Ta-Nehisi Coates

It's yours.

by Brendan I. Koerner

I have the good fortune to be closely related to a successful professional gambler, a man who has taught me a ton about the brainpower required to beat the odds. Had he been born into better economic circumstances, I have no doubt that he would have ended up with a corner office on Wall Street. But college wasn't an option given his family's meager resources, so he enlisted in the Army and learned to put his talents to work at the track and the pool hall. And though he's never known the pleasure of a $15,000 umbrella stand, it's clear that he's spent his career slicing through math problems that would vex the sharpest hedge-fund baron.

As the Super Bowl approaches, I thought it would be worth hipping y'all to one of this Runyon-esque character's primary gambling lessons: betting on professional football is a mug's game. Oh, sure, you can potentially achieve some small measure of success if you're willing to make multiple bets per contest over an entire season, and you pay careful attention to such minute factors as wind conditions, cleat length, and the status of key players' divorce proceedings. But gamblers who really understand the math are no fans of the NFL; they know that the multi-billion-dollar industry that surrounds the league's wagering exists solely to part fools from their money, by creating the illusion that objective observation can lead to winning bets over the long-term. (Sound familiar?)

So how do the pros make bank while staking their money on circumstances they can't control? Baseball and ponies.

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Moving on, there are a lot of ex-football players speaking in yesterday's thread on concussions and the NFL. One of them, Ulysses Not Yet Home, wrote the following:

My football career consisted of four years of high school play, one state championship, and one year attempting to walk on in the Big Ten. I have had three knee surgeries, a rotator cuff repair, and a ligament transplant in my thumb. My first surgery ended my playing days and required the reinsertion of one of the external heads of my quads. My last two surgeries were in 2000 and 2003 (knee and houlder) and were fully 29 and 32 YEARS after the first. Most football careers resemble mine. And yes, I DO have regrets...

I loved playing football. I was good, but not great. I loved the approval from within the team and the coaches, that came from being known as a "serious hitter". I loved winning and being a state champion. I loved it when other fathers would comment approvingly to MY father about my "plowing a guy". So I can't imagine not having played. But like everyone who played in the 60's and 70's, I was subject to the "play through pain/injury" mindset. I had one athletic offer from Lehigh University, which I turned down for an academic scholarship to Northwestern. 

Even in 1970, Big Ten football was orders of magnitude more serious than anything I was actually equipped for. I did not make the team. I seriously doubt that the player I was, should have been allowed on the field to play. That few weeks is felt on every stair, every attempt to get the nice wine glasses from the top shelf . Today it means no jogging, no basketball (not that I was doing a lot of that), no tennis, no swimming, no throwing, no bowling, and the infrequent random thing that you do that you didn't realize would be breathtakingly painful. 

I once had to suddenly swerve out of my lane to avoid a collision while driving the wife's Mazda Miata (non power steering). I literally had to pull over and have her drive because after the max load event I could not lift my left arm to steer. I don't know if I could have been dissuaded from playing, I think not. Six surgeries later and another two and a knee replacement in the discussion stages, I wish I could have.

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by Shani O. Hilton

Reading my friend Ann Friedman's posts last week on migration reminded me of the magic of slow domestic travel. I've lived in two states (three if you count D.C., which no one does), and seen 33 states—most of them multiple times—during several cross-country car trips from California to various points on the Eastern seaboard and Canada. And forgive me if this sounds corny, but at no other time am I more aware of how much I love this country than while driving through it. The romance is undeniable. (Aside: this may be why I was more than a little heartbroken when I read that Steinbeck's Travels With Charley was probably fictionalized.) While driving isn't always practical or doable—and I've done the cross-country flight a couple dozen times, too—it's really the only way to see the country. And when Ann wrote about going West, it made me think of the last time I left the West.

