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In the News 06.06.18 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets

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In the News 06.06.18 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets
@robotyreczne
In the News 06.06.18 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets
@francesmehardie
In the News 06.06.18 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets
@laurey.caffrey

My Daughter Is Trapped Under Five Feet Of Snow

The avalanche has swept over the whole skiing party.

The white waves came hurtling down from Gråskallen Mountain, near Haugastøl, south-central Norway.

Adina’s father, Uwe Lange, felt the first wave strike his legs. It flipped him over and bore him away in a torrent of snow. Then came the second wave of much firmer snow that laid itself over him.

He feels the tight-packed snow press against his chest.

The snow is crushing the breath out of him. He must have some air. If my whole skiing party is trapped like this, we’ ll all die here, he thinks.

Uwe’s daughter Adina is only 23.

He discovers that his right arm is free. Summoning all his strength he tries to punch his way through the snow cover. He tries again. On his third try, he succeeds. He feels open air. His body is trapped and the snow compresses his rib cage.

Uwe hears sounds, it’s a spade in the snow, near his head.

He catches a glimpse of daylight and gasps for breath.

Read the rest of this article at: Narritively

In Conversation: Conan O’Brien

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Within the relatively unchanging landscape of late-night TV, Conan O’Brien has had an unusually eventful career. There were his rocky early days on Late Night, the ill-fated eight-month stint as host of TheTonight Show, and now the news that his TBS show, Conan, will move from an hour to half-hour episodes beginning in 2019. (Yes, the aforementioned events account for a small slice of an otherwise consistent — and consistently hilarious — 25 years as a late-night host, but still!) “There was a long time when I thought that if you just worked hard, things took care of themselves,” says O’Brien, 55, having switched from Diet Coke to red wine at the bar of the ritzy Manhattan hotel where he’s staying during upfronts week. “I’ve learned that isn’t always the case. But at no moment have I ever felt anything less than incredibly lucky that my job is to make people laugh.” Which, he notes wryly, “does still happen sometimes.”

What’s the thinking behind going down to 30 minutes?
One way I can answer this is to take you through the history of late night.

Oh, good.
[Laughs.] But quickly! Sometime around 1948 someone said about the late-night time slot, “There’s this space up in the attic that no one’s using. Let’s go in there and screw around.” And that’s what the early people in late night did. Then you got Steve Allen and Jack Paar and Johnny Carson and they turned late night into this massive part of the American experience. But there were elements of what hosts did that were about killing time. A couple of years ago, someone sent me a clip of The Joey Bishop Show. It was Joey and his sidekick, Regis Philbin, and they were vamping: “Hey everybody, it’s the show! What do you think of the show? Because this is the show!” And they were doing that for a whole hour.

And you feel like you’ve been doing your version of vamping?
That idea got under my skin. I used to love doing a whole hour; that was my assignment. I have letters that Jack Paar and Steve Allen sent me in 1993In 1993, O’Brien was writing for The Simpsons when he was chosen to fill David Letterman’s vacated chair on Late Night. Critics anticipated a quick departure for the new host, and interns had to fill empty seats in the audience in the first year, but over time O’Brien & Co. grew into their absurdist humor, inarguably delivering some of late night’s funniest comedy and definitely some of its weirdest. O’Brien hosted Late Night for 14 seasons — until the misbegotten move to The Tonight Show. that were like, “We’ve heard about your new posting. Good luck to you, sir!” And getting that assignment was cool, but at a certain point you start thinking, Wait a minute. Why am I still doing it the way I’ve been doing it?

Read the rest of this article at: Vulture

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Yaeji

You never know what could happen when you show up to a Yaeji party. Maybe you get blindfolded and hands run through your hair. Maybe someone by the door passes you a fragrant bowl of Japanese curry. Maybe there’s a bear on stage. Who knows, it’s happened before.

Recently, a particularly strange phenomenon has occurred whenever the Korean-American singer, DJ, and producer, born Kathy Lee, performs one of her songs: white people start singing along in fake Korean, literally screaming gibberish at the top of their lungs because they can’t quite pronounce the lyrics but know how it’s supposed to sound. Her fans tweet about this phenomenon; even her parents think it’s crazy.

But it makes sense: a Yaeji song seduces you subliminally. Catchy pop hooks and groovy, 4×4 house rhythms knock down your defenses, as half-whispered phrases float into your ear. Before you even realize what’s happening, they latch onto your brain, seeping into your subconscious until you, too, are making up words to sing along.

