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Fifteen years ago, the world was introduced to a rapper from Detroit named Eminem, and hip-hop hasn’t been the same since. The 32-minute film, which was shot in Detroit, Los Angeles, and New York, chronicles how Shady Records became one of the most dominant labels of the 2000s, and features commentary from Eminem, Dr.
Prince Rogers Nelson, better known as the legendary musician Prince, has died of unknown causes. My mother survived to the age of ninety-three, so she had time to develop a number of habits that people now consider to be symptomatic of dementia.
Joan Acocella has written for The New Yorker, reviewing dance and books, since 1992, and became the magazine’s dance critic in 1998.
Use of this site constitutes acceptance of our User Agreement (effective January 1, 2014) and Privacy Policy (effective January 1, 2014). Cheshire murders: Six years after a deadly home invasion, officials still refuse to answer questions about the emergency response by the Cheshire police department. Questions about the police response resurfaced this week after HBO aired a documentary on the killings Monday and The Hartford Courant reported about audio recordings of police dispatch and phone calls it recently obtained.Police Chief Neil Dryfe and Town Manager Michael Milone declined to comment about the police response. Science bloggers are very upset that the "science" channel was spreading lies about sharks, and even actor-nerd Will Wheaton suggested the the Discovery Channel owed its viewers an apology.
This is very similar to another fake documentary, which claimed that Mermaids existed, that aired on Animal Planet a few months ago.
Last night, Discovery Channel betrayed that trust during its biggest viewing week of the year. Megalodon: The Monster Shark That Lives was not just a disservice to your genuinely curious audience. At least the faux Mermaids documentaries on Animal Planet flashed a brief disclaimer explaining that they were false. As many have noted, there's plenty of awesome things to say about the megalodon, without resorting to making up lies. The video embedded at the end of this blog post in particular has gotten many inclining towards the possibility of their being real creatures, living their life hidden from human eyes.
It shows a sea creature resting on the rocks, fleeing at the very instant it realizes there are people around, looking at it. Your California Privacy Rights The material on this site may not be reproduced, distributed, transmitted, cached or otherwise used, except with the prior written permission of Condé Nast. Dryfe joined the Cheshire department as chief in January 2011 after a long career with Hartford police. Its viewers are using social media a€” including Facebook and Twitter a€” to voice their outrage. The documentaries hire actors to play scientists and create false footage that they call "found" to tell their story.
Somehow predictably, the creature is shot from a great distance, so that it's impossible to make out exactly what it is. She lived in Santa Barbara, in an apartment with a perfectly adequate kitchen, but in order to store her dishes she had to buy a freestanding cabinet and install it in the dining room. Someone made a deliberate choice to present a work of fiction that is more suited for the SyFy channel as a truthful and factual documentary. She needed her kitchen cupboards for other purposes, such as her collection of polystyrene food containers. In her late years, my mother underwent several operations, and, for a long time, after she came home, Meals on Wheels delivered her dinner. Petit was severely beaten and his wife and two daughters were killed, officials refuse to answer questions about emergency response to the crime scene.
On Thursday, Milone declined to tell the AP whether there was a review.Police officials in other towns and emergency response experts said it's common for law enforcement agencies to review their responses to major crimes to see what they did well, what they didn't do well and how they can improve. But to my mother they were exotic, and attractive: gleaming and white, with little compartments, like a jewelry box.
A bank manager called police to say Hawke-Petit had just told a teller that her family was being held hostage at their home and gave her address.Police went to the home within minutes and set up a perimeter. Disc 2 will be available shortly & will drop in stores & on iTunes the following week on October 16th !!!!!!
She told me that she might use one as a desk organizer, or perhaps a sewing kit, with different kinds of buttons in the wells. I don’t know what she did with the dinners, but the containers were washed, patted dry, and carefully stacked on their designated shelves. Then, every year, shortly before Thanksgiving, I would fly in from New York to visit her, and the first thing we did on the morning after my arrival was clean out the polystyrene-container cupboard.
