Posts Tagged ‘mark singer’

In this week’s New Yorker

August 1, 2012


An engrossing issue to read on a three-hour plane ride. Having spent a good chunk of the weekend watching the Olympics, I enjoyed the cover, along with a string of engrossing articles I might not otherwise have devoured quite so closely:

Ryan Lizza’s informative and characteristically in-depth profile of Wisconsin Congressman Paul Ryan, he of the ostensibly sensible budget that barely conceals all kinds of ideological landmines. Obama’s budget director, as Lizza puts it, “dismantled Ryan’s plan, point by point.” Ryan’s proposal would turn Medicare “into a voucher program, so that individuals are on their own in the health-care market,” he said. Over time, the program wouldn’t keep pace with rising medical costs, so seniors would have to pay thousands of dollars more a year for health care. The Roadmap would revive Bush’s plan to privatize Social Security and “provide large tax benefits to upper-income households . . . while shifting the burden onto middle- and lower-income households. It is a dramatically different approach in which much more risk is loaded onto individuals.”

Lauren Collins’ piece on conceptual artist Tino Sehgal, whose work involves no objects whatsoever but focuses on personal interaction;

Mark Singer’s absolutely riveting story about a Michigan dentist who went to incredibly arduous lengths to present himself as a marathon champion without ever actually completing a race and in some cases inventing them (and their websites) from scratch — which falls into the Department of Ugly Truths, or How Fucked-Up Human Beings Can Be. It is essentially a sleuth job on a pathological liar, a mysterious breed of personality;

Evan Osnos on the curious case of Myanmar’s bloodless regime change; and

— a curious little previously unpublished story, “Thank You for the Light,” recently discovered among the papers of F. Scott Fitzgerald, which you can read in its (brief) entirety here. The evocative illustration (below) is by Owen Freeman.


While I’m at it, let me put in a word for two must-reads in the previous issue (cover date July 30): the long and terrific profile of Bruce Springsteen, all the more impressive for being written by New Yorker editor-in-chief David Remnick, who often surprises me with his choice of subjects; and Zadie Smith’s delightful story, “Permission to Enter,” an excerpt from her forthcoming novel NW.

In this week’s New Yorker

May 22, 2011

Several long absorbing articles in this week’s New Yorker:

Jill Lepore reviews two biographies of Clarence Darrow, in the process delivering a capsule biography of the most famous lawyer in American history and his principled defense of labor unions and organizers. In 1903, representing the United Mine Workers in Pennsylvania, he wrote, “Five hundred dollars a year is a big price for taking your life and your limbs in your hand and going down into the earth to dig up coal to make somebody else rich.”

— Jane Mayer writes a detailed and complicated story about whistle-blowersinside the federal government, focusing on the case of Thomas Drake, a former senior executive at the National Security Agency who faces serious jail time for sharing unclassified documents with Congressional investigators about grotesque waste and mismanagement in his agency’s development of surveillance technology. “Even in an age in which computerized feats are commonplace, the N.S.A.’s capabilities are breathtaking. The agency reportedly has the capacity to intercept and download, every six hours, electronic communications equivalent to the contents of the Library of Congress. Three times the size of the C.I.A., and with a third of the U.S.’s entire intelligence budget, the N.S.A. has a five-thousand-acre campus at Fort Meade protected by iris scanners and facial-recognition devices. The electric bill there is said to surpass seventy million dollars a year.” A major point of the story is that the Obama administration has been just as severe in punishing whistle-blowers as the previous administration.

— Kelefa Sanneh’s “Where’s Earl?” is one of those stories that astonish me when they turn up in the New Yorker. It’s an introduction to a pop music phenomenon that I haven’t heard about — the loose affiliation of very young Los Angeles-based African-American rappers who make up the hip-hop crew Odd Future, centered on a performer who calls himself Tyler, the Creator. It’s also a piece of intense, in-depth investigative reporting on the evolution, identity, and whereabouts of a legendary figure in the O.F. domain known as Earl Sweatshirt, who turns out to be the son of South African poet Keorapetse Kgositsile, whose work inspired the group of Harlem-based proto-rappers The Last Poets.

Some smaller pleasures: Mark Singer’s Talk of the Town piece about playing the telephone game on the High Line with 200 people passing along a phrase from a Tibetan Buddhist sutra; Michael Schulman hanging out with Kathleen Marshall looking at kinescopes of old performances of Anything Goes to prepare for the Roundabout revival; Hilton Als’ review of By the Way, Meet Vera Stark, which made me reconsider how much fun it must be for the actresses to perform that show; and then of course, this Roz Chast cartoon:

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