Give thanks.

​Perhaps it’s just affecting me more these days, making me more inclined to notice, or perhaps I’m perceiving things pretty close to how they are, but it seems that the last month or so has been particularly violent, even by modern standards. It’s something I’ve written about here before, and I hate to think that I sound like I have nothing else to say; but lately, each time there’s an attack or a shooting, I feel it more than I used to. And along with that, I feel the urge to say something, to bear witness.

protests late last year, from the Minneapolis Star Tribune
Along with the violence, the past year seems to have been a period of great unrest. This fall, like much of the past 16 months since the death of Michael Brown, has brought about a lot of meaningful discussion about how this country functions, where it’s headed, and the wide gap in how people with different skin colors experience life here. Protestors have marched and chanted in cities, on freeways, at colleges, and around police departments and city halls that seemed to be failing their people. For a lot of Americans, it’s been eye-opening, although not always to what they would like to see.

Some would call this progress; some would call it a nuisance.

Those who would use the latter term have responded to these public dialogues in myriad ways, from Facebook rants to counter-protests. In a few sad cases, they’ve resorted to violence, like those cowardly few in Minnesota who took direct aim at peaceful protestors for daring to raise their voices against the ideology of white supremacy.

A little over 150 years ago, Abraham Lincoln declared that from then on, the last Thursday in November would be set aside as a national day of thanksgiving. He hoped it would help to heal a broken nation, one that was writhing and clawing and killing its sons over the question of slavery, which was really a question about the value of black lives. It’s tragic that so many years later, we’re still trying to figure it out.

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news & updates.

I’m almost done with applications, which means I almost have my life back! actual news to follow.

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read this.

On Pandering. So the downside to letting this newsletter go until this week is that this essay came out a week ago and you may have already seen it. But it deserves the top slot anyway. A brilliant reflection from one of my favorite writers on what it’s like being a woman and a writer, becoming a mother, being pandered to by Stephen Elliott/old white male professors/the world, and “burn[ing] this motherfucking system to the ground and build[ing] something better.”

Fiction tells a truth that history cannot.

A brief history of the GED, recent radical changes to the test, and second chances in America.

On going and coming. It’s rare that I link to anything on Buzzfeed, but this was really, really good.

The person next to you on the plane. Brilliant essay on the choices we make, the different lives people live, and the secret lives of strangers.

Confessions of a housekeeper: coming clean about the secrets she discovered wiping up the messes of the rich, and what she learned from them about what it really means to live well.

Donald Trump is possibly the only presidential candidate who could retweet racist graphics made by actual neo-Nazis and get away with it.

But actually, how the hell does Trump get away with all this? Jay Rosen attempts an explanation.

The sad saga of the clock kid continues.

Looking for Raymond Chandler’s LA.

The World According to ISIS; A Satire.

Quiz Time! British culinary specialty, or twee slang for STD symptom?

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fic pick.

“Milk.”

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watch this.

Mirror. A collaboration between The New Yorker and This American Life (I will freely admit that I eat this shit up, but it’s a pretty good story, and how many creative nonfiction animated shorts do you see?).

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listen to this.

“November.” Ok so technically it’s December now, but whatever, you’ll be fine.

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America.

It’s been a strange week, America.

It started off with us finally taking down the Stars and Bars, which most of seem to agree was the right move, just a few decades late. Better late than never, though, I guess. And then we heard the final sentence for Dzhokar Tsarnaev, the terrorist who blew up a bunch of people and the nation’s newsfeeds for no other reason than that he could. And we remembered, ever so briefly, that our courtrooms are about more than just the good guys getting the bad guys. They’re stages, full of as much drama as any theater, in which we listen to stories and weigh our laws and values. What they’re really about is trying to figure out What We Stand For. So is it weird that we’re killing him, too? A few years ago, I would’ve said ‘Hell no!’ It will be expensive, yes; and it will take years, yes. What he did was undeniably an expression of evil, however, and there’s a certain poetic justice in executing people like him. Isn’t there? How much does it matter that he’s just a kid, America? He knew what he was doing, sure. But now a court of people have picked out a second number for his headstone, and even though it won’t be engraved until after the cloud of dirt the appeals kick up has settled back down, far removed from the event itself, when he maybe can’t remember why the hell he did it, and neither can all of the population that wasn’t even born by the time he was sentenced to die, he will have long since been dead. It is one thing to live every day as though it’s a gift (that’s why they call it The Present, you know), trying to live well, to fix what you’ve done wrong, with the expectation that Death is waiting in secret somewhere far down the line. It is not living when your death has been pre-ordained, though. You cannot change when you’re already dead. But then, justice and righteous are not the same word.

