The Journalist and the Spies
I met Saleem Shahzad nine days before he disappeared, and he seemed to know that his time was running out. It was May 20th, and Islamabad was full of conspiracy theories about the Abbottabad raid: bin Laden was still alive; Kiyani and Pasha had secretly helped the Americans with the raid. Mostly, the public radiated anger and shame. … “Look, I’m in danger,” he said. “I’ve got to get out of Pakistan.” He added that he had a wife and three kids, and they weren’t safe, either. He’d been to London recently, and someone there had promised to help him move to England.
Fixed Opinions, or The Hinge of History
Seven days after September 11, 2001, I left New York to do two weeks of book promotion, under other circumstances a predictable kind of trip. You fly into one city or another, you do half an hour on local NPR, you do a few minutes on drive-time radio, you do an “event,” a talk or a reading or an onstage discussion. You sign books, you take questions from the audience. You go back to the hotel, order a club sandwich from room service, and leave a 5 AM call with the desk, so that in the morning you can go back to the airport and fly to the next city. During the week between September 11 and the Wednesday morning when I went to Kennedy to get on the plane, none of these commonplace aspects of publishing a book seemed promising or even appropriate things to be doing. But—like most of us who were in New York that week—I was in a kind of protective coma, sleepwalking through a schedule made when planning had still seemed possible. #Sept11
Surviving the Fall
Ten years later, Tom Junod revisits “The Falling Man.” “Now Jonathan is buried in Mt. Kisco, next to his mother, who died in 2009. But Gwendolyn doesn’t visit him there, because he is not there, any more than he is there in Richard Drew’s photograph. ‘I believe in the trinity of the human being — mind, body and spirit. And I know that after the death of the body, he’s not there. He’s in God’s hands.’ In the same way, he’s not in the photograph of the Falling Man. ‘People have to get over wondering who this man was,’ she says. ‘He’s everybody. We’re so stuck on who he was that we can’t see what’s right there in front of us. The photo’s so much bigger than any man, because the man in the photo is clearly in God’s hands. And it’s God who gives us the grace to go on.’ ” #Sept11
Wounded in Iraq: A Marine’s Story
I am positive that every other wounded warrior’s caregiver has had to make personal sacrifices to take care of those who need them most. The situation of an Army Specialist (E-4), who lost a leg in Afghanistan, serves as a good example. His recovery at Walter Reed was expected to take 18 months, so his young wife moved from Idaho with their baby. That meant forfeiting her job, her health care, and any in-person contact with family. The wife and baby lived in a small room with the bare necessities for six months until the Specialist was no longer an in-patient. The three of them moved to a (somewhat) bigger facility for 18 months while he was an out-patient. After feeling out of control and disrespected by the staff many times over, she could not take her family home soon enough. As another caregiver put it to me, she was her husband’s chauffeur, cook, case manager, therapist, personal shopper, nurse, legal aide, job coach — and on really good days, his wife.
Getting Here From There
But there has been a chasm between expectations and reality. The prophecy of more attacks on the United States has not been the case, not yet at least. Bumbling attempts got close — involving underwear and a shoe and a 1993 Nissan Pathfinder — but the actuality has been that terrorist acts on American soil in the succeeding years have been, as always, largely homegrown. So many things were expected to be different that have not been. Time passes, and passes some more. Exigencies of living hammer away impatiently. People — most of them, at least — began to become themselves. New York, which by its nature accommodates so much, was willing to absorb 9/11 and keep moving. #Sept11
Crash Kills 4 Teens, but There Are Other Casualties
James Patterson rolled over his father’s Chevrolet Suburban during a desert road trip with friends. Four of his friends were killed in the crash, and police determined he was drunk. Then-Times staff writer J.R. Moehringer spent nearly a year looking at how the 1995 crash altered so many lives. “He dreams that they are driving again, all eight boys cruising along the unpaved back roads of his mind. He begs them to pull over and let him out, he should get home, but they tell him to shut up and relax, everything will be fine. Reluctant, he sits back and lets himself be chauffeured across the stark landscape of his subconscious, past low-flying clouds of blame and guilt. He lets himself be ferried through the long night, until morning comes and the alarm goes off. Time to go to school. Time to face what happened.”
The Evolution of Ape-Face Johnson
Three things informed me about my physical appearance when I was a little girl. First, my mother used to grab my ponytail and, observing how thick it was, say,”Thees ee’ wha’ they call een Ecuador ‘reech girl hair.’ Because ees nice an’ theek.” The second thing was when a creepy neighbor, looking at my five-year-old legs admiringly, informed my father that with those long legs I’d “grow up to be a tall beauty one day.” And last, when I was in the first grade, a little girl named Yoriko and her friend, another Japanese girl, came up to me in the cafeteria blushing and giggling, and said, “You have … big … NOSE!” Whereupon she and her friend covered their mouths, giggled, and ran away.
Noel Gallagher After Oasis
I want to hear about Be Here Now. “At the time, I was taking a lot of fucking drugs, so I didn’t give a fuck,” Gallagher says. “We were taking all the cocaine we could possibly find. But it wasn’t like a seedy situation. We were at work. We weren’t passed out on the floor with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. We were partying while we were working. And when that record was finished, I took it back to my house and listened to it when there wasn’t a party happening and I wasn’t out of my mind on cocaine. And my reaction was: ‘This is fucking long.’ I didn’t realize how long it was. It’s a long fucking record. And then I looked at the artwork, and it had all the song titles with all the times for each track, and none of them seemed to be under six minutes. So then I was like, ‘Fucking hell. What’s going on there?'”
Live Television Is ‘a High-Wire Act with No Safety Net’
In the course of a few hapless days, Deley repeatedly stumbled over the names of star athletes (“the Honourable Leo Usain Bolt”) and his trackside commentators. He called Oscar Pistorius, the South African double-amputee “the fastest man on no legs.” He invented events (“the men’s 100-metre hurdles”), forgot commercial breaks, missed links, paused for long moments to consult his script, corrected himself endlessly, asked his studio guest – the four-times Olympic gold medal-winning sprinter, Michael Johnson – whether he was a pole vaulter, and concluded one broadcast with the memorable sign-off: “So we have a gloriously sunny day here in the studio. We’ve seen some action this morning as well. Jessica Ennis. Good night.”
One Path to Better Jobs: More Density in Cities
When it comes to economic growth and the creation of jobs, the denser the city the better. How great are the benefits of density? Economists studying cities routinely find that after controlling for other variables, workers in denser places earn higher wages and are more productive. Some studies suggest that doubling density raises productivity by around 6 percent while others peg the impact at up to 28 percent. Some economists have concluded that more than half the variation in output per worker across the United States can be explained by density alone; density explains more of the productivity gap across states than education levels or industry concentrations or tax policies.
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