From Anchorage Alaska to Washington D.C., here are the most fun and inclusive LGBTQ+-friendly bars across the United States.
Let's celebrate. Let's take a look at some of the best gay bars in America, from the open-air, devil-may-care spaces in West Hollywood to the neighborhood pub in downtown St. Louis. Let's swing open the doors and walk into the places where we can feel at home whether we know a soul or not. Let's put a buck in the jukebox, grab a cold one, and hang out with our people. We made it through the darkness, and we deserve it. |
|
|
Surprise! A new House report explains how it probably already did. |
| Featuring a bracelet by Miansai, mala spice mix from Fly by Jing, a Wax Buffalo candle, and more. |
|
|
Whenever I felt like buying a bathrobe, I used to tell myself: "Just dry yourself with a towel then put on pajamas and go—no need to add a robe to the mix." That "less is more" ethos persisted for many years until I stumbled upon Onsen's bathrobe. It grabbed my attention because of two things: The waffle weave, and the hood. I've known the super-absorbent, unbelievably soft sides of waffle towels for some time, so seeing it on a bathrobe made me spare a thought for why I could possibly need a waffle robe. But a hooded/em> waffle bathrobe? That was like discovering a new continent. Is that why those boxing champs and male leads look so swell in robes? And could I possibly look like one myself, while feeling all comfy and like I live in a spa? To satisfy my own curiosity, I tried Onsen's hooded waffle bathrobe, and I've never wanted to take it off since. |
|
|
With his long-awaited memoir out now, we're looking back on the actor's life in photos. They sure don't make movie stars like this anymore. |
| You'll gladly sleep on for the rest of your life. Period. |
|
|
I couldn't tell you how much money I made last year. I lose my checkbook once a week. I have no idea where my passport is or my birth certificate or the photographs from my wedding. I can't remember where I spent last Christmas, But I know where all my Vicodin are. There's one Vicodin in the breast pocket of my black suit, six in my desk drawer at work, two in my golf bag, and thirty-three in the bottle in my medicine cabinet. There's a half of one in the bottle of Tylenol in the downstairs bathroom, four in the glove box of my black car, six in my white car, and one on top of a paint can in the basement. Last week, my wife vacuumed a Vicodin off the floor of our bedroom. She told me about it at dinner that night. "If you dig that out," she said, "we'll know you have a problem." I haven't. Not yet. |
|
|
|
No comments:
Post a Comment