Reports about the death of the suit are greatly exaggerated. Although it's no longer the universal Monday-to-Friday uniform, a tailored two-piece remains an essential. From weddings and work events to funerals and (ahem) court dates, there are still occasions for which a business causal button-up and chinos just won't do. So yeah, you need at least one good one. Probably—almost certainly—in navy worsted wool (aka, the solid, slightly shiny wool you'll see on the vast majority of suits at any given department store, which has long been closely associated with traditional business attire). It'll work in almost any situation where a suit isn't just a suggestion. |
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The Canadian breakout has already conquered two greats: a proto-Steven Spielberg in The Fabelmans and Lorne Michaels in Saturday Night. Over dinner near 30 Rock, he opens up about the hard lessons along the way—and a daring future that's taking shape. |
| Top-of-the-line cooling for 20% off. |
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Let's move along to Florida, where, by law, children cannot say "climate change" lest they flunk "science," Hurricane Milton presented a fairly convincing rebuttal on Wednesday. It blew the roof off Tropicana Field. The bright side? Maybe they can build a new roof that keeps baseballs from hitting it. Meanwhile, the story on Thursday seems to be that Milton, while unquestionably destructive, was not as catastrophic as the pre-storm predictions had it. However, three million people are without power and four people have died. |
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The simple joy of a beautiful pen costs only $10. |
| Matthew, Alexandra, and Will honor their father's memory in a stellar new documentary titled, Super/Man: The Christopher Reeve Story. Here, they open up about how they persevered through an unimaginable tragedy. |
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The week before I turned 49, I lay on the bed of a Dexa Body Scan machine, a contraption that measured my body fat, lean muscle, weight, and BMI. The week before I turned 49, an optometrist broke the news that my astigmatism had worsened to the point that bifocals would help. Don't worry, they make them now where you can't see the bifocal lenses, she tried to assure me. The week I turned 49, I got a physical and told my doctor that I'd developed a nagging pain in my shoulder to accompany the chronic pain in my groin, that the muscles in the sole of my right foot seized on the regular. The week I turned 49, I ended months of procrastination by completing the paperwork for my living will and trust. But of course it forced me to assess my lesser-than-they-should-be assets. What I hadn't predicted, though, was the dread of filling out a durable health-care power-of-attorney form (autopsy? organ donation?); ditto for the morbid angst of DNR and end-of-life elections. (Did I want my life prolonged if diagnosed with a terminal condition? And if so, for how long and in what ways?) |
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