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PEN America president Dinaw Mengestu resigned from his position this past Thursday after the troubled free-expression organization published a report reaffirming its opposition to cultural boycotts. The report, titled "A Silent Moratorium," recounts anecdotes from editors, agents, and writers who describe "rising isolation and exclusion" faced by Israeli and Jewish authors.  Mengestu saw the report as dangerously and falsely categorizing the Boycott, Divest, Sanctions (BDS) movement—which seeks to impose financial and cultural costs on Israeli occupation and genocide—as discrimination. "What PEN America fails to understand is that a boycott is a form of dialogue," Mengestu wrote in a statement posted to Instagram on Monday. "A Silent Moratorium" took unusually long to produce because of the scrutiny PEN America knew it would face. The report relies heavily on secondhand anecdotes; of the handful of writers who speak directly about their own experiences, one is an English professor at an Israeli university who says his creative writing students are wondering, "What am I going to do with my manuscript?" Another is a creative writing PhD student at the same university, who hasn't submitted her finished novel to publishers because she's afraid it will be rejected. When it turns to data, "A Silent Moratorium" refers to 350 self-reports to a hotline for "anti­se­mit­ic lit­er­ary-relat­ed inci­dents." We are not given specifics about any of these incidents. One major piece of evidence in the report is the existence of a spreadsheet titled "Is your fav author a zionist???" that went viral on Twitter in May 2024 and targets writers of all races; the report tuts its tongue at chilling epithets in the spreadsheet like "also zionist lowkey."

Welcome to Listening Habits, a column where I share the music and musical topics I’ve been fixated on recently. The rap song of the summer is undoubtedly Yung Miami's "Spend Dat." Produced by J. White Did It, the gloriously maximalist strip-club banger celebrates the joys of spending illegally acquired funds. It is a perfect summer rap record, and is also the perfect pop song for our moment of grift and speculative bubbles. We've all come to understand that the economy is an Oz with no wizard, a field as authentic as the people it has made insanely, criminally wealthy. There is functionally no difference between Elon Musk and your local wallet inspector from an economic standpoint, except for which one gets more attention from law enforcement. A song like "Spend Dat," which is like "We Are The Champions" for scammers, makes for a fitting theme song for the nation at large. https://youtu.be/74PnBM0g0CI?si=rjhqho5MTuycVHZf

Argentina is in the World Cup final for a second straight tournament. Somehow, some way, that is a true statement. After Cape Verde put the fear of god into the reigning champions, after Egypt had a 2-0 lead as late as the 79th minute, after Switzerland equalized and looked on the front foot in the quarterfinal, and after England scored first in Wednesday's semifinal, through all it all, Argentina exhibited the kind of survival skills most often associated with crocodiles and Real Madrid in the Champions League. Many times throughout the knockout rounds, Argentina has looked as good as dead, staring face to face with the end of its hopes of becoming the first repeat champions in 64 years and the close of Lionel Messi's international career (I mean, I assume, but who knows with him; I've been wrong before). But as England found out on Wednesday, on death's door is where Argentina feels most alive. On the brink of elimination, Argentina has consistently conjured magic, and now, after a 2-1 victory that looked impossible until it became reality, Argentina is one match away from immortality. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2og-PLyCUrs

The original version of this article was published in The Nation on July 13. When I first heard the 2026 World Cup was about to begin, I barely paid attention. This was partially because of the timing—most matches this year have aired late at night in Gaza because of the time difference with the United States—but mostly because I couldn't imagine how anyone here would watch the games.

Many new species have been announced this week. There are new mites from Saudi Arabia and a new weevil from Japan. There are new midges from China and new spiders from Brazil and China. There is a new dragonfly from Vietnam, a new jewel beetle from Borneo, and a grasshopper from Ecuador. Each of these creatures is no doubt beautiful in their own right. And yet, none of them are monkeys. Seemingly every week science announces new midges, new spiders, new spineless hopping things that hadn't been described because they are so small and elusive. It is not every week that science announces an animal so big and charismatic and closely related to us. It is not every week that science announces a new monkey. New monkey! When you got under the covers last night, could you have imagined that just the next day, that there would be a new monkey? When you placed your head upon your pillow and closed your eyes, did you have any inkling that, just around the corner, there would be a new monkey to know and love at a respectful distance? When you opened your bleary eyes this morning, could you have in your wildest dreams that you would, shortly after 2 p.m. Eastern Daylight Time, gain a greater understanding of the biological resplendence that abounds on our lush and precious planet? I have known about the monkey for around a week, which means I have had to actively restrain myself from telling everyone I know about the monkey, whose visage now graces the hallowed pages of this august website. I could not tell anyone about this monkey because of the rules of academic embargo, in which scientific papers are released to journalists a week or so before they actually publish so that we have the time to write up new stories that can be published as soon as the paper comes out. This means, by the time you are reading this, publications around the world will have published their own stories about the new monkey. Each will have its own merit, and many will be more serious than this one. But will they also have verve and gusto? Will they give the new monkey the flowers it deserves?

