. But I figure that the folks over there have a lot on their plate, what with constantly having to concoct diplomatic ways to correct the President and all. I don’t want to tie up their phone line.
8:48 A.M.
I’ve decided to sing “Happy Birthday” to my cousin Keith, who reached the finals of the Kansas State Spelling Bee in what must have been around 1956. I don’t have any reason to believe that Keith’s birthday is approaching or just passed, but I’ve never thought that he got enough acclaim for that achievement back in Kansas. True, Keith didn’t actually win the Kansas State Spelling Bee; he just reached the finals. Still, that was obviously the standout academic achievement of our family, even if you count my cousin Neil’s selection as the head drum major of the University of Nebraska marching band. So I sing the first “Happy Birthday” to my cousin Keith, and then I realize that I don’t have anyone in mind for the second go-around. I’m stuck with saying “one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi,” etc., to finish out the twenty seconds. It makes me feel like a third-grader playing hide-and-seek.
9:25 A.M.
Having realized that I can choose my own alternatives to “Happy Birthday”—it’s what they now call D.I.Y.—I decide that a short Glasgow street song might fill the bill. (How I happen to know a few Glasgow street songs is a long story that I don’t have the time to tell now that I’m so busy figuring out what to sing while washing my hands.) I time “Ye Cannae Shove Yer Granny Aff the Bus,” but it clocks in at fifteen seconds—not enough for a thorough wash. I try “Ma Maw’s a Millionaire,” but it turns out to be almost the same length. I time a song from the University of Missouri Savitar Frolics of 1953, “I’d Rather Be Nowhere Than Somewhere Where You Are ’Cause Darling You’re Nowhere Tonight.” Too long. Thinking that a ballad might be soothing, considering the situation, I start to time “Woman I Love You But Them Crooked Stockings Got to Go,” but I can’t seem to remember the next line of the lyrics. Temporarily stymied, I wash my hands while singing “Happy Birthday” to Anthony Fauci twice.
10:00 A.M.
I’ve decided to stick with “Happy Birthday,” and I’m starting with the people in my high-school class, most of whom I haven’t seen in years. As I wish each person a happy birthday—Dogbite Donnelly and Rashy Gordon are the first two names that come to me—I wonder what that person is up to these days. I imagine them barbecuing in their back yards or waving from a sailboat or sitting on the beach; it’s sort of a sudsy version of Facebook. When I get through with all the high-school classmates I can remember, I intend to go through the lineup of the Kansas City Blues the year they won the American Association pennant, besting such teams as the Minneapolis Millers and the Toledo Mud Hens. After that, I’ll start on my college class. This thing could go on for a long time.


newyorker--2020-04-03--Celebrity Chefs Take to Instagram, and to the Pantry

The other day , the chef Tom Colicchio , whose four restaurants in New York are currently closed , posted a short video on Instagram , demonstrating how he was using leftover roasted Brussels sprouts and carrots to make lunch .
( Or was it breakfast ?
A fried egg was involved .
The hours , and the meals , have begun to blur . )
He started by drizzling some oil into a pan .
“ Does it matter what oil ?
” whispered the person behind the camera .
“ No .
Right now , nothing matters !
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ Bengtsson , the executive chef of Aquavit , in east midtown , filmed herself preparing an easy meat sauce for pasta .
She had ordered a tripod online , she said , but it would take two weeks to arrive ; in the meantime , she was using a head of broccoli to prop up her phone .
She would normally add green olives to her sauce , but her grocery store had been cleaned out .
Eric Ripert showcased a smoked-salmon grilled cheese and an incredibly simple butternut-squash soup , the likes @ @ @ @ @ @ @ his restaurant Le Bernardin .
In one caption , he included a warning to would-be detractors .
“ If you are a great Chef-Cook , a purist and have access to .
.
.
abundant diverse ingredients , great equipment etc , ” he wrote , “ I am very happy for you and if my cooking methods are not interesting enough for you .
.
.
don ’ t bother following and posting negative comments.
” In the wake of their restaurants closing , many of New York ’ s most prominent @ @ @ @ @ @ @ desperately strapped industry by organizing employee-relief funds , writing op-eds , and urging constituents to call their representatives to demand government aid .
In the moments in between , many are taking to the Internet to share tutorials , tips , and glimpses of what they ’ re up to in isolation .
Their posts are , on some level , meant to inspire .
But what I like best about them is how forgiving they are , how they let the home cook off the hook .
If you want help making @ @ @ @ @ @ @ just the sort that many are seeking right now—you can find it in spades .
If you only have the time and energy to focus on feeding yourself ( and not a needy levain starter ) with limited resources , look to restaurant chefs , who are usually so busy cooking elaborately for other people that they ’ ve developed a special shorthand for cooking for themselves .
You can learn it , too .
“ The microwave , ” declared David Chang , of Momofuku , in a recent post , “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in present day .
If you think a microwave is bad for you .
.
.
throw away your smartphone.
” He used his to “ hammer ” ( kitchen slang for “ overcook ” ) some sausage with olive oil , garlic , onion , and chili flakes .
Then he boiled orecchiette , adding “ old broccoli rabe ” and turnip and radish tops to the water at the last minute , and mixed everything together with MSG and fish sauce , because he didn ’ t have Parmesan cheese .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ in a restaurant , ” he wrote .
“ Who cares .
.
.
tasted great.
” Christina Tosi , the force behind Milk Bar , has launched a baking club on Instagram Live ; prior to each meeting , she posts photos of piles of various ingredients , informing her followers that they need only one item from each array , Mad Libs style .
If you don ’ t have all-purpose flour for cutout cookies , you can grind oats in a blender , or even use Bisquick pancake mix .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ rolling pin , you can use a wine bottle or a foam muscle roller .
Rita Sodi , the chef behind I Sodi and Via Carota , offered a recipe for humble potatoes , fried with sage .
Natasha Pickowicz , of Café Altro Paradiso and Flora Bar , posted dreamy doodles of cakes and galettes .
For months , Frederico Ribeiro , who co-owns Té Company , a West Village tea shop and restaurant , with his wife , Elena Liao , has been using Instagram Stories to document how they eat @ @ @ @ @ @ @ series he calls “ Chez Fred.
” Recently , while making breakfast sandwiches , he noted that he ’ d forgotten to rub garlic on the bread before he spread it with mustard , “ so I ’ m just gon na rub the garlic around the bread.
” “ Seriously ?
” said Liao , off camera .
Later , she sighed deeply .
“ Oh , what a stressful time.
” ♦

