Long form journalism

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whatwouldcooleydo?
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Re: Long form journalism

Post by whatwouldcooleydo? »

Son, this ain't a dream no more, it's the real thing

John A Arkansawyer
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Re: Long form journalism

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The Education of Bill Oliver
How a letter to Barack Obama tells the story of two strangers who became family, and one lifelong Republican’s journey to a new kind of patriotism

Quique’s only hope for survival was to flee. So the father put him on a bus with enough money, he hoped, to pay a coyote to smuggle him across the U.S. border. The father never heard from him again.

Bill is a kind and polite person, and any kind and polite person standing on a dirt floor in El Salvador under a corrugated-metal roof with a grieving father would have said the same thing. “Well, if there is anything I can do … ”

There was nothing Bill could do.

Two weeks after he got home, Bill told Sandra, “Well, I made a promise to the father that I would look for his son.” He can’t say for sure when or how the notion of a promise kicked in. He hadn’t promised anything. His students were finishing the semester, and they would soon move on to M.B.A.s and careers in big banks. Bill was not a busy man, not the way he used to be. If he took a shot at looking for the boy, perhaps he could be the man of honor he believed himself to be.

There was no way he’d be able to find the boy.
The sooner we put those assholes in the grave&piss on the dirt above it, the better off we'll be

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Flea
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Re: Long form journalism

Post by Flea »

John A Arkansawyer wrote:The Education of Bill Oliver
How a letter to Barack Obama tells the story of two strangers who became family, and one lifelong Republican’s journey to a new kind of patriotism

Quique’s only hope for survival was to flee. So the father put him on a bus with enough money, he hoped, to pay a coyote to smuggle him across the U.S. border. The father never heard from him again.

Bill is a kind and polite person, and any kind and polite person standing on a dirt floor in El Salvador under a corrugated-metal roof with a grieving father would have said the same thing. “Well, if there is anything I can do … ”

There was nothing Bill could do.

Two weeks after he got home, Bill told Sandra, “Well, I made a promise to the father that I would look for his son.” He can’t say for sure when or how the notion of a promise kicked in. He hadn’t promised anything. His students were finishing the semester, and they would soon move on to M.B.A.s and careers in big banks. Bill was not a busy man, not the way he used to be. If he took a shot at looking for the boy, perhaps he could be the man of honor he believed himself to be.

There was no way he’d be able to find the boy.
I'm disappointed there are no pictures of the waitress accompaning the article.
Now it's dark.

John A Arkansawyer
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Re: Long form journalism

Post by John A Arkansawyer »

Flea wrote:
John A Arkansawyer wrote:The Education of Bill Oliver
How a letter to Barack Obama tells the story of two strangers who became family, and one lifelong Republican’s journey to a new kind of patriotism

Quique’s only hope for survival was to flee. So the father put him on a bus with enough money, he hoped, to pay a coyote to smuggle him across the U.S. border. The father never heard from him again.

Bill is a kind and polite person, and any kind and polite person standing on a dirt floor in El Salvador under a corrugated-metal roof with a grieving father would have said the same thing. “Well, if there is anything I can do … ”

There was nothing Bill could do.

Two weeks after he got home, Bill told Sandra, “Well, I made a promise to the father that I would look for his son.” He can’t say for sure when or how the notion of a promise kicked in. He hadn’t promised anything. His students were finishing the semester, and they would soon move on to M.B.A.s and careers in big banks. Bill was not a busy man, not the way he used to be. If he took a shot at looking for the boy, perhaps he could be the man of honor he believed himself to be.

There was no way he’d be able to find the boy.
I'm disappointed there are no pictures of the waitress accompaning the article.
You didn't stroke the screen hard enough. They're printed in Braille.
The sooner we put those assholes in the grave&piss on the dirt above it, the better off we'll be

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Flea
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Re: Long form journalism

Post by Flea »

Well played.
Now it's dark.

John A Arkansawyer
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Re: Long form journalism

Post by John A Arkansawyer »

Flea wrote:Well played.
You're welcome! This also dropped into my lap today:

Slightly More Than 100 Fantastic Articles
A list of nonfiction journalism from 2017 that will stand the test of time.


