Who Are All These Trump Supporters?If you are, as I am, a sentimental middle-aged person who cherishes certain Coplandian notions about the essential goodness of the nation, seeing this kind of thing in person—adults shouting wrathfully at one another with no intention of persuasion, invested only in escalating spite—will inject a palpable sadness into your thinning, under-exercised legs, and you may find yourself collapsing, post-rally, against a tree in a public park, feeling hopeless. Craving something positive (no more fighting, no more invective, please, please), forcing yourself to your feet, you may cross a busy avenue and find, in a mini-mall themed like Old Mexico, a wedding about to begin. Up will walk the bridesmaids, each leading, surprisingly, a dog on a leash, and each dog is wearing a tutu, and one, a puppy too small to be trusted in a procession, is being carried, in its tutu, in the arms of its bridesmaid.
New York Times closes editing and press operations in Paris, cuts up to 70 jobsthe proposal we announced today would result in the closing of the editing and pre-press print production operation in Paris, with those responsibilities moving to Hong Kong and New York. France remains a vital market for us and we will maintain a robust news bureau in Paris as well as a core international advertising office there.
The TVification of the InternetThe web was not envisioned as a form of television when it was invented. But, like it or not, it is rapidly resembling TV: linear, passive, programmed and inward-looking.
Real New Yorkers Can Say Goodbye to All That - Bloomberg ViewThe New York of my heart was the Upper West Side of the 1970s and 1980s. If you've seen Annie Hall, you know what it looked like. It was not a glamorous place, nor particularly bohemian; it was Jewish and Puerto Rican and black and Irish and Italian, living side by side in the faded grandeur of buildings erected before the Depression and barely maintained in the years since. The cheap "ethnic" food was good, the "good" food as terrible as in any midsize Midwestern city. There were lots of working musicians and actors who survived by rent control and luck, and it seemed as if every other parent you met had gone to Communist summer camp.
The actual experience of living here is one of finding your place, followed by an intense feeling of ownership. You can stay at that point for years. But eventually, sometimes without knowing it, you begin the slow slide toward a moment of decisiveness. Sometime after that, there’s the actual leaving. And then, the having left. Living in New York turns out to be a process of earning nostalgia — hoarding enough memories to give you the kind of claim on a place that makes it possible to leave it. When you reach your limit and set out elsewhere, memories are your consolation prize. (Bonus points for writing about them.)