"The question is -- and this is what Barack Obama didn't want to answer: Is that human life a person under the Constitution? And Barack Obama says no," Santorum says in the interview, which was first picked up by CBN's David Brody. "Well if that person, human life is not a person, then, I find it almost remarkable for a black man to say, 'We are going to decide who are people and who are not people.'"

I wanted to also share what exactly went through my mind when I heard what Santorum said. Had I been whatever pundit, host, ken doll, or mold of Yancy that was interviewing him, here is the first thing that should have come out their mouth: "Rick, leaving aside any position on abortion, leaving aside any knowledge of the history of slavery in this country, you just said that one man should hold a specific opinion because of the color of his skin. Let me repeat that: you just said any African-American should think this way because of the color of their skin. Please elaborate." 

What he said was vile. You pointed out the ignorance of what he said in your post. I wanted to under-think it and point out the pure wretchedness of his thinking. We aren't individuals for this man, we're a collection of others who must share the same thinking process and behaviors. There's a word for that kind of thought and it's all too easily used these days, but for once it applies.

by Neil Drumming

When Ta-Nehisi first asked if I would consider guest blogging from Sundance, I was hesitant—and not just because the caliber of other contributors was so high as to be intimidating. (This means you, Chabon.) The truth is, this is my vacation. Ever since I left Entertainment Weekly at the end of 2007, I have come to Sundance not primarily as a journalist, but as a movie fan and a filmmaker. A non-skier, I brave Park City's fresh powder and packed shuttle buses to be inspired and motivated along the course of my own work.

...but I'm not. I'm sorry Mary Surrat got a bum deal. I'm a lot sorrier that the assassination of Lincoln by white supremacists ushered in arguably the most undemocratic eras in American history. That's not very fair. But I have my limits. As the 150th anniversary rolls upon us, expect Hollywood to continue to endorse a narrative of Confederate victim-hood. I think I'll be capable of more empathy, once see Robert Smalls or Prince Rivers in lights.

It's yours.

by Brendan I. Koerner

I have a confession to make: For years now, whenever the conversation has turned to topics along the lines of "the future of the book" or "the future of journalism," my eyes have glazed over. It's not that I have any problem with pontificating on what lies ahead, as evidenced by yesterday's post about genetic intel and race. But as someone who dreamed of becoming a writer ever since my dad read me Leiningen versus the Ants as a wee bairn, I've found the debate over the written word's future a little off-putting. Sure, that's partly because I'm anxious about how I'll continue to feed my family by arranging letters into pleasant orders. But since I can't imagine doing anything else with my life at this point, I've reckoned that my time is better spent producing work rather than wringing my hands. My attitude toward my chosen profession's future, then, was perhaps best summed-up by the great John McPhee in the Paris Review last year:

Writing isn't going to go away. There's a big shake-up—the thing that comes to mind is that it's like in a basketball game or a lacrosse game when the ball changes possession and the whole situation is unstable. But there's a lot of opportunities in the unstable zone. We're in that kind of zone with the Internet. But it's just unimaginable to me that writing itself would die out. OK, so where is it going to go? It's a fluid force: it'll come up through cracks, it'll go around corners, it'll pour down from the ceiling.

I still agree with that sentiment, but not quite as blindly as in years past. Now I'm starting to realize that while books will certainly survive, they're going to read a lot differently than in decades past. The reason for my change of heart? Someone shoved an iPad in my hands.

The second I first swiped from page to page on the Jesus Tablet, I knew that books and other longform slabs of writing would have to adapt to fit the new medium. That epiphany led me to sign up to write the very first story for The Atavist, a new publisher that delivers media-rich stories for tablets. The tale, about a child coal miner who became the most celebrated jazz musician in Asia (see the man in the lei above), is one that could never have seen the light of day in an earlier era. But it works on the iPad for a variety of reasons: the low cost of publication, the ability to mix in sound and imagery, the liberation from the tyranny of length restrictions.

