Spectator Life

At the very end of Long Island you’ll find Montauk, the end of the line on the Long Island Rail Road; the train station might be familiar if you’re a fan of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. In recent years, Montauk’s popularity has boomed, becoming an extension of the Hamptons in the summer. But in the off-season, it remains a secluded and mysterious town. I have come here every year for the last five years — Montauk is famed for its incredible striped bass and largely untouched natural beauty.

Diversity, Equity and Inclusion bureaucracies and programs have become ubiquitous in the corporate and educational sectors. More than half of American employees have DEI meetings or training events at work, at a cost of an estimated $8 billion annually. These initiatives are championed as tools to reduce bias and discrimination, build inclusive and empathetic environments — and redress systemic racism,  Yet the effectiveness of such trainings has rarely been rigorously and systematically evaluated. When studies have been undertaken, not only are results mixed at best, the prevailing focus has been on potential benefits, with notable exceptions: some programs have been found to reduce organizational diversity and others to produce resentment.

Almost two decades after claiming she was raped at a party thrown by members of the Duke University lacrosse team, former stripper Crystal Mangum admitted Thursday that she lied. It is curious that she finally decided to state the obvious after years of standing by her rape accusation. Mangum, who is currently serving time in prison for the second-degree murder of her boyfriend in 2013, gave an interview that suggested her moment of truth might be tied to a conversion to Christianity. “They trusted me that I wouldn’t betray their trust, and I testified falsely against them by saying that they raped me when they didn’t, and that was wrong,” Mangum said. “I made up a story that wasn’t true because I wanted validation from people and not from God.

Luigi Mangione is officially the “suspect” in the murder of UnitedHealthcare CEO Brian Thompson, but he is plainly the culprit, and public discussion has moved on to his motives. Why would a young man possessed of intellectual gifts, friends, family, good looks, a winning personality and, apparently, lots of money, gun down a man he had never met? This isn’t the kind of question my organization, the National Association of Scholars, normally takes up. We concern ourselves more with academic standards and questions of state and federal policy. But I’ve been nudged several times with questions about Luigi’s academic background. This has two parts: Luigi’s high school and Luigi’s college.

This week, the nation focused on the deaths of two men in New York City. In one case, a mentally stable man confronted a mentally unstable man on the F train. Out of an intentional drive to protect the lives of those around him, the stable man — a twenty-five-year-old Marine from Long Island — put the unstable man in a chokehold that resulted, directly or indirectly, in his death. In the other case, a mentally unstable man targeted a mentally stable man as a consequence of his job leading one of the largest health insurance companies — shooting him in the back as he walked down the street.

Both Jaguar and Volvo released online marketing campaigns that went extremely viral this week. One was a huge success and one was a legendary ad bust. But they’re both absolutely terrible, for very different reasons. Jaguar offered a hideous future shock of an ad that featured a cast of multicultural unisex models wearing bright, horrifying, ugly outfits, wielding paintbrushes and ball-peen hammers. In a font that may have looked futuristic around the release date of the original Logan’s Run, Jaguar encouraged its fleeting consumers to “create exuberant” and “live vivid,” among other things, but never actually encouraged them to drive or purchase a car. In fact, a car doesn’t even appear in the ad. https://www.youtube.com/watch?

Beneath a stunning Della Robbia Crucifixion a lone candle burns on the floor of the Holy Stigmata Chapel in the sanctuary of La Verna. The immense tranquility belies the astonishing events that occurred in 1224 on this rocky outcrop in central Italy’s Umbrian hills. The chapel marks the spot where, two years before his death, Saint Francis, retreated to fast and pray with two of his brother friars. After some weeks, Francis saw a six-winged Seraphim, apparently crucified, who appeared and imposed the five wounds of Christ’s Passion on his body — in paintings the angel appears to be “lasering” St. Francis, who is often depicted as a sort of Franciscan version of Willem Dafoe getting it at the end of the film Platoon — including the nails protruding. Heady stuff.