Both were convicted of capital felony, murder and sexual assault and sent to death row.Authorities have said Hayes and Komisarjevsky broke into the home in the early morning hours after following Hawke-Petit and Michaela home from a grocery store. Officials have said Komisarjevsky sexually assaulted Michaela at some point, and Hayes strangled and raped Hawke-Petit after they returned to the home from the bank. I was helping to keep her apartment in the kind of shape where no one could come in and say that she had to be moved to a nursing home—a possibility that she actively feared.
Soon, she knew, she was going to lose everything she had, because she was going to lose her life. She died in 2010, and so she never had to find out that in 2013 the American Psychiatric Association declared her storage habits a diagnostic feature of a mental illness called “hoarding disorder,” or H.D. Hoarders also tend to go in for energetic collecting, often at inexpensive emporia—thrift shops, yard sales, and the like. The first edition was published in 1952; since then, it has undergone five substantial revisions, and, in the process, the concept of psychopathology has broadened. For a number of years now, you haven’t had to do anything especially eye-catching to make it into the manual.
DSM-V has a new category, “excoriation (skin-picking) disorder,” which is where you could end up if you don’t stop picking your cuticles.

In a section called “Conditions for Further Study,” the manual lists behaviors that it isn’t calling disorders yet but is asking us to think about. If you fail, the manual suggests, you may be the victim not only of grief but also of illness, which calls for treatment. Just as bereavement has an ordinary cause (death), so hoarding may be the product of unremarkable circumstances—notably modern medicine, which allows us to live longer.
DSM-V says that hoarding sometimes begins in childhood, but that by the time the hoarders come to the attention of the authorities they tend to be old. The aged have fewer pleasures than younger people do, and therefore may be more tempted by the prospect of having plastic flyswatters in five different colors. Also, old people are likely to be living alone, without someone to tell them that they are doing something unusual, or to make them care about that fact. If our grandmothers and our great-grandmothers keep bags of string, that may be because they may remember a time when they had no string.
Normal as all this sounds, there are cases of hoarding that don’t fall within the boundaries of the normal, and these are the subject of “The Hoarders: Material Deviance in Modern American Culture” (University of Chicago), by Scott Herring, a professor of English at Indiana University.
Probably the most famous American case—Herring leads with it—is that of Homer and Langley Collyer, two brothers who lived in an imposing four-story brownstone at Fifth Avenue and 128th Street, in Manhattan, in the first half of the twentieth century. Both boys went to Columbia University, Homer receiving a degree in law, Langley in engineering. The father, on days when his work called him to City Hospital, on Roosevelt Island, is said to have paddled there in his canoe and, at night, paddled back to Manhattan and carried the canoe home. The brothers worked for a while, but gradually they stopped, and allowed their phone, gas, electricity, and water services to lapse. But what most surprised the neighbors was the amount of debris that the Collyers seemed to be accumulating. After a day’s search, the police found the body of Homer, sitting bent over, with his head on his knees. The house contained what, in the end, was said to have been more than a hundred and seventy tons of debris. There were toys, bicycles, guns, chandeliers, tapestries, thousands of books, fourteen grand pianos, an organ, the chassis of a Model T Ford, and Dr.
There were also passbooks for bank accounts containing more than thirty thousand dollars, in today’s money. As Herring describes it, the rooms were packed almost to the ceilings, but the mass, like a Swiss cheese, was pierced by tunnels, which Langley had equipped with booby traps to foil burglars. It was in one of those tunnels that his corpse, partly eaten by rats, was finally discovered, only a few feet away from where Homer’s body had been found. He was apparently bringing Homer some food when he accidentally set off one of his traps and entombed himself. A more cheerful story, retold by Herring, is that of Edith Ewing Bouvier Beale and her daughter, Edith—Big Edie and Little Edie, as they are known.