But while we should all be excited about the potential of the iPad and its forthcoming competitors, let's be honest: the transition is going to be rough at times, and we're going to lose some elements of writing that we've held near and dear to our hearts. (And I say that as someone working very hard on a beloved second book right now.) Gazing into my dusty crystal ball, here's how I see the tabletization of Planet Earth changing what gets set down in (digital) ink:

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I have no idea why NBC thought it was good idea to put Parks and Rec on hold for almost half a year. I'm just glad it's back. More Jean-Ralphio please. So fluuush with caaaash.

There's a lot to think about in Ben McGrath's New Yorker piece on football and brain injury. 

by Shani O. Hilton

A couple of people pushed back on yesterday's post on Condoleezza Rice and Hillary Clinton to assert that women care about babies and weddings, which is why people ask women about them. sethblink wrote:

[B]lame the media or society or the sexism of men all you want for the presence of questions like this on shows that proport to be about news, but the real reason anybody ever asks these questions on TV is that by and large, women viewers find this stuff interesting.

Incidentally, today I checked out Google's ad preferences, which has determined, based on the sites I visit, that I am a man. It's an algorithm, which is science! So, assertion proven, right?

Except, here's the thing that's weird: Despite the fact that more than half of my searches are related to arts and entertainment, celebrity news, womens apparel, and beauty/fitness (all of which are CLEARLY LADY CATEGORIES) Google still says, "Based on the websites you've visited, we think you're interested in topics that mostly interest men."

I'm not sure what to make of this. Is it that the law/government/politics sites I visit are more heavily weighted than the Ryan Gosling-heavy tumblrs? Is it that rock music is "male"? Would I have to visit baby naming websites to get categorized as having female interests?

Ultimately, this is the problem that I have with the "hey, but ladies DO like babies!" argument. Sure, some things I like are gendered. But who decides what's male and what isn't? Why are babies and weddings—things that men and women go halves on—inherently female? How are attitudes that maintain the femaleness of love and reproduction anything other than a product of sexism? (Note: not all weddings or babies come out of hetero partnerships, of course.) I reject that it's because women and men are just "different" that way. Do better, explainers.

(Oh, you can find out what gender you are here.)

It's yours.

by Brendan I. Koerner

If you haven't yet read Jon Lee Anderson's latest New Yorker dispatch from Sri Lanka, you're missing out on something special. Per the always, Anderson's reporting is top-notch—his description of meeting a shattered women condemned to death by the Tamil Tigers has stuck with me for weeks now. More importantly, the piece makes a convincing case that the only way to "win" a counter-insurgency campaign is to resort to sheer brutality—a move guaranteed to lead to generations of hostility, rather than any meaningful sense of reconciliation.

The snippet I'd like to call out for your attention, though, is one of Anderson's throwaway observations. While discussing Sri Lanka's primary ethnic division, between the majority Sinhalese and the minority Tamils, he briefly delves into the racial myth that has helped make the schism so deep:

Sinhalese nationalists trace their lineage to Aryan tribes of northern India, despite the lack of evidence to support the idea. Although intermarriage across language barriers was fairly common, especially among the upper castes, Sinhalese politicians by the early twentieth century had become infused with racialist theories on "Aryanism" then being promulgated in Europe. Anagarika Dharmapala, the leader of the Sinhalese Buddhist revival movement that began under British colonial rule, said, in a frequently quoted speech, "This bright, beautiful island was made into Paradise by the Aryan Sinhalese before its destruction was brought about by the barbaric vandals (i.e. the Tamils)."

In fact, as noted here, intermarriage has been commonplace in Sri Lanka since at least the time of Buddha. Though Tamils and Sinhalese may be separated by language, they are bound together by genetics in ways that ardent nationalists would prefer to ignore.

But as we hone the craft of divining heritage by peering at DNA, will such vile racial myths become harder to perpetuate?

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Rev. C.C. Jones to Mr. Charles C. Jones Jr.

