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Welcome to Add to Cart, in which Esquire editors tell you about the clothes, shoes, watches, gear, gadgets, booze, and anything else we're coveting right now. - The Editors at Esquire |
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You don't need to overcomplicate style. You can, of course. Who doesn't love a completely insane, over-the-top style choice once in a while? But for anyone just looking for some no-nonsense style for looking good every day, we understand this, too. A great pair of sneakers—not too flashy, not too precious, not too beat up—makes looking nice day to day infinitely easier. And maybe with all of the shoe trends around (puffy Hokas, bright red Pumas, etc.) you might not be sure what a good, solid everyday sneaker even looks like anymore. Fret not. |
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Send your old tees and performance polos to the farm upstate. Our options are more refined. |
| Stuff that's guaranteed to make your journey more bearable and enjoyable. |
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Our furniture expert makes the labyrinthian process simple. |
| We know, 'cause we've tried them all. |
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First, we came for the dad shoes. Chunky New Balances, once the pinnacle of dork, have been co-opted by the stylish with such force its hard to see it disappear. Then, we came for the cargo pants. The techy belts. The Salomon sneakers, which were built for the trail, but sustain great use on the streets littered with Gen-Zs. And now, we come for your sunglasses. In a way, I suppose the rise of these colorful, polarized, functional glasses would be the next progression of the style crowd into an outdoorsy item not exactly designed with the fashion class in mind. They belong on the face of an assistant baseball coach. They'd thrive on the ends of croakies in the midst of an outside barbecue. And they are ours now. |
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 Here's an undeniable fact about Donald Trump: He's adept at coining schoolyard nicknames to belittle his opponents. Little Marco. Meatball Ron. Sleepy Joe. The president would've been an outstanding copywriter for Garbage Pail Kids in the '80s. But a nickname has never really stuck to him—until now, perhaps. This week, we heard about the acronym TACO (Trump Always Chickens Out), referring to his approach to tariffs. And Trump is not happy about it at all. In his singular voice, Esquire's Dave Holmes explains, hilariously, why this moniker might have staying power. – Michael Sebastian, editor-in-chief Plus: |
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Our kooky king is angry. But the memes are caliente. |
A couple of weeks back, Robert Armstrong of the Financial Times wrote about a pattern we've been seeing so far in this administration: Trump announces tariffs, the stock market tanks, Trump backs off of the proposed tariffs, the stock market recovers. Investors have begun to ride this wave: Buy on the announcement of the tariffs, certain that the surrender is never far away. Armstrong called this practice the TACO trade—an acronym for Trump Always Chickens Out. Now, America did not catch TACO fever overnight, because sometimes the important grassroots stuff takes a moment to catch on. But now TACO has Baja Blasted itself skyward and Trump has only himself to blame. Megan Cassella of CNBC asked him about it this week, and this is how that went. |
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The last several years have been a time of recovery and reckoning for Bono, who turned sixty-five this spring. He made it past a serious health scare (one that he'd played down in public) and emerged with a more balanced perspective on how to enjoy the everyday pleasures in life. He faced demons from his youth that have fueled him throughout his career. And he reassessed his role in the nonprofit work that has captured so much of his passion and energy over the decades. He's gone deep within himself and come out different. Better. |
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Tyson was bigger—way bigger, in fact—than Michael Jordan. He made more money than television's highest paid performers, Bill Cosby and Oprah Winfrey. But now he found himself at the precipice of something else, a cultural moment. Just as the Roaring Twenties are said to have begun with Jack Dempsey's destruction of Jess Willard (seven knockdowns in the first round alone) in 1919, so can one argue that the nineties—christened "the Tabloid Decade"—began in 1988 with Tyson–Spinks. The coin of the realm in Tabloid America was celebrity. A Trump Plaza press release, listing no fewer than fifty boldface attendees, concludes with this rhetorical gem: "Which one of the aforementioned celebrities gets the best seat?" |
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