how about that game, the germany fan whispers awkwardly
How college wrestling star Tiger Mandingo became an HIV scapegoat:
The only question more important than how Johnson became both a media flashpoint and morality tale is why. The nasty racial tone the story took is not surprising, given Johnson’s charged nickname, his white sex partners, and research in Tennessee that shows the law punishes black men more often (and more severely) for HIV-related sex crimes than it does white men.
I have emailed a dealer for a quote on the car I am interested in. He has requested I call him. I have said: NO I DON’T DO THAT EMAIL ME BACK WITH A NUMBER, I DINE ON MANFLESH. He has written back to tell me about financing numbers! I have said: I AM ONLY INTERESTED IN PRICE, DO NOT BANDY ME ABOUT WITH SUCH THINGS.
watch this space for more
Anna Holmes about her regrets as a younger writer:
Mostly, what I regret is the ease with which I assumed that others’ prose styles were something not just to study and learn from but to imitate. This chameleonic impulse, a talent I developed at an early age, certainly came in handy during my stints as a writer and editor for women’s service and celebrity magazines — publications that, then and now, demand a cheerful and wholly unremarkable “female” voice — but it also did a fair amount of damage to my writerly sense of self, not to mention my ability to execute stories on issues that had nothing to do with sex tips for singletons, swingy summer dresses or the assignations of Angelina Jolie. My adoption of others’ voices made it even more difficult to find mine, and it wasn’t until I was well into my 30s that I began to realize I could honor other writing styles while also asserting my own. (This development may or may not have been influenced by my entrance into the world of blogging, an environment whose freewheeling, breezy and often very personal approach to prose has inspired any number of now-established writers.)
Heather Seggel pointed me towards this collection of interviews with gay women who were activists in the 1970s and 1980s, and they’re so fascinating that I’ve been reading a lot of them. Here’s one with Byllye Avery:
At Birth Place I also learned the importance of education around health care procedures. My whole transition from the birthing center to the Black Women’s Health Project was interesting. I started working as a director for a CETA program at Santa Fe Community College in Gainesville and started looking at the lives of these young Black women registered in the program. Because I was the director, I learned when they were out, absenteeism, and I would bring them in to talk to them about why they couldn’t come to class. They were getting minimum wage to come to class, and when they didn’t come they didn’t get paid, so I knew there had to be something that was keeping them from coming. I found out that a lot of them were ill, or had children who were sick, who needed to be taken care of. They just had all kinds of responsibilities. I realized that working women with children need 10 sick days for every child, and 10 days for themselves—but you only get 10 sick days. They just had so many circumstances I had never thought about, including poor health.
Kate Harding on why she thinks fat people should wear all the bikinis they want to, but why she, personally, NEVER WILL:
Along with Trout, I roll my eyes at thin people who fake-worry that we fatties might just be more comfortable wearing something they find less assaultive. (Personally, I favor bold prints, and once had a friend ask, “Isn’t that a little loud for … someone like you?” Answer: Nope, and Byeee!) But I am indeed more comfortable in public when I’m covered from at least knees to chest. As in, I can relax and go about my business, instead of constantly thinking, I am basically naked right now, yet I am not at home. One of these things must change.
tbh, I really would vote for basically any politician who said they had an abortion and did not regret it, ON GENERAL PRINCIPLE
Arthur Miller on the days before air conditioning:
High heat created irrational solutions: linen suits that collapsed into deep wrinkles when one bent an arm or a knee, and men’s straw hats as stiff as matzohs, which, like some kind of hard yellow flower, bloomed annually all over the city on a certain sacred date—June 1st or so. Those hats dug deep pink creases around men’s foreheads, and the wrinkled suits, which were supposedly cooler, had to be pulled down and up and sidewise to make room for the body within.
