JOSHUA B. LIPSON
Within a matter of months, the Israeli government will be expelling between 30,000 and 40,000 Bedouin citizens of Israel from their traditional villages, razing their homes, and resettling them in state-built townships according to its own semi-private master plan.
There is no meaningful way to square the circle. Thanksgiving is a holiday of ecumenical ideals, and Hanukkah a festival of bloody national liberation.
But most importantly, I submit that my exercise in political [dys/u]topia is exactly the kind of act of “applied imagination” that a student of history, politics, and culture should be engaging in—infinitely more stimulating and attention-sustaining than Facebook or Gawker, while less time-consuming than writing a political novel.
Secular liberals, male and female, I urge you: fewer existential crises, more babies.
A world without religion, rotary clubs, wealth-equalizing measures, and norms of decency might be a better one for me, Joshua Lipson.
We’ve all been to yogurtland. The neon-and-antiseptic walls, the nave-like proportions; the blessed infinity of choices. The soulless negative of a charming, family-owned ice cream shop, but less likely to stop your heart. Self-serve frozen yogurt is the undisputed “in” dessert of the global bourgeoisie—but nary a good enough yogurt joint for the job in Harvard Square, the fermented dairy delight’s ideal market.
Forty-eight hours before shopping week began, I was eating dust, watching a man on a giant spaceship go up in balls of fire. You should have joined me.
And as irresponsible as it would be for me to dismiss questions about social security’s long-term solvency and the appropriate federal response to gun violence, I cannot sit by as members of the political class laugh away issues of sustainability, psychedelic research, intellectual property, human enhancement, and geoengineering as matters of the apolitical long-term.
Living among the liberals, I can begin by dispelling one particularly stubborn conservative myth: that liberals hate capitalism, the American way of life, and—most incongruously—freedom of choice.
I come to J Street not out of Jewish weakness, but rather out of studied political realism and contact with the human side of Palestinian statelessness
But the art of the true crime show is not made by verisimilitude alone. As for anything moving and yet tasteful, there exists a careful method to crafting just the right true crime segment, as defined chiefly by its images.
Although nothing of a cheerleader for Obama administration foreign policy, I could not help but writhe with contempt over Beck’s newest outburst of on-air mania.
Styles might very well change over the years, but there exists an objective pale that we ought never to cross.
Career portals and dating sites flourish precisely because they work—not by replacing human intuition and pattern recognition, but by broadening our horizons and suggesting opportunities that might have been lost in the welter of our modern minds.
It is unfortunate that the question of whether to negotiate with designated terrorists often comes up at moments of crisis, when governments are at their lowest point of leverage.