If you’ve been able to pry your eyes away from the Senate’s unconstitutional witchhunt, you’ve probably heard that there’s some new coronavirus going around and we’re all supposed to be terrified about it.
But while the corporate media is busy whipping us all up into a frenzy, there are so many questions I still can’t find answers to. Like, what are the symptoms of this supposed virus? Do they include sudden and dramatic weight loss? How long would something like that even take? Would it happen in time for a wedding later this month?
I think it goes without saying, the lamestream media is more interested in clicks and ratings than in giving us the real information. And I’m not alleging any sort of cover-up, but the CDC so far won’t comment on even my most basic requests for information. Simple questions like “if the symptoms do include massive weight loss, how would one go about contracting this virus?” are going unanswered each day.
It’s time for the people to know the truth. We’re sick of the lies, distractions, and false narratives. Someone needs to tell me if this virus will make me skinny, and they need to tell me now.
Wherein we rate people’s vibes. Here’s this week’s vibe check:
Meghan Markle: her vibes are… SPRING BREAAAAKKK!! 🎉 Meg’s here for a good time not a long time, and she’s not about to spend her prime years with some musty old royals. DGAF YOLO, party in the hills tn!!
Megan Thee Stallion: her vibes are… STUDIOUS. 🤓 If your favorite rapper isn’t majoring in healthcare administration at Texas Southern University, then I hate to tell you but that’s not your favorite rapper. That’s just a townie you ran into outside an Amoco L.
Carlos Beltran: his vibes are… GUILTY. ⚖️ I’m not entirely sure what he did, although I understand it involved buzzing a garbage can to take photos of fingers. And I’m not entirely sure what the punishment should be, though I understand Texas is extremely pro-death penalty. But I do know that the Senate must commit to a fair trial and then find him extremely guilty.
Carlos Ghosn: his vibes are… INNOCENT. 😇 One of the coolest things about law is that if you escape to Lebanon (?) in an audio equipment box (??) aboard a private jet (!!!) from an airport that doesn’t send big boxes through security cause they’re too big (?!?!), you’re legally cleared of all charges. Kudus to Carlos for taking advantage!
We swore we just wanted one before we died. We didn’t set preconditions or enter into negotiations. That’s not really how deals with the devil work. We just wanted a World Series title for our beloved North Siders before we passed on — and honestly, if it came a year or two after we croaked that was fine too. For that single trophy, no cost was too high.
And then we got it. Ohhhh boy did we get it. 10 innings of it. Five million people in the streets for it. The miracles and rain delays and David Ross of it. It was all we’d ever dreamed of.
But from the very get-go, we knew what we’d given up. I remember saying the night of Game 7 that in hindsight, I was actually glad that Aroldis Chapman had given up the lead in the eighth inning because it meant that he – fresh off a suspension for domestic violence and seemingly unrepentant – wasn’t on the mound the moment we clinched. He wasn’t in the photos and wouldn’t be remembered as our savior. He could be relegated to the role of a rent-an-arm who had sort of panned out and could now be shipped back to the Bronx.
Fast forward four seasons and things are… blurrier. When the Ricketts family delivered a World Series championship, the love they felt from the city was as overpowering as it was genuine. Perhaps no owners in American sports built up such a vast amount of goodwill in such a short amount of time. And they immediately started spending it.
2018: Ricketts brother Todd takes over the role of RNC Finance Chair from disgraced casino magnate Steve Wynn (not to be confused with disgraced former RNC Deputy Finance Chair Michael Cohen, who is in prison).
2019: Ricketts family patriarch Joe’s years of delusional, racist, Islamophobic, brain mush emails are leaked.
2019: Ricketts brother Pete is exposed as having employed a white nationalist activist while governor of Nebraska.
Now, as the 2020 season approaches, the relationship between ownership and fans has deteriorated even further. Tom Ricketts was booed heartily at the Cubs Convention when he mentioned the yet-to-be-launched Marquee Sports Network, and he seemed genuinely confused by the reaction. Never mind that with less than a month until pitchers and catchers report, 60% of Cubs fans still have no way to watch games. Or that the lucky few who are permitted to watch games will be forced to tune in to a channel owned by the people who did this. What’s not to love? Why are all you booing the nice billionaire?? Where has all the goodwill gone???