The other day, the chef Tom Colicchio, whose four restaurants in New York are currently closed, posted a short video on Instagram, demonstrating how he was using leftover roasted Brussels sprouts and carrots to make lunch. (Or was it breakfast? A fried egg was involved. The hours, and the meals, have begun to blur.) He started by drizzling some oil into a pan. “Does it matter what oil?” whispered the person behind the camera. “No. Right now, nothing matters!” Colicchio responded, chuckling.
Emma Bengtsson, the executive chef of Aquavit, in east midtown, filmed herself preparing an easy meat sauce for pasta. She had ordered a tripod online, she said, but it would take two weeks to arrive; in the meantime, she was using a head of broccoli to prop up her phone. She would normally add green olives to her sauce, but her grocery store had been cleaned out.
Eric Ripert showcased a smoked-salmon grilled cheese and an incredibly simple butternut-squash soup, the likes of which you would never find at his restaurant Le Bernardin. In one caption, he included a warning to would-be detractors. “If you are a great Chef-Cook, a purist and have access to . . . abundant diverse ingredients, great equipment etc,” he wrote, “I am very happy for you and if my cooking methods are not interesting enough for you . . . don’t bother following and posting negative comments.”
In the wake of their restaurants closing, many of New York’s most prominent chefs are agitating on behalf of their desperately strapped industry by organizing employee-relief funds, writing op-eds, and urging constituents to call their representatives to demand government aid. In the moments in between, many are taking to the Internet to share tutorials, tips, and glimpses of what they’re up to in isolation.
Chefs are usually so busy cooking elaborately for other people that they’ve developed a special shorthand for cooking for themselves. You can learn it, too. Photograph by Eric Helgas for The New Yorker
Their posts are, on some level, meant to inspire. But what I like best about them is how forgiving they are, how they let the home cook off the hook. If you want help making sourdough bread—a finicky and time-consuming project, just the sort that many are seeking right now—you can find it in spades. If you only have the time and energy to focus on feeding yourself (and not a needy levain starter) with limited resources, look to restaurant chefs, who are usually so busy cooking elaborately for other people that they’ve developed a special shorthand for cooking for themselves. You can learn it, too.
“The microwave,” declared David Chang, of Momofuku, in a recent post, “is a machine from the future here in present day. If you think a microwave is bad for you . . . throw away your smartphone.” He used his to “hammer” (kitchen slang for “overcook”) some sausage with olive oil, garlic, onion, and chili flakes. Then he boiled orecchiette, adding “old broccoli rabe” and turnip and radish tops to the water at the last minute, and mixed everything together with MSG and fish sauce, because he didn’t have Parmesan cheese. “This is not how you cook in a restaurant,” he wrote. “Who cares . . . tasted great.”
Christina Tosi, the force behind Milk Bar, has launched a baking club on Instagram Live; prior to each meeting, she posts photos of piles of various ingredients, informing her followers that they need only one item from each array, Mad Libs style. If you don’t have all-purpose flour for cutout cookies, you can grind oats in a blender, or even use Bisquick pancake mix. If you don’t have a rolling pin, you can use a wine bottle or a foam muscle roller.
Rita Sodi, the chef behind I Sodi and Via Carota, offered a recipe for humble potatoes, fried with sage. Natasha Pickowicz, of Café Altro Paradiso and Flora Bar, posted dreamy doodles of cakes and galettes. For months, Frederico Ribeiro, who co-owns Té Company, a West Village tea shop and restaurant, with his wife, Elena Liao, has been using Instagram Stories to document how they eat at home, in a charmingly deadpan series he calls “Chez Fred.” Recently, while making breakfast sandwiches, he noted that he’d forgotten to rub garlic on the bread before he spread it with mustard, “so I’m just gonna rub the garlic around the bread.” “Seriously?” said Liao, off camera. Later, she sighed deeply. “Oh, what a stressful time.” ♦
A Guide to the Coronavirus


newyorker--2020-04-03--Brooklyn’s Back Yard Is Still Open for Social Distancing

Like millions of people around the world , New Yorkers are staying at home .
When they must go out—say @ @ @ @ @ in Prospect Park ( pictured ) —the rule is social distancing .
Fondly known as @ @ @ @ @ yard , ” the park , which opened in 1867 , was designed by Frederick @ @ @ @ @ , the duo behind Central Park .
To enjoy Prospect Park from afar , watch @ @ @ @ @ Kaye on location there in the Academy Award-winning 1945 musical “ Wonder Man ” ( @ @ @ @ @ ) .

Like millions of people around the world, New Yorkers are staying at home. When they must go out—say, to walk the dog in Prospect Park (pictured)—the rule is social distancing. Fondly known as “Brooklyn’s back yard,” the park, which opened in 1867, was designed by Frederick Law Olmsted and Calvert Vaux, the duo behind Central Park. To enjoy Prospect Park from afar, watch Brooklyn’s own Danny Kaye on location there in the Academy Award-winning 1945 musical “Wonder Man” (streaming on the Criterion Channel).


newyorker--2020-04-03--Amid the Coronavirus, Can Democrats Take the Offensive in the 2020 Elections?

Since the coronavirus became a public-health emergency in the United States , coverage of the 2020 Presidential election has been @ @ @ @ @ attention and public events an impossibility , Joe Biden and Bernie Sanders have taken their @ @ @ @ @ state election officials across the country are struggling to find the best time and means @ @ @ @ @ Eric Lach joins Dorothy Wickenden to discuss electoral reforms , such as voting by mail @ @ @ @ @ Party is trying to exploit President Trump ’ s bungling response to the pandemic .

Photograph by Andrew Harrer / Bloomberg / Getty
Since the coronavirus became a public-health emergency in the United States, coverage of the 2020 Presidential election has been scarce. With little media attention and public events an impossibility, Joe Biden and Bernie Sanders have taken their campaigns online. Meanwhile, state election officials across the country are struggling to find the best time and means to hold their primaries. Eric Lach joins Dorothy Wickenden to discuss electoral reforms, such as voting by mail, and how the Democratic Party is trying to exploit President Trump’s bungling response to the pandemic.


newyorker--2020-04-03--The Reporter Who Exposed the Opioid Crisis Has a New Book, but No Job

Thirty years ago , I worked with Eric Eyre at the Escondido Times-Advocate , in Southern California , a small daily newspaper that is no more .
We were both in our twenties , but were no matched pair .
Eyre swore off leather and meat .
I wore cowboy boots and ate at the Hamburger Tree .
A vegan and a faux cowboy , we became fast friends .
Many young reporters , then and now , aspired to the New York Times .
Eyre told me that his dream paper was the Post-Tribune in Gary , Indiana .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ bigger difference at a smaller paper .
He had a thing for the underdog , which is something every reporter says and most mean , but few have meant it more than Eyre .
He didn ’ t land in Gary .
Instead , he got a job in West Virginia , where , since 1998 , he has worked for the Charleston Gazette , now the Gazette-Mail .
It is the state ’ s biggest newspaper , but that doesn ’ t mean it ’ s big .
Circulation peaked , in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ It ’ s not half that now .
What is big is its reputation for fight .
The paper ’ s unofficial motto is “ Sustained Outrage , ” and , in West Virginia , there is plenty to be outraged about .
Underdogs are everywhere .
At the Gazette-Mail , Eyre ’ s career has been the stuff of quiet legend .
Feature films get made about the work of reporters at the Washington Post ( “ All the President ’ s Men ” ) , the New York Times ( “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Boston Globe ( “ Spotlight ” ) .
About the work of Eyre and his paper , there is a twenty-four-minute documentary , which I suspect you have not seen .
For years , I have nursed a hope : that , someday , Eyre would write a book on what it is to do big work in a small newsroom , and what it is we ’ ll lose if those newsrooms are no more .
Now that day has come .
This week , Scribner is publishing “ Death in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Against the Drug Companies That Delivered the Opioid Epidemic.
” The book is a story of pills sold and lives lost .
Years ago , painkillers began flooding West Virginia .
In six years , from 2007 to 2012 , seventeen hundred and twenty-eight people died from an overdose of oxycodone or hydrocodone alone .
As reporters will , Eyre began to poke around .
He wanted to know about the pills , how many there were , where they were coming from .
This set up a showdown .
On one side @ @ @ @ @ @ @ giants , each making billions of dollars distributing painkillers .
On the Fortune 500 list , one comes in at No .
6 .
Another is No .
12 .
The third is No .
14 .
The companies can dispatch lobbyists and lawyers in waves .
They ’ re backed up by the Drug Enforcement Administration , a federal agency that shows little energy for policing these powerful distributors but lots of energy for resisting the release of public records .
Reporters say that D.E.A .
stands for Don ’ t Even @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Eyre , in his khakis , working for a family-owned paper on the brink of bankruptcy .
He works in a capitol press room with broken chairs , missing ceiling tiles , and two rat traps .
His laptop is a six-year-old Acer .
His desktop is so old that a large file could make it crash .
A law professor represents Eyre and his paper for free , which is good , because that ’ s about all the paper can afford .
Some reporters ( I know , because I ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ spend months on a single investigation .
Twice I ’ ve spent years .
Eyre did his investigating while writing two hundred and fifty stories a year .
He worked while in constant danger of losing his job , because of cuts occasioned by a merger ( the Gazette and Daily Mail becoming the Gazette-Mail ) or bankruptcy ( the Gazette-Mail finally went over that brink ) and sale .
He worked while losing his health .
In 2016 , Eyre was diagnosed with Parkinson ’ s disease , a neurological disorder with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ from the disease worsened , he found it harder to type .
But he continued to do what reporters do .
He went through banker ’ s boxes of faxes and counted , by hand , two thousand four hundred and twenty-eight suspicious order reports from one distributor and almost double that from another .
He received a critical document in a manila envelope hand-delivered to his home mailbox , the source unknown .
He dropped numbers into a spreadsheet and set to sorting and ranking , because even a six-year-old Acer could @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of records , wrote “ the story of a lifetime , ” won a Pulitzer , and , most important of all , cracked open a public-health crisis that rocked not only West Virginia but the country as a whole .
He revealed the numbers that the pharmaceutical industry fought so hard to keep secret .
In those six years in which seventeen hundred and twenty-eight West Virginians overdosed and died , drug wholesalers dumped seven hundred and eighty million hydrocodone and oxycodone pills into the state , about four hundred and thirty-three @ @ @ @ @ @ @ anew of journalism ’ s importance .
We ’ re seeing that now , as the spread of the coronavirus yokes us to the news .
Eyre served his community in a time of need .
With his new book , he took the death of a coal miner , William ( Bull ) Preece , found dead in a trailer in Mud Lick amid a residue of crushed pills , and told the how and the why .
His reporting led to restrictions on prescriptions , greater tracking , more transparency .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Working at a small newspaper , Eyre made a big difference .
I wish the story would end there .
But Eyre ’ s work is part of the deeper , darker narrative of local journalism .
When Eyre and I worked at the Times-Advocate , in Escondido , we competed with the Blade-Citizen in Oceanside and the San Diego Union and the San Diego Tribune .
Then the Times-Advocate merged with the Blade-Citizen , and the Union merged with the Tribune , and the Union-Tribune , the bigger of the joined @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the joined papers .
Four daily papers became one .
( Hell , even the Hamburger Tree closed . )
With hundreds of newspapers going under , scholars write of the “ expanding news desert.
” The small paper has become the Old West .
Even our long-ago stories can be hard to find .
Search Eyre ’ s name in the Union-Tribune archives and the result is “ No Documents Found.
” Today , the pandemic is only hastening the decline of community papers , from the Monterey County Weekly to the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Readership soars , and advertising collapses .
The Gazette-Mail is not the paper it was even a year ago .
Ken Ward , Jr. , an investigative reporter who has led the way nationally on covering coal companies , recently left the newsroom .
Last week , the paper laid off two reporters and a photographer .
Meanwhile , Eyre ’ s Parkinson ’ s keeps getting worse .
On Tuesday night , he sent me a note .
He said that he had just submitted his resignation letter .
In order to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ve been told to do , he made arrangements to mail in his key card .
The same day his book came out , Eyre left the paper .

