I went to college in central Maine, a small school on a hill overlooking a rusted-over textile town where Richard Russo used to teach (the town’s river and shirt factory popped up on the cover of Empire Falls). The winters were long, the springs were soggy, and there
In a college film class, we watched the opening to The Shining first with its soundtrack, second with the audio portion muted, third while a student turned off the television volume and used a boombox to overdub music a little more Disney. The point was even paranormal homicide can be
Hi Folks, I’ve enjoyed reading your series on city parks and was very excited