The honest answer is that it was spent much faster than anyone could have anticipated. And while the on-field results have been disappointing (at least by the newly high standards of the fans), the reality is that it had little to do with baseball.
The Ricketts have, intentionally or not, carried out a real-time sociological experiment on the importance of local sports teams relative to other issues. Could a trophy paper over the racism and bigotry of those who delivered it? What was more likely to drive action: a desire to see the team in person, or a fear of indirectly funding the president’s reelection campaign? And just how far can you push a group of people, once you’ve given them everything they wanted?
The loser in all of this is, as it always is, the fan. Just three years removed from the highest of highs, Cubs fans are now grappling with questions as basic as whether their team’s professional baseball games will be televised to ones as profound as when to walk away from something you love.
It is, of course, not fair of ownership to do this to the fans. But then, there has rarely been anything fair about being a Cubs fan. So as we enter the twilight of this team’s championship window, Cubs fans are left to grapple with a question that seemed inconceivable just a few years ago: was it worth it?
This is an all-time favorite Corleone Family recipe, one that we’ve held dear to us ever since I first came over to America from Sicily. Ah, who can ever forget that trip across the Atlantic. So many faces, so many voices, all looking for a new beginning and prosperity in the new world. We were leaving our homeland in pursuit of the American Dream, a dream as rich and complex as my sautéed eggplant.
When I make this recipe, it conjures up so many images. But my favorite is of my family gathered around a dinner table. Sonny, young and rambunctious, playfully boxing the air with his fists. Fredo, not far removed from the naked baby that was wailing on my dinner table, trying to make his way in the world. Connie, and whatever good-for-nothing dragged himself to dinner with her. Tom, who I always thought of as a son—maybe more so than I did with Fredo at times, if I’m being honest. Looking back, it seems as if the seeds of what would come to pass with our family were encapsulated on that day. Vengeance may not bring Sonny back to me, but the ricotta salata sure comes close.
Senator Pat Geary stands for Italian Americans. Show your support by donating HERE!!
Now, every time I bite into a dried chili in this dish, I’m taken back to that table, or maybe even before that (it’s funny how time can fold in on itself, flashing back from the present to the past and back again). Just one bite of acidic tomato cascading over the pasta and I’m on Mulberry Street, listening to Vito, Tessio, and Clemenza plot Don Fanucci’s murder. How piquant, like sprinkling of fresh basil over a warm bowl of pasta.
Personally, I like to spice up this dish with orange zest. Oh how the men in my family love their oranges. Some say they represent mortal danger, but to me, I like to think of my husband’s face as he wandered through the markets in Little Italy, narrowly surviving an assassination attempt, or playing with his grandchild in the shade of his garden, always with an orange close at hand. And I must say, my son does his best revenge-murder work while chewing on an orange.
Maybe it’s the tomatoes, as plump and troublingly ripe as Apollonia Vitelli, that bring me back to my little home town of Fiumefreddo di Sicilia and the sea at Catania. Some people say that, as we became increasingly Americanized and my family embraced all that Nevada represents, we gradually lost our connection to our Italian culture and values. But this oregano-fueled course says otherwise.
This recipe is great for large events, like weddings and first communions! Another special ingredient for me is my husband’s Genco Pura Olive Oil. To this day, I’m so proud of how he built such a thriving small business in the cutthroat world of the import/export industry. And I just loved going back to Sicily and enjoying quality family time there as we took in the sights and supported Vito as he avenged the deaths of his father, brother, and mother in one sharp, shockingly extensive swipe of a knife.
For the adventurous, consider adding some guanciale into the mix—just like my good friend Luca Brasi, it adds a fatty and flavorful element to the mix. Or, in honor of Frankie Pentageli (may he rest in peace), you can splash the whole mixture with a dash of fine red wine.
