As the “Empire State of Mind” beat filled the packed CenturyLink Arena in Omaha, the chorus slid in: “At Berkshire, financial strength is what dreams are made of, there’s nothing you can’t dooooo….” The white, middle-aged crowd of investors jammed. Is this is the humble setting from which champions arise?
“Fuck Verizon!”
What do former First Lady Laura Bush, IMF chief Christine Lagarde, Cambridge classicist Mary Beard, and comedian Mindy Kaling have in common? They are all women. And... and??
Lynchburg, VA—Amos 5:24- But let justice roll on like a river, and righteousness like a never-failing stream.
VERY FAR AWAY, NOT NEAR ANYTHING, New York. — Security in the Hell’s Kitchen club where I have come to observe and participate in the filming of an upcoming episode of The Bachelorette is as lax as the code of conduct in the show’s “Fantasy Suite”—the magniloquent name applied to an anonymous hotel room where, in the final episodes of every season, producers offer that cycle’s Bachelorette the chance to hold a private audience with (AKA the penis of) each of her remaining suitors, out of view of ABC’s peeping cameras.
SWIMCITY, U.S.A.—The climate of SwimCity is humid subtropical, with temperatures hovering around an equatorial 78 degrees between the hours of 11 a.m. and 6 p.m. It is a small city, boasting about 60 full-time residents, though quadruple this number in tourists and drifters clog its thoroughfares at any given time, giving it a bustling feel. SwimCity has no post office, no church, and no jail, though it is not devoid of punishment. The official currency of SwimCity, if it has one, is survey feedback. It has one restaurant, which serves hamburgers. The entire municipality is contained within an enormous tent, more longhouse than circus big top, but made of clear plastic. Geographically, it is located firmly within the bounds of New York State, though it operates as an independent entity. Its main export appears to be walls.
The New Year, or South Philadelphia's share of it, was being assembled in a warehouse with a bright yellow Cottman Transmission sign at the entrance, right on the corner of 13th and Reed. "You don't want to get a screw in your foot," Jinks warned me. All around us were the raw materials and detritus of fun: brightly colored vinyl sheeting; racks of satin dresses, fringed costumes, and sequined suit jackets; prickly tinsel; stacks of lumber; buckets of nails, screws, and paint.
Gerald Weeks has a master's degree and a firm handshake, and he was looking for something to eat.
Antonin Scalia, the longest-serving active justice of the Supreme Court, has a great deal of charm at his disposal, in person. From a distance, it’s easy to imagine Scalia as a sort of aloof, smoldering demon, throwing cruel barbs at popular notions about justice and progress. Yet he is dear friends with Ruth Bader Ginsburg.
What is the secret to unlocking your personal potential and creating a more harmonious society? A San Francisco company says you can find it between every woman's legs. Gawker's Nitasha Tiku investigates, step by step.
On Monday night, Dennis Rodman celebrated his 52nd birthday at Cheetahs, a gentleman’s club in Times Square. One press release advertised the event, part of an extended birthday tour, as “a no-holds barred birthday with topless dancers, thongs, and naked sushi.” Another cheekily teased that the NBA Hall of Famer might bring along a certain famously despotic guest, one Kim Jong-un, so that "maybe the Cheetah Strippers and Rodman can secure what our government has failed to do."
They roam the toughest streets of Cairo without fear, beg for food, get into fights, run from tear gas shells, and if you stare at them, they stare right back. No, we're not just talking about Egypt's youthful protesters, we're talking about the country's feral cats. There's thousands of these urban felines wandering around the city and like everyone else, they hustle to survive. Here's a photo tribute to these furry badasses below and more in the gallery above. They're everywhere!
Kader Hamza Pasha street is stand-off central. CSF police on one side, kids on the other side. Rocks vs. tear-gas. Molotov cocktails vs. rubber bullets. With increased protesters out today–some reports estimated there were close to 200,000 people in the square today –today's battles were much more intense and unpredictable. One photojournalist told us that today's vibe reminded her of Egypt's last revolution in January of 2011, the one that threw the country into a state of anarchy until the army took over. As you watch the video above, remember that everyone involved in today's clashes were willing to die for their cause, even the ignoble ones.
For most of the afternoon Sunday, the open roof deck at the InterContinental Cairo Semiramis hotels had two sunbathers and a young boy swimming in the Olympic size pool by himself. Six stories down, and 200 hundred yards away, on Abd El-Quader Hamza street, reckless policemen (aka the Central Security Force, or CSF) were launching tear-gas shells against the multiple protesters who were hurling rocks back at them.
Hooking up in an American theme park is almost disappointingly easy if you are gay, and the reason for that is Grindr. That is this story's fuel, Grindr. You now have the gist of it: Push buttons and you get laid. We are connected via GPS and our iPhones, and interested parties have embraced doing naughty and queer things with them. There's more to being gay than Grindr (thank god), but for some of us, Grindr plays a key role in being gay.
On Monday night, Mindy Meyer, the 22-year-old New York state senate candidate with a very pink website, hosted her first political fundraiser at Long Island's expansive Inwood Country Club. "It's a pink tie affair!" cried the conservative campaign's invitation to the $500-a-plate dinner a few weeks back. "Come rub elbowes [sic] with politicians and members of the press." By last Thursday, though, Mindy's Twitter account offered a kind of clearance special: $150 for dinner and a "mind blowing surprise!"
Advertising is like a shit and sugar pie. So, so sweet, as long as you don't think about what's going into it. And everyone wants a bigger piece. Who are any of us to say that someone should not have more shit and sugar pie? They might regret it, but we've been sucking it down for years.
Somewhere on the brief walk from the Macon Mall's Spencer Gifts to rue21, a bright discount store glittering with pageant-level tackiness but no pretensions of refinement, somebody farted. Loudly. It was in the potential earshot of the staring kiosk workers in the Georgia mall, the mass of people who were trailing the nine of us, and even the paparazzi 20 yards ahead.
My friend Chaia and I are sitting on a low brick wall on the patio of a club in the West Village. An inebriated young man, late twenties, early thirties, introduced himself to me a few seconds ago as a representative from "the office of Chris Christie." I have just asked the inebriated young man why a representative from the office of New Jersey's Republican governor is attending a Fashion Week party being thrown by OK! Magazine in the West Village on a Monday night.
