
In our afternoon reading: revisiting Ishmael Reed’s work on screen, Paul Elie on nonfiction, and more.

In our afternoon reading: revisiting Ishmael Reed’s work on screen, Paul Elie on nonfiction, and more.

Weird shit can happen when you’re far from home. To be clear, similar phenomena can also be experienced in your own backyard; still, there’s a long tradition of vacationers and expatriates making bad decisions while overseas. At their best, these stories can memorably evoke different forms of alienation; at their worst, they can play into alarming or nativist tropes.

In our morning reading: literature and hockey converge, Will Oldham’s record recommendations, and more.

The Warehouse Disaster
by Patrick W. Gallagher
My Dear Sister,
I admit this much: I should never have left my nephew, your son, alone in our family’s warehouse. That fact is not in dispute, by me least of all. Not that he actually was alone, however. The entire warehouse staff was there, too; it was only that I, his uncle and the only official Manager in the warehouse, was not in the warehouse with him at the time.

In our afternoon reading: thoughts on Sara Levine’s new novel, fiction from Robert Kloss, and more.

A report from Washington: Trump, president of the United States, who refers to climate change as a hoax, a scam, has announced that “endangerment finding,” scientific proof issued by the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) in 2009, is finally being erased by him. This finding shows beyond doubt that greenhouse gases and climate change threaten our health and environment, not to mention the negative impact on other animals (of which we are one of the 8.7 million species on the planet, give or take), animals whose migration patterns, access to food sources, and habitat loss can lead to species extinction. We are living in a futuristic dystopian present.

In our morning reading: revisiting books by queer and trans writers, thoughts on the state of criticism, and more.

How Everything in This World Works
by Claire W. Zhang
I’m a dealer now. From $10 disposable e-cigs to $12,000 Hermès handbags, I deal everything. I’m technically a broker-dealer – a piece of information I obtained from a kind economist on Quora – because I sometimes require a deposit for bigger transactions, but it’s not like anyone’s from Wall Street here so no one cares. I still call myself a dealer, though. It sounds cool, like a drug dealer – dangerous. Although the only “drugs” I’ve dealt so far are 20 tabs of acid (pink dancing bear) and three and a half total ounces of weed (ice cream cake, indica). This is a growing business. I don’t have that many customers.