This story was originally published by Inside Climate News and appears here as part of the Climate Desk collaboration. 

The Environmental Protection Agency announced last week that vinyl chloride would be among five chemicals to begin the process for risk evaluation prioritization under the Toxic Substances Control Act, or TSCA, an early step toward potentially banning the chemical.  

The news comes after environmental groups campaigned this summer for the chemical to be banned, visiting EPA offices in Washington in July and gathering thousands of petition signatures. Vinyl chloride is a colorless gas that is used to make PVC, a common material in construction products like flooring, siding, pipes, and roofing. Vinyl chloride has been known as a human carcinogen since the 1970s. 

“The announcement is very significant because EPA announced that they’re only going to look at five chemicals for a new evaluation,” said Judith Enck, a former EPA regional administrator and the president of Beyond Plastics, an organization working to end plastic pollution. 

Enck was part of the team that traveled to Washington this summer. She brought a large vinyl rubber ducky to the EPA meeting to illustrate the fact that PVC is used to make children’s toys. 

Jason Mamoa stars in sequel that 'goes through the usual blockbuster motions'

Marcus needs consoling. Again. That’s because Fulham have been drawn against Liverpool in a two-legged semi-final. Oh no...

Luke joins Marcus to react to Liverpool dishing out yet another defeat to poor old David Moyes, who made history by becoming the first manager to try and play a Carabao Cup quarter-final via email. Plus, why Santa has been dragged into the middle of the Celtic-Rangers rivalry and bold predictions that Steve Cooper’s going to pop up in the Bournemouth end at the weekend. Probably topless.

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Hebe Uhart had a unique way of looking—a power of observation that was streaked with humor, but which above all spoke to her tremendous curiosity. Uhart, a prolific Argentine writer of novels, short stories, and travel logs, died in 2018. “In the last years of her life, Hebe Uhart read as much fiction as nonfiction, but she preferred writing crónicas, she used to say, because she felt that what the world had to offer was more interesting than her own experience or imagination,” writes Mariana Enríquez in an introduction to a newly translated volume of these crónicas, which will be published in May by Archipelago Books. At the Review, where we published one of Uhart’s short stories posthumously in 2019, we will be publishing a series of these crónicas in the coming months, starting with one of the most personal.

About thirty years ago, I had a boyfriend who was a drunk. Back then, I was full of vague impulses and concocted impossible projects. I wanted to build a house with my own two hands; before that, there’d been another project, involving a chicken hatchery. I was never cut out for industry or manual labor. I didn’t think that alcoholism was a sickness—I believed he would be able to stop drinking once he decided to. I was working at a high school and had asked for some much-needed time off to improve my mental health, and I spent my days with my drunken boyfriend going from club to club, and from one house to the next. We paid countless visits to the most diverse assortment of people, among them an old poet and his wife who would receive guests not at their home, but in bars. Some turned their noses up at the pair, whispering that it took them a week to get from Rivadavia Avenue to Santa Fe Avenue, as they spent a full day at each bar. It was a year of great discovery for me, learning about these people and their homes, but sometimes it was boring, because drunks have a different sense of time and money. It is like living on a ship, where time is suspended, and as for my boyfriend’s friends, they were always destined for the bottle and stranded at the bar (or so they claimed) until someone could come rescue them. I used to get bored when drunk poets began counting the syllables of verses to see if they were hendecasyllabic, trochaic … it could go on for hours.

The whole time I was mixed up in all of this, nobody ever knew where I was going. I would only come home to eat and sleep—I didn’t tell my family anything. They became concerned. My mom had a cousin follow me and report back to her:

“They sleep at a different house every night. My advice—buy her an apartment.”

Almost three years ago, during his first week in office, President Joe Biden signed an executive order instructing the Justice Department to stop renewing its contracts with private prison companies. The news was like a glimpse of blue sky for critics of the controversial sector—especially after four years of Donald Trump, who had fostered a cozy, mutually lucrative relationship with the private prison industry.

The order restored an Obama-era policy first announced in 2016—and later suspended by Trump administration—after a damning federal report found that private federal prisons were less safe and less secure than their publicly run counterparts. No longer would the Bureau of Prisons sign deals with corporations to lock up people serving federal prison sentences. Nor would the US Marshals Service, in charge of detaining people while they await trial on federal criminal charges, enter or renew contracts with those same companies. 

Or, at least, that was the idea. And over the last three years, the Bureau of Prisons has indeed ended its use of private prisons—moving the roughly 14,000 people it previously held in private facilities into government-owned ones as of last December. But the Marshals Service is a different story. Among the roughly 63,000 people held in USMS custody each night, the ACLU has found that about 1 in 3 still go to sleep in a detention center run by a private prison company. “As far as we can tell, the numbers remained about constant,” says Kyle Virgien, senior staff attorney at the ACLU’s National Prison Project. 

