loupe.
This Los Angeles rain is my kinda noise.
It helps me work, and it helps me sleep. I have projects crowded onto front-burners, and the work has me researching everything from the madness of lane markings on California roads to 110 synonyms and antonyms for “fear.” And because I did a second-screen binge of American Rust (even more bleak than Mare of Easttown), I had to look up “dippy eggs,” which I didn’t know were so especially beloved in Pittsburgh. When I couldn’t put my finger on Lakers guard Austin Reaves’ accent, I found out more here.
I appeared on The Saturday Show with Jonathan Capehart this weekend — talked about Beyoncé’s new Americana extravaganza, Cowboy Carter. It’s an intergenerational, genre-shattering hoedown. A reclamation. A talent show. And after just a few full listens, the album makes a number of things clear:
The idea of America as a country — its rural spaces, its cowboy culture, its red, white and blue, its very flag — is not the property of any one group. No
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