If your hometown had a font, what would it look like? CitID, an ambitious project from the design firm Norwegian Ink, is trying to answer the question by inviting artists and designers to submit a logo or typeface for “every city worldwide; big or small, rich or poor, famous or infamous, well-known or unheard-of.” Read more at newyorker.com…
I Heart Jarvis
Jarvis Cocker, the former frontman of the Britpop band Pulp and a successful solo artist, is the host of “Sunday Service” on BBC 6 Music. The weekly program features selections from Cocker’s record collection—ranging from Bob Dylan to Liberace’s performance of “Moonlight Sonata”—as well as fiction readings and pop-culture discussion. Read more at newyorker.com…
Shit My Dad Says (the Book)
On August 3, 2009, Justin Halpern—a twenty-eight-year-old comedy writer who had moved back in with his parents following a breakup—started “Shit My Dad Says,” a Twitter feed that documents the musings, philosophical and otherwise, of Halpern’s septuagenarian father, Sam (example: “A parent’s only as good as their dumbest kid. If one wins a Nobel Prize but the other gets robbed by a hooker, you failed.”) The feed was an instant hit, and now has more than 1.3 million followers. It has also become an empire of sorts for Halpern, who has co-written a TV pilot that stars William Shatner in the role of his father, and published a collection of essays on just what it was like to grow up as Sam Halpern’s son. Recently, Halpern took the time to answer some of my questions on his dad, writing, and William Shatner. Read more at newyorker.com…
Directions
Because I walk quickly, while wearing sunglasses and headphones, I’m often stopped by tourists in Times Square who need directions. It’s as if my visible, unmistakable barriers to social interaction reveal me to be just the sort of New Yorker who can point you toward Crumbs. To be fair, part of me enjoys being the helpful stranger who can set a vacation right. Also, I love cupcakes.
One night last week, I was clipping down 42nd when three young women, maybe in their early 20s, waved their arms at me. I took Thom Yorke out of my ears.
“Excuse me! Can I ask you a question?”
Shit. People never say this when they need directions. “Um, sure.”
One of the women, who couldn’t have been more than five feet tall, tipped her head back and gazed at me. “Do you believe the Bible reveals the perfect understanding of motherly love?”
It would have been easy to walk away, except that the woman was beaming. Her eyes were sparkling and her teeth were disastrously crooked.
“Do you, uh, mean the Gnostic Gospels?” What was I talking about?
“No, I mean the perfect love of a heavenly mother,” she said, enthusiastically, gently, as if to a kindergarten class. The other two women looked at the sidewalk, embarrassed for me or for her, I couldn’t tell.
“I have to go…I’m late to meet someone.”
“Can we just give you our number? In case you have some questions?”
Her teeth were such a mess. I said yes, and she introduced the other women as she wrote their names on the card that one of them had pulled from her wallet. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Sally.”
“Sally, can you give us a number? To contact you?”
“No, I’m sorry. If I have questions, I’ll be in touch.”
She looked up at me, and her face suddenly was sad enough to explain why she was here, why her teeth were crooked, why she wanted to keep talking, why she wanted to understand perfect love. “OK. But thanks for stopping.”
I tucked the card in my bag, and didn’t throw it away until I reached Brooklyn.
Ouch
From today’s book section of the New York Times:
“Solar,” the new novel by Ian McEwan, is … a book so good—so ingeniously designed, irreproachably high-minded and skillfully brought off—that it’s actually quite bad. Instead of being awful yet absorbing, it’s impeccable yet numbing, achieving the sort of superbly wrought inertia of a Romanesque cathedral. There’s so little wrong with it that there’s nothing particularly right about it, either. It’s impressive to behold but something of a virtuous pain to read.
Fine Print
There’s an excellent article by Cynthia Gorney in the New York Times on the possible risks and benefits of estrogen therapy, in particular for women in perimenopause (the year following a final period). I’ve written about the effects of estrogen regarding birth-control pills, but supplemental estrogen as it relates to menopause introduces a new–and possibly game-changing–element to my general hormone-therapy wariness.
In her article, Gorney explains why estrogen therapy has been so widely feared for the last ten or so years, with the Women’s Health Initiative–a federally funded study that began in the early 1990s and ended in 2002 when researchers agreed the hormone trials were too dangerous to continue–at the middle of the fray. She goes on to explain that the study’s conclusions were taken out of context, citing “fine print” about the drugs used in the study.
First of all, the kind of estrogen in my patches–there are different forms of estrogenic molecules–is called estradiol. It’s not the estrogen used in the W.H.I. study. Pharmaceutical estradiol like mine comes from plants whose molecules have been tweaked in labs until they are atom for atom identical to human estradiol, the most prominent of the estrogens premenopausal women produce naturally on their own. The W.H.I. estrogen, by contrast, was a concentrated soup of a pill that is manufactured from the urine of pregnant mares. The drug company Wyeth (now owned by Pfizer) sells it in two patented products, the pills Premarin and Prempro, and it’s commonly referred to as “conjugated equine estrogens.”
I was curious: just how fine was that print when the W.H.I. was shut down in 2002? A press release issued at the time by Wake Forest University Baptist Medical Center, one of the institutions involved in the studies, read:
The study’s Data and Safety Monitoring Board found that the risks of taking the combination [of estrogen and progestin]–0.625 milligrams a day of conjugated equine estrogens plus 2.5 milligrams per day of medroxyprogesterone–now exceed the benefits. “Compared to those taking placebo, more women taking active estrogen plus progestin developed breast cancer or experienced cardiovascular events such as heart attacks, strokes, pulmonary emboli and deep vein thromboses.”
The study was testing this estrogen-progestin combination because 7 million women in the United States take this same combination daily. One trade name for it is Prempro.
So we knew in 2002 that equine estrogens specifically were used in the W.H.I. studies, and we reported that information in places as obvious as university press releases. And only now, a decade later, are researchers undertaking the staggering task of re-educating millions of women on the dangers of a treatment that might not be as dangerous as we thought.
Olde-Tymey Vice
Mara L. Keire, a member of the history faculty at the University of Oxford, has made a career out of studying debauchery. Her published works have included “Dope Fiends and Degenerates: The Gendering of Addiction in the Early Twentieth Century,” and “The Vice Trust: A Reinterpretation of the White Slavery Scare in the United States, 1907-1917”; now, with her new book “For Business & Pleasure: Red-Light Districts and the Regulation of Vice in the United States, 1890-1933,” Keire explores the culture that developed in the seedier spots within New Orleans, New York, San Francisco, and points between. Recently, Keire answered my questions about vice’s history—and its present-day role—in America. Read more at newyorker.com…