It’s been years, and I’m still riveted by details of the LA LA LAND-MOONLIGHT mixup at the Oscars. Via Michael Schulman’s terrific OSCAR WARS.

Anyone else having jury duty FOMO?

I was one of those high school students acting in a Durang play (Dentity Crisis), laughing wild amid severest woe. ⁦Michael Schulman⁩’s beautiful eulogy has priceless emails from the great man and we eavesdrop and laugh. newyorker.com/culture/postsc…

My The New Yorker review of The Tortured Poets Department, online now & in print next week 😃🧐🥹😳😬😵‍💫🥴 newyorker.com/magazine/2024/…

Or what if we let Brian Cox and Courtney Love host the Thanksgiving parade?

'And here come the lousy fucks from the Meadowville Jr. High marching band.'

'They're playing all the right notes but they don't stand for anything. Just corporate whores walking in unison.'

Lempicka little, talk a little, picka little, talk a little
Cheep cheep cheep, talk a lot, lempickalittle

In Talk of the Town: Ian Adelman makes sandcastles that look like Gehry-esque sci-fi towers, and is one of forty-plus creative people featured in Adam Moss's book 'The Work of Art.' 'If this were stone, I would be so paralyzed,' he said. newyorker.com/magazine/2024/…

For the young and stagestruck, Christopher Durang was a gateway drug to dark comedy, and often to theatre itself. Here's my New Yorker tribute to one of my comedy heroes, including a smattering of correspondence starting when I was 19. newyorker.com/culture/postsc…

Finally finished, and to the surprise of no one, it’s one of my favorite books ever. I love that it’s not salacious at all, but rather hyper focuses on the minutiae of how and why things happen the way they do. And that’s what I’ve always strived for as a writer.

On the 60th anniversary of Sidney Poitier becoming the first Black man to win the Oscar for Best Actor, revisit Michael Schulman on how the win was a complicated experience for the late actor. nyer.cm/sQoxsTf

Relevant to Who? Weekly listeners today. newyorker.com/magazine/2013/…

.The New Yorker staff dispatches from the path of totality included this gem from Michael Schulman. “After three or four minutes, a flash of solar underboob brought back the day.” link.newyorker.com/view/5bd67c743…

Holy fuck.