by Nate
Nate told a friend—partially in jest at the time but as he reflects on it there’s a lot more truth to it than he first thought—that these four topics are the only things he reads about online. This friend told him that, surely, there must be a website that speaks to these niche issues at the same time. WELL THERE IS NOW, BABY.
Nate told a friend—partially in jest at the time but as he reflects on it there’s a lot more truth to it than he first thought—that these four topics are the only things he reads about online. This friend told him that, surely, there must be a website that speaks to these niche issues at the same time. WELL THERE IS NOW, BABY.
GOLF
In terms of golf fashion, the flashy, bro'd-out party shirt is on the decline, and the rise of the preppy-ass yuppie-ass quarter-zip seems near its apex. What will come next for the slobs on the course? Check this out and remember where you heard it: the future of golf fashion will be stonewash jeans and a thin hoodie.
Perhaps you find yourself saying "isn't that just a good look anywhere?," and to you I say, well done! That is exactly my point. Casual golf must continue to shed its stuffy image if it is to grow, and adults can only look like big bovine clowns at SantaCon for so long. Get you some 501s and a Salt Life with pouch in the front. Pull-over, not zip-up. Dress like you're ready for the tee box, the rodeo, or to sleep with someone's lonely wife. Doesn’t matter how you play if you look good.
BASKETBALL
God, Cleveland was dying to lose that game last night. Could see from the opening moments of the fourth quarter that 12-point lead was not to be trusted. It isn't so much that they missed the first six shots of the quarter, it's the way in which they missed them: botching an open layup in the middle of the lane, throwing an errant cross-court pass that winds up out of bounds, blowing two consecutive possession-extending offensive rebounds by generating no useful offense out of them. You could see the Cavs looking for someone to bail them out, and their only options were Donavan Mitchell, who scored 50 and seemingly did all he could while still not being enough, and Max Strus, who is a fine player but no one's idea of a closer. The Pacers' end-game heroics were basically written in the stars before the eight-minute mark. Cleveland is down 0-2 and looking down the barrel of a gentleman's sweep, another one-seed that couldn't live up to its reputation. Familiar territory around these parts. Come on in, boys, the water sucks.
CORONAVIRUS
Back in late 2020, my brother was traveling for work in the American south. His job is manufacturing-adjacent, so his work puts him in contact with a lot of blue-collar workers: guys who work with their hands, guys who supply those who work with their hands, guys who employ the guys who work with their hands, you get it. Anyhow, he went down, paid a call on one of his clients, and upon entering the shop with his mask on, drew a look of confusion from the dude behind the counter, who said this:
"What's with the masks, anybody sick?"
"Oh no, sir, we just have these on for COVID protection."
"Oh sure, I forgot y'all are from up north. We don't have that Coronavirus down here anymore. Yeah, we had it for a while a few months back, but it's all cleared up now. But do what you're comfortable with! I don't want to tell you otherwise, but you can take 'em off down here if y'all want."
It's a rich text from a unique time.
BOOKS ABOUT CRIME
Sometimes a crime novel is so sophisticated and well-crafted that it scrapes its head on genre and threatens to become literature. This tends to happen more with spy novels (John LeCarre lives here), or with works that include instances of crime but that are tangential to the overall proceedings, including crime but not so much about crime (Demon Copperhead by Barbar Kingsolver is a good example I'm working through right now).
Everybody Knows by Jordan Harper is not this kind of novel. It is as pure a distillation of the highs of the modern crime genre as anything I've read in a decade, and it is in no way, at any time, making an attempt at literature. This is a pulpy-ass, crime-ass crime novel, twisting the durable P.I.-in-L.A. format into modern times: this time our P.I. is a publicist for black-flag clients, her partner is an ex-S.W.A.T. goon turned private security. Besides being the kind of book you'll want to swallow whole in less than 36 hours, it's refreshing in its open hatred of Los Angeles, portraying it not so much as a city as a series of conference rooms, homeless encampments, and pedophile party mansions. It's as propulsive as it is stupid, which I say with great love and affection. One of the best books I've read this year, and a must-have for people who like blood with their gossip.
INDIE ROCK
I'll admit that the Bandcamp mines have been turning up more coal than gems of late, but I did find this amalgamation of programmed drums and '90s twee to be a charming way to pass two minutes' time.
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