I've read a few of these pieces, and they range from very good to real good. The guy who put it together, Conor Friedersdorf, is a readable rightie--the old-fashioned kind of conservative who makes actual arguments with which I occasionally find myself agreeing. I suspect you can't go far wrong checking these articles out.
The sooner we put those assholes in the grave&piss on the dirt above it, the better off we'll be

beantownbubba
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Re: Long form journalism

Post by beantownbubba »

John A Arkansawyer wrote:. I suspect you can't go far wrong checking these articles out.
But will you go far right?
What used to be is gone and what ought to be ought not to be so hard

John A Arkansawyer
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Re: Long form journalism

Post by John A Arkansawyer »

beantownbubba wrote:
John A Arkansawyer wrote:. I suspect you can't go far wrong checking these articles out.
But will you go far right?
Far right, far wrong--there's a difference?
The sooner we put those assholes in the grave&piss on the dirt above it, the better off we'll be

beantownbubba
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Re: Long form journalism

Post by beantownbubba »

John A Arkansawyer wrote:
beantownbubba wrote:
John A Arkansawyer wrote:. I suspect you can't go far wrong checking these articles out.
But will you go far right?
Far right, far wrong--there's a difference?
:)
What used to be is gone and what ought to be ought not to be so hard

John A Arkansawyer
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Re: Long form journalism

Post by John A Arkansawyer »

The sooner we put those assholes in the grave&piss on the dirt above it, the better off we'll be

John A Arkansawyer
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Re: Long form journalism

Post by John A Arkansawyer »

Don Van Natta Jr.: 5 longreads that editors and writers might enjoy
In this crazy time, longreads can transport a reader, bring perspective and combat that every-15-seconds beep from Twitter, Slack or some news alert.

I asked ESPN's Don Van Natta Jr., co-founder of The Sunday Long Read, if he had five favorite stories from recent months that could help overburdened journalists, editors, academics, Wikipedians, librarians and news junkies.

In gulps, he delivers, bringing us joy and dashed expectations; the ragged edges in even the best reporting; the undead, vampirish nature of Rupert Murdoch; and a quintessential grifter in an era dominated by fast talkers. He rounds out the list with a jeremiad of sorts about social media.

If you read a few of these, you may discover a quality delineated by Heidi N. Moore, guest editor of this past Sunday's Long Read newsletter. "This time in history," Moore writes, "has turned longreads — with their extensive reporting, interviews and analysis — into not just reporting, but into a very useful kind of moral philosophy."
The sooner we put those assholes in the grave&piss on the dirt above it, the better off we'll be


John A Arkansawyer
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Re: Long form journalism

Post by John A Arkansawyer »

It's a totally fucked-up story from which I can only take two lessons: I was right to not like going to Cobb County when I lived in Atlanta and predatory for-profit schools need to die screaming in a fire. I'm sure there are others; those are mine.

‘They Didn’t Have To Kill Him’: The Death of Lance Corporal Brian Easley

Image
Aaron Gell wrote:The thing that everyone remembered about the man in the light gray sweatshirt was how composed he was, how polite and respectful. One morning this past summer, he quietly entered a Wells Fargo bank branch in the Atlanta suburbs in a desperate state. But he didn’t curse or even raise his voice. He just calmly relayed the litany of setbacks and obstacles that had led him to an extraordinarily reckless act.

Brian Easley, a 33-year-old, standing 6 feet 2 inches, with close-cropped hair and glasses, had woken up on the morning on July 7, 2017, in Room 252 of a $25-a-night hotel nearby, where he’d been living, scraping by on a small monthly disability check from the Department of Veterans Affairs.

A former lance corporal in the Marine Corps, he had served in Kuwait and Iraq as a supply clerk, separating with an honorable discharge in 2005. But his transition to civilian life had been fraught. Joining his mother in Jefferson, Georgia, he found himself suffering from back aches and mental illness. He met a cashier at the local Walmart, and soon they married and had a daughter together, but he disappeared for long stretches as his symptoms worsened. After his mother died in 2011, he bounced around — alternating between relatives’ spare rooms, VA mental hospitals, and nonprofit housing facilities. During a few especially difficult periods, he slept in his car.

By the summer of 2017, Easley had lost even that option. His usual disability check from the VA had mysteriously failed to materialize, and rent was due. If he couldn’t cover it, he’d be on the street, and the thought terrified him. In the first week of July, Easley called the Veterans Crisis Line repeatedly to inquire about the status of his disability payment. When they hung up on him, he called back. On Monday, July 3, Easley made his way to the VA’s Regional Benefits Office in Atlanta. But after an argument with staffers there, he left in humiliation, his issue unresolved.