As an anxious and judgmental person whose standards for interpersonal etiquette and social niceties might best be described as Austenesque, I can confidently say: Every wedding is rife with social crimes. I’ve seen more than my share of dads make speeches about mawwiage, and I’ve seen a few chill brides set everyone in their vicinity tiptoeing (often rightly so), and I’ve watched whole tables full of relatives seethe about their placement. As far as I’m concerned, weddings encourage self-caricature. The wedding at the center of today’s gossip is no exception. We’ve got a backyard ceremony, some previously cordial neighbors, and a pair of grooms determined to make up for two years of social isolation with the celebration of a lifetime. Almost everyone is gay and almost everyone contributes to making this party (an) unforgettable (mess). https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3BGCAIKDzdI

Taking care to avoid the team-picking system of our schoolyard memories, Lilah Maravi divided us into two sides of about 20. It was a pleasant Sunday in June—Father’s Day—and we had gathered at our usual spot for our Pride month game. After a spontaneous game of catch in a Brooklyn park in 2023, Lilah had started this monthly pickup series with a Field of Dreams-esque compulsion to get trans women together to play baseball. That might sound counterintuitive. Many of us were unathletic youths, and many of us make significant efforts to distance ourselves from an image of masculinity. Add in transphobic campaigns to exclude us from women’s and girls sports, and it leaves few opportunities for trans women to enjoy being on a field. It was going to be up to people like Lilah and her friends to make it possible for baseball to be for us. The first game, in April 2023 at East River Park, drew not quite enough players for two full teams. Since then, we’ve moved fields (I’m leaving out where and when exactly, but if you want to play with us, you can find us) and found that way more girls wanted to play baseball than we had expected. At least once a month from April to October, as many as 50 players take turns on the diamond as friends chat, cheer, and grill hot dogs on the sidelines.

Aliyah Boston's teammate drives so much of the American population insane that it's easy to forget her own talent for getting in other people's heads. Opposing bigs unravel next to her. Jonquel Jones, possibly the nicest and humblest athlete I've ever spoken to, revealed the limits of her patience two years ago when she tussled with Boston in the Indiana Fever's home opener. Expect a technical foul or two whenever Boston and Brittney Griner play. Remember Boston's playoff spat with Brionna Jones? These bigs might tell you their beef has to do with Boston's prodigious use of elbows in the post. Kelsey Plum's impression of her, done all in good fun at Unrivaled, involved a pair of violent oblique twists before the shot attempt.  There were no techs or flaring tempers Sunday night, but Boston's skill and physicality made A'ja Wilson the latest victim of a Boston brain boom. In the Fever's 109-75 beatdown of the Las Vegas Aces, Wilson had maybe the worst game of her season, finishing 9-of-23 from the field while Boston went 9-of-14. (Granted, Wilson's worst still looks like 20 points, 12 boards, and a couple of blocks.) Unable to get to her spots against Boston, the reigning MVP had to take more jumpers than she wanted. "Twenty-three shots I took—I was probably happy with two of them," Wilson said after the game. When head coach Becky Hammon yanked the starters with a little under five minutes to play, they'd only managed to score four points in the fourth quarter.

We'll start with the most significant play of the 2026 MLB All-Star Game: a hit batsman. In the top of the third, with a man on first and the AL already leading 3-0, Tampa's Junior Caminero got smacked on the hand by a 98-mph pitch from St. Louis's Riley O’Brien. Caminero was replaced by a pinch runner as he left to get X-rays, and immediately the day's earlier news that the owners would try to force players to participate in the 2028 Olympics looked even more ridiculous. While Caminero's examination yielded relief, indicating he should be able to play for the Rays on Friday, the wait for that announcement dampened what was already an alternately dull and maudlin atmosphere in Philadelphia, where scores of empty seats were visible on the broadcast before the AL finished off their 4-0 win. Sometimes a baseball game just isn't exciting. That's always going to be an inherent risk. But Tuesday night didn't do itself any favors with its mid-game musical breaks, which made for an exhaustively self-serious affair. They stopped for a recording of Ray Charles's "America The Beautiful," which Jennifer Hudson had already performed in the pregame, then later broke for Boyz II Men to do "I'll Be There" as part of Mastercard's anti-cancer ad, and still we had to sit through "God Bless America." America 250 is ostensibly a birthday party, but birthday parties are supposed to be upbeat and fun. It felt like MLB was throwing a wake. At least we'll always have the goofy incongruity of Ernie Clement, in a jersey that says "Toronto," signing a Declaration of Independence–looking document as part of the starting lineup announcements. Mary DeCicco/MLB Photos via Getty Images

Welcome back to Minor Dilemmas, where a member of Defector's Parents Council will answer your questions on surviving family life. Have a question? Email us at minordilemmas@defector.com. This week, Drew talks about danger.