Dan Piepenbring, The Book of Prince, The New Yorker (2019-09-09). He paused for a moment. "We need to find a word for what funk is,"" he said. Funk music, which fused impulse to structure, was the living contradiction he embodied: his mother and his father in one.
Grayson Haver Currin, Bob Dylan: Time Out of Mind, Pitchfork (2018-05-13). During the '90s, he issued two solo acoustic albums of earnest, sometimes poignant renditions of American standards, delighting those who had pined for the lost days of the folk kid from Greenwich Village. But coffeehouse covers hadn't made Dylan a spark of resistance in the '60s or a source of bittersweet reckonings with reality in the '70s. He had become a legacy act, accruing lifetime achievement laurels and touring his hits for Boomers in khakis. Possibly for the first time in his career, Dylan was beginning to blend into the scenery.
Charles Duhigg, What Google Learned From Its Quest to Build the Perfect Team, The New York Times (2016-02-28). (notes) Project Aristotle is a reminder that when companies try to optimize everything, it's sometimes easy to forget that success is often built on experiences — like emotional interactions and complicated conversations and discussions of who we want to be and how our teammates make us feel — that can't really be optimized.
Andrew Gill, How to get started in homebrewing, from the pros who mastered it, The Takeout (2019-06-25). However your beer comes out, Randy Mosher says you'll be a practitioner in a most intimate form of art.
"You're making something that other people are putting in their bodies and the sensations of aroma and taste and flavor go into some of the more emotional and primitive parts of our brains. So you have this ability to really reach out and affect people in really deep ways with flavor. For me, that's the magic of beer: being able to kind of get inside there and mess with people's heads a bit."
Flying is de rigeur now. Has been. I don't notice so much the outside of the plane--the environment through and over which we're hurtling. No more counting grain elevators until they're flat with the perspective. No more noticing the creeks and rovers like fire as they briefly reflect the sun. No more naming the features down below. Looking out the window, when it happens, is just to watch the flight surfaces trim slowly back and forth. (Until it's speed brake time.)
It's all still there if you want it. The magic or wonder of those first (many) flights isn't really replaced by anything. Flying is now just the simple subtraction of distance. Step in a tube on one side in St. Louis, step out the other side in Shanghai--an ellipsis in between. It's still about sitting back back, maybe a little more relaxing, but a little less enjoying the flight.
Away, as at home, I have a default greeting: howzitgoin.
Away, as at home, the mental wheels slip a little when the default doesn't match with the situation in reality.
Here in Italy, buon giorno—"good day"—works for just about every hello from good morning until some fuzzy part of the late afternoon. So I get in the habit of buon giorno-ing everyone. Buon giorno. Buon giorno. Ciao. Arrivederci. &c.
In the evening it's a little different: buona sera—"good evening". It's not difficult to hear or say. But in that moment when the taxi driver or the waitress says buona sera there is a little bit of scrambling internally to hear something different than buon giorno and say something different than buon giorno in return. I have been in Italy for eight days of my entire life, so the rut isn't that deep, but the rut is comfortable and easy and takes some energy to leave nonetheless.