And then today, our courts also upheld the right of everyone to love who they want, to marry who they love. That decision does not seem like such a bomb to me (although I’m sure plenty of people are checking insurance policies for flood and frog coverage, for lo, this may be a sign). It it seems like basic sense, perfectly compatible with any compassionate worldview, until you put it in the larger context of America. In one week we’ve affirmed the lives of millions, but condemned another to die, in the most public gallows the world has ever seen–not that it’s likely to be Periscoped, but you never know. Should those things even be mentioned in the same paragraph? You could argue that they don’t; they’re very distinct issues. But they are both part of our story, two separate acts in the morality play that is America. At least the review doesn’t come out for a while. There’s no telling what it will say.

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Read this.

Reporting on the news and slut-shaming are not the same thing.

From an economics standpoint, looser gun laws are a highly sensible way to reduce violent crime. But does that actually work?

ISIS proves they know no limits; releases 2 star review of In the Aeroplane Over the Sea.

His body washed up on an Australian beach in tagless clothes, with no forms of ID. In his pockets, coroners found a tiny scrap of paper, with the untranslated end to an 11th Century Persian poem, reading, ‘The End.’ Decades later, we still don’t know what happened to the Somerton Man.

The origins of awkward.

Swastikas in Seattle.

Marijuana and related products are legal or close to it in many states now; so how good are their labels?

The unexpected longevity of CDs.

The arts aren’t worth a dime. But maybe that’s the point.

Somebody else said something dumb about women’s soccer.

Listen to this.

“Natalie Dormer” by Cloud District.

The end.
Happy weekend, and don’t forget to watch the USWNT tonight in the World Cup!

Dale and the princess bike.

(don’t forget to subscribe to the moose report right here!)

After a rather heavy discussion last week about race in America following the Texas Pool Party, I was planning to keep things on the lighter side this week. Given that Father’s Day is this weekend, it seemed like a good time for a reflection on dads, the start of summer, etc. etc. I even had a funny little anecdote picked out–if you’ve been reading these things, you know that I do a decent amount of thinking and observing on trains (something about them is just good for meditating, you know?). There are usually two cars on each train that hold bikes, and since most cyclists sit in those cars and most people take the same train every day, you end up seeing a lot of familiar faces.

There’s one guy in particular I’ve seen quite a bit since I started taking CalTrain; he rides a Cannondale, so let’s call him Dale. He’s a tall skinny guy, with straight brown hair and glasses, and his face is sort of pinched, which always makes him look a little annoyed to be there. Since the trains are so crowded, some mornings we really have to stack up the bikes, and given that his is pretty nice, it’s not unreasonable that he would be pissed if other people bunched their bikes up on top of his (in just a few months, mine has already gotten scratched and dinged from exactly that). We share the same destination, and once we arrive, he inevitably seems frustrated at the crowd of people trying to disembark, usually speeding off like a madman once he’s outside. I can understand his annoyance, but still, that’s the nature of the train, so I’ve always silently regarded him as somewhat of an asshole.