Thirty years ago, I worked with Eric Eyre at the Escondido Times-Advocate, in Southern California, a small daily newspaper that is no more. We were both in our twenties, but were no matched pair. Eyre swore off leather and meat. I wore cowboy boots and ate at the Hamburger Tree. A vegan and a faux cowboy, we became fast friends.
Many young reporters, then and now, aspired to the New York Times. Eyre told me that his dream paper was the Post-Tribune in Gary, Indiana. He figured that he could make a bigger difference at a smaller paper. He had a thing for the underdog, which is something every reporter says and most mean, but few have meant it more than Eyre.
He didn’t land in Gary. Instead, he got a job in West Virginia, where, since 1998, he has worked for the Charleston Gazette, now the Gazette-Mail. It is the state’s biggest newspaper, but that doesn’t mean it’s big. Circulation peaked, in the nineteen-fifties, at eighty-six thousand. It’s not half that now. What is big is its reputation for fight. The paper’s unofficial motto is “Sustained Outrage,” and, in West Virginia, there is plenty to be outraged about. Underdogs are everywhere.
At the Gazette-Mail, Eyre’s career has been the stuff of quiet legend. Feature films get made about the work of reporters at the Washington Post (“All the President’s Men”), the New York Times (“The Killing Fields”), and the Boston Globe (“Spotlight”). About the work of Eyre and his paper, there is a twenty-four-minute documentary, which I suspect you have not seen.
For years, I have nursed a hope: that, someday, Eyre would write a book on what it is to do big work in a small newsroom, and what it is we’ll lose if those newsrooms are no more. Now that day has come. This week, Scribner is publishing “Death in Mud Lick: A Coal Country Fight Against the Drug Companies That Delivered the Opioid Epidemic.” The book is a story of pills sold and lives lost. Years ago, painkillers began flooding West Virginia. In six years, from 2007 to 2012, seventeen hundred and twenty-eight people died from an overdose of oxycodone or hydrocodone alone.
As reporters will, Eyre began to poke around. He wanted to know about the pills, how many there were, where they were coming from. This set up a showdown. On one side, you’ve got three pharmaceutical giants, each making billions of dollars distributing painkillers. On the Fortune 500 list, one comes in at No. 6. Another is No. 12. The third is No. 14. The companies can dispatch lobbyists and lawyers in waves. They’re backed up by the Drug Enforcement Administration, a federal agency that shows little energy for policing these powerful distributors but lots of energy for resisting the release of public records. Reporters say that D.E.A. stands for Don’t Even Ask.
On the other side stands Eyre, in his khakis, working for a family-owned paper on the brink of bankruptcy. He works in a capitol press room with broken chairs, missing ceiling tiles, and two rat traps. His laptop is a six-year-old Acer. His desktop is so old that a large file could make it crash. A law professor represents Eyre and his paper for free, which is good, because that’s about all the paper can afford.
Some reporters (I know, because I’m one of them) get to spend months on a single investigation. Twice I’ve spent years. Eyre did his investigating while writing two hundred and fifty stories a year. He worked while in constant danger of losing his job, because of cuts occasioned by a merger (the Gazette and Daily Mail becoming the Gazette-Mail) or bankruptcy (the Gazette-Mail finally went over that brink) and sale. He worked while losing his health. In 2016, Eyre was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease, a neurological disorder with no cure. As a tremor stemming from the disease worsened, he found it harder to type.
But he continued to do what reporters do. He went through banker’s boxes of faxes and counted, by hand, two thousand four hundred and twenty-eight suspicious order reports from one distributor and almost double that from another. He received a critical document in a manila envelope hand-delivered to his home mailbox, the source unknown. He dropped numbers into a spreadsheet and set to sorting and ranking, because even a six-year-old Acer could handle Excel.
He demanded the unsealing of records, wrote “the story of a lifetime,” won a Pulitzer, and, most important of all, cracked open a public-health crisis that rocked not only West Virginia but the country as a whole. He revealed the numbers that the pharmaceutical industry fought so hard to keep secret. In those six years in which seventeen hundred and twenty-eight West Virginians overdosed and died, drug wholesalers dumped seven hundred and eighty million hydrocodone and oxycodone pills into the state, about four hundred and thirty-three per person.
Every crisis reminds communities anew of journalism’s importance. We’re seeing that now, as the spread of the coronavirus yokes us to the news. Eyre served his community in a time of need. With his new book, he took the death of a coal miner, William (Bull) Preece, found dead in a trailer in Mud Lick amid a residue of crushed pills, and told the how and the why. His reporting led to restrictions on prescriptions, greater tracking, more transparency. He shamed an industry and saved lives. Working at a small newspaper, Eyre made a big difference.
I wish the story would end there. But Eyre’s work is part of the deeper, darker narrative of local journalism. When Eyre and I worked at the Times-Advocate, in Escondido, we competed with the Blade-Citizen in Oceanside and the San Diego Union and the San Diego Tribune. Then the Times-Advocate merged with the Blade-Citizen, and the Union merged with the Tribune, and the Union-Tribune, the bigger of the joined papers, swallowed up the smaller of the joined papers. Four daily papers became one. (Hell, even the Hamburger Tree closed.) With hundreds of newspapers going under, scholars write of the “expanding news desert.” The small paper has become the Old West. Even our long-ago stories can be hard to find. Search Eyre’s name in the Union-Tribune archives and the result is “No Documents Found.”
Today, the pandemic is only hastening the decline of community papers, from the Monterey County Weekly to the Portland Mercury to the Riverfront Times. Readership soars, and advertising collapses. The Gazette-Mail is not the paper it was even a year ago. Ken Ward, Jr., an investigative reporter who has led the way nationally on covering coal companies, recently left the newsroom. Last week, the paper laid off two reporters and a photographer. Meanwhile, Eyre’s Parkinson’s keeps getting worse. On Tuesday night, he sent me a note. He said that he had just submitted his resignation letter. In order to stay at home, as we’ve been told to do, he made arrangements to mail in his key card. The same day his book came out, Eyre left the paper.


