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Welcome to Listening Habits, a column where I share the music and musical topics I’ve been fixated on recently. It can be hard to remember amidst the downfall of everything, but 250 years of America is a major milestone. America, more of a grand experiment than a nation, a fantastical idea suggesting a very modern notion that the point of a country is the pursuit of the unachievable, starting with happiness. A nation that aspires toward its utopian principles but at heart is just as much about territory, empire, and extraction. It's a nation of contradictions, is what I'm getting at: atop those purple mountains' majesty and above those fruited plains lies both beauty and madness, achievement and grift, togetherness and division. And no nation loves its own mythology like America does. You can follow official White House Twitter accounts to see that. It's a mythology that imagines America not as a fight over taxes or even as the "brave" discovery of a definitely-not-lost (please do not say that he got lost) Christopher Columbus, but as a nation literally crafted by white God himself, with little baby Jesus in his loving arms. America especially loves its myths on the Fourth of July: hotdogs, sparklers, baseball, freshly baked apple pie on a kitchen windowsill. Precious, but also convenient, it fits a motif of America as a place not just for white people but that belongs to them. Or to quote my favorite line from The Good Shepherd, on the subject of what it is that WASPs have: "The United States of America, the rest of you are just visiting."

Perhaps it is too fucking hot where you are to do anything outside this weekend. Perhaps you prefer to be locked inside watching World Cup matches while eating popsicles. While you do that, feel free to hang out here and chat in the open thread.

There's a bit of symmetry in the new Netflix documentary The Final Set, a chronicle of the epic, tumultuous rivalry and friendship between Martina Navratilova and Chris Evert. Long removed from their legendary careers, both women were diagnosed with cancer in recent years: ovarian for Evert, breast and throat for Navratilova. After beating back the disease, they each go in for a scan. Just before sliding into the tubular machine, Evert hesitates, then removes her cap for comfort, revealing her chemo-bald head. Navratilova follows the exact same instinct at her appointment, taking off her shoes at the last second. In both cases, the discarded article of clothing lay nearest their greatest on-court asset, as portrayed in the doc. Evert is praised for her unwaveringly calm mindset; Navratilova, for her indefatigable legs. The Hall of Famers ended their careers in a deadlock at 18 major titles. Their friendship has survived major finals, sabotage, and now bouts with cancer. When both scans come up clean, this staunch atheist's mind admitted the words "bound souls."  The Final Set, directed by Rebecca Gitlitz, is the latest in a growing line of Netflix tennis documentaries. You had the discontinued Break Point, a messy Carlos Alcaraz in My Way, and last month, Rafa, a revealing look at Rafael Nadal's physical and mental trauma. There's reason to think this new entry into the online streaming canon is the best yet. Navratilova and Evert's narrative is better and more complex—they played 80 damn times, 60 of those in finals—with higher stakes than Alcaraz trying to navigate burnout or even Nadal breaking his body to prolong his career.  Eighty matches! Evert favored a baseline-heavy style, with creative passing shots to defuse her rival's net-rushing and skillful, dipping volleys, though both dipped into the other's bag plenty in search of successful adjustments. Navratilova edged the head-to-head 43-37, a narrow margin that disguises a number of fascinating twists. Evert was first to hit her prime and ran out to 20-5 and 30-18 leads in the rivalry. The friendship flourished during these Evertian summers, generating shared practice sessions and even a doubles partnership. In a moment of frankness, Chris admits it was easy to maintain a relationship during these years because she was better; Martina's observation that Evert "was only really close friends with players who could never beat her" has some bite. Once Navratilova began turning the tide, Evert broke off their occasional doubles partnerships. 

Now that we've covered two of the most interesting fellas who will be riding the 2026 Tour de France, and the theory of why they'll be riding this particular route, it's time to talk about the route itself. This year's Tour, starting on July 4, will span 3,321 kilometers of Spain and France while flirting with the Swiss and German borders. The route's 54,450 meters of vertical gain make it the third-most demanding Tour of the last 20 years, though that's deceptive, since a lot of that gain is distributed across the many intermediate, hilly stages rather than condensed in set-piece mountain stages. The 26 kilometers of individual time-trialing are also the third fewest of the last 20 years. There are four obvious sprint stages, as well as two stages I am pretty sure will come down to bunch kicks. It's a difficult route, but also quite fun. The second week is where I think I will crack, the third where the race will be decided. As a means of previewing each stage, I'm less interested in picking winners than in discussing the possible shape of each day's racing. I will also award each stage a number of radishes, on a scale from one to seven, to indicate how exciting I think it will be. Allez!

