Not All Hot Dogs

By Hazlitt

In Connecticut last week, Irish author Colum McCann attempted to help a woman in the midst of a street dispute when he was “cold-clocked without warning,” suffering “a severe concussion, a broken cheekbone, some broken teeth and a spirit that has been temporarily bruised.” McCann was in New Haven to attend a conference at Yale University on empathy.

Chip Kidd is not a fan of Lena Dunham’s book cover.

Point: a hot dog is a sandwich. Counterpoint: shut up and eat your hot dog.

“Anger is rising. Anger is manifesting itself. Anger is taking off its shirt and going for a jog.” Ivor Tossell on life in the wake of Rob Ford’s return to city hall. (Elsewhere: Royson James doubles down on his criticisms of the “gutless” Toronto media’s willingness to play along with Ford’s invitation-only press conference; Chris Selley argues that a media boycott would have been an empty gesture; Jonathan Goldsbie collects the questions Ford’s press secretary refuses to answer.)

Hover ominously at the gift shop.

Admittedly, looking at anything will probably get you on the NSA’s “deep surveillance” list

Here is an extremely humane review by Hazlitt pal Zachary Lipez of a concert by Seether, “the most average band ever to exist.”

It won’t be long before vocaloids earn retro appeal, praised alongside all older technologies as ‘warm’ and ‘human.’” In his latest column, FADER critic Adam Harper examines how the voice has evolved over time.

Image via JeffreyW/License

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|| Illustration by Lola Landekic
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There Is No Garden For Us To Return To
The garden was supposed to be my reprieve. Just over two years ago, parental illness, a graduate degree that has been “almost done” for years, and big-city rent all conspired to, at the decidedly not-young age of 35, send me back home to live with my parents. Though I can hardly call their comfortable suburban home, their generosity, or their affable personalities hardships, I was still searching for an upside—and, for a time anyway, I found relief from the pace of my digital life in the cool, black earth of the family vegetable plot. I spent much of the summer of 2012 doing what some people call “reconnecting with nature.” I plunged my hands daily into dirt, tending to a garden of tomatoes and chillies, gourds and bitter melon, mint and strawberries. I would marvel at the array of blooms that grew, each arriving at their own time in the annual cycle, adding their distinct hue and tenor to the yard. Of particular note was a delphinium with two different-coloured sets of flowers, one mauve, the other an almost phosphorescent blue. The latter made things especially strange, as the only phosphorescent blue to which I was usually exposed was that of the screen—a glowing object in front of which I spent so much time that I worried the hue of it and my skin were becoming one and the same. Without quite realizing it had happened, there I was, caught in the middle of a cliché I’d resisted for years: giving up technology for the purity of “nature.”