The political press should make Republicans own their 15-week national ban.
When decades of toil and a couple of stolen seats finally led conservatives to their great Supreme Court victory on abortion, they almost immediately started to downplay the significance of the event. The ruling doesn't outlaw abortion, they said between sips of champagne, it sends it back to the states. Never mind that a bunch of red states had so-called "trigger laws" that activated upon the evisceration of Roe, and that this was more generally a telegraphed bullshit story to anyone who's been conscious for those last few decades in question. |
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| This is one of the more breathtakingly original, witty and anything-goes experimentalist outfits of the past ten years. |
| Ford and co-star Phoebe Waller-Bridge teased the final 'Indiana Jones' installment to a roaring D23 crowd. |
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The color drained from my daughter Stella's face. We had just walked through a gauntlet of Secret Service agents, navigated a crowded hallway, and entered a small hotel room overlooking Central Park that was jammed with three cameras, even more lights, and several production staff. In a matter of minutes, Hillary and Chelsea Clinton—who were, my daughter was told by multiple people, big fucking deals—would be ushered into the room. Stella looked ill. "What's going on?" I asked her. "I want to go home," she whispered. "I want to run out of here crying." |
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Make your five hours feel like eight. |
| Some days, a few important cards and your phone are all you need. |
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The address was a building in Neuilly, just over the city line from Paris, on a side street. The building is shielded from the street by a high, white wall, spanking clean. Inside is a courtyard with a garden; the gardener was planting bushes; it was very tidy. The building is a white hôtel particulier, a lovely house now given over to offices and salons de montage for film makers. Godard has his cutting room there. He appeared outside the réception a minute or two before our appointment, dressed for outdoors in a raincoat somewhere between beige and brown. A young man was talking to the receptionist and Godard did not interrupt him, but waited just outside the door. Then he shook hands. His grip is quick and firm. He's about five foot eight or nine. Under the raincoat he was wearing a tweed jacket, grey flannels, a lightly striped shirt, a thick, wool tie. Brown, scuffed moccasin-type shoes. Green horn-rimmed glasses. His hair was black, but sparse on top. It grew in tufts in a scraggly fashion, something like Che Guevara's beard. |
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