These two women would probably have lived and died without eliciting much comment had Big Edie not been the aunt of Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy Onassis. Big Edie was a party girl; Little Edie was her true heir—beautiful, undisciplined, and fun. By 1952, the two women were left on their own, living on small allowances, in the family’s mansion, Grey Gardens, in East Hampton. Herring includes a wonderful photograph of her smiling broadly as she stands in front of a waist-high pile of empty cans, presumably cat-food cans, in the dining room. They inhabited only three of the house’s twenty-eight rooms, and whatever they had for dinner seems to have been cooked over a can of Sterno, on Big Edie’s nightstand.
As Grey Gardens became increasingly run-down—in time, it looked like something out of a gothic novel—the neighbors contacted the authorities. In 1971, when Big and Little Edie were seventy-six and fifty-three, respectively, they received a visit from the county health department and were told that, unless the house was cleaned up, they would be evicted. This was an even bigger press sensation than that of the Collyers, and the reason, of course, was Jacqueline Onassis.
The news that she had close relatives who were living in filth was an occasion of scandal and Schadenfreude. The cans were removed, together with many things that the Beales were likely very sorry to lose, and the women were allowed to stay in their home. In time, the Beales were introduced to the brothers Albert and David Maysles, the documentary filmmakers, who clearly fell half in love with them. Working in collaboration with Ellen Hovde and Muffie Meyer, the brothers made the Beales the subject of the documentary “Grey Gardens” (1975), which became a cult favorite.
After the departure of the health department, the Beales soon managed to make their house comfortable again. In some marvellous footage that the Maysles brothers included in a second film, released in 2006, a raccoon that had apparently entered the house through a hole in the wall helps himself to a slice of white bread and strolls off with his dinner. True, the ladies didn’t throw away those cat-food cans, but it’s hard to say what the real drama is here, because the evidence is a piece of art, a movie, which, even if it wasn’t scripted, was nevertheless controlled by what the Beales soon realized were the filmmakers’ expectations.
Those included not just clutter but also upper-class insouciance and some rather complicated family psychology, of the Tennessee Williams sort.
These notes of sweetness are part of what allowed the Beales’ story to become as popular as it did. Another attraction was the heavy layer of camp supplied by Little Edie, who had a remarkable way with clothes (she liked to wear her skirts upside down) and a highly theatrical accent. Of the cleanup forced on her and her mother by the health department, Little Edie said to the Maysles brothers, “They do it to everybody. If they crammed twenty-eight rooms with junk, that’s in part because they had a house with twenty-eight rooms.
And if they declined to do the dishes, wouldn’t you, on many nights, have preferred to omit that task?

The sense that hoarding was a symptom of genteel eccentricity started to change about twenty years ago. In 1993, Randy Frost, a professor of psychology at Smith College, and one of his students, Rachel Gross, published an article, in Behaviour Research and Therapy, to the effect that hoarding was not rare but common, and a dangerous business. By 2010, Frost and a colleague, Gail Steketee, in their book “Stuff: Compulsive Hoarding and the Meaning of Things”—which examined the Collyers in detail—were claiming that between six and fifteen million Americans were engaged in pathological hoarding. In the Freudian-dominated theories of the early twentieth century, it was a sign of an “anal” character: hoarders refused to let go of what they had. By the nineteen-eighties, Freudian theory was being shoved aside in favor of empirical evidence, but hoarding was still treated as a symptom, particularly of what was now called obsessive-compulsive personality disorder.
With that claim, plus the prevalence estimates, which, however conjectural, were confidently asserted, experts on the subject—there was now a subject, and experts—felt safe in saying that hoarding presented “a major threat to public health.” For such a notion to be accepted, other professionals had to climb on board. In the nineteen-eighties, Sandra Felton, a popular-psychology writer, mounted an anti-clutter campaign based on a combination of Evangelical Christianity (her husband was an Evangelical minister), self-help psychology, and addiction narratives.
