You may think the phone is just a tool for making doctor appointments or dutifully offering your mom Mother’s Day wishes or getting scammed, but it’s actually a conduit to true, visceral emotion.
Call me old-school, but I think if you are really into someone—even just for, like, casual sex—you should be calling them. You don’t have to call them with every thought you have throughout the day. But don’t textthem with that either. Instead, wait until you have something to say and pick up the phone. Ask them out with your real, human voice. You’ll both feel more excited about whatever relationship it is that you have.
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On a cold night in early January 2026, Sam Forstag entered a packed bar in downtown Missoula, Montana. The Union Club had long been the gritty workers’ pub in town, the de facto Democratic headquarters for both launching campaigns and tracking polls. The thirty-one-year-old, compact and muscled with a thick mop of red hair, was dressed in his usual worn Carhartt work jacket, jeans, and work boots.
The crowd inside was astonishingly young. The twenty-something woman next to me had been a wildland firefighter and recognized other Forest Service workers in the room. Forstag seemed to know everyone. He hugged several people as he made his way past the pool tables and shook hands as he crossed the dimly lit dance floor.
Two months before, Forstag had driven his 1984 Toyota van, with its temperamental spark plugs and homemade bed, to a lake tucked into a valley outside town. Underneath blazing-gold larch trees that would soon drop their needles, he spent the night alone, thinking, writing. Crying.
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Douglas Lambert wanted to give Playboy a run for its money. It was 1971, and Hugh Hefner's magazine had created a new mainstream market for soft-core porn. Lambert, a nightclub owner in Garden Grove, California, decided to get in on the action.
Lambert's wife Jenny saw a bigger opportunity: a magazine with nude male centerfolds. Lambert wasn't sold. What woman wanted to ogle photos of nude men, much less buy a magazine full of them? But he slowly realized Jenny might be on to something. The sexual revolution was well under way, and Lambert "sensed the woman of the '70s was eager to become part" of it, as he'd eventually write in promo copy for his new magazine. So in the summer of 1971, Lambert, along with William Miles Jr., an experienced adman who served as Playgirl's executive vice president, invested $20,000 in the project and opened a swanky, 23rd-floor office in Los Angeles's Century City.
Two years later, in June 1973, Playgirl's first issue hit the newsstand, with a mission similar to its long-standing counterpart: to feature nude centerfolds alongside hard-hitting features by and for women.
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He asks me if I’m splitting the G. I beg his pardon. “That feels like an inappropriate question, doesn’t it?” Phil Dunster says with a hooligan’s giggle. We’re sitting at a booth inside McGee’s, an Irish pub a stone’s throw from Times Square. (Also, famously, the pub that inspired the main bar on How I Met Your Mother.) The thirty-four-year-old actor, who was born in Northampton in the UK and raised in a British military family, explains to me—a dude from New Jersey—that splitting the G is a game wherein your first drink of a pint of Guinness should leave the top of the brew “splitting” the G on the glass. “It became a viral thing,” he explains. “Most Irish people probably roll their eyes. They’re like, ‘Fuck’s sake, just drink it.’ ”
Before we met for lunch in late February, the man who played AFC Richmond’s star forward on the Apple TV hit Ted Lasso assumed he’d have to dress up for a high-end midtown steakhouse and brace himself for a long and winding chat. Dunster thought he’d need to endure probing questions about his new HBO series Rooster and a potential Ted Lasso return, plus wicked jet lag after flying thirty-five hundred miles from London to New York the night before. Which he absolutely did, but not without a bit of mercy: I picked a place that proudly serves Guinness. Instead of an oxford, he’s relaxed in a Formula 1 jersey his mates got him during his stag party. “Or, um, bachelor weekend, or whatever it is you guys call it,” he says with a grin.
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My first memories of plastic are of a vinyl raincoat I loved when I was four or five. I was often caught by my family with nothing but the raincoat on. When I was about seven, I discovered my baby clothes in storage and found that the plastic underwear was made of the same material as the raincoat, and I started wearing it. The material made me feel so good and did things to my body that I didn’t know it could do. I remember my dad smacking me on the butt and saying, “Are you wearing a diaper?” and my sister laughing. I turned beet red.
Around this time, I found that my family’s inflatable pool toys were made of a similar material to the diaper. I dreamed of being inside them while floating in the pool.
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Somehow, tailoring is both simple and complicated. You can spend thousands and look terrible, and you can spend far less and look like a million bucks. It’s all down to the little details. The care you take over the fit on the shoulder, the way you wear your pants, and the shoes you choose to finish it all off.
There are countless tips for getting it right—and you can find them all on Esquire—but sometimes it’s easier to talk about what not to do, which is why I’ve pulled together this list of tailoring peccadillos. All the little mistakes and bad habits that turn good tailoring, which is truly a man’s best friend, into bad clothing. After all, we learn more from our failures than we do our triumphs.
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