Much to my delight, I boarded the train the other morning and saw a purple child’s bike leaning against Dale’s. Its pedals and handlebars seemed positioned just perfectly to get entangled in his chain and cables, and there wasn’t anyone standing nearby who looked like it might have belonged to them. With no destination tag attached, I figured a parent and a kid who had no idea how the bike car worked must have dropped theirs off and sat down elsewhere in the train. Certain we were going to get a show when Dale saw, I angled myself to watch when I saw him trying to squeeze through the crowd of people waiting to get off at our stop. And sure enough, he looked as sassy as ever, until he said:

“All right sweetie, here we are.” He turned around to address the little girl on his heels, her blond hair sticking out  in pigtails from underneath her pink helmet.

“Daddy, how do I get my bike off the train?” she asked.

“You go wait on the platform,” he told her, “and I’ll get your bike.”

So maybe I should have just expected it would have been his daughter’s, but the whole image was so incongruous, this man who usually looks so angry now swallowing whatever pride I’d ascribed to him, and marching off the train with princess bike in hand, its long purple streamers billowing from the handlebars as he stepped down onto the platform.

I wanted to tell this story as a reflection on parental love and the many things parents do for their kids, and as a reminder to call your dad if you’ve got one, and tell him what he means to you. I wanted this to just be a cheery letter; on Wednesday night, I started having second thoughts.

Many people have already written quite a bit about the violent attack on the Emmanuel AME church in Charleston this week. It’s left me disgusted; I cannot comprehend how a person could bring himself not just to kill, but to sit in a church with his victims for an hour, and then stand up and slaughter them. It seemed deeply wrong to let it pass without mention. As I thought about it over the last few days, I wasn’t really sure what I could add that hasn’t already been said–there have been tons of discussions, some more productive than others, about everything from terrorism to the history of the AME church to guns to South Carolina’s legacy as a Confederate state. And even though much of that has been discussed by people much smarter than me, what I will say is this: let us not forget the victims, especially those who were parents, whose children must now be enduring unfathomable grief. As we try to wrap our heads around what happened Wednesday night, recognize how lucky you are if the people you care about are safe and sound. And tell them if you feel that way; God only knows when you might lose the chance to, for good.

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News & updates.

I’ve got a story I’ve been working on for work in the pipeline, which I’m hoping to share next week (fingers crossed). Other than that, I’ve mostly been working on fiction stuff honestly, which hopefully somebody will want to publish some day, but that’s why there’s been relative silence on my end. The good news is, lots of other people have written lots of other stuff, so on to the links!

Read this.

Giant purple blobs are washing ashore in the Bay Area, and people are freaking out.

The Saga of Rachel Dolezal, the white NAACP leader pretending to be black, continues.

Also, her brother is a writer, which has provided perhaps our best peek into her childhood.

High schools realize that women and non-whites can also write books.

Kindle will now be paying authors based on how many pages of his or her book people read, instead of paying them for something like, I don’t know, how good the book is.

Back to Chicago, a lovely little reflection on the tie between smell and memory.

Turns out that some members of one Alabama police department have openly been members of a white power hate group.

Some cool works by a Sudanese political cartoonist.

The Agency. This has been out a few weeks, so maybe you read it, but this is a fantastic story about a secret Russian agency whose job is to fill the Internet with pro-Russian and anti-American propaganda.

In case you haven’t heard, there’s an election coming up! (In over a year.) Since a number of the candidates haven’t really clarified their position on torture, Melville House Books is sending them complimentary copies of the Senate Torture Report and asking for their thoughts.

Uber tries to skirt numerous laws and regulations by claiming they’re just a software company, not a transportation business, and the California Labor Commission is calling bullshit.

Speaking the Unspeakable: Charles Pierce’s thoughts on Charleston, by far the best thing I’ve read about it so far. Thanks to Allie for sharing it.

Watch this.

A sneak preview of the Jurassic World sequel, Jurassic 5. The funniest damn thing.

Fic Pick.

“Punch, Brothers, Punch” An oldie but a goodie, from Mr. Mark Twain. (And if you’re familiar with the band Punch Brothers, this story is where they got their name!)

The end.

If you’re ever in trouble…

(Go subscribe to the moose report. All the cool kids are doing it.)