newyorker--2020-04-03--New York’s Hospitals Take On the Coronavirus

Right now , the most striking feature of the hospital might be the difference between the world outside and the world within .
Outside , New York—America ’ s largest and densest city—is a ghost town .
Manhattan ’ s streets are deserted .
Its car horns are silent .
Its halal carts have vanished .
Inside , the hospital pulses with an energy I ’ ve never experienced before .
The destruction wrought by the novel coronavirus is on full display , but so is the singular purpose with which clinicians of all ranks and backgrounds are responding .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ so quickly .
Medical students are graduating early to help in the fight .
Pathology residents are volunteering on the medical floors .
There is a complete subjugation of ego ; senior physicians are performing tasks that they haven ’ t done since medical school .
Medicine—normally governed by rigid hierarchies and siloed fiefdoms—is free .
Arrive and security greets you with a mask on and a mask , for you , in hand .
The message is unmistakable .
A medical militia is at work .
I don ’ t want to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ buffer zone .
In the morning , I enter through a large atrium that once teemed with activity ; it now has the feeling of an empty train station at midnight .
I walk down a main hallway alone , glancing at plaques and paintings I ’ d never noticed before , and arrive at an idle information desk .
To my left , an Au Bon Pain sits empty .
To my right , rows of tables and chairs rest untouched .
I wait at an elevator bay .
In months past @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to arrive , stopping at each floor during its long descent .
Often , a crowd would have formed , and I ’ d have to wait for the next one .
Now the doors open as soon as my gloved knuckle grazes the button .
Inside , it ’ s just me and a doctor I vaguely recognize .
Months ago , we consulted on a mutual patient .
We nod in acknowledgement—an elbow tap too risky , a fist bump unthinkable .
Since New York State recorded its first case of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ has rapidly become the epicenter of the pandemic in the United States .
By the 15th , three New Yorkers had died and the number of cases had ballooned to seven hundred and twenty-nine .
From there , the coronavirus spread exponentially and relentlessly .
Within a month , the state suffered more than thirteen hundred deaths .
It has nearly ten per cent of the world ’ s cases .
In our hospital , as in others across New York City , there are hundreds of patients with COVID-19 and scores on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ COVID-19-specific teams , fashioned intensive-care units from operating rooms , and adapted a rehab wing into housing for recovering patients who are unable to leave safely .
Testing swabs are in short supply .
The emergency room is full .
More than a dozen physicians have fallen ill in my department alone .
We ’ re the lucky ones .
For now , at least , our doctors have what they need to care for patients and themselves .
We have masks , gowns , eye protection .
A small army of outpatient @ @ @ @ @ @ @ health-care workers have volunteered to fill gaps in the ranks .
This week , a makeshift tent hospital sprang up in Central Park , and the U.S.N.S .
Comfort—a Navy hospital ship with a thousand beds and twelve operating rooms—docked in New York Harbor .
Still , it feels like we ’ re barely treading water .
I am nagged by a constant fear that a patient who otherwise would have been saved , on any hour of any day before this pandemic , will die today .
I ’ m a hospitalist @ @ @ @ @ @ @ cares for acutely ill hospitalized patients .
Hospitalists , along with emergency-medicine and intensive-care physicians , form the backbone of the COVID-19 response in many hospitals .
Emergency physicians stabilize patients as they come in , and decide who stays in the hospital and who goes home .
Hospitalists , in conjunction with lung and infectious-disease doctors , are caring for the majority of admitted coronavirus patients .
If things get really bad—if a patient ’ s oxygen level falls dangerously low , for example—we work with I.C.U .
doctors to decide whether @ @ @ @ @ @ @ day , I walk onto the medical floor to join my team .
A large , rectangular central workstation features remote monitoring screens , binders full of medical records , and a dozen computers .
Doctors , nurses , social workers , and pharmacists sit at the command center , flitting between phone calls and text messages , answering pages to patients ’ rooms .
Many rooms have beautiful views of the East River or the Manhattan skyline .
Before the epidemic , they would have been filled with visitors , get-well cards @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
These days , almost all of them are spartan : a bed , a patient , and the constant hiss of oxygen .
Before , I would ’ ve entered with an entourage of medical students , residents , and nurses , to banter before discussing the day ’ s plan .
Now it ’ s just me , covered from head to toe in protective gear , standing across the room , unable to offer a visible smile .
Amid an onslaught of cases , we are preparing for an even @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a new system : while I see patients on the COVID-19 floors , I am simultaneously training another doctor to take my place , should I fall ill or be needed in another part of the hospital .
These are often seasoned physicians from fields like gastroenterology or endocrinology—and so less directly experienced with infectious diseases or lung problems—who have volunteered to help with coronavirus treatment .
They will be essential for bolstering the workforce when our capacity is further strained .
I am also newly supported by a “ virtual physician ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ will allow me to see more patients more efficiently than ever before .
These doctors work remotely ; one ’ s always in my pocket , on speakerphone , during rounds .
( Many are self-quarantining , or have other health issues preventing them from engaging in direct patient care . )
The virtual physician functions like an all-in-one coach , assistant , and scribe , updating me on vital signs and test results in real time , reviewing the latest research and guidelines , and helping prepare the documentation I ’ ll @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s the status of the COVID test ?
” I ask , standing gloved , gowned , goggled , and masked , sweating before even entering the patient ’ s room .
“ Positive , ” she responds .
“ Just came back .
You can let him know.
” He ’ s the tenth consecutive COVID-19 patient I will see that day .
Three others are listed as likely to have the disease ; by the day ’ s end , their tests will return positive , too .
In Paulo @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” Santiago , the book ’ s protagonist , is told to sell his camel and buy a horse in order to complete his journey across the desert .
“ Horses tire bit by bit , ” the alchemist explains .
By contrast , “ camels are traitorous .
They walk thousands of paces and never seem to tire .
Then suddenly , they kneel and die.
” As experience with the pandemic grows , COVID-19 seems more camel and less horse .
Among the more disconcerting aspects of caring for patients with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ uncertain clinical decline .
A patient might seem to be improving over days or even a week , and then worsen precipitously , requiring emergency intubation .
Years of honing our clinical instincts—observing patterns in disease pace and trajectory—suddenly seem insufficient and unreliable .
We ’ re learning what to do , and when to do it , as we go .

