Theaster Gates Inc

Theaster Gates is standing on the dusty floor of his future studio warehouse in the Grand Crossing neighborhood.

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Memories of Punctuation (Part One: The Comma)

My introduction to the tyranny of grammar came from an unlikely place.

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Down For the Sperm Count

I slammed on the brakes a little too hard. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the dixie cup filled with my seminal fluid, gliding across the passenger side seat like a hockey puck soaring towards a goal. I reached out and grabbed it, saving my sperm from certain suicide, and held it close to my chest, as if protecting it from predators.

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Everything Was Beautiful and Nothing Hurt

I picked up my mother at the Orlando airport, and during the hour-long drive down to Melbourne, she went through a laundry list of warnings about Bob, her younger brother and my uncle.

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Four Stories About Sex In Which No Actual Sex Takes Place

I. At first, I didn’t know what I was looking at. It seemed like something was missing. It was just a hairless mound which, based on what little I knew about human anatomy, should have contained a penis.

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What We Talk About When We’re Trying Not To Talk About Death

The woods of northern Michigan can be unseasonably cold in July. Even when the temperature reaches 80 degrees, the moment you venture into the dark, Tolkien-esque forest, it might as well be mid-February. It’s damp and unpleasant and the ground is still frost-bitten from the winter. It’s where happiness goes to die.

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For Tightwads Who Have Considered Filet Mignon When Burger Chef Is Enuf

You can learn everything you’d ever want or need to know about a family — either your own or somebody else’s — just by listening to what they talk about over dinner. Do they discuss literature, the economy, celebrity gossip, how the government is screwing them, which relatives not currently in the room are assholes?

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