A few days later at around 9:30 a.m, the Marine veteran entered the Wells Fargo branch, a faux colonial building on Windy Hill Road, a six-lane commercial thoroughfare, and claimed that the backpack slung over his shoulder contained C-4 explosive. He allowed several employees and customers to exit and informed the two remaining workers that they should lock the doors and stay put. Then he began making calls, dialing 911 to let the authorities know what was happening, and a local news station, WSB-TV, to explain his predicament. “They took everything,” he told the assignment editor who picked up the phone. “With my last little bit of money I got I’ve been able to hold up at a hotel, but I’m going to be out on the street and I’m going to have nothing. I’m not going to have any money for food or anything. I’m just going to be homeless, and I’m going to starve.”
The sooner we put those assholes in the grave&piss on the dirt above it, the better off we'll be

Cole Younger
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Re: Long form journalism

Post by Cole Younger »

John A Arkansawyer wrote:It's a totally fucked-up story from which I can only take two lessons: I was right to not like going to Cobb County when I lived in Atlanta and predatory for-profit schools need to die screaming in a fire. I'm sure there are others; those are mine.

‘They Didn’t Have To Kill Him’: The Death of Lance Corporal Brian Easley

Image
Aaron Gell wrote:The thing that everyone remembered about the man in the light gray sweatshirt was how composed he was, how polite and respectful. One morning this past summer, he quietly entered a Wells Fargo bank branch in the Atlanta suburbs in a desperate state. But he didn’t curse or even raise his voice. He just calmly relayed the litany of setbacks and obstacles that had led him to an extraordinarily reckless act.

Brian Easley, a 33-year-old, standing 6 feet 2 inches, with close-cropped hair and glasses, had woken up on the morning on July 7, 2017, in Room 252 of a $25-a-night hotel nearby, where he’d been living, scraping by on a small monthly disability check from the Department of Veterans Affairs.

A former lance corporal in the Marine Corps, he had served in Kuwait and Iraq as a supply clerk, separating with an honorable discharge in 2005. But his transition to civilian life had been fraught. Joining his mother in Jefferson, Georgia, he found himself suffering from back aches and mental illness. He met a cashier at the local Walmart, and soon they married and had a daughter together, but he disappeared for long stretches as his symptoms worsened. After his mother died in 2011, he bounced around — alternating between relatives’ spare rooms, VA mental hospitals, and nonprofit housing facilities. During a few especially difficult periods, he slept in his car.

By the summer of 2017, Easley had lost even that option. His usual disability check from the VA had mysteriously failed to materialize, and rent was due. If he couldn’t cover it, he’d be on the street, and the thought terrified him. In the first week of July, Easley called the Veterans Crisis Line repeatedly to inquire about the status of his disability payment. When they hung up on him, he called back. On Monday, July 3, Easley made his way to the VA’s Regional Benefits Office in Atlanta. But after an argument with staffers there, he left in humiliation, his issue unresolved.

A few days later at around 9:30 a.m, the Marine veteran entered the Wells Fargo branch, a faux colonial building on Windy Hill Road, a six-lane commercial thoroughfare, and claimed that the backpack slung over his shoulder contained C-4 explosive. He allowed several employees and customers to exit and informed the two remaining workers that they should lock the doors and stay put. Then he began making calls, dialing 911 to let the authorities know what was happening, and a local news station, WSB-TV, to explain his predicament. “They took everything,” he told the assignment editor who picked up the phone. “With my last little bit of money I got I’ve been able to hold up at a hotel, but I’m going to be out on the street and I’m going to have nothing. I’m not going to have any money for food or anything. I’m just going to be homeless, and I’m going to starve.”
The good old government. They only want what's best for us and could do so much good if only we would give them more power. Seriously,screw the VA and the mule they rode in on.
A single shot rifle and a one eyed dog.


John A Arkansawyer
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Re: Long form journalism

Post by John A Arkansawyer »

Six Brothers
And now there is only one. To live through the horrific cycle of suicide and tragedy that wiped out the other five, Kevin Von Erich has relied on the strange code of the professional wrestling world his family once ruled: What’s real is never certain, and what’s fake is never, ever talked about.