Right now, the most striking feature of the hospital might be the difference between the world outside and the world within. Outside, New York—America’s largest and densest city—is a ghost town. Manhattan’s streets are deserted. Its car horns are silent. Its halal carts have vanished.
Inside, the hospital pulses with an energy I’ve never experienced before. The destruction wrought by the novel coronavirus is on full display, but so is the singular purpose with which clinicians of all ranks and backgrounds are responding. I have never seen new protocols adopted so quickly. Medical students are graduating early to help in the fight. Pathology residents are volunteering on the medical floors. There is a complete subjugation of ego; senior physicians are performing tasks that they haven’t done since medical school. Medicine—normally governed by rigid hierarchies and siloed fiefdoms—is free.
Arrive and security greets you with a mask on and a mask, for you, in hand. The message is unmistakable. A medical militia is at work.
I don’t want to overstate things. There’s a buffer zone. In the morning, I enter through a large atrium that once teemed with activity; it now has the feeling of an empty train station at midnight. I walk down a main hallway alone, glancing at plaques and paintings I’d never noticed before, and arrive at an idle information desk. To my left, an Au Bon Pain sits empty. To my right, rows of tables and chairs rest untouched.
I wait at an elevator bay. In months past, a car might have taken minutes to arrive, stopping at each floor during its long descent. Often, a crowd would have formed, and I’d have to wait for the next one. Now the doors open as soon as my gloved knuckle grazes the button. Inside, it’s just me and a doctor I vaguely recognize. Months ago, we consulted on a mutual patient. We nod in acknowledgement—an elbow tap too risky, a fist bump unthinkable.
Since New York State recorded its first case of COVID-19, on March 1st, it has rapidly become the epicenter of the pandemic in the United States. By the 15th, three New Yorkers had died and the number of cases had ballooned to seven hundred and twenty-nine. From there, the coronavirus spread exponentially and relentlessly. Within a month, the state suffered more than thirteen hundred deaths. It has nearly ten per cent of the world’s cases.
In our hospital, as in others across New York City, there are hundreds of patients with COVID-19 and scores on ventilators. We’ve added new COVID-19-specific teams, fashioned intensive-care units from operating rooms, and adapted a rehab wing into housing for recovering patients who are unable to leave safely. Testing swabs are in short supply. The emergency room is full. More than a dozen physicians have fallen ill in my department alone.
We’re the lucky ones. For now, at least, our doctors have what they need to care for patients and themselves. We have masks, gowns, eye protection. A small army of outpatient physicians, medical trainees, and other health-care workers have volunteered to fill gaps in the ranks. This week, a makeshift tent hospital sprang up in Central Park, and the U.S.N.S. Comfort—a Navy hospital ship with a thousand beds and twelve operating rooms—docked in New York Harbor.
Still, it feels like we’re barely treading water. I am nagged by a constant fear that a patient who otherwise would have been saved, on any hour of any day before this pandemic, will die today.
I’m a hospitalist: a doctor of internal medicine who cares for acutely ill hospitalized patients. Hospitalists, along with emergency-medicine and intensive-care physicians, form the backbone of the COVID-19 response in many hospitals.
Emergency physicians stabilize patients as they come in, and decide who stays in the hospital and who goes home. Hospitalists, in conjunction with lung and infectious-disease doctors, are caring for the majority of admitted coronavirus patients. If things get really bad—if a patient’s oxygen level falls dangerously low, for example—we work with I.C.U. doctors to decide whether and when anesthesiologists should intubate.
Each day, I walk onto the medical floor to join my team. A large, rectangular central workstation features remote monitoring screens, binders full of medical records, and a dozen computers. Doctors, nurses, social workers, and pharmacists sit at the command center, flitting between phone calls and text messages, answering pages to patients’ rooms. Many rooms have beautiful views of the East River or the Manhattan skyline. Before the epidemic, they would have been filled with visitors, get-well cards, balloons, flowers, and photographs. These days, almost all of them are spartan: a bed, a patient, and the constant hiss of oxygen. Before, I would’ve entered with an entourage of medical students, residents, and nurses, to banter before discussing the day’s plan. Now it’s just me, covered from head to toe in protective gear, standing across the room, unable to offer a visible smile.
Amid an onslaught of cases, we are preparing for an even greater deluge. We’ve instituted a new system: while I see patients on the COVID-19 floors, I am simultaneously training another doctor to take my place, should I fall ill or be needed in another part of the hospital. These are often seasoned physicians from fields like gastroenterology or endocrinology—and so less directly experienced with infectious diseases or lung problems—who have volunteered to help with coronavirus treatment. They will be essential for bolstering the workforce when our capacity is further strained.
I am also newly supported by a “virtual physician” who, it’s hoped, will allow me to see more patients more efficiently than ever before. These doctors work remotely; one’s always in my pocket, on speakerphone, during rounds. (Many are self-quarantining, or have other health issues preventing them from engaging in direct patient care.) The virtual physician functions like an all-in-one coach, assistant, and scribe, updating me on vital signs and test results in real time, reviewing the latest research and guidelines, and helping prepare the documentation I’ll have to complete later.
“What’s the status of the COVID test?” I ask, standing gloved, gowned, goggled, and masked, sweating before even entering the patient’s room.
“Positive,” she responds. “Just came back. You can let him know.”
He’s the tenth consecutive COVID-19 patient I will see that day. Three others are listed as likely to have the disease; by the day’s end, their tests will return positive, too.
In Paulo Coelho’s “The Alchemist,” Santiago, the book’s protagonist, is told to sell his camel and buy a horse in order to complete his journey across the desert. “Horses tire bit by bit,” the alchemist explains. By contrast, “camels are traitorous. They walk thousands of paces and never seem to tire. Then suddenly, they kneel and die.”
As experience with the pandemic grows, COVID-19 seems more camel and less horse. Among the more disconcerting aspects of caring for patients with the coronavirus is their sometimes rapid and uncertain clinical decline. A patient might seem to be improving over days or even a week, and then worsen precipitously, requiring emergency intubation. Years of honing our clinical instincts—observing patterns in disease pace and trajectory—suddenly seem insufficient and unreliable. We’re learning what to do, and when to do it, as we go.
For many patients, a diagnosis of COVID-19 carries with it a deep unease associated with the worst of maladies. It is not pneumonia, or diabetes, or even a heart attack; it is H.I.V. and cancer. They’ve heard the gruesome statistics on the news—the high death rates, the rapid rise in cases, the dwindling supply of needed resources. And there are few symptoms as troubling for patients as shortness of breath. With the coronavirus, the anxiety of labored breathing is exacerbated by the fact that it must be suffered alone, without friends and family and with limited contact with doctors. Among the cruellest aspects of COVID-19 is the intense isolation that it inflicts.
On several occasions, patients have grown tearful when I’ve asked about their wishes in the event of an emergency. They fear that I might connect them to a ventilator at that moment—or that, if they need one later, there won’t be any available. So it’s important for patients to hear that many people do get better. There is hope. In the hospital, we celebrate these victories every day.
In the evenings, I read about the new patients I’ll be caring for the next day—who they are, what they’ve been through, how they’ve persevered. I’m humbled that I’ll soon be their doctor. Every day, the responsibility makes me nervous.
That nervous energy is amplified because of the overwhelming threat that COVID-19 presents not just to our patients but also to us. Recently, at the end of a week that saw New York’s largest increase in coronavirus hospitalizations and deaths so far, a deeply respected physician addressed us on a conference call. “We are all going to get sick,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Eventually, all of us are going to get coronavirus. But, when you do, we will be there for you. You will not be alone.”
Not since early in my medical training have I been so severely struck by what’s known as medical students’ syndrome—a form of hypochondria in which students fear they have the disease that they’re reading about. In med school, every ache means cancer, every pain an autoimmune condition. Now, when I finally get a chance to eat dinner, I ask myself whether I can taste and smell the stale sandwich that I’m chewing. I add sriracha.
Potential damage to our health had always seemed abstract, distant. Of course, we thought: sleepless nights, greasy food, hours at the computer—they couldn’t be good. But the threat was never so immediate or palpable. Each morning, on the way to work, I wonder if I’ll be healthy enough to return tomorrow.
Lucky as I feel to have one, it’s not easy having a mask strapped to your face hour after hour. The tight seal required for N95 respirators to function properly requires a snug fit. The metal cuts into the bridge of your nose, already raw from the previous day. I’ve learned to place a fresh piece of peppermint gum in my mouth before masking up. It makes a big difference, maybe to patients, certainly to me.
I don’t spend all day on the wards. Hospitalists also have offices, and these days ours are full. Doors tend to remain open as doctors rush in and out. I pop into the office next to mine to ask a colleague if she’s seen a perplexing manifestation of the virus; a friend stops by to show me a cat video. Startup-level catered food has begun appearing, as if by magic, in a communal area. Pinned to the bulletin board, there’s a cartoon from the nineteen-nineties kids show “Pinky and the Brain.” “What are we going to do tomorrow, Brain?” Pinky asks. “Same thing we do every day, Pinky,” Brain says. “Stay home to flatten the curve.”
To help doctors cope with the burgeoning clinical and ethical demands of the epidemic, support groups—both formal and informal—are budding. I have regularly scheduled video calls with my medical-school friends. They’re scattered across the country, but the challenges they face feel familiar. If they’re not already overwhelmed by the coronavirus, they know they soon will be. Some colleagues have started a peer-support program, in which we pair off with other doctors. We check in with one another, discussing the frustrations of supply shortages, the anxiety of making hard decisions, the helplessness that comes from feeling that, despite your best efforts, people will die.
I am sympathetic to those concerned about the widespread economic and social disruption created by aggressive social distancing, and to the political and business leaders asking whether it’s all worth it. But I think that if they saw what I see—the fear, the tears, the gasping for air, the destruction of bodies and psyches wrought by the virus, the daily contortions that doctors, nurses, and hospitals must make to provide even basic care—they, too, would understand that social distancing is the only option. They would feel what I feel: that we cannot return to normal during a time when thousands of Americans, of all ages and backgrounds, cannot breathe, and there aren’t enough people or supplies to help them.
I am exhausted but content at the end of most days. The burnout-inciting frustrations of billing and documentation and electronic medical records have, for the moment, receded. Now, when I’m in the hospital, the focus is so singular, the mission so clear, that nothing else seems important. There is nowhere that I, or my colleagues, would rather be. There’s an odd sense in which the pandemic has made the practice of medicine into what many doctors hoped it would be.
The battle, however, is only beginning. Adrenaline, duty, and fear have motivated an impassioned response, but some of us wonder how sustainable it is. Nights in lonely hotel rooms, away from family; weeks of long hours and heightened risk. I go to work, alone, before the sun rises. I come home, alone, after it sets. I eat leftovers in my too-small apartment before answering another page or two and falling asleep. A surge is, by definition, time-limited. What happens when doctors can’t see the end?
More Medical Dispatches