So, here’s the recipe:
Ingredients 1 ½ pounds eggplant Genco Pura Olive Oil as needed (at least 1/2 cup) Salt and pepper 1 tablespoon chopped garlic (use a shaving razor to finely chop) 3 or 4 dried chiles 1 ½ pounds tomatoes, chopped 1 teaspoon good dried oregano, or 1 tablespoon fresh 1 pound long pasta ½ cup chopped parsley or basil ½ cup grated ricotta salata (or in a pinch, pecorino Romano) 1 orange (for zesting)
Preparation
Step 1 Slice the eggplant about 1/2 inch thick. Cook in abundant olive oil, without crowding, sprinkling with salt and adding more oil as needed. Cook until the eggplant is nicely browned and soft. I know when it’s done after I’ve repeated the names of my enemies five times: Sollozzo, Tattaglia, Barzini, Roth, etc. Remove to a plate; do not drain on paper towels. Meanwhile, put a large pot of water to boil and salt it.
Step 2 After cooking the eggplant, the pan will ideally have a couple of tablespoons of oil left. If there’s more or less, drain some off or add a bit—your husband should be able to give you a seemingly endless supply. Turn the heat to medium, add the garlic and chiles, and cook until the garlic colors a bit. Add the tomatoes and oregano, along with some salt and pepper (shout “Carmela Corleone says hello” while you do it); cook until saucy but not too dry, stirring occasionally.
Step 3 Cook the pasta until tender but not mushy. While it’s cooking, cut the eggplant into strips and reheat for a minute in the tomato sauce. Drain the pasta and, bada bing, toss it with the tomato sauce and the eggplant. Taste and adjust the seasoning, then top with the parsley and/or basil, orange zest, and grated cheese, and serve.
Okay, so it’s not a flag as much as it’s just a coat of arms, but get a load of this shit.
To start, for all the talk about Late Capitalism and our society’s deleterious boner for consuming shit, this 18th century British trading company had its own escutcheon. Was this the first time in history that a corporation tried to hoodwink its employees into thinking it was a “family”?
Then we have our Fish Kings. It’s hard to overstate how many questions I have about these guys. Are they both kings, or is one of them a queen with an identical crown? Do they rule together, and if so, do they both have to agree on all decisions? Or do they alternate making the decisions, like at the Battle of Cannae? And why…why are we the subjects of some goddamn fish?
But the most outstanding part of this is surely the world map, in which Florida is the size of Western Europe and South America is the size of Montana. This is an amorphous affront to God. I know they didn’t have satellite mapping technology in the 1700s, but Christ, dude. Did someone’s kid draw this? Did someone’s idiot fucking kid draw this?
The New York Times once said that every generation gets the beach villain it deserves; no one knows what this means and I already used my four free articles to read about koalas so I won’t be finding out any time soon. But what if that’s absolute horse shit? What if the reality is that every generation actually gets the content it deserves?
To that end, I thought we should check in on the Zoomers to see how they’re doing… And folks, the kidsarenotalright.
It would be easy to extrapolate too much from a few posts, but everything from the data to the teens’ reaction to war with Iran paints the same bleak picture of a jaded Gen Z coming of age with a mix of hopelessness and righteous indignation.
And honestly, who can blame them? For as long as most Zoomers have been alive we’ve been at war overseas and ignoring the climate crisis at home. Think about the toll that never having known peacetime takes on a generation’s psyche, then compound that with a lifetime’s worth of existential dread over the looming environmental catastrophe
Then add in the fact that for the majority of Gen Z’s life we’ve lived in the shadow of the Great Recession, an omnipresent reminder of just how tentative the entire economic world order is. As they now reach college age, Zoomers are quickly discovering that the costs to enter that cherished world order are even steeper than imagined—and growing quickly.
So yeah, they get to be pissed. Shit’s fucked, etc. But their anger isn’t directed at the government specifically like the Boomer rage of the ‘60s, or at individual industries like the Millenial anger post-Recession. From Greta Thunberg’s famous “how dare you” to the rising support for dismantling capitalism as an entity to “ok boomer” as a whole, the Zoomers are targeting their ire at pretty much everyone who failed to stop the multiple unfolding catastrophes that have defined their worldview.
Including you. Actually, mainly you.
No, according to our cutting-edge MailChimp analytics, you’re probably not a Boomer. But don’t think your age will protect you from their wrath. Because while you probably think that Millenials and Gen Z are on the same page, the relationship is probably something closer to this. And once Gen Z realizes that Millenials not only failed to fix everything, but barely even tried, they’re going to come for us.
