Rez Ball

Dirk Chatelain: WAYNE, Neb. — Mike Barry bounces back and forth from the gymnasium to the ticket window, running the numbers in his head.

Inside, bleachers are filling fast. Outside, the line snakes down the sidewalk almost 100 yards. He has a problem.

Barry has managed Wayne State’s facilities for 17 years, all the way back to the heyday of Greg McDermott. He has never locked the doors.

If fans keep coming, he isn’t going to have a choice.

He knew this Class C-1 clash would draw a big crowd. District finals are always popular. And Norfolk Catholic has a devoted fan base. The mystery was on the other side: the 24-1 Winnebago Indians.

Three nights earlier, Barry had attended Winnebago’s subdistrict final. He witnessed the best dunk he’d seen all year — “That was worth the price of admission right there.” He noticed the buzz around the region. Even casual basketball fans were talking about the state’s best Native American high school team in decades.

“This isn’t taking anything away from Norfolk Catholic,” Barry says. “But I had a sense that there were a lot of people rooting for Winnebago.”

An hour before tipoff, a Winnebago fan had told Barry, “Hey, the town is closed. We brought everybody.”

(thanks, Nigel)

The Irredeemable Chris Rose

Michael Patrick Welch: Chris Rose’s Pulitzer crystal sits in his small French Quarter apartment, its glass badly chipped from various accidents. The disfigured accolade for his work on a reporting team at the Times-Picayune is a reminder of both prowess and loss.

“The way the people of New Orleans made me feel after Hurricane Katrina—like I was holding this fucking city together all by myself,” Rose tells me at the Napoleon House restaurant and bar, in a graffitied payphone nook where he’s eaten, drunk, and written for a dozen-plus years. “At the time, we had Ray Nagin as mayor; all the city institutions and individuals had failed everyone. The Times-Picayune really stepped it up. And I was the face of The Times-Picayune.”

Rose’s collection of post-Katrina Picayune columns, 1 Dead In Attic (Simon and Schuster), became a New York Times bestseller in 2007. Since then, New Orleans’ news community has seemingly cast Rose aside. No journalism entity in town will hire him, he tells me, not even freelance. If they do answer his calls, they say he’s too much of a risk. And so for all of 2014, the 53-year-old Rose was waiting tables to pay rent and feed his three kids.

Finding Solace, In A Book Club

Robert Samuels: Robert Barksdale steps in front of the students in an English class at Eastern High School, searching for some semblance of redemption.

“For me, school is a treat because I never got to be in school, for real,” he begins. He always envisioned visiting a school to speak to students but was beginning to realize the pressures of standing in front of the classroom. He scans the room and says: “Y’all are a little intimidating.”

Barksdale was around their age when he chose the streets over school. By 16, he was arrested and convicted on armed robbery charges, the culmination of a series of ­ill-conceived attempts to be a man.

Now, at 25, he is one. But after spending so many of his formative years behind bars, he wondered: What sort of man would he be? Behind him were two former inmates. They hoped they might find the answers together.

Carrot Top In Exile

Chris Jones: Tonight is Wednesday night in Las Vegas, which means Scott Thompson has to become Carrot Top a little earlier than he does most nights. He has Tuesdays off, so yesterday he didn’t have to be Carrot Top at all if he didn’t want to be, except he left the serenity of his house to have lunch with his friend Nicolas Cage, who was wearing a white leather suit. Cage, knowing that a white leather suit has a way of changing everybody in its presence, had asked in advance whether it was okay for him to wear it, and Thompson agreed to provide the necessary counterweight. Perhaps feeling on a roll, Cage has just texted Thompson with another proposal. The rodeo is in town, and tomorrow Cage wants to go to a western-themed gift show called Cowboy Christmas to buy Thompson a pair of chaps. This time last year, Cage and Thompson stumbled into Cowboy Christmas, and Cage came out the other side in full cowboy getup, including his own pair of chaps and a southern accent that took him a long while to shake. Cage was transformed to his soul that day, and now he wants Thompson to join him in league with the horsebreakers. So tomorrow: chaps.

But first comes Wednesday. Six nights each week, 240 nights each year, the fifty-year-old Thompson appears as Carrot Top down at the Luxor, playing between Menopause the Musical (“The Hilarious Celebration of Women and the Change!”) and a burlesque show called Fantasy (“The Strip’s Biggest Tease”). And on three of those nights—Wednesdays, Saturdays, and Mondays—Thompson has to arrive early for a preshow meet and greet. His most fervent admirers pay an additional forty-nine dollars on top of their seventy-one-dollar tickets to chat with him in the theater’s lobby, take pictures with him, and get his autograph.