newyorker--2020-04-03--Bill Withers Was Always There if You Needed Him

The singer and songwriter Bill Withers liked to describe himself as a “ regular guy.
” Many stars want us to believe that they are relatable because they are somehow just like us , but this wasn ’ t what he meant .
When Withers more or less walked away from the music business , in the eighties , it was because he never felt entitled to the spoils of fame .
His songs were intimate and deeply observed , as though he took the world around him—from the aches and swells of his grandma ’ s hands to the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to the sorrows of a returning Vietnam veteran—more seriously than he ever took himself .
Withers passed away on Friday , at the age of eighty-one , owing to heart complications .
He was born in a small , coal-mining town called Slab Fork , West Virginia , on the Fourth of July , 1938 , the youngest of six children .
He often described himself as a quiet and reserved boy , and it was easy to still pick up traces of his low-key modesty , even once he became a star @ @ @ @ @ @ @ child , it never seemed like performance was in his cards .
Withers was dogged by a stutter that remained well into his late teens .
He joined the Navy at the age of seventeen , and became interested in performing music .
He served for nine years .
In 1967 , he moved to Los Angeles .
He could work in aeronautics and pursue a musical career on the side .
He was twenty-nine .
Withers sounded effortless when he sang , shorn of theatrical straining , no extra huffs and puffs @ @ @ @ @ @ @ breakthrough hit , “ Ain ’ t No Sunshine , ” he was in his thirties and not entirely convinced that music would be as secure a career path as working on an assembly line .
He was wrong .
In 1971 , he released his début album , “ Just as I Am , ” which featured the gorgeous , folky “ Grandma ’ s Hands.
” Over the next few years , he released a string of classics that bridged the chasms between bluesy , forlorn soul , smoothed-out , wiggly @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
He continued to just sound like himself .
My favorite Withers album is “ Live at Carnegie Hall , ” from 1973 , one of the greatest concert recordings ever made .
It ’ s not just the performances , which are marvelous ; it ’ s the way that Withers talks as he introduces the songs , leading you slowly into their scenarios and entanglements .
Every song offers a chance to recognize something deeper about the bonds between us .
“ I think about young guys who were like I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ he says at the beginning of “ I Can ’ t Write Left-Handed , ” his band chanting and playing behind him .
He remembers seeing a young veteran who had lost his right arm in Vietnam , and asking how he was doing .
“ I tried to put myself in his position .
Maybe he cried .
Maybe he said ” —and at this point he begins singing— “ I can ’ t write left-handed / Would you please write a letter to my mother ?
” We mourn Withers for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as “ Lean on Me ” or “ Lovely Day , .
” But the effortlessness of his voice rarely matched the content of the songs themselves .
Love and friendship are harder to achieve than a sweet harmony , a rhyme delivered with some casual , husky warmth .
He was never afraid to be the loser—the one who is spent up and tossed aside in “ Use Me , ” the lover spurned in “ Who Is He ( and What Is He to You ) ?
” “ Make a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on a gorgeous tune from 1974 .
“ Lately I ’ ve been so lonely / And a smile from you / Might make these blues go away.
” He ’ s reaching out from the darkness , yet he sounds so calm and peaceful , dissolving into ripples of electric piano and gentle strums .
A smile isn ’ t too much to ask for , yet he knows better than to expect it simply because he ’ s asking .
Withers walked away from stardom disillusioned with the marketing and expectations @ @ @ @ @ @ @ after all , just a regular guy—and content in being one .
Not that he was forgotten .
Musical history is as much about what you made as it is about what other people did with your creations .
And it was a tribute to Withers ’ s songs that later generations kept bringing him back .
You hear Withers ’ s restraint in D ’ Angelo and Anthony Hamilton , his storytelling detail throughout all of nineties hip-hop .
The opening moans of “ Grandma ’ s Hands ” became Blackstreet ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of the demographic and regional ethos that hears “ Lovely Day ” as The Whole Damn Yay ’ s “ Player ’ s Holiday.
” In 2009 , Withers was the subject of “ Still Bill , ” a documentary about his career and post-retirement life .
He kept a fairly low profile throughout the past few decades , occasionally resurfacing for interviews , where he was clearly no longer interested in music-business hagiography , and to share his concerns over the direction of national politics .
“ If I get to heaven @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s hands , ” Withers sang in the early seventies .
It ’ s impossible to listen to this song and not think of one ’ s own roots , the hands that showed us the way .
There was nothing desperate about Withers , even if he often sounded lonely or melancholy .
He moved to his own rhythm , and he was there if you needed him , ready to love you .
It was in the way he paced his words , ambling into his verses , unhurried .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ or slow down .
“ Just the two of us , ” he sings on his lush 1980 hit , “ we can make it if we try.
” That work ethic never left him .
You just have to be willing to try .