There were two doors into the arena from the dressing room, so that opponents appeared to enter the ring from different rooms. When Lynyrd Skynyrd started blaring, the Freebirds came first, strutting through a shower of beer cups, spare change, small batteries, and boos.

Then the razor-sharp guitar of Ted Nugent’s “Stranglehold” would blast overhead, and the room would erupt. When drums threw the song into gear half a minute later, a Von Erich kicked open the good guys’ door and began the procession to the ring. Fans poured from the stands as if someone had yelled “Fire!” Circled by bodyguards, the boys still needed five solid minutes to negotiate the fifteen yards to the ring. Little kids screamed for their autographs, grown men slapped their backs, and women would hand them flowers and kiss them on the mouth, pat their rears and grasp at their fronts.

When they’d reach the ring, Kevin would grab the top rope and throw himself over, then run to a corner, jump flat-footed to the top turnbuckle, and balance there, soaking in the crowd. Kerry would climb through the ropes and stand in the middle of the ring, staring down the Freebirds and waiting for direction from David, who, at six seven, stepped over the ropes, barking instructions. As loud as Nugent was playing, by the time the lights were back up, you couldn’t hear the music over the shrieking girls. The Von Erichs looked as if they owned not just Dallas but the world.

But of course, if you know anything of the Von Erichs, you know they owned nothing for long.
The sooner we put those assholes in the grave&piss on the dirt above it, the better off we'll be

John A Arkansawyer
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Re: Long form journalism

Post by John A Arkansawyer »

Another one from the Texas Monthly:

Vivian Stephens Helped Turn Romance Writing Into a Billion-Dollar Industry. Then She Got Pushed Out.
Now, as the Romance Writers of America reckons with its history of racism, will she finally get her due?


Image
Her first such book as an editor, Morning Rose, Evening Savage (“Vowing never to be poor or dominated again, Tara is shocked when Alek brazenly approaches her with the prospect of marriage”), sold so well that within eight months Stephens was editor in chief of Candlelight. In 1980 she pitched her bosses on a new, sexier line called Candlelight Ecstasy, which launched in December. One of that division’s first books, Gentle Pirate, about the relationship between the widow of a Marine killed in Vietnam and a one-armed battle survivor, became a blockbuster. It sold out its first printing within weeks and “surpassed the merely sensual and ultimately liberated the romance novel,” according to John Markert, the author of Publishing Romance: The History of an Industry, 1940s to the Present.

But Stephens wanted to do more. She began to seek out and publish writers of color, whose books were characterized as “ethnic romance” and sold on separate shelves in bookstores. Entwined Destinies was her first. Written by Elsie B. Washington, a Black Newsweek reporter who was also a friend of Stephens, it depicts a Black journalist who falls in love with a Black oilman. The book sold 40,000 copies on its first run, piquing the interest of the media. “The desegregation of the paperback romance novel arrives,” People magazine declared. Stephens found other writers who were Latina, Asian American, and Native American. Most were working women—flight attendants, secretaries, and so on—who had no choice but to get a job to support themselves. The white women who wanted to write were generally housewives looking for extra cash. At times, their husbands would accompany them to workshops that Stephens led, and they’d challenge Stephens’s assessment of their talents. Why are you buying my wife’s books? they would ask. Is she really that good? “The husbands felt like that plaything [their wives’ writing] was infringing on their work as a wife and mother,” Stephens said. “His wife had become alive in something that he had no part of and no control over.”

The sex scenes in the books didn’t dampen the threat. They were more sensual than sexual but did get down to specifics. During workshops, Stephens would suggest her authors read the best-selling The Joy of Sex. (One writer went home and unsuccessfully experimented with matchsticks to replicate the recommended sexual positions.) “I told my writers exactly what I wanted. The heroine had to have a certain age, a certain job. She had to be upwardly mobile,” Stephens said. “The hero was icing on the cake, because without him she could still have a full life. If she wanted flowers, she could buy them herself. She didn’t have to wait for a guy. It empowered women. It empowered them very fast. They were just waiting for someone to give them permission.”

By the end of 1982, Candlelight Ecstasy had sold 30 million books.
The sooner we put those assholes in the grave&piss on the dirt above it, the better off we'll be

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