"At one point, the executive producer, Jim Bell, commissioned a blooper reel of Curry’s worst on-air mistakes. Another time, according to a producer, Bell called staff members into his office to show a gaffe she made during a cross-talk with a local station. (Bell denies both incidents.) Then several boxes of Curry’s belongings ended up in a coat closet, as if she had already been booted off the premises. One staff person recalled that “a lot of time in the control room was spent making fun of Ann’s outfit choices or just generally messing with her.” On one memorable spring morning, Curry wore a bright yellow dress that spawned snarky comparisons to Big Bird. The staff person said that others in the control room, which included 14 men and 3 women, according to my head count one morning, Photoshopped a picture of Big Bird next to Curry and asked co-workers to vote on ‘Who wore it best?’"
"It might sound like a good idea now but, when you explain to Stanford that you have in fact already published your first work of short fiction—your letter of recommendation!—they probably won’t admire the way you play with genre."
These screenshots represent unsold tickets for Wizards (20-42) home games. Grey sections are sold out, light blue sections are mostly full, and dark blue sections are mostly empty. The top screenshot is for the Wizards game against the 76ers (24-39) on April 12; the bottom screenshot is for the Wizards game against the Heat (48-14) on April 10.
OSTEEN: Arthur, I want to talk to you about the power of “I am.” What follows these two words will determine what kind of life you live. “I am blessed,” “I am strong,” “I am healthy.” Or: “I am slow,” “I am unattractive,” “I am a terrible mother.” The “I am’s” that are coming out of your mouth will bring either success or failure. Many times we use the power of “I am” against us. We don’t realize how it’s affecting our future.
Here’s the principle. What follows the “I am” will always come looking for you. When you say, “I am so clumsy,” clumsiness comes looking for you. When you say, “I am so old,” wrinkles come looking for you. It’s just like you’re inviting them. Whatever you follow the “I am” with, you’re handing it an invitation, opening the door, giving it permission to be in your life. Now, the good news is, you get to choose what follows the “I am.”
SCHOPENHAUER: I am sometimes dissatisfied with you in your capacity as a philosopher.
OSTEEN: Ha-ha. Every time you laugh, it boosts your immune system.
"[T]herein lies one of the greatest divides between the haves and the have-nots of twentysomethings in this city. Can your parents cover some of your living expenses while you take one low-paying—but potentially career-building—internship after another?"
"The second post was written disjointedly, on trains and on strange couches and while sitting in a lecture hall at Yale Law School, half-listening to panel discussions about impact investing in emerging markets. As such, it wasn’t one of those posts where you have something to say, and then you write it down, and then you press “publish”; instead, it was one of those posts where you write a bit, and then you do a podcast, which gives you another idea, which you squeeze in somewhere, and so on. The perfect blog post is exactly one idea long; in that respect, this post was far from perfect. I just didn’t want to spend all week writing about Maria Popova, so I tried to get everything covered in one fell swoop."
— The second paragraph of Felix’s mea culpa has absolutely nothing to do with why he said something stupid, as evidenced by the fact that he stood by what he said through an extensive public lashing and only changed his position after a private email conversation. And yet, the first link I saw to his piece, from a dude blogger, featured this bit of commentary: “Very sympathetic to @felixsalmon’s second paragraph here.” So tell me, fellow dude bloggers, what other failings can be ameliorated by one’s busyness and importance?
The next two hours were spent in the dark on the train. An hour in, panic started to set in. In our car, one woman had passed out. We heard people pounding on windows in other cars, we heard glass breaking and people screaming. More than two hours in, folks in our car forced open the emergency door to get some air into the car. Some to actually exited and walked the tunnel. Mind you, we were in the dark somewhere under the Anacostia River. Inside the temperature was close to 90 degrees. Most people managed to get their coats off, and in some cases, even shirts came off, I was dripping with sweat, but tried to keep breathing and conserve my energy and keep calm. I did not talk much, and kept my eyes closed while standing face to face and body to body with the other sweaty passengers.
About two and a half hours, someone threw up in our car. The car also smelt of urine. I’m certain more than one person had pissed themselves. The car smelt rank, and the situation was getting out of control. Multiple emergency doors were forced open, and now passengers were wondering around in the train tunnels in the dark. The train operator came by our car, asked us to help him get the door closed and said not to open it again. He said several other doors were open and had to be closed. He had police and firemen with him. They were trying to round up everyone and get them back on the train before the fire department would give permissions to the power company to restore power to the third rail.
Once the train operator got all passengers back on train and all doors closed, the power came on. The train operator said we would be moving forward, but at a very slow pace, as there might be stray passengers wondering around in the tunnel.
They took a good 30 minutes to get everyone off who needed medical assistance. I got home close to 9 p.m. that night.
"Frequently, when I travel outside of the USA, my trips to the local McDonald’s are the most genuinely foreign-feeling and disorienting part of the trip. I went to Paris last year. There are probably ten restaurants within walking distance of my old Williamsburg apartment that are varyingly obsessive imitations of Parisian bistros, Parisian bars, Parisian brasseries. If they were hung in museums, the wall texts next to them would say ‘School of Keith McNally.’ But there is not a single place in New York that serves a Croque McDo."
— Jeb Boniakowski has made this day great. When I traveled to Azerbaijan in 2004, having never visited a city bigger or more diverse than Orlando, the McDonald’s in Baku was a haven of dull familiarity for me, and a pricey extravagance for my host brother.