Things I Read This Week and Liked
Friday reading roundup
The moment was so great in magnitude that it even made Beyoncé weak in the knees. As Barack Obama, donning a perfectly tailored white-tie tuxedo, shared his first dance as 44th President of the United States with his wife Michelle at the 2009 Inaugural Ball, the country’s most celebrated pop star stood feet away, serenading the First Couple with Etta James’ “At Last.” Over her career, Beyoncé had become famous for her bombastic, unrestrained exploration of the stage, but in this moment, Queen Bey was just a girl, standing in reverence, with the humility of a high school student who had won a contest to be there. In an interview afterwards, through tears, she described performing for the first black President as “the most important day” of her life. It was the type of moment Donald Trump desperately wishes he could capture for himself, but never will, because he is a fucking loser.
Roman Catholic clergy have also worn them for roughly one billion years — their pom-pom hats are called birettas — and the colors of the hat and pom-pom tell you what type of guy they are: Cardinals wear red birettas; bishops wear violet; priests, deacons, and seminarians wear black. Oh, my god. Are you bored? Seamen from the 18th century also wore knit caps with pom-poms on them!
What an incredible history that we have learned thoroughly.
There’s no way to succeed without having a team and all of the moving parts that help bring it into life. But I do have — and I’m unafraid to say it — a very distinctive, clear vision of how I want to present myself and my body and my voice and my perspective. And who better to really tell that story than yourself?
He is no longer what he started out as on the talk show, the kind of person who could ask the question we wanted answered (like: Jacqueline, why would you sit on that woman’s lap after she threatened to “rage on your ass”?). Now he’s one of the famous people.
She had a McNugget in her hand, a gun to her head, and no fear in her heart.
When I asked Kyle about the Rhoden Massacre, he said, “No one cares about white trash.” He said I was there to cover “old news,” and suggested I write about something important, like his deer farm — “a farm where I raise deer and guys pay me to come shoot them — what are you, fucking retarded? You don’t know what a deer farm is?”
“Write about my dick,” he said.