Bill Withers, who died on Monday, at the age of eighty-one, moved to his own rhythm. Photograph by Marka / Alamy
The singer and songwriter Bill Withers liked to describe himself as a “regular guy.” Many stars want us to believe that they are relatable because they are somehow just like us, but this wasn’t what he meant. When Withers more or less walked away from the music business, in the eighties, it was because he never felt entitled to the spoils of fame. His songs were intimate and deeply observed, as though he took the world around him—from the aches and swells of his grandma’s hands to the itinerant wanderings of an anonymous railroad man to the sorrows of a returning Vietnam veteran—more seriously than he ever took himself.
Withers passed away on Monday, at the age of eighty-one, owing to heart complications. He was born in a small, coal-mining town called Slab Fork, West Virginia, on the Fourth of July, 1938, the youngest of six children. He often described himself as a quiet and reserved boy, and it was easy to still pick up traces of his low-key modesty, even once he became a star. But, when he was a child, it never seemed like performance was in his cards. Withers was dogged by a stutter that remained well into his late teens. He joined the Navy at the age of seventeen, and became interested in performing music. He served for nine years. In 1967, he moved to Los Angeles. He could work in aeronautics and pursue a musical career on the side. He was twenty-nine.
Withers sounded effortless when he sang, shorn of theatrical straining, no extra huffs and puffs. By the time he released his breakthrough hit, “Ain’t No Sunshine,” he was in his thirties and not entirely convinced that music would be as secure a career path as working on an assembly line. He was wrong. In 1971, he released his début album, “Just as I Am,” which featured the gorgeous, folky “Grandma’s Hands.” Over the next few years, he released a string of classics that bridged the chasms between bluesy, forlorn soul, smoothed-out, wiggly funk, and the suaveness of disco. He continued to just sound like himself.
My favorite Withers album is “Live at Carnegie Hall,” from 1973, one of the greatest concert recordings ever made. It’s not just the performances, which are marvelous; it’s the way that Withers talks as he introduces the songs, leading you slowly into their scenarios and entanglements. Every song offers a chance to recognize something deeper about the bonds between us. “I think about young guys who were like I was when I was young,” he says at the beginning of “I Can’t Write Left-Handed,” his band chanting and playing behind him. He remembers seeing a young veteran who had lost his right arm in Vietnam, and asking how he was doing. “I tried to put myself in his position. Maybe he cried. Maybe he said”—and at this point he begins singing—“I can’t write left-handed / Would you please write a letter to my mother?”
We mourn Withers for eternally uplifting, wedding-ready songs, such as “Lean on Me” or “Lovely Day,.” But the effortlessness of his voice rarely matched the content of the songs themselves. Love and friendship are harder to achieve than a sweet harmony, a rhyme delivered with some casual, husky warmth. He was never afraid to be the loser—the one who is spent up and tossed aside in “Use Me,” the lover spurned in “Who Is He (and What Is He to You)?” “Make a smile for me,” he sings on a gorgeous tune from 1974. “Lately I’ve been so lonely / And a smile from you / Might make these blues go away.” He’s reaching out from the darkness, yet he sounds so calm and peaceful, dissolving into ripples of electric piano and gentle strums. A smile isn’t too much to ask for, yet he knows better than to expect it simply because he’s asking.
Withers walked away from stardom disillusioned with the marketing and expectations surrounding black music. He was, after all, just a regular guy—and content in being one. Not that he was forgotten. Musical history is as much about what you made as it is about what other people did with your creations. And it was a tribute to Withers’s songs that later generations kept bringing him back. You hear Withers’s restraint in D’Angelo and Anthony Hamilton, his storytelling detail throughout all of nineties hip-hop. The opening moans of “Grandma’s Hands” became Blackstreet’s “No Diggity.” I am of the demographic and regional ethos that hears “Lovely Day” as The Whole Damn Yay’s “Player’s Holiday.” In 2009, Withers was the subject of “Still Bill,” a documentary about his career and post-retirement life. He kept a fairly low profile throughout the past few decades, occasionally resurfacing for interviews, where he was clearly no longer interested in music-business hagiography, and to share his concerns over the direction of national politics.
“If I get to heaven I’ll look for / Grandma’s hands,” Withers sang in the early seventies. It’s impossible to listen to this song and not think of one’s own roots, the hands that showed us the way.
There was nothing desperate about Withers, even if he often sounded lonely or melancholy. He moved to his own rhythm, and he was there if you needed him, ready to love you. It was in the way he paced his words, ambling into his verses, unhurried. You just had to catch up, or slow down. “Just the two of us,” he sings on his lush 1980 hit, “we can make it if we try.” That work ethic never left him. You just have to be willing to try.


newyorker--2020-04-03--The Eerie Familiarities of “Nemesis,” Philip Roth’s Novel of a Polio Epidemic

Philip Roth ’ s last novel , “ Nemesis , ” from 2010 , tells the story of a twenty-three-year-old gym teacher , Bucky Cantor , in Newark , New Jersey , in the summer of 1944 .
He is working as a playground director for boys , guiding them through their daily baseball games in the park , when the city is hit with an epidemic of polio .
Many young American men are overseas fighting in the Second World War , but Bucky—who volunteered for military service—was rejected , because of his bad eyesight , which requires him @ @ @ @ @ @ @ two best friends , who volunteered with him , have just come through the D Day invasion unharmed . )
Bucky is a quasi-orphan : his mother died giving birth to him , and his father , a gambler and an embezzler , was imprisoned when Bucky ( né Eugene ) was a baby and then vanished from his life .
Bucky was raised by his loving maternal grandparents but , throughout the novel , the absence of his mother , of a mother , reverberates like a primordial and irreparable trauma .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ adulthood and , amid the grave challenges that the polio epidemic confronts him with , his fragile world view crumbles .
Thus unmoored , Bucky brings a terrifying religious and spiritual anguish to the medical and social crisis of polio .
That ’ s why , when “ Nemesis ” came out , I took it to be Roth ’ s ultimate public reconciliation with , and tribute to , his own mother , and , even more , to the stereotype of the Jewish mother that he had so often satirized in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ took its descriptions of the polio outbreak as a fascinating , agonizing—yet distant—counterfiction , along the lines of his 2004 novel , “ The Plot Against America.
” ( There was no polio epidemic in Newark during Roth ’ s childhood . )
Just as that earlier novel has , in the time of Donald Trump ’ s Presidency , come to seem eerily prescient , it turns out that Roth ’ s description of the spread of polio , and the ( fictitious ) effect of the disease on his childhood community @ @ @ @ @ @ @ its crucial practical details , the lines of stress that the coronavirus pandemic is revealing worldwide .
The first cases of polio , the narrator says , struck in the Ironbound section of Newark , which was then predominantly Italian ; the mainly Jewish neighborhood of Weequahic , where Bucky lives , was at first spared , but the residents , alert to the news , were also wary of contagion .
“ We were warned not to use public toilets or public drinking fountains or to swig a drink out of someone @ @ @ @ @ @ @ get a chill or to play with strangers or to borrow books from the public library or to talk on a public pay phone or to buy food from a street vendor or to eat until we had cleaned our hands thoroughly with soap and water , ” the narrator says .
Roth shows how these fearful early days of the outbreak incubate ethnic prejudice and animus .
While Bucky is organizing baseball games in the park , a group of tough young Italian teens show up and spit all over the sidewalks @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the disease to Jewish children .
( “ ‘ Since when is there a law against spreadin ’ polio , Mr. Playground Director ?
’ ” ) Bucky bravely stands up to them—but , in an ominous moment , challenges the ringleader , taking “ one quick , angry step forward , placing him only inches from the Italian ’ s face.
” Days later , two of the boys in Bucky ’ s group come down with polio , then eleven more , and the Italians are indeed blamed for it .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ the victims ate is blamed for spreading the disease and is virtually boycotted , the counterman vituperates : “ A boiled hot dog—how do you get polio from a boiled hot dog ?
” he said .
“ It ’ s the wop bastards that brought it around.
” As the disease spreads , and one of the Weequahic boys dies , the community is gripped by the anticipation of broader public-health measures .
“ What about the mail , someone else said , you don ’ t think it could be spread @ @ @ @ @ @ @ going to do , somebody retorted , suspend delivering the mail ?
The whole city would come to a halt .
Six or seven weeks ago they would have been talking about the war news.
” Then the deaths in Weequahic mount , and , as the epidemic spirals out of control in the neighborhood , it strains the resources of medical facilities—yet neighboring towns are able to come through , and the supply chain that will soon come to Newark ’ s aid is untroubled .
( Polio outbreaks had been occurring @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the last epidemic in Newark was , in fact , in 1916 , but authorities knew well enough to be prepared . )
The narrator—whose very identity is a dramatic stroke , a spoiler—relates that Bucky : Residents of Weequahic discuss rumors of official plans to quarantine the entire neighborhood , and their concern for the well-being of children elsewhere in the city runs up against their fears for their livelihoods .
Roth ’ s description of their efforts to process the drastic changes in their daily life , and likely in their @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as if it could have been transcribed from today ’ s news .
On a phone call with his grandmother , the bewildered and incredulous Bucky exclaims , “ But there are tens of thousands of people there , people who have jobs and have to go to work .
They can ’ t just pen people in like that , can they ?
” She informs him that a de-facto blockade is already beginning : “ The bus drivers on the eight and fourteen lines say they won ’ t drive into @ @ @ @ @ @ @ masks .
Some say they won ’ t drive in there at all.
” Then , she says , broader societal shutdowns are envisioned :