Ever since I was scooped up as a froglet from my marsh, taken into this laboratory, and developed a burgeoning freelance writing career, I have felt lost. I know I am searching, but I do not know what I seek. I want to share my life story with someone, anyone. I want to understand who I have been and what I have done, or, rather, what has been done to me. Some days I am not sure even I believe in myself. Am I really so alone in my experience of this world? Have other frogs tasted the noxious nectar of the bombardier beetle or the sickly crackle of the penis barbs of a wasp? Been pierced through the lip and through the eye by the stinger of the northern giant hornet? Escaped the gnashing jaws of their one true love? O, how I yearn to look beyond the walls of my cube and find other frogs who share my story. Is there anyone alive out there? I ribbit out in the night. No one answers. Perhaps there is no one out there at all. Yesterday the gloved hand of God lifted my lid and showered my Cube in soft, coiling mealworms. I ate them in a daze, the nutty flavors of their flesh escaping my taste. I felt lost in the abyss of my life, as if I had been placed in a pot over a low flame doomed never to boil. Life, hot and steaming around me but refusing to spill over or climax. Was this living, or an imitation of it? I looked around the translucent polypropylene walls of my hermitage and the low sky of its lid. My confinement suffocated me. Then, as I turned to gaze at each of the four corners of my Cube, I saw it move, and I broke out in a sweat, abnormally moist even for an amphibian. There, in the naked fluorescence of the lab, was a heap of shit: white and brown, indistinguishable from the leavings of any errant cloaca. I stared, steaming, at this offensive bequest. What sick joke was this! What could I learn from tonguing such filth? Then I blanched in embarrassment. Was this my own shit, abandoned after my morning movement? No, I did not remember evacuating my bowels today. As I blinked I could have sworn the shit twitched. But of course it had not. Shit is not supposed to move. Shit stood still, like a boulder or the bronze statue of the Great Frog Giovanni. I stood as still as shit should and pushed these foolish visions from my mind. I could scarcely croak. It was just us in the naked and sterile Cube, a virulent, contaminating heap that made me stare about my room with distrust. And then the shit began to unfurl.

It has long been a staple of sporting analysis that the last thing you saw is a terrible predictor of the thing you will see. Las Vegas is paved with the headstones of people who thought they figured out a team's future by breaking down its past. And then there's the Belgium men's national soccer team, which takes this adage one fallacy further by being different teams within the same game, and doing it repeatedly so that the cagey analyst just walks away at the start of the national anthem and says, "Tell me when it ends." They got to this point with a tedious draw against Egypt and then doubling down on the tedium with a scoreless draw with Iran; only a mismatched victory over New Zealand allowed them to win their group and advance to Wednesday night.  Thus, it is with exhausted joy mixed with bewilderment that the USMNT prepares for next Monday's round-of-16 showdown with the Belgians, whose performance in their 3-2 extra-time victory over Senegal was very late-model Belgian indeed. They were listless, bland, and seemingly too old to be bold for 85 minutes, during which time they fell behind the far more intrepid and inventive Senegalese, 2-0, and even subbed out their best-ever player (Kevin De Bruyne) and most capable attacker (Jeremy Doku) in what looked like acknowledgement of the inevitable. They were so fried with the game and each other that a second-half hydration break scufflette broke out between Youri Tielemans and Leandro Trossard.

