March 28, 2017 Our Correspondents Zonies, Part 7: Zonies By Mike Powell This is Mike Powell’s final column about living in Arizona. Read the rest of “Zonies” here. Josef Hoflehner, Cactus, Phoenix, Arizona, 2013. Courtesy the artist and Jackson Fine Art, Atlanta. In July 1986, a DJ in San Diego named Randy Miller debuted a novelty song he had written called “Zoners.” The song, sung to the tune of “Rumors,” by the Timex Social Club, documented the peculiar habits of one of San Diego’s least-loved populations: tourists from Arizona. “Look at all these Zoners / surround me every day / They come up here from Phoenix and sometimes they want to stay,” Miller sings. “Look at all these Zoners / I can’t take it no more / They’re on the beach, two towels each / Stealing sand from shore.” The connection is well established. About 10 percent of San Diego’s tourism comes from Arizona; the longtime Arizona senator John McCain has joked that visiting San Diego gives him a great opportunity to connect with Arizona voters. And yet the Zonie—or the Zoner, or the Zona—is, to both the Arizonan and the San Diegan, strictly second class. Like a secret girlfriend into whose window one shamefully crawls under anonymous night, Arizona is necessary to the San Diegan’s machinery but expendable to its identity. Want plays no part—they need us. Read More
March 20, 2017 Our Correspondents Second First Date By Jane Stern I had my first date when I was fourteen: a boy named Bobby Dublin asked me to go to a movie. My second first date was last year, and though I’ve had almost half a century to work on my romance skills, the second was possibly worst than the first. At least the first one came with popcorn and a Nestlé Crunch bar. Between these two landmark occasions, I was married for forty years. I met my ex-husband at grad school in the late sixties, and people then didn’t date; they “hung out.” We “hung out” for two years before we got married, at which time I assumed I’d never be called upon to do this again. Read More
March 16, 2017 Our Correspondents Origin Story By Elena Passarello This is Elena Passarello’s final column about famous animals from history, featuring Little John, a coyote who made seventies art-world history. Design by Kristen Radtke. This was a typical performance by Joseph Beuys—mysterious, incomprehensible, in many ways absurd, yet strangely memorable. —London Telegraph I wanted to isolate myself, insulate myself, see nothing of America other than the coyote. —Joseph Beuys His back was never turned to the people watching from behind the barrier. Maybe he sensed that more danger would come from them than from the man in there with him, or maybe it was simply because he was a splendid showman. —Caroline Tisdall Name: Little John Species: Canis latrans var Years Active: 1974 Distinguishing Features: well-tended sable coat, toothy grin Skills: fetching leather gloves, urinating on newspapers of record, transforming humans into their mythic selves Habitat: 409 West Broadway, New York, NY 10012 Additional Notes: When Joseph Beuys was a teenage pilot stationed in Crimea, his plane was shot down, his copilot incinerated on impact. A band of nomadic Tartars dressed in coarse fur found the injured Beuys on the steppe; they salved his wounds with animal fat and swaddled him in felt. Then they dragged Beuys to their tents, where they healed him. The transforming powers of these natural substances—fur, flesh, and felt—made Beuys an artist. Or that’s the story Beuys told, at least. German military records show Beuys served as a radio operator, and though he was aboard a plane that crashed in 1941, it went down, not in the hinterlands, but on a Crimean airstrip, where a colleague pulled him from the wreckage. Read More
March 15, 2017 Our Correspondents Five Public Cases on Intelligence By Anthony Madrid Occasionally, our correspondent Anthony Madrid composes a set of quasi-koans; these are his latest. (Read his previous “public cases” here and here.) Public Case 1: Anxieties Our teacher said: “Anxieties about one’s intelligence are never anxieties about one’s intelligence. What’s actually at issue is whether we inspire envy in others (very acceptable), or whether we are ourselves obliged to feel envy (unacceptable). Those are the actual stakes. No one frets about whether her brain is adequate to the tasks of her life.” Comment. An old trick. Teacher boldly admits he is mean and vain; therefore he may call you mean and vain. But how much does he really want to enlighten his students, if his method for combating vanity is to humiliate it? He says, in effect: “You are conning yourself. You pretend to worry about how smart you are, so you may seem—to yourself—to be honest and humble. You know for a fact people think you’re smart, but that’s not good enough; you want ’em to suffer … ” Upshot: everyone walks away having exempted themselves from the criticism, and firmly identifying with the authority figure. In short, meaner and vainer than ever. Read More
March 13, 2017 Our Correspondents Daylight Saving Hell By Jane Stern I shouldn’t be obsessed with daylight saving time, but I am. Like a pregnancy due date, a college graduation, or an income-tax payment, I have DST circled in red on my calendar and amplified with exclamation marks. A few years ago, it meant nothing to me. I work at home—I can sleep or rise anytime I want, and I don’t get melancholy when the days get shorter. But here’s what I’ve come to anticipate with dread: changing the time on the clock in my car. It’s nothing fancy: a 2015 Subaru Forester that I bought used. Although I don’t consider myself a dimwit, I absolutely cannot figure out how to set the clock. Twice a year, when the time changes, I find myself sitting in the car reading the Forester manual or at my desk watching YouTube videos on this subject and still, setting the clock is unfathomable. Read More
March 9, 2017 Our Correspondents Dog’s Dinner By Jane Stern John Charles Dollman, Table d’Hote at a Dogs’ Home, 1879. I eat dinner around six, and so do my dogs. I’d prefer to eat a bit later, but Cecil, my French bulldog, and Ivy, my shelter mutt, have invisible dinner bells installed in their brains, and at six the pacing and meaningful glances start. When I was married, I made multicourse dinners and ate at the table. Alone, I make what’s easy, and I often eat in front of the TV. I’ve noticed that Cecil and Ivy seem much more excited about dinner than I do. I began to see why when, a few weeks ago, I jotted down what they ate and what I ate: Friday Me: frozen Stouffer’s Welsh rarebit on toast Dogs: Cesar Chicken and Cheddar Cheese Soufflé Saturday Me: two slices of leftover pepperoni pizza Dogs: Chef’s Choice Bistro Home-style Meatballs and Pasta with Real Beef in Tomato Sauce Sunday Me: a hamburger and a baked potato Dogs: Blue Wilderness Northwest Skillet with Salmon and Vegetables Monday Me: An apple and some Brie with crackers Dogs: Holistic Brand Grilled New York Strip Steak with Redskin Potatoes and Summer Vegetables in Sauce Read More