So what gives? That’s the question at the heart of a new letter sent by nine Senate Democrats to Marshals Service Director Ronald Davis and Attorney General Merrick Garland on Tuesday, seeking more information on two workarounds USMS has been using to avoid moving its detainees out of private prisons. “The Marshals Service must end its abuse of loopholes to circumvent the order, which allow these private jails to operate unsafe facilities and profit from mass incarceration,” Sen. Elizabeth Warren, the letter’s lead signatory, said in a statement to Mother Jones. “We have a basic responsibility to keep detainees safe.”

The letter notes several ways in which USMS has continued to house people in private prisons. First, the agency has been using municipalities as go-betweens to avoid directly hiring private prison companies. USMS has long made deals with town or county governments to keep USMS detainees in their local jail. But in some cases, that local government then turns around and hires a private prison company as a subcontractor. This pass-through mechanism allowed USMS to keep detainees in the 2,016-bed Northeast Ohio Correctional Center, owned and run by CoreCivic, one of the country’s largest private prison operators. When USMS’s contract with CoreCivic expired in May 2021, USMS signed a new contract with Mahoning County, which in turn signed a deal with CoreCivic. 

In a earthshaking decision on Tuesday evening, the Colorado Supreme Court ruled that the Constitution bars former President Donald Trump from holding federal office again—disqualifying the Republican frontrunner from the 2024 presidential ballot in Colorado.

Trump is expected to appeal the ruling to the Supreme Court. If the justices were to affirm the Colorado Supreme Court’s decision, Trump could be wiped off ballots nationwide.

“We do not reach these conclusions lightly,” the Colorado Supreme Court wrote in its decision. “We are mindful of the magnitude and weight of the questions now before us. We are likewise mindful of our solemn duty to apply the law, without fear or favor, and without being swayed by public reaction to the decisions that the law mandates we reach.”

The decision overturns the ruling of a federal court in Denver last month.  As I reported then:

In the days after the Capitol attack on January 6, 2021, some legal experts began to speculate that a little-known constitutional provision might be used to block President Donald Trump from ever serving a second term. The 14th Amendment, passed after the Civil War, included a portion, called Section 3, that was designed to keep former Confederate leaders out of Congress. But could the section, which disqualified officials who had engaged in “insurrection or rebellion,” also be used to block Trump from running for president again, based on his actions supporting for the Capitol riot?

I turned nineteen and moved to Chicago. Three weeks later, Dave and I bought a silver Celica for five hundred bucks, which, even in 1999, didn’t seem like much for an entire car. Dave named her Angie (short for Angelica, inspired by the elica on the grille, the C having gone missing sometime in the previous eleven years). He was a sophomore at the University of Chicago, and I was his deadbeat friend who had moved to Hyde Park to get out of my parents’ apartment and go be a dropout eight hundred miles away. We liked to think Angie resembled a low-rent DeLorean. The headlights opened and closed—creaking up and down like animatronic eyes—but shortly after the big purchase they got stuck in the up position.

When we test-drove the car around Ravenswood, the steering wheel felt disconcertingly heavy. Oh, that’s just a minor power-steering leak, said the seller. Easy fix. We didn’t know what power steering was, or that the leak was actually expensive to fix, and that we’d have to refill the fluid on a weekly basis. Plus, the hood stand had broken, or disappeared, or anyway no longer existed, so it was necessary to hold up the hood with one hand and refill the cylinder with the other, which was quite difficult to do. Thankfully, there were two of us. We’d been friends since third grade, and with our easy dynamic, splitting a car didn’t seem odd—only convenient.

Growing up in Manhattan, we weren’t allowed to practice driving within the city limits, and most of my friends failed the test once or twice. I’d gotten my license a few days before moving to the Midwest (third try), and was thrilled to be a license-holding car owner. I’d go out at night—sometimes with Dave, sometimes alone—and drive around the neighborhood. Do laps up and down the Midway, blasting Born to Run or Hüsker Dü. That year was probably the freest I’ve ever felt, though I’m not sure I appreciated the freedom. Or maybe it was dampened by loneliness, and feeling like I had little to do with my time. I’d saved up from being the errand boy at a rock club the previous couple years and decided to be work-free in Chicago for as long as possible, with vague ambitions of starting a band. But I didn’t meet many potential bandmates, and my guitar grew dusty. That fall, I’d stay up till five, six in the morning, and sleep till three. Our lives were small. On Sunday nights, Dave and I would go to our favorite Italian restaurant, where we had a crush on the waitress, and then see a movie. Once a month, we’d hand-deliver our insurance payment to Bill, our friendly rep at the InsureOne office in a strip mall on Fifty-Third Street. The Obamas supposedly lived down the street.