Maybank Plantaion

Liberty County, Georgia

Monday Morning

May 22nd, 1854

I do not think, my dear son, that anyone wrote you last week. I did not, it having been a busy week. Mother is always busy, you know, and has had company. She is remarkably well, and was never so fleshy. I must give you a sketch of her daily life.

She rises about six in the morning, or now half-past five; takes her bath, reads and is ready for family worship about seven; then breakfasts with a moderate appetite and enjoys a cup of good tea. Breakfast concluded and the cups etc., and dinner ordered, Little Jack gathers up his "weapons," as he calls them--the flower trowel, the trimming saw, the nippers and bears and two garden hoes--and follows his mistress, with her sunbonnet on and her large India-rubber-cloth working gloves, into the flower vegetable gardens. In these places she spends sometimes near two planting, pruning, etc., 

Little Jack and frequently Beck and several other little fellows and Gilbert in the bargain all kept as busy as bees sweeping, another watering, another weeding, another planting and trimming, and another carrying off the limbs and trash. Then she dismisses the forces, and they go off in separate detachments to their respective duties about the house and premises, and she takes a walk of observation and superintendence about the kitchen yard and through the orchard and lawn, accompanied by many friends she may have with her and who may be disposed to take a walk of a quiet domestic nature.

About ten her outdoor exercise is over, and she comes in, sets aside her bonnet draws off off her gloves, and refreshes herself with a basin of cool water, after which she disposes of her seamstresses and looks that the house has been well put to right and in point and in perfect order--flowerpots dressed, etc. She now devotes herself to cutting out, planning, fitting, or sewing, giving attention to the clothing department and to the condition of the furniture of chambers, curtains, towels, linens, etc. The wants of the servants' wardrobe are inquired into, and all the thousand and one cares of the family attended to.

Meanwhile the yards have been swept, the walk sanded, and Patience has her culinary world all in neat order. The two milk-white cats have had their breakfast, and are lying in each other's paws in the shade on the green grass in the flower garden; and the young dog Rex, having enjoyed his repast, has stretched himself at full length in the sun, and ever and anon rolls over and wallows and kicks his feet into the air. The old turkey hen has spread her young ones like scouts around her, and is slowly picking along the green, and the gobbler is strutting with two or three idle dames in another direction. The fowls have scattered themselves everywhere in the lot, crowing and cackling and scratching; the sheep have finished their early browse, and are lying down beneath the great hickory tree; and overhead and all around is one general concert of birds.

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...I did stay at Holiday Inn last night. Just saying.

by Shani O. Hilton

Piers Morgan interviews Condoleezza Rice. Here's a snippet—though the whole thing is worth reading:

Dr. Rice, while you remain one of the most eligible women in Washington, how have you avoided being snared in the marital trap?" Morgan asked, unaware that Rice lives on the West Coast.

"Actually, I live in California now," Rice corrected. She said that the "nice Southern girl" in her always expected to get married, but "you don't get married in the abstract, you find someone you want to be married to." 

But the case wasn't closed for Morgan. 

"How close have you come?" he asked. 

"I've come close," she said. "How many times?" Morgan continued, to which Rice laughed and said, "I'm not going there."  

"I think it's a wonderful thing, marriage, who knows maybe sometime," Rice said graciously. Rice - reasonably - might have expected the inquisition to end there. 

"Do you dream of a fairytale wedding?" he asked. Rice smiled and said, "I think I'm well beyond the fairytale marriage stage." 

"You're quite a catch," chimed in Morgan. Rice politely thanked him and assured the host that she was, in fact, a romantic. 

"How would I woo you?" Morgan asked Rice. "Convince me you'll spend Sunday afternoons watching football," said Rice, a devoted fan of the sport. 

Bonus points for Rice's use of humor to deflect an awkward question. Too bad it was followed by another awkward question.

Meanwhile, Hillary Clinton gets grilled on Good Morning America about the current state of her adult daughter's womb:

Clinton, whose personal life has long been a part of her public life, was also asked if she's hoping for grandchildren now that daughter Chelsea is married.

