Buried deeply in The New York Times' coverage of the latest unfortunate exercise in Second Amendment freedoms, this one in Maine, where the member of the well-regulated militia who allegedly watered the tree of liberty was still at large at this writing, was an anecdote reflecting a situation that I had not seen described in 11 years of dealing with mass murder by gunfire. This little item says a great deal about the state of the country in 2023. We can arm our people, but we can't house our people. We can load them up like a heavy-weapons platoon, but we can't arrange a one-room efficiency for the winter. |
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Because your little head deserves it. |
| Famous people in the '90s still looked rich and famous even when they weren't working. Well, most of them. |
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The fashion photographer on the places, venues, and vibes that give this dynamic Canadian city a special place in his heart. |
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| No matter how much money I get, you won't catch me spending $300 on fashion-y selvedge jeans from Japan or Italy. That's my promise. We're talking about a garment that was made by the American working class, and made legendary by Middle America Silver Screen heroes like Marlon Brando and James Dean. Jeans should be tough, look good, and no one should be worried about making rent if they buy a pair. This is starting to sound like a campaign rally. I'm the John Fetterman of jeans over here. The Huey Long of long denim pants. And I'm about to put forward some legislation: The Jean New Deal. Part of my Jean New Deal is to get a solid pair of jeans on the ass of every American. Luckily, Wrangler's dirt-cheap Cowboy Cut is keeping our great denim tradition alive. |
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| The trench coat has come a long, long way in its century-plus of existence. The style was first developed before WWI, for British Army officers; during the war, soldiers in the trenches wore and popularized them. Thus, the trench coat. The 15 best ones are on the market are below, so whatever your taste and vibe, there's one for you. |
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| My mother, Frances Junod, was not just a mother, not just a mom. She was a dame. She was a broad. She went through her entire life as a Harlowesque platinum blond, and I never knew the real color of her hair. She liked to go to the track, and she liked to go out to restaurants. She did not like to cook. That she did it anyway—that she had no choice—owed itself to generational expectations, and to the fact that if my mother was a doll, in the Runyonesque sense of the word, my father was a guy, a pinkie-ringed sharpie who spent many nights going to the New York City restaurants my mother longed to frequent, but who, on nights when he came home, loudly expected food on the table. So my mother put food on the table. She cooked three hundred nights a year. |
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