Like most American millennials, I didn't learn much about the Irish Troubles in school. When I asked my parents what the Cranberries were singing about in "Zombie," they didn't know, either. But a few months before the pandemic, I picked up a nonfiction book by Patrick Radden Keefe called Say Nothing: A True Story of Murder and Memory in Northern Ireland. Four hundred pages later, Keefe is re-reading an interview transcript with the same woman when he writes, "Twelve pages into the document, I encountered something that I had somehow missed before, and I sat bolt upright." The five final pages of Keefe's book after that sentence are among the most memorable reading experiences of my life. Now FX has turned the true story of Say Nothing into one of the best TV series of 2024—a stunning blend of Derry Girls and Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy that nails the tone, pacing, and suspense of Keefe's masterpiece. |
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TGI Fridays has filed for Chapter 11. But once upon a time, the last day of the workweek was reserved for fun. |
| It's the perfect jump from pod-machine to espresso maker. |
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You know the scenario. It's a buzzing weekday evening and you've managed to snag a table in one of your favorite restaurants to meet a couple of your best-loved humans. Coats are checked, hugs are exchanged, and you order a bottle of what you assume will be a delicious vino. The sommelier arrives tableside with said bottle and acknowledges your discerning judgment with a knowing smile. The bottle is opened, a small taste is poured. You raise the glass to your nose–no pressure!–and inhale. Then your olfactory system tingles with the spellbinding aromas of … a flooded basement. WTF? |
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The country music superstars sat down to talk about Reboot 2, the legacy of '90s country, their mixed emotions about releasing new music, and the songwriting foundation that keeps them honest. |
| Good 'fits at every temperature. |
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Twenty-seven degrees in a Port-A-Jon, the seat freezing my ass. I'm in the dark with a little flashlight. Chemically treated feces and urine splash up onto my anus. The wind howls, shaking the plastic structure. My hands go numb.
3:00 a.m., parked in a public lot across the street from the town beach in Westerly, Rhode Island. Just woke up, sleep evasive. It's my first week out here. I pour an iced coffee from my cooler. I'm walking around the front of the Toyota I'm now living in when a car pulls into the lot, comes toward me. I see only headlights illuminating my fatigue and the red plastic party cup in my hand. Must be a cop. Someone gets out and approaches. It is a cop, young. I'm not afraid, exactly, but I'm also not yet used to being homeless. |
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