Philip Roth’s novel “Nemesis,” set in a fictionalized Newark, New Jersey, in 1944, brings back the fear of polio. Photograph by George Konig / Getty
Philip Roth’s last novel, “Nemesis,” from 2010, tells the story of a twenty-three-year-old gym teacher, Bucky Cantor, in Newark, New Jersey, in the summer of 1944. He is working as a playground director for boys, guiding them through their daily baseball games in the park, when the city is hit with an epidemic of polio. Many young American men are overseas fighting in the Second World War, but Bucky—who volunteered for military service—was rejected, because of his bad eyesight, which requires him to wear thick glasses. (His two best friends, who volunteered with him, have just come through the D Day invasion unharmed.) Bucky is a quasi-orphan: his mother died giving birth to him, and his father, a gambler and an embezzler, was imprisoned when Bucky (né Eugene) was a baby and then vanished from his life. Bucky was raised by his loving maternal grandparents but, throughout the novel, the absence of his mother, of a mother, reverberates like a primordial and irreparable trauma. Bucky is thrown blindly from childhood to adulthood and, amid the grave challenges that the polio epidemic confronts him with, his fragile world view crumbles.
Thus unmoored, Bucky brings a terrifying religious and spiritual anguish to the medical and social crisis of polio. That’s why, when “Nemesis” came out, I took it to be Roth’s ultimate public reconciliation with, and tribute to, his own mother, and, even more, to the stereotype of the Jewish mother that he had so often satirized in his earlier work. Moreover, I took its descriptions of the polio outbreak as a fascinating, agonizing—yet distant—counterfiction, along the lines of his 2004 novel, “The Plot Against America.” (There was no polio epidemic in Newark during Roth’s childhood.) Just as that earlier novel has, in the time of Donald Trump’s Presidency, come to seem eerily prescient, it turns out that Roth’s description of the spread of polio, and the (fictitious) effect of the disease on his childhood community, similarly foretells, in many of its crucial practical details, the lines of stress that the coronavirus pandemic is revealing worldwide.
The first cases of polio, the narrator says, struck in the Ironbound section of Newark, which was then predominantly Italian; the mainly Jewish neighborhood of Weequahic, where Bucky lives, was at first spared, but the residents, alert to the news, were also wary of contagion. “We were warned not to use public toilets or public drinking fountains or to swig a drink out of someone else’s soda-pop bottle or to get a chill or to play with strangers or to borrow books from the public library or to talk on a public pay phone or to buy food from a street vendor or to eat until we had cleaned our hands thoroughly with soap and water,” the narrator says.
Roth shows how these fearful early days of the outbreak incubate ethnic prejudice and animus. While Bucky is organizing baseball games in the park, a group of tough young Italian teens show up and spit all over the sidewalks, with the declared purpose of spreading the disease to Jewish children. (“ ‘Since when is there a law against spreadin’ polio, Mr. Playground Director?’ ”) Bucky bravely stands up to them—but, in an ominous moment, challenges the ringleader, taking “one quick, angry step forward, placing him only inches from the Italian’s face.” Days later, two of the boys in Bucky’s group come down with polio, then eleven more, and the Italians are indeed blamed for it. When a local luncheonette where one of the victims ate is blamed for spreading the disease and is virtually boycotted, the counterman vituperates: “A boiled hot dog—how do you get polio from a boiled hot dog?” he said. “It’s the wop bastards that brought it around.”
As the disease spreads, and one of the Weequahic boys dies, the community is gripped by the anticipation of broader public-health measures. “What about the mail, someone else said, you don’t think it could be spread by the mail? What are you going to do, somebody retorted, suspend delivering the mail? The whole city would come to a halt. Six or seven weeks ago they would have been talking about the war news.” Then the deaths in Weequahic mount, and, as the epidemic spirals out of control in the neighborhood, it strains the resources of medical facilities—yet neighboring towns are able to come through, and the supply chain that will soon come to Newark’s aid is untroubled. (Polio outbreaks had been occurring across the country in the forties; the last epidemic in Newark was, in fact, in 1916, but authorities knew well enough to be prepared.) The narrator—whose very identity is a dramatic stroke, a spoiler—relates that Bucky:
could hear a siren in the distance. He heard sirens off and on, day and night now . . . These were the sirens of ambulances going to get polio victims and transport them to the hospital, sirens stridently screaming, “Out of the way—a life is at stake!” Several city hospitals had recently run out of iron lungs, and patients in need of them were being taken to Belleville, Kearny, and Elizabeth until a new shipment of the respirator tanks reached Newark.
Residents of Weequahic discuss rumors of official plans to quarantine the entire neighborhood, and their concern for the well-being of children elsewhere in the city runs up against their fears for their livelihoods. Roth’s description of their efforts to process the drastic changes in their daily life, and likely in their lives for years to come, feels as if it could have been transcribed from today’s news. On a phone call with his grandmother, the bewildered and incredulous Bucky exclaims, “But there are tens of thousands of people there, people who have jobs and have to go to work. They can’t just pen people in like that, can they?” She informs him that a de-facto blockade is already beginning: “The bus drivers on the eight and fourteen lines say they won’t drive into the Weequahic section unless they have protective masks. Some say they won’t drive in there at all.” Then, she says, broader societal shutdowns are envisioned:
“It’s in tonight’s paper. All the places where children congregate are being shut down. I have the article in front of me. Movie theaters are shutting down for children under sixteen. The city pool is shutting down. The public library with all its branches is shutting down. Pastors are shutting down Sunday schools. It’s all in the paper. Schools might not open on schedule if things continue like this. I’ll read you the opening line. ‘There is a possibility that the public schools—’ ”
Two dramatic differences between the novel’s polio epidemic and the COVID-19 pandemic are that polio principally affected children, and that it often left its survivors disabled; these factors lent the epidemic a particular aspect of horror that even seemed mythical and metaphysical. Bucky’s neighborhood is gripped by the terror of handshakes and kisses, and people recall with a shudder who they kissed or embraced, and when. Another terror ensues when a completely asymptomatic, seemingly completely healthy person travels to a remote and isolated gathering and proves to be the carrier of the disease. But the potential carrier is able to get tested immediately (albeit by way of a difficult and invasive spinal tap). What’s more, private health insurance wasn’t common yet at the time, and neither Medicare nor Medicaid existed; what took its place was charity. When this character contracts polio and endures a long and arduous in-patient rehabilitation, the narrator relates, “His bills had been astronomical, thousands and thousands of dollars, but they were paid by the Sister Kenny Institute and the March of Dimes.”
What distinguishes the fictionalized Newark of 1944 from current-day American cities is the state of medical science, which left the characters of “Nemesis” grasping at straws, flailing helplessly at nature, destiny, the authorities, and one another. The unspoken end of Roth’s novel lies over its horizon—the development of the polio vaccine and its massive, and decisive, administration to children throughout the United States and the world, leading to the eradication (so it seemed) of the disease. Imagine the Newark parents of 1944 learning of the existence of such a vaccine; they would have received it (as families indeed did, in the nineteen-fifties) as a godsend, a deliverance—and they would have found the very notion of anyone refusing to inoculate their children as somewhere between incomprehensible and wantonly cruel. (“Nemesis” brings back the fear of polio, which has otherwise seemed, to most people, happily, even obliviously distant.)
What would have been similarly bewildering to the novel’s characters is the notion, all too familiar in the live-broadcast present tense, that government officials would intentionally deny the existence or the severity of the epidemic, impeding diagnostic measures to assess its extent and withholding treatment from particular communities on the basis of political expedience or personal vanity. The possibility of politicians, broadcasters, and civic and religious leaders encouraging behavior that would put their acolytes (and the general population) at risk, solely on the basis of political fealty—the cognitive dissonance would seemingly have driven the Weequahic citizenry of 1944 to insanity. Yet that is where we find ourselves now. The divisive, incompetent, indifferent governmental actions of the federal government today, in response to the coronavirus, plays like a grotesque mashup of “Nemesis” and “The Plot Against America”—a counterfactual novel of autocratic kakistocracy, of collective national madness. One imagines that it would have seemed, to the characters of “Nemesis,” the way that “The Plot Against America” seems to us.