Yaeji, 25, pays close attention to how language sounds. She likes creating rhythms with the cadence of consonants and singing in a hushed voice to kindle an ASMR-like feeling of intimacy. She especially loves the way Korean words have angular textures when you hold them in your mouth, and her choruses are often simple phrases repeated over and over. “Geugeaniyaaa, aniya geugeaniyaaa,” she croons on “Drink I’m Sippin On,” stretching out her vowels so that they hang in the air like creeping nightclub fog.

Read the rest of this article at: Fader

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The Incredible True Story of the Collar Bomb Heist

At 2:28 pm on August 28, 2003, a middle-aged pizza deliveryman named Brian Wells walked into a PNC Bank in Erie, Pennsylvania. He had a short cane in his right hand and a strange bulge under the collar of his T-shirt. Wells, 46 and balding, passed the teller a note. “Gather employees with access codes to vault and work fast to fill bag with $250,000,” it said. “You have only 15 minutes.” Then he lifted his shirt to reveal a heavy, boxlike device dangling from his neck. According to the note, it was a bomb. The teller, who told Wells there was no way to get into the vault at that time, filled a bag with cash—$8,702—and handed it over. Wells walked out, sucking on a Dum Dum lollipop he grabbed from the counter, hopped into his car, and drove off. He didn’t get far. Some 15 minutes later, state troopers spotted Wells standing outside his Geo Metro in a nearby parking lot, surrounded him, and tossed him to the pavement, cuffing his hands behind his back.

Wells told the troopers that while out on a delivery he had been accosted by a group of black men who chained the bomb around his neck at gunpoint and forced him to rob the bank. “It’s gonna go off!” he told them in desperation. “I’m not lying.” The officers called the bomb squad and took positions behind their cars, guns drawn. TV camera crews arrived and began filming. For 25 minutes Wells remained seated on the pavement, his legs curled beneath him.

“Did you call my boss?” Wells asked a trooper at one point, apparently concerned that his employer would think he was shirking his duties. Suddenly, the device started to emit an accelerating beeping noise. Wells fidgeted. It looked like he was trying to scoot backward, to somehow escape the bomb strapped to his neck. Beep… Beep… Beep. Boom! The device detonated, blasting him violently onto his back and ripping a 5-inch gash in his chest. The pizza deliveryman took a few last gasps and died on the pavement. It was 3:18 pm. The bomb squad arrived three minutes later.

Read the rest of this article at: Wired

‘THIS PLACE IS CRAZY’

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Joe Cardo was out hunting for half-smoked cigarettes. From my perch at the white-boys’ table of the A Block yard, I watched his eyes scan the patched grass and cracked pavement. Shuffle, stoop, shuffle, stoop. It was evening rec period, May 2015. A warm front had settled over Attica Correctional Facility in upstate New York, and prisoners were taking advantage. Days earlier, on the ground where Joe now stood, a Crip had been shanked in the heart and dropped dead like someone hit his off button.

I called out to Joe. He snapped up his head and lumbered over. I introduced myself and asked if he’d answer a few questions. “John thinks he’s a reporter,” said Dave (not his real name), pointing at me. I placed a pouch of tobacco on the concrete table. (Wood, corrections officers learned the hard way, too easily concealed weapons.) Joe’s eyes went wide. He was thirty-four, white and slight—five seven, 165 pounds—with a scraggly beard and a two-car-garage hairline. “Oh, man,” he said. “Is that for me?” “Yeah,” I said.

“Then I’ll answer whatever you want.”

Weather permitting, the yard was where we spent most of our free time: Hour-long sessions, three times a day, morning, afternoon, and evening. A CO observed from a cage at the yard’s center; a few more COs walked laps, watching us watch them; another, armed with an AR-15, stood guard in a thirty-foot watchtower. No more than six prisoners were allowed at any one of the tables that lined the perimeter. Each was claimed. There was ours—the white-boys’ table, populated by a gritty group of high school burnouts, old in age but not in maturity, covered in faded tattoos of skulls and empty phrases like death before dishonor. The Puerto Ricans sat next to us; the Dominicans and the Jamaicans were nearby. The Bloods, the Rat Hunters, and the Latin Kings had tables, too.

My first question for Joe was whether he was a sex offender. A prisoner’s place in the pecking order is calculated in part by the transgression that got him here. Those whose crimes are committed against others in the life—gangsters, murderers, drug dealers—tend to land highest. Those whose crimes affect innocent civilians—burglars, perverts, assaulters—are somewhere in the middle. Sex offenders, especially pedophiles, are at the very bottom; talking to them can destroy one’s reputation by association. If Joe was in for rape or child pornography, our conversation would need to end immediately.

Read the rest of this article at: Esquire

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