How Can You Still Be a Christian?' He Asked. It's...Complicated. |
A guy at work recently asked why I'm Christian. It's not something I am particularly vocal about, but it's also not something I'm not vocal about, you know? In some ways, I think of it as doing improv or supporting the Patriots: If you talk about it in public, get ready for eyes to roll. But I'd been trained for moments like this. It's been years since I've considered myself evangelical, but the indoctrination is hard to shake. The party line is that the only way to the afterlife is through Jesus, and the only way to Jesus? Well, it could be through me. I could practically hear the youth pastors from my past speak in unison, "How blessed to be in this moment, provided through the grace of God, where this young man has queried you about your faith." As we stood there, chatting over a cubicle wall and sipping on expensive promotional liquor in CVS plastic cups, my colleague said, in what amounted to nothing short of an invitation to put evangelicalism in action, "I just don't understand how someone could believe in that." Former me would have mounted a spirited reply, but I'm not former me. I understand why you'd ask the question. How can someone believe in that? For my every East Tennessee impulse to defend my faith, I have what is now an equally strong New York impulse to talk on past these moments. But the side of me that is Christian—the word I use most easily to describe myself—stumbled over my words, trying to find one specific anecdote that would make that question make sense. |
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| How the AIR Soundtrack Got Made |
When in doubt, look to Fat Joe. At least that's what Air music supervisor Andrea von Foerster did in the darkness of the Regency Village Theater as the film unspooled during its Los Angeles premiere in late March. "He was sitting in front of me," she says of the rapper. "And it was so funny because every time he really liked a song, he started getting into it, you know? So, if Fat Joe approves . . . " She trails off, but the second half of the thought is superfluous. Fact is, anyone who's seen the terrific Ben Affleck-directed crowd-pleaser—which chronicles how Nike marketing whiz Sonny Vaccaro (Matt Damon, a producer on the movie as well) and his cohorts at the then-fledgling company doggedly pursued Michael Jordan to sign a shoe contract in 1984—leaves its audience with two takeaways: 1. Wow, Vaccaro really mortgaged his soul to land a fairly untested Chicago Bulls rookie, and 2. That was the most totally awesome 1980s compilation soundtrack ever. |
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The Sleek Raincoat That'll Have You Hoping for Spring Showers |
I'm really not an umbrella person. I have exactly one winter coat that has a hood, and it's impossible to wear without melting in temperatures above 30 degrees. Living in a climate where it's often a little bit warm and a little bit—or a lot—rainy (that is, New York City) means that my stubborn-headedness about rainy day attire often leaves me soaked, with damp and frizzy hair for the rest of the day. Until, that is, I found the perfect parka. The Fishtail Parka by Rains is single-handedly responsible for keeping me comfortable and warm in rainy weather, no matter how long I'm outside for. Sleek and sharp, the unisex design has every feature a weatherproof parka should—elasticated hems, a drawstring hood, pockets, and a waterproof fabric—and more. It's also got a double zip and button closure to ensure extra dryness, a curved hem that drapes perfectly off the body, and a contemporary silhouette that, even in an urban sea of puffers and parkas, is noticeably chic. |
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The Surreal Scenes at the Manhattan Criminal Courthouse as Donald Trump Arrived to Face a Judge |
Photographers and cameramen clambered on the metal pipes of the scaffolding like monkey bars, searching for one last unclaimed angle to get the shot. "Just know that I'm getting back up there," one told another who was eyeing his former position. Journos of every description chattered amongst themselves or on the phone, asking what the person on the other end of the line was seeing on TV. There were French press, Brazilian, Japanese, Italian. The subway rumbled underfoot periodically, the screech of wheels on tracks blaring up through the grate on which a clutch of reporters stood expectantly. It was 2:40 p.m. In front of them was Centre Street, cleared except for some police vehicles and a number of officers in uniform or suited up or decked out in light blue jackets that read "NYPD Community Affairs." A bit to the left, diagonal across the street, was the Manhattan Criminal Courthouse. And nearly straight ahead, beyond Centre, was one of the big city's shortest streets, Hogan Place. That was barricaded and cleared, too, except for some blacked-out vehicles in various shapes and sizes. Closest was a big van that SWAT teamers would occasionally climb into and out of. Beyond that was a caravan of tinted vehicles, one of which would soon whisk away Donald J. Trump, freshly fingerprinted and arraigned, the first current or former president to face indictment. |
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This Hat Was My Obsession |
Not long ago, I stumbled upon a photo of a fresh-faced Kyle MacLachlan and Laura Dern attending a toxic-waste benefit at MGM in Culver City. Sounds very chic. It was September 1986, and perched atop MacLachlan's head was a blue-and-white cap with a large, colorful—but indiscernible—patch on the front. It got me wondering, What is that hat? When it comes to caps, I like them as random as possible. No brand names. No sports teams. I'll take something stranger, thank you. What started as an idle curiosity about MacLachlan's hat quickly became an obsession. After securing a hi-res image to work from, I futzed for hours in Photoshop until the word PALOMAR emerged from the pixels. Bingo. Palomar Mountain Spring Water, I learned, was founded in 1984 at the start of the bottled-water craze in California. It was based near San Diego, not far from the Palomar Observatory—it's right there in the logo—that tops the actual Palomar Mountain. I immediately jumped on eBay and bought the one you see here for $90. After all that sleuthing, it took only about three minutes to find it. Perhaps it was being stuck in the Covid era that made the exercise seem like an escape. Or maybe it was because, having spent several hours squinting at my laptop to ID it, I wasn't letting it get away. |
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The Unbearable Costs of Becoming a Writer |
My parents didn't understand my job. At least, not in its entirety. If asked, they might tell people that their daughter was a writer. They were both avid readers who read my first book and many of my stories; once, when I visited them, I found a newspaper article I'd written stuck to their refrigerator door. On visits, they would occasionally see me working—that is, staring at my computer screen, typing a bit, and staring some more, wrestling with a draft for hours or days. They might be interested in what I was writing, but sometimes it was difficult for them to see it as Work, and they would often mistake it for volunteer labor, a hobby, like the hundreds of stories they knew I'd written growing up. The editorial process, my entire career in publishing, seemed nebulous to them, mostly invisible labor—until I sent them something I'd written that had been published, something they could see and hold and read for themselves. There were stretches when I made so little money writing or editing that I couldn't blame my parents for assuming they were hobbies. They used to wonder how I could spend weeks revising work I had already done, months on an idea or project that might never sell. It was hard for me to explain these decisions, explain why I made them even when I could not necessarily afford to. I knew that they wouldn't have taken such risks. I had grown up watching my parents do what needed to be done, which often meant improvising. My father worked in restaurants for most of my childhood, and my mother did administrative office work. When layoffs came or businesses closed, they found other ways to make ends meet: he stocked shelves at a snack-food company and did yard work for the family for whom my grandmother kept house; she took temp-agency assignments and worked in my middle-school cafeteria. Until a series of medical emergencies hit, they were mostly able to make ends meet. |
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