One of the most striking differences between U.S. presidents is how they choose to stock the White House bar. From teetotalers to all-out drunks, a brief history of presidents and their preferred libations.
As Mad Men enters its much-anticipated fifth season, the New York psychotherapist who consulted on the show’s development explains why its characters and storylines feel so ineffably real.
An unfinished autobiography and a 1980s biopic turned Frances Farmer, one of the great golden-era stars, into a lobotomized zombie. The main trouble: Frances Farmer wasn’t lobotomized. An investigation to set one of Hollywood’s most convoluted stories straight.
Life in Newfoundland is changing. Fish are down, oil is up. Nostalgia abounds for simpler, harder times. So when outsiders arrive, they’re ordered to worship a fish—literally kiss a big cod on the mouth. But not everyone’s drinking the rum.
Thanksgiving is an American holiday, but that doesn’t mean it’s not celebrated elsewhere. And each of those celebrations—in Liberia, in Leiden, in the South Pacific—give us fresh reasons to be grateful for our own messed-up version.
Right now I am drinking Nespresso. A cup—a very little cup—of the Dulsão de Brasil, currently my favorite variety. And I am about to...
The deserts of Morocco are wide and golden. Trust nearly 200 American college students to track down and guzzle whatever alcohol lurks in the sands of the Islamic kingdom.
“Tell us a little about yourself.” Gulp. I stared at the blinking cursor, writing phrases only to erase them. I could not shake the thought that my answers...
The USDA recently replaced the almighty food pyramid with a color-coded pie chart. To celebrate our nation’s mixed metaphors about healthy eating, one man decides to spend a month attempting to follow every government recommendation he can find. Nowhere is pie advised.
America endlessly honors its best presidents. Enough with that. A demand for a federal holiday to glorify the five who rose so high, only to fail so shamefully.
A morning, a bicycle, a macchiato. Or five? This time, a sensible coffee shop tour. But in the end, it still may be described in only one way.
Musician Elliott Smith died seven years ago today in Los Angeles. Though he’s remembered mythically in the East Village, it was in Brooklyn where Smith was happy.