It seems that the Democrats can’t unite behind one candidate. Bernie’s too old, Biden’s too creepy, Warren’s too lefty, Mayor Pete’s married to an aspiring Instagram influencer, Klobuchar’s too angry, Michael Bennet’s apparently still in the race. But for some reason, nobody is talking about the perfect candidate, one that encompasses all the most salient liberal values: my labrador retriever, Gator.
Let’s start by addressing the elephant in the corner: yes, Gator is a male. I know. I want to see America’s first female president in my lifetime, too, and I will gladly support any woman with the Democratic nomination who isn’t named Tulsi Gabbard. But this election is more important than any in post–Civil War American history, and we need a candidate who will win and bring the liberal agenda to the executive branch, and then bring the branch back to me. Gator is that candidate.
Gator would be a spectacular steward of Democratic policies. As a survivor of a harrowing wave of government-subsidized canine genital mutilation that struck suburban Colorado in the 1990s, he is adamantly pro-choice. He believes in decreasing unemployment rates, as long as every household has at least one person at home at all times. He pledges to increase funding to municipal services and has a plan to have a fire hydrant on every street corner by 2022. And he’s great on foreign policy, too; just last week, he said in an interview with Michael Barbaro that the assassination of Qasem Soleimani will almost certainly result in a cyberattack reprisal, proliferation of Iranian nuclear programs, and a general destabilization of the Middle East.
As important as his policies are, he also needs to be reliable during the general election, because nobody knows what sorts of curveballs will come careening at him from the right. That’s perhaps the most compelling argument in favor of Gator: he is absolutely gaffe-proof, because we put him down ten years ago this April.
I already know the next word to come out of your mouth: “Electability.” I appreciate the strategic mindset, but, to be frank, the mere discussion of electability here is a little offensive. Do you really think America isn’t ready for a president that is overweight, a dog, and a decade into the afterlife? Look, we simply cannot decide the Democratic candidate based off our impressions of what center-left and center-right voters want! It’s time to take control of the liberal movement and elect a candidate who really embodies this nation, and also the dwindling vestiges of my childhood.
I mean, he’s a yellow lab. How much more American can you get? He is the dead dog equivalent of a prosperous small business owner whose parents came over from Eastern Europe with only the clothes on their backs. But even more agreeable to Americans. Think a prosperous small business owner whose parents emigrated from Northern Europe.
I’m not going to argue that Gator is perfect. He was dumb as a box of hammers, and he really lost control of his bowels in his sunset years. But think about all the upsides! He has no opposable thumbs, so he can’t tweet. He doesn’t even know what a quid pro quo is. He could get a White House dog and look after him as his own dog.
Democrats, the choice is clear. Vote Gator for President in 2020. And for VP, honestly I think Steve Bullock.
It’s been thirty years since the end of the Cold War. How does the post–Cold War world order’s own emotional journey of its childhood and adulthood compare with our own:
1989–1994/96: First 5–7 years great, everything is happy.
1997–1999: At some point between 8 and 10, we lose our innocence for the first time—walking in on parents/realizing you sort of allowed ethnic cleansing to happen in southeastern Europe.
2000–2003: Early teenage years—a lot of questions, awkwardness and growth.
If a traumatic event happens during that time period, you might never fully recover from it (parents divorcing, 9/11)
2003–2007: Mid-late teenage years—you start to develop really strong political opinions without realizing that they’re bad political opinions.
Patriot Act, The Surge, etc.
Reading the Communist Manifesto for the first time
2008–2011: College/Recession—Your financial circumstances worsen significantly due to a predatory economic system. You possibly contract an STD/swine flu.
2011: You graduate college and have a short-lived spurt of hope and optimism/Arab Spring.
2012–2016: Your optimism comes crashing back to earth as you learn to navigate the real world a little bit. Get a job, maybe move to a new city. Save up a little cash. You think you’re starting to figure things out.
2016–2019: Quarter-life crisis. Brexit, Trump, etc. You’re not sure you’re doing anything right, so perhaps you just say “fuck it” and make drastic, systemic changes. You scuttle things that were once really important to you (election integrity). For a brief moment, you reflect on the way you’ve treated women in your past. And suddenly you’re really into foreign films?
2020: You feel a big milestone coming up, so you try to find some minute accomplishment you can achieve so you feel like you’ve done something by 30. You don’t even succeed in doing that.
Left on Read 