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Ten years after Big Blue beat Garry Kasparov, people are still fighting over the definition of "really playing chess" is.
When it comes to trash talk, it would seem so. Numbers two and four completely cracked me up.
B. R. Myers is fightin' mad about high-faluting writin'.
Gosh, I do love a good rant.
Paul West writes the first aphasic memoir. As a writer, I find the loss of language skills the most terrifying boogie man of them all.
Florence Foster Jenkins was many things. A teacher, a philanthropist, and a kind and generous friend, by many accounts. What she was not, was a gifted vocal artist, despite her unshakable belief to the contrary.
Possessed of a "sliding scale" and lacking any conception of pitch or rhythm—heck, she was barely capable of sustaining a note—what Jenkins had was the money to pursue her dream. She hired concert halls and passed out tickets to her recitals to her close circle of friends. She recorded records and gave them to her coterie. She sold out her 1944 Carnegie Hall recital.
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Once united by poverty and marginalization, American Indians are now confronting success and wealth, thanks to their new casinos. How can that be a bad thing?