When the money ran out, I answered an ad on a bulletin board in the U of C student center. Far East Kitchen was now my employer. Three or four nights a week, Angie and I would deliver juicy Chinese food across the neighborhood: from Forty-Seventh Street to Sixty-First, Cottage Grove to the lake. No matter how I arranged them, the bags of food would often topple over on the floor of the back seat and ooze “gravy” into the carpeting. I got paid by the delivery—on a slow night, I could finish a shift with sixteen bucks in my pocket. Despite the frequent disrespect and lowly social status, I found it satisfying to race around the neighborhood, making my drops. Less so during ice storms. (When, twenty years later and low on funds, I had a brief stint as a DoorDasher in Eugene, Oregon, the satisfaction, unsurprisingly, flagged. By then, Dave was living in a midsize Canadian city with a wife and child. Our dynamic had gone through some uneasy times.)

Catholic priests can now bless same-sex couples, the Vatican announced on Monday, a notable shift toward creating a more open atmosphere in the Catholic Church. 

The move, outlined in a new document, expands on a letter published in October from Pope Francis to conservative cardinals in which he hinted that same-sex unions could receive blessings, as long as they are not considered the same as heterosexual marriages. The document warned against “doctrinal or disciplinary schemes, especially when they lead to a narcissistic and authoritarian elitism whereby instead of evangelizing, one analyzes and classifies others, and instead of opening the door to grace, one exhausts his or her energies in inspecting and verifying.” The text can be read as a response to conservatives, both inside the US and around the world, who dogmatically oppose even tepid inclusion for LGBTQ Catholics. 

While the document lists several requirements for the blessings—queer couples can’t invoke the clothing and gestures traditionally associated with a wedding—it states that requests for these blessings should not be denied. The message here from the Vatican, which has been echoed through Pope Francis’ previous rhetoric on the topic, is that although the church still thinks that individuals engaging in extramarital sex and “irregular” unions are living in sin, those individuals should not be barred from having a relationship with God. “Even when a person’s relationship with God is clouded by sin,” the document reads, “he can always ask for a blessing, stretching out his hand to God.”

Monday’s announcement is certain to have global implications for priests and parishioners around the world. Yet the scope is still unclear. As the Associated Press notes, the Vatican did not signal any plans to “regulate details or practicalities about same-sex blessings, or respond to further questions about them, leaving it to individual priests to work out.” It’s also possible that some American Catholics may not even experience these changes due to the staunch ideological divides between local and global doctrine, as well as the fierce opposition some conservative Catholics in the US have toward reform. 

I reported in depth on these divides back in October when hundreds of delegates gathered in Rome for the pope’s “Synod on Synodality,” a meeting to discuss the future of the Catholic Church, part of a multi-year process that will culminate in 2024 with Francis’ decisions on topics that could include celibacy and divorce. As expected, the lead-up to October’s synod was filled with warring ideas about how liberal the meeting could get. Some of the contentions reflected a growing push among prominent members of the far-right in recent years, who identify as Catholic, to oppose inclusion for those who have been historically left out of the religion.  

The other day, I graduated from an iPhone 6 to an iPhone 15. The iPhone 6 needed to be plugged in all the time, same as me. The next day, when I woke up with the iPhone 15, I didn’t recognize the house where I lived, or the room where I was sleeping, or the person beside me in the bed. Richard said, “I think you should get the wireless earpods. You’ll like them.” I said, “How do you know?” He laughed.

The difference between learning a person and learning an iPhone is that, eventually, you learn the iPhone. You even forget the learning part. Once human beings know something, we think we’ve always known it—like the discovery of irony by a child, it’s a one-way door.

Going back to 2007—it was Richard’s and my second Christmas together—and the way I got the catering job was the chef who usually cooked dinner for the Murphys got sick. Or maybe it was that the catering company I worked for had overbooked the chefs, and suddenly there weren’t enough to go around. Alice, the booker, called me and said, “You do private parties, right? Can you please do Christmas dinner for the Murphys?” I said, “Sure.” It was the thing where you’re a movie actor, and they say, “You know how to gallop on a horse, right?” Or, “You know how to do a triple axel on ice skates, right?”

In the past, I’d worked as a server at the Murphys’ apartment on Park Avenue. They were a warm, easygoing couple, and they tipped well. At their holiday events, there were lots of kids and adults, a mix of Catholics and Jews. Lots of wrapping paper piled up on the living room floor, and each year, Ted Murphy made an appearance as Santa.