On a recent weekend of camping in the East Bay, Lindsey and I were watching the sun sink lower in the sky, and starting to contemplate making dinner. We were at Mount Diablo, a popular spot on the other side of the San Francisco Bay for hiking and biking, with a few campgrounds scattered along the road up the mountain. Our campground was westward-facing and near a big drop off, which made for a pretty scenic overlook at sunset. Apparently the rest of the campers were also aware, as they soon invaded the open space near our tent.

So we were sitting there on a bench talking about what to do, when these two little boys appeared (they must’ve been about five or six). I have no idea what the context was, but they were talking excitedly, and we overheard one say:

“If you’re ever in trouble, don’t talk to strangers. If you need help, only ask a mom with a baby, a police officer, or a fighter-fighter.”

It was hopelessly cute, and has become one of our favorite anecdotes from the trip.

It also came to mind last weekend, as a cell phone video of the chaos after a Texas pool party swept across the Internet. It’s been nearly a week now; you’ve likely seen it, or at least heard about the video. As I thought about what to write, there seemed to be a few angles to take on what happened: the fact that there are members of the police force throughout this country who seem to genuinely believe they are characters in an action movie, rather than real people whose actions and decisions have real consequences on the citizens they’re supposed to protect; there were the anecdotes of racial slurs being thrown at the kids, and how even in their own neighborhood, these kids were treated as outsiders, as Others; and then there was the willingness with which that cop pulled a gun on the teenagers around him, a serious threat to (at best) maim or (at worst) murder them.

But the reason I also thought of those first little boys is because I realized that it probably doesn’t need to be mentioned for you to infer that they were white. The fact is, the color of your skin radically impacts the way you experience government authority in America. For many African American kids, police officers don’t seem like people they can trust if they’re in trouble. Rather, they seem like antagonizers and abusers; they are the trouble. As that video made clear, the white kid filming the ordeal was free to move around, while the African American kids were automatically treated as suspects. Where does that leave them? Should they try to get away to relative safety, they can apparently expect to be tackled and thrown to the ground. And God help them should, in that moment of panic, they show any sign of resistance; from the second they do, they are almost inevitably fated to become another hashtag.

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Howdy everybody, and happy Friday. No news and updates this week, but lots of other good stuff, so let’s get right to it!

Read this.

People in the Bay Area are paying over $1300/month for bunk beds in “tech houses.” What’s the point of adult life if you don’t even have a real bed?

Maybe you should default on your student loans.

On second thought, probably not.

There’s a new documentary out about amateur porn, and everybody’s got an opinion about it.

SpaceX did another really cool thing with rockets.

A male scientist made some really stupid remarks about women in science. No not that one, this is a new one.

The curious history of the lethal injection.

For Orthodox Jews, their religion dominates most every waking moment of their life, from birth till death. So what are they supposed to do if they decide late in life that there is no God? Lead a secret double life.

Every possible humanities dissertation, in 140 characters or less.

Michael Morton first lost his wife, then his freedom, then his son. Even though no one would believe him, he knew one thing: he did not kill his wife, and somehow, some day, the truth would come out. (This one is a few years old, so maybe you’ve already read it, but it just came to my attention, and is arguably the best true crime story I’ve ever read. That’s counting In Cold Blood and Trial by Fire.)

Speaking of true crime, when was the last time the victim in one was a young, unarmed black man?

Here’s a great little story and interview with Girlpool, everybody’s favorite feminist punk duo.

American Pharoah vs. Secretariat: who would win?

Listen to this.

Corners, an LA-based blast from the ’80s. Picked up a used copy of their debut last weekend for $2 at my local record store…what a score. Must love synth.

Watch this.

St. Paul and the Broken Bones live at KEXP. Yes, this is another music thing, but trust me, this’ll brighten yer day.

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Has the Moose Report made a positive difference in your inbox? Pass it on! (Father’s Day is right around the corner, and this is the gift that keeps on giving…)
Have a good weekend y’all.

The end.