Becoming Unmothered, Michael Sam’s Big Day, and the Worst Book Review Ever

By Hazlitt

The worst book review ever.

“Meghan O’Rourke has a wonderful word for the club of those without mothers. She calls us not motherless but unmothered. It feels right—an ontological word rather than a descriptive one. I had a mother, and now I don’t. This is not a characteristic one can affix, like being paperless, or odorless. The emphasis should be on absence.”

The real Wolf of Wall Street storms out of a televised sit down interview and, in his best DiCaprio-as-Gatsby impersonation, tells his interviewer “You’ve got a lot of nerve boy, I’ll tell you!”

Keith Phipps explores the original Godzilla and “atomic anxiety” in the context of post-WWII Japan.

Marshall Mather’s relationship with his mother was of particular voyeuristic interest for people born in a certain era, a small window into the unsavory life of white trash family from Detroit, and the inspiration for the better-than-it-has-any-right-to-be 8 Mile. So it’s nice to see that the hostility has eased up a little in Eminem’s latest (and Spike Lee-directed) video, even if it’s in service of a terrible song.

Check your (Apple) privilege.

You know what also helps? Preparation.

“The big-time impostors we read about in literature run this risk constantly, flirting with destruction, not just humiliation or embarrassment. It’s a spectacle that we can’t help but find compelling, and it involves a certain level of courage that we sneakily admire, perhaps.”

“Since approximately 1831, the precise definition of ‘peace and tranquility’ has also been a matter of controversy.”

A fine day for the NFL:


|| Kevin, one of the few similarities between the first draft and final version of Up
Should You Kill Your Babies?
Ed Catmull’s Creativity, Inc. makes use of a familiar metaphor: the creative work as infant. But a familiar term raises the question: does the creative process require you to murder your darlings?


Pitch Perfect: The History of the World Cup Single
The 1970 World Cup marked the beginning of several traditions, among them English athletic self-pity. The national team was thought to be even better than the one that won the previous tournament, and the British media’s attitude towards their Mexican hosts was accordingly imperious, or just imperial. Then the great goalkeeper Gordon Banks got food poisoning, his replacement Peter Bonetti made several desperate mistakes, and England fumbled away a two-goal lead to West Germany. The agonized response was perhaps naïve considering how much an opposite result in the 1966 final had depended on Geoff Hurst’s goal-line-stranded strike. (If you want to start an argument with middle-aged English people, like some of my relatives, bring up Tofik Bakhramov , the Azerbaijani referee who allowed it.) In retrospect, it seems as if everyone else was only competing to lose against the otherworldly Brazilian team, who finally dismembered Italy 4-1. The Italian defender Tarcisio Burgnich marveled: “We jumped together, but when I landed, I could see Pele was still floating,” which is one of the more evocative ways to describe losing at sports. They left Mexico without the Jules Rimet trophy, but the England squad did manage to record a #1 single.