Pulling up at Marblehead’s Harbor Light Inn, my oldest friend and I wasted no time securing two counter seats at the Tavern tucked inside. A Christmas tree twinkled incongruously as we planned the hallowed pilgrimage most travelers reserve for spooky season: the next day we’d make the twenty-minute drive to Salem, the scene of the infamous witch trials of 1692. Peeling ourselves away from this glorious little seaside B&B, replete with canopy beds and resplendent fireplaces, would be harder than expected. “Excuse the smell! We’ve been baking all day,” said general manager Carolyn as we caught a waft of banana bread.

The Maldives is an unusual country. It’s Asia’s smallest country, but also the world’s most geographically dispersed. It has Asia’s second smallest population, but is one of the world’s most densely populated. It was Buddhist for a millennium and a half, which is conspicuous in most of the country’s ruling institutions, early scriptures and even language, but you wouldn’t know it from the people; it’s almost 100 percent Muslim now, demographically and culturally, and has been since the last Buddhist king of Maldives, Dhovemi, converted in 1153 (or maybe it was 1193 — depends on who you ask).

“Wow.” My younger brother stopped still on the runway as we disembarked our plane at Innsbruck. In every direction, snow-capped mountains shot up to the sky. I found myself rubbing my eyes like a cartoon character, while he picked his jaw up off the floor. Delivering us across the border to Brunico, our cab driver felt moved to score the scene. “All this untz, untz, untz music, I can’t do! Phil Collins OK?” The Alps looming majestically on both sides of the road, “In The Air Tonight” blasting comically loud, the journey fast became a core family memory. It felt stupendous, exciting; like your first time seeing Manhattan sparkle in the distance from JFK. “This is the Brenner Pass... and now, Italy. Welcome in Italy!

Asked how best to get to know new cultures, travel luminary Anthony Bourdain once said: “Drink heavily with locals whenever possible.” This series is about getting pickled with people far cooler than I am, wherever I’ve washed up. Fast-paced, cacophonous, always surprising; if Mumbai is the hub of India’s creative scene, Soho House Mumbai is the home of its creative set. The eleven-story townhouse stands out in studiously hip Juhu, flanked by contemporary galleries, boutiques, fine-dining spots and a stretch of beach (though the water’s not for swimming).  Inside I was fascinated by 200 pieces of art, 85 percent of which is by artists based in India, or of Indian descent.

To this day, the exact origin of the Great Chicago Fire of 1871 is unknown. It may be easy to blame poor old Mrs. O’Leary, though the conspiracy-minded out there speculate that the blaze might have been a deliberately planned event orchestrated by powerful interests to reshape the city for profit and control. Whether or not these theories hold water, the fire offered a convenient opportunity to rebuild the city with stricter building codes and modern brick and steel structures that allowed the city’s elite to seize prime real estate, drive up property values and transform Chicago into a modern hub of wealth and innovation. It has taken all of 153 years, but the fire has crossed the South Branch of the Chicago River and reached West 35th Street.

On Monday afternoon as I sat in class at NYU studying the antisemitic policies of the Third Reich, the “Flood NYC for Palestine” protests descended upon Washington Square Park. This October 7, a year after the worst Jewish massacre since the Holocaust, hundreds of people had interrupted their afternoons to join a march in support of what’s euphemistically referred to as Palestinian “resistance by any means necessary.” To say “terrorism” would be unsubtle, you see. NYU students staged a planned “walk out” to join the “flood” on Monday.

"You have a big mountain to climb!" is not the sort of text you eagerly await from your girlfriend’s father. But Billy, a true Southern gent, meant no ambiguity. As dawn cracked the alarms sounded in our Airbnb and six of us bundled into the back of the Dodge. A cool mist hung in the valley as “Baba O’Riley (Teenage Wasteland)” started up on the radio and got the blood running. At 6:15 a.m. we entered the shadow of Emigrant Peak, which at 10,921 feet, commands Montana’s Paradise Valley. Emigrant owes its name to Thomas Curry, a pioneer who struck gold in a creek on the east side of the mountain in 1863.