Whether you remember his name or not, you've probably been reading about Judge Reed O'Connor and his judicial malevolence for years. O'Connor is making headlines again for being one of two judges to sentence 15 ICE protestors to a combined 547 years in prison. As the writer Lauren Fadiman pointed out in The Baffler, the media often uses "Prairieland ICE shooting" as a misleading shorthand for the protest. What actually happened is hard to capture in three words.  On the night of July 4, 2025, about a dozen people held a noise demonstration outside of the ICE Prairieland Detention Center in Alvarado, Texas. A few of them vandalized vehicles and guard structures, which cost the detention center around $2,200 to repair. Some set off fireworks in hopes of catching the attention of detainees, causing federal officers to call 911. Most of the protesters dispersed before the cops got there. But one of them, Benjamin "Champagne" Song, said that she saw Alvarado Police Lieutenant Thomas Gross pull out his gun and aim it at the back of an unarmed protester. Song fired her own gun in response, hitting Gross's shoulder. The officer sustained minor injuries and was released from the hospital a few hours later. Song said she was trying to prevent another Renee Good or Alex Pretti from being "gunned down in the street." And maybe she did. No one died outside of Prairieland that night. Song and others were charged with attempted murder. That happened before Charlie Kirk was assassinated. Shortly after, Donald Trump designated antifa as a domestic terrorist organization and released a counter-terrorism strategy which tied Kirk's death to "extreme transgender ideologies" and identified "violent left-wing extremists" as one of the three major types of terror groups threatening the U.S. government. The Prairieland defendants—composed of trans people, tattoo artists, and zine-makers—served as the perfect embodiments of Trump's specter of domestic terror. Multiple defendants weren't even present at the protest, and much of the evidence presented at trial had nothing to do with the events of that night. Prosecutors weaponized the possession of stickers which said things like "ACAB," membership in the Socialist Rifle Association, the use of the encrypted messaging app Signal, and all-black clothing as evidence that the defendants were an "antifa terror cell."

This here is not a personal diatribe about Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce. I got no beef with either of these two crazy kids. Swift is one of the hardest-working entertainers in show business, and Kelce is one of the greatest tight ends to ever play pro football. They’re more than welcome to fall in love, and Swift is more than welcome to pen songs about her man’s girthy member. The pair are also free to tie the knot anytime, and anywhere, they like. Except for … One of the biggest events of the summer has been a mystery: When and where are Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce getting married? And when does everyone get to celebrate? New details confirmed by The New York Times suggest a multiple-day event at Madison Square Garden, which an entertainment industry executive said Ms. Swift had rented. The entertainment industry executive and another person with knowledge of the matter described the anticipated festivities: On July 2, the plans call for an intimate gathering of about 100 people at the Garden. The next day on July 3, about 1,000 guests would gather there for a splashier celebration, with possible stage appearances. Seriously? You two are getting married at Madison Square fucking Garden? YOU FUCKING ASSHOLES.

Up until a month ago, I rarely thought about '90s club legends The KLF. This is because The KLF were never all that big in the States, and thus I only remember them for their biggest single here, “3:00 a.m. Eternal.” If I had been paying closer attention, I would have discovered that the group, led by musicians Jimmy Cauty and Bill Drummond, were singing “ancients of Mu Mu” in the chorus of that song, in reference to a mythical, pre-Atlantis lost continent. I also would have known that Drummond was a multi-hyphenate of the oddest sort: a musician/producer/promoter/performance artist/carpenter who, in tandem with Cauty, infamously took a million pounds sterling from their KLF earnings and deliberately lit it on fire. Now, the easiest explanation as to why these two men set a bagful of money on fire is that they were fucking insane. But if you’ve read author John Higgs’s incredible history of The KLF, as I just did, you might be more amenable to its founders’ runaway train of thought. After all, you don’t help stage a 12-hour production about the Illuminati, shepherd Echo & The Bunnymen into the British mainstream, become worldwide pop stars in your own right, and then delete your entire back catalog without something, possibly drug-aided, going on up there. Is it not worth following your muse, even if that muse might come off as superficially cuckoo-nanners? Is there not value in the act of creation, and of creative destruction? In fact, what if art is at its core an act of conjuring? Of magic? Also, why did Tammy Wynette decide to lay down a track for these two lunatics when they cold-called her? THAT, my friends, is (kinda) the subject of this week’s Distraction.

Things come out of Donald Trump's mouth, then just keep on coming out of it. If he says something once, he will say it again, primarily to reinforce how powerfully and unprecedentedly successful he was in having said it in the first place, but also because he so enjoys the sound of his own voice saying all the famous things that he says. The picture-book binaries that define and proscribe his understanding of the world—big and small, good and bad, hot and cold, rich and poor, white and not white—set the boundaries, but there is not any editorial process beyond that. No one who serves him would ever give him notes, and he would never deign to take them from anyone in his service anyway. Everything he says or does is just a thing that happens; a dishearteningly large portion of political media comes down to making sure that people who follow current events are made aware of it whenever it does. They're good at this, too, which means that you are probably aware that Trump frequently delivers some version of this statement, which is from a speech he made on Dec. 17, 2025: "One year ago, our country was dead. We were absolutely dead. Our country was ready to fail. Totally fail. Now we’re the hottest country anywhere in the world. And that’s said by every single leader that I’ve spoken to over the last five months."