Ever since Lance Armstrong told Oprah about his persistent doping, lying, and just plain being mean, celebrities are lining up for their own public confessions. Starting with Breaking Bad’s Walter White.
We gathered writers and thinkers to consider everything that happened over the past 12 months and asked them: What were the most important events of 2012—and what were the least?
Predicting the weather is an incredibly complicated task. Stopping it altogether is even more difficult—but that doesn’t mean scientists aren’t trying. Obsession, cloud seeding, and very powerful storms.
Every four years, the world rediscovers swimming—that pleasant recreation turned into a furious race of hulks. But not everyone watches simply as a fan. The former competitive swimmer is never fully a land-bound mammal.
We open the bunker on doomsayers preparing for the end of civilization—but not all them will survive the first hour of armageddon.
Before the internet, before Facebook, before Twitter, a group of British documentary filmmakers launched what has become the grand-daddy of reality television. What can Seven Up! tell us about our own experiences in the (self-induced) spotlight?
Irresistible paintings don’t always need giant frames. An interview with the painter who electrified this year’s Whitney Biennial.
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.
You wanted it. You were willing to give up BBC dramas for it. Now it’s time to readjust to the working life. Welcome back.
As much as 2011 was filled with noteworthy events, it was also littered with meaninglessly overhyped blips that, try as we might, we shouldn’t forget. We asked our group of writers and thinkers: What was the least important event of 2011?
From time to time I’ve had fun thrashing Midsomer Murders, because it appears to be filmed on a whites-only agenda—my wife and I have a game...
I realize I sound like a J. Peterman catalog for pseudo-Prousts. The truth is, I’ll never own this robe. Mostly I don’t have the balls....