In 1980, Felton founded a movement called Messies Anonymous, inspired by Alcoholics Anonymous. Between 1983 and 2013, Felton published more than a dozen books, with the collective message that clutter was, if not an actual sin, at least a failure of self-understanding. Less salvational, but certainly allied, was the rise of the so-called “professional organizers,” people whom you could hire to come into your house and get things in order. Researchers began looking for evidence that hoarders might be suffering from neurological abnormalities, possibly passed on from parent to child. The pioneer series was “Hoarders,” which had six seasons on A & E, between 2009 and 2013. On “Hoarders,” as on most reality TV, you never know how much reality you’re seeing, but, from what one can tell, each episode is basically a structured improvisation. They are about to be evicted, or their children are going to be taken away by child-protective services, or they are going to be charged with harboring animals in unsafe conditions.
Now the program shows us the hoarder’s house and, on the stoop, the counsellor who has been sent over, plus a cleanup crew, usually two men with a truck.
Because it’s television, you can’t smell it, but the fact that the counsellor and the cleanup crew wear masks means something. In the house of Jill, a “food hoarder,” we are shown a fly strip that is more flies than strip. A cleanup man begins to remove a pumpkin that she apparently set great store by when she bought it.
She plucks a few seeds out of it—she’s going to replant them, she says—and then she lets it go.
Sometimes the counsellors, but more often the hoarders themselves, speculate about the emotional underpinnings of the problem. From another house, Shirley’s, the crew removes seventy-six cats, forty-one live ones and thirty-five dead ones. The show’s producers have an interest in grossing us out, of course, but if even half the refuse sitting on Shirley’s floor was there when they arrived, and if DSM-V’s lowest estimate of the frequency of pathological hoarding—two per cent of the population—is even half true, this really is a serious public-health matter. The Beales, even if their monthly allowances were small, still owned Grey Gardens (which, after Big Edie’s death, in 1977, Little Edie sold to Ben Bradlee and Sally Quinn for two hundred and twenty thousand dollars). By contrast, most of the hoarders we see on reality TV are working-class people, and they don’t appear to be working.
According to the research, their prognosis is not good—“Treatment failures are frequent,” an article in the journal Depression and Anxiety says grimly—and reality-TV commentary, for what it’s worth, agrees. With the modern history of hoarding, we are now getting the modern, or actually postmodern, explications. Scott Herring tells us about the Collyers and the Beales and also Andy Warhol, who, apart from being a formidable collector, was also a major hoarder. The operative word here is “deviance.” Herring repeatedly cites Michel Foucault (he might have nodded at Thomas Szasz as well), to the effect that people in authority use psychiatry as a means of social control.
Like everyone else, Herring has a good time describing hoarders’ houses—his chapter on the Collyers includes hair-raising photographs—but he believes that people have a right to accumulate as much junk as they want, and that campaigns against clutter are covert attacks on more politicized versions of nonconformity. With their disorganized house, he says, they seemed a symbol of what many people of the time viewed as the social disorganization of African-American life. The Collyers were not black, but their neighborhood, Harlem, became predominantly African-American during their lifetime. Herring’s argument, like most books written by professors in defense of things thought to be deplored by upstanding people, can be accused of slumming, and his prose epitomizes the fogbound language that we generally find in such writings. It is hard to understand why, all of a sudden, in the nineteen-nineties, we started seeing houses that were inundated with rat droppings and old newspapers. Maybe the war between hoarding and anti-hoarding isn’t a struggle between individualists and conformists.
Hoarders have a mental disorder, we’re told, but do we respond to them the way we do to people who suffer from panic attacks or hallucinations?
Don’t they seem to us marginally creepier, and doesn’t that have to do with what our parents said about cleaning up our rooms? Whatever the truth of this, the situation is probably going to get worse pretty soon, because of the well-established link between hoarding and aging. By 2050, according to the Census Bureau, the number of Americans age sixty-five or older will be about eighty-four million, almost double what it was in 2012.

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