metazine

The final possibility that occurred to me, as five milligrams of edible THC began to inflect my thinking, was conjured under a more, shall we say, suspicious hermeneutic. I wondered — and, I can’t emphasize this enough, as just a rube in central New York — if the letters were themselves an instance of the hype cycle, which had reached a specific crest thanks to a recent post on X. com by a corporate evangelist, who announced that AI was at a crucial before-and-after moment in February 2026.

One day there is a serious earthquake off the coast of Kamchatka. The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration — “Noah” — issues a tsunami warning for Alaska, which the National Weather Service overrules within an hour. One day I realize I haven’t seen a bald eagle in a while, and when I ask Ana she says they are all at the annual convention in Skagway. One day a worker wanders over to our science corner of the fish factory carrying a bycatch coho, which must have some mutation, because it should not be fluorescent yellow.

Among filmmakers, dread over money seemed to outweigh any sense of buzz. By the first weekend the lack of major sales had already become a central topic of conversation. As it happens, two of the best films in Sundance’s slate confronted the industry’s distribution crisis head-on.

Inaugurated in this second Trump term is a new mode of dominion in which, writes Vincent Bevins, “the implicit goal of military action is not to create a government, it is to destroy one. ” The nation-destroying model is more slapdash and more gratuitous than the American aggression we grew up with, its innovations familiar but somehow nastier.

Martha Stewart, Walter White, and Rodney Dangerfield walk into a bar. The bartender looks at Dangerfield, asks what he’s having. “Vodka soda, ” he replies. The bartender starts shoveling ice. “Double? ” he checks. “Course I am, ” says Dangerfield. “Dangerfield’s dead. ”

If Gass entertained any escape fantasies, however, The Tunnel does not indulge them. It’s the big, the biggest, Man Alone in a House story. It’s an anti–systems novel, uninterested in conspiracist linkages, fantasias of historical causality, politics, even money; it’s got no reportage, no news. It’s a novel of minor academic failure but invites no pity or nostalgia — it’s the anti-Stoner, that’s for sure.

n+1 is seeking a full-time Audience Manager to work in our Brooklyn office. Compensation will range from $60,000 to $64,000 and includes health and dental insurance. n+1 is a print magazine of literature, culture, and politics published three times a year.

Biaggi’s rise went hand-in-hand not just with law and order politics but with a shift in the balance of power within the police profession writ large—away from the respected chiefs, and toward the irascible rank and file and the unions that represented them.

By channeling the Delphic spirits of his mentors, Lerner manages to avoid heavy-handed commentary in favor of stranger pursuits: finding the sense and nonsense in natural speech; intersplicing shards of citation and quotation; and contesting the very concept of a stable narratorial voice.

In a 250-word takedown sent to me over text, the brain trust of my father and Anthropic LLM Claude described my first column as “name-droppy and insecure, ” “passive-aggressive about academia, ” and “somewhat pretentious despite the anti-pretension pose. ” “For someone claiming to be unpretentious, ” Claude/my father declared , “she casually drops terms like ‘metafictional dimension, ’ ‘political imaginary, ’ and ‘autofiction’ without explanation. The folksy tone masks what’s still pretty insider-y literary discourse. ” Got my ass, Claude-father. Mask off. Thank you for doing your part in advancing humanity.

Today, the poster is rarely, if ever, remembered for its relationship to the Cattle Baron, despite the name printed prominently in the bottom right corner. Instead, in museums and academic papers, Facebook posts and news outlets, it is referred to as a “feminist protest poster” by “anonymous. ”

The prosecutorial strategy is a puerile one: completely overwhelm the jury with unrelated images of leftist protest—for ten full days! —and then hope for guilt by association.

Any intrigue is not over a win or loss, but tiny details: Can the opponent break Sinner’s serve? Reach a break point? Win more than two or three points against Sinner’s first serve? Get that first serve back at all, and survive the devastating follow-up forehand if they do?

For my part, I knew that I had fallen in love with Dry Leaf when another cow—or was it a horse? —ambled through the frame enfolded in a pixelated outline distinct from the rest of the sky behind it. I understood that what I was looking at was the byproduct of a ringing artifact, a ghost at the meeting point of cow and sky.