When a police officer shot Daunte Wright to death in a Minneapolis suburb last week, the tragedy plunged many Black Americans into a familiar state of grief and rage. Wright, 20, became the latest Black person to die during an encounter with the police. The officer, who has since resigned, reportedly thought she was firing a Taser, not her gun. She's been charged with second-degree manslaughter. Wright died about 10 miles from where former police officer Derek Chauvin is on trial for murdering George Floyd.
Surrounded by adoring fans who came bearing flowers and balloons, Simone Biles returned home to Houston a couple of days ago. In my mind, that brought the Tokyo Games to a close. There have been -- and, I imagine, will continue to be long after Sunday's closing ceremony -- many postmortems written about these Olympics and about Biles, the greatest gymnast of all time, who put self-care above medals. Indeed, it was a brave decision to withdraw from most competitions after getting "lost in the air" during a vault and learning that an aunt had died. It prompted a much-needed conversation about how athletes deal with trauma and how a pervasive, winning-at-all-cost philosophy encourages them to ignore it.
Psychonauts 2 is a lot like a brain, which is fitting given the game's premise. It's kind of goofy-looking from the outside, but far more complex once you peer beneath its soft, mushy surface. And soft and mushy it is. Psychonauts 2 unabashedly wears its heart on its sleeve, unafraid to be vulnerable and, at times, downright saccharine. After the emotional rollercoaster that was 2020 and the realization that the foreseeable future may be just as treacherous, Psychonauts 2's central lessons are ones that I think we've desperately been needing to hear. It's one of my favorite games of 2021, and serves as proof that even after 16 years, Psychonauts has always been a story that was worth revisiting.
Black horror is having a moment. All of a sudden the genre feels alive, feral, infinite. How delicious it tastes, too. Like Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man biting into that ambrosial yam, savoring something like self-release, the genre has gone sweet and hot, enriched as anything we've witnessed, a divinely wicked nectar, sustenance of arrant want. But even with all this chatter about black horror's Hollywood renaissance, and how Hitchcock heir apparent Jordan Peele has masterminded a movement toward the macabre--with Get Out, Us, The Twilight Zone, and upcoming projects that include a Candyman remake--one point gets lost: Donald Glover got here first.