"Well, you know, I will only get in trouble however I respond to that," she said. "But let me just say, I love babies, so you know, maybe I'll have more in my life some day."

Take a moment to consider this. We live in a world where it's okay to badger brilliant and accomplished human beings—who presumably have many, many fascinating things to talk about relating to their lives' works—about marriage and childbirth simply because they have female reproductive organs.

I'm not trying to be flippant about this, because really, it's depressing. And even more depressing is the fact that women have to be gracious while answering, because these questions assume that marriage and babies are ever-present, important issues on every woman's mind. Again, it's little wonder that women are making such small inroads in Congress.

by Neil Drumming

I'm thinking about coining a new phrase to describe a particular film sub-genre. (I used to be an entertainment journalist, so I can do that.) I shall call the sub-genre the Paul Giamatti Movie. Perhaps, dear reader, you can help me refine the parameters of this new, filmic classification.

I watched a particularly good Paul Giamatti Movie on Saturday as part of the Sundance Film Festival program. It was called Win Win and it will be released by Fox Searchlight Pictures, proud makers of such quirky hits as Little Miss Sunshine and Juno. (Not all films at Sundance come to the festival with distribution in place, but if it's a genuine Paul Giamatti Movie, odds are you will probably—eventually—get to see it at the arthouse theater in your vicinity or on Netflix, the new arthouse theater in your vicinity.)

And so, our first indicator of our emergent genre: A Paul Giamatti Movie is a good movie—unless, of course, you haven't actually seen it or don't have any desire to see it, in which case it is okay, for example, to describe the film thus: "I haven't seen Cold Souls, but I bet Paul Giamatti was excellent in it." Or: "Barney's Version is getting lots of Oscar buzz." "Yes. Have you seen it?" "Um, well, I don't think it's playing near me..."

Win Win stars Paul Giamatti, the second indication that it might fit under the category of a Paul Giamatti Movie—or Paul Giamatti Joint, if you prefer. I know this may seem astoundingly obvious, but not all films which feature Paul Giamatti should be considered PGMs. Case in point, Fred Claus is not a Paul Giamatti Movie. (Sorry, Vince Vaughn. That one's on you.) Neither is The Nanny Diaries. And the Howard Stern biopic Private Parts—despite the fact that it boasts one of the actor's breakout performances—is as much a Paul Giamatti Movie as Twister is a Philip Seymour Hoffman Movie. (Interestingly, there is an argument to be made that some films starring Hoffman are actually Paul Giamatti Movies.)

In Win Win, Giamatti plays a gruff-but-lovable, financially-strapped lawyer-slash-wrestling coach who, in an attempt to continue providing for his family, becomes guardian to an aging client suffering from dementia. He does this, not out of love for the doddering, old man, but in order to collect a monthly stipend from the courts and supplement his flailing income. This is key: PGMs almost always feature a protagonist who commits acts so reprehensible that, were these acts to be committed by someone less gruff-but-lovable, say, Ewan McGregor, or Christian Bale, or your next-door neighbor, you'd want to scold him, sue him, or kick him in the balls. Think back to Giamatti stealing money from his own mother in Sideways. That bastard! That poor bastard! See? Somehow you feel sorry for him.

Whether he be sad sack, underdog, or everyman, both the greatest signifier and strength of the Paul Giamatti Movie has got to be the flawed, sympathetic hero. He doesn't want to take over the world. He just wants his due. And even though he often goes about it the wrong way, it's easy to root for that guy because, well, so do we.

I'm still looking into whether there is some universally recognized almanac of film genres. But if there is, chances are I'm going to need to back up my submission with further examples of PGMs. Obviously, American Splendor, The Hawk is Dying, and Lady in the Water. I'm back and forth on Shoot 'Em Up. And Greg Kinnear's got a few under his belt... Suggestions are welcome.