Monthly Archives: September 2012

Some of James Fallows’ readers were annoyed when he appeared to suggest bossa nova might be Mitt Romney’s kind of music. Hence his clarification. I’d say bossa nova is just about the most misunderstood genre of our times. So many … Continue reading →

“Tom, tell that gringo he’s a moron,” João Gilberto instructed Tom Jobim in Poruguese. “Stan,  João said to tell you he’s always dreamed of making a record with you,” Jobim told him, in English. “Funny,” replied Stan Getz, derisively. “By the … Continue reading →

Bob Mankoff rummages through The New Yorker’s cartoon archives. Humour at its sharpest. [Via Richard Brody, whose reflections on Glenn Gould’s 80th are also well worth reading.]

Apologies for the quality of the photo, but I took it in a hurry, not wanting to attract undue attention in the waiting room.  In case you can’t guess, the words on the note stuck to the check-in monitor are … Continue reading →

Plumstead Letters has somehow managed to eavesdrop on the discussions over the choice of the new Archbishop. No white smoke, but lots of red mist. [Via Giles Fraser]

His birthday crept up on me. I wasn’t even aware of it until an hour ago. Not that you can really call it a birthday, I suppose, when he’s been dead for thirty years. Somewhere in the house I have … Continue reading →

The commander of Australia’s forces in Afghanistan suffers a nervous breakdown after he returns home. A compelling account of a dark night of the soul: The hyper-awareness that had me flinching at unexpected noises now becomes a disabling compulsion – … Continue reading →

So now there’s “a black Muslim in the White House”? I suppose pop stars are always taking a risk when they stop using lip-sync.

The four of us sat down at a rectangular table with Jane facing me and next to her Zimmy facing Rosten. Despite earlier talk about how he loved England and how often he came to London, he was turning out … Continue reading →

I hadn’t been to the cinema for months  — there’d been nothing  worth seeing, as far as I could tell, and the days when I was willing to drive 50-odd miles to catch an art-house release in Notting Hill were … Continue reading →