Attitudes to the BBC are, for the most part, spirit-sappingly predictable. Politicians of all parties believe it is biased against them. One powerful lobby claims it is a hotbed of radicals bent on undermining national identity, another that it is the mouthpiece of the establishment. Some critics denounce the licence fee as insulating the BBC against the bracing winds of competition, while others complain that the corporation has already abandoned its public service remit in the search for profit. One chorus takes up the theme that programming remains ‘elitist’ and ‘middle class’, another that it has become demotic and debased. Many people seem to feel that so long as The Archers and the shipping forecast are left untouched, then all is right with the world; others seem to think that the problem is precisely that The Archers and the shipping forecast have been left untouched for too long. It’s not easy to come up with any really new complaints about the BBC.
Wander into nature and give a good shout, and only nearby birds, frogs, and squirrels will hear you. Although sensing noise is a critical survival strategy for land animals, it’s a somewhat limited warning system, as sounds—save for something like a massive volcanic explosion—don’t travel far in air. They propagate much better through water, with undersea noises traveling hundreds or even thousands of miles, depending on the conditions.
Those conditions are rapidly transforming as the oceans warm. Changes in salinity, temperature, and pressure change how the sea sounds, with unknown impacts on the life-forms that depend on that noise to survive.
A dozen twists of a knife were all it took to tarnish the unblemished reputation of Washington’s oysters. It was 2017, and Teri King, an aquaculture specialist for Washington Sea Grant, a marine research institute, had been invited to shuck shellfish at a seafood event in Shelton, Washington. She was there to teach people about the local oyster industry, which is prized for producing delicious half shells with perfect, pearly white interiors. But her lesson soon took a dark turn. As she wedged her knife under the lip of an oyster, it split a hidden blister inside the shell.
What a word! Just typing it seems like a waste of life, a drain on my vital reserves. Well, it’s up there now and I’ll refer to it sparingly, judiciously. It does exist as a word (hence the problem we face), and even if it exists as a concept—(which I want to challenge)—I have doubts about the bulk of the instances in which it’s used. How often do we let this dubious term slide in as knee-jerk name for a whole lot of time, experience, sensation and movement that I (personally) would rather call my life?
The power of “A Tiny Upward Shove” rests in her insistence that even the murdered had agency in their lives, no matter how forgotten or lost to themselves and society.
To read Rivers of London is to enter a world we thought we'd left behind as children, one where magical impossibility becomes possible and absurdly plausible. Fans of a darn good crime novel who never knew they would enjoy a fantasy novel will absolutely love this series.
Ask her about the title of her new memoir, “Hello, Molly!” and she volunteers that Allison Saltzman, an art director at HarperCollins, came up with it. Praise her “Saturday Night Live” sketch “Dr. Beaman’s Office,” in which Tim Meadows performs the robot as Dr. Poop, causing Shannon to break out laughing, and she’ll offer, “Adam McKay wrote it.” Mention you enjoyed the first two episodes of her Showtime series, “I Love That for You,” premiering April 29, and she’ll give props to show creators Vanessa Bayer and Jeremy Beiler, showrunner Jessi Klein, director Michael Showalter and costar Jenifer Lewis.
But “Hello, Molly!” is all about Shannon, and it thrums with her indefatigable and fearless spirit. These qualities were instilled in her following the tragic death of her mother, sister and cousin in a 1969 car crash that she and her father, who was at the wheel, survived. She was 4 years old. “I was tough,” she writes. “When you lose a parent, you don’t want anybody to treat you differently. You want to blend in.”
It took novelist Brian Morton decades to realize that he didn’t always have to say yes to his mother. “It can take the better part of a lifetime to learn that you don’t actually always have to be so damn good.” Welcome to “Tasha: A Son’s Memoir,” Morton’s bracing account of his late mother’s final years.