When Thompson surfaces from his dressing room, his personal assistant—a deeply loyal and connected forty-eight-year-old man named Jeff Molitz—is at his shoulder, as he almost always is. Molitz, nicknamed Porno Jeff because of some work he does on the side, is short and bearded, with a long ponytail and a closet filled with Carrot Top–branded clothing. “It’s the uniform,” Porno Jeff says. They met through Porno Jeff’s local Mail Boxes Etc. franchise, which Thompson sometimes used to ship his trunks of comedic props, including what he calls Hugh Hefner’s walker (it has a big dildo taped to the front of it) and Rosie O’Donnell’s buffet tray (there are five of them). Nine years ago, Porno Jeff became Thompson’s full-time assistant, and he has since evolved from Man Friday into celebrity-by-proxy. He hosts a Super Bowl party at his house that has become massive enough that Monster Energy drinks and Kraft Nabisco sponsor it; he calls up a picture on his phone of the more than two thousand packets of Kool-Aid that arrived earlier today.

Gives, And Takes Away

Leah Sottile: CALDWELL, Idaho — In the heart of the Northwest, there is Idaho. And in the heart of Idaho, there is God. And God, residents believe, blesses some and takes others away early.

Like Neil Jacob Randolph, a 3-year-old buried in Peaceful Valley Cemetery in Caldwell in 1982. “Sleep on sweet Neil — and take thy rest,” his headstone reads. “God called thee home. He thought it best.”

In another row are the graves of four infants marked with identical headstones on which “Infant Bailey” is hand-scrawled in capital letters — pressed into wet cement decades ago.

Many of the nearly 600 people buried here were Followers of Christ — a Christian sect that believes in faith healing and does not allow members — including sick children — to see doctors or use modern medicine. The Pentecostal religion, founded in the 1930s, has long had a presence in Western states. Former members say the church has become increasingly secretive about its beliefs and population after years of negative attention for deaths related to spiritual healing.

Several of the children buried here at Peaceful Valley Cemetery died from preventable ailments like pneumonia and food poisoning. And 70 percent of these children died after 1972, when religious exemptions protecting faith healers from charges of neglect, abuse and murder were enacted in Idaho and around the country. If a child dies or is abused in Idaho, law states that a parent can’t be found guilty if they believe in spiritual healing.

Business, Man

Liam Dillon: On a late Friday afternoon in February 2011, dozens of police officers carrying assault rifles arrived at Sempra Energy’s $1 billion liquefied natural gas plant on the coast of Baja California, Mexico.

The officers, dressed in ski masks and body armor, cut the chains on the plant’s gates. Once they had broken in, the police put their own seals on the gates.

The cops drove down a winding road through brown, brush-filled hillside. Just before reaching the facility’s entrance, the officers passed a swath of land that looked as barren and uninhabited as its surroundings.

That piece of property wasn’t as innocuous as it seemed.

Five years earlier, Sempra had purchased title to the land. The transaction was one of the final pieces to build its plant, a facility that would allow the company to pump imported gas to millions of homes and businesses on both sides of the border. But a rancher believed the land was his and accused Sempra of knowingly buying a fake deed to steal it from him. He was fighting to get the land back. The mayor of Ensenada had listened to the rancher’s complaint, and eventually sent the city’s police force to storm the Sempra plant.

At first glance, this looks like your typical David-vs.-Goliath tale: a large American company against a lone Mexican landowner. But it’s not that simple.

The Red Tent

Lane DeGregory: LARGO

Two afternoons a week, after lunch, before laundry duty, a dozen women at the Pinellas County Jail leave their pods and thread down a long, dark corridor — through 10 locked doors, past a guard station, into a space they call the Red Tent Room.

Here, the air smells like coffee and sugar cookies. Norah Jones sings softly through portable speakers. Beside wide windows, next to the sewing machines, scarlet hibiscus bloom in the winter sun.

“Welcome! Welcome!” calls Polly Edwards, an artist who helps lead the group.

“Coffee or tea?” asks inmate Jamie Ward, 31, who has taken on the role of host.

The women wear gray scrubs. Some sport remnants of their former lives: chipped manicures and faded hair highlights. Most have lost their jobs, their homes, their children. Some have husbands who won’t speak to them. All their moms are mad. They are serving up to a year for doing drugs, shoplifting, violating probation. Many have been in this jail before. But here in a converted classroom, for a few hours each week, they escape the noise, the guards — for some, even the shame of their convictions — and feel the acceptance of other women.

“Almost all of them are in the system because they endured some early trauma,” says therapist Barbara Rhode, who founded the group. “In general, about 15 percent of people have PTSD. In jail, at least 70 percent of the women have it.”

Rhode volunteered with prisoners while she was in college studying family counseling. Later, she helped women at Goodwill who had just gotten out of jail. Three years ago, she read the novel The Red Tent, about biblical women who gathered in their own oasis during menstruation, childbirth and old age. “A safe space,” Rhode called it. “Where women came to help each other heal.”

She decided she needed to do something for Pinellas County’s broken women, to help them end their cycles of abuse and addiction, to enable them to be better mothers. “Most of the people I see in private practice have problems, but their lives are pretty manageable,” says Rhode. “These women are raw and hurt. They feel guilty and ashamed about what they have done and unworthy of respect or love. There’s a profound sadness about them. They need support.”

A ‘Scumbag’ Story

Justin Heckert: Kyle Kinane is everywhere like farty Jesus. He is in the shower with a six-pack of beer. He is drunk at a Wendy’s drive-through ordering chicken nuggets out of the sliding door of a taxi van. He is the guy at Red Lobster getting into a fistfight with the night manager over whether the moon landing was faked. He is accidentally childproofing himself out of a microwave while trying to nuke Totino’s Pizza Rolls. Then he is berating the microwave, shouting at the microwave to unlock, finally unplugging the microwave and eating the pizza rolls raw, while in his underwear. The next day he is crapping his only pair of pants.

In his first hour-long Comedy Central special Whiskey Icarus, Kinane is talking about the state of his life, and he admits that he realized what the definition of lonely is the time he forgot he was in the process of jerking off in a hotel room in Green Bay, Wisconsin, the nuisance of finishing like taking a broom and shooing raccoons off his porch: “Hyah … get outta here … hyah, hyah.”

He is the guy on Drunk History who knocks back an entire bottle of tequila and pukes into a trash bag. He is on Conan in a wool hat pulled over his eyes, sighing: “You ever see an abandoned TV dinner in the beer aisle? Yeah, that’s me. I did that. That’s my street art.” He is the title character in a reality-show pilot about the experiences of his life called Kyle Kinane’s Going Nowhere, in which he is smoking weed and hunting Bigfoot in a Back to the Future vest and watching a lizard wearing plastic dragon wings shit on the robe of a wizard. He is paunchy, prickly, grumbly; when his beard is at its woolliest, it presents him as a little knight in a visor of hair. He has a tattoo on his arm of a skull eating a slice of pizza.

Onstage, somewhere out there, pretty much every night of the week, in big, famous places with theater seating and tiny, leaky places with buzzing lights and fake brick as a backdrop, with a beer in his hand and the stage lights on his face, Kinane is confessing to an audience, telling stories that go on and on without obvious punch lines and build to often startling introspection; he’s in front of middle-aged Midwesterners and in front of college students and in front of other comedians, in front of hipsters who follow him on Twitter and grow similar beards and with whom he gets into occasional fights; with empty beer bottles next to him and empty pint glasses on a stool beside him, the hairs of his beard brushing the microphone, he is harrumphing about failure and the stasis of unrealized dreams.

Searching for Answers in the 1961 Death of an Ayn Rand Follower

Alex Vadukul (thanks, Klink): Joanne O’Connor keeps a three-ring binder as thick as a cinder block to contain the story that echoes through her head. It is stuffed with her research about a young woman she never met who died more than 50 years ago. She has trouble explaining why obsession gripped her so, but she does know: “I had to find out what happened.”

Ms. O’Connor is a 61-year-old wedding and events planner who lives with her cat and dog in a small, elegant Kips Bay apartment. Six years ago, she found herself pondering her building’s history, but no one living there remembered much. Nor did her landlord. So she called the Buildings Department while at work one day.

She will never forget the operator’s first words, she says, which set off the investigative odyssey that has consumed her life since.

“Well, she didn’t die there,” the man said, “if that’s what you wanted to know.”

“Who died where?” she asked.

“The lady,” he replied. “She died of a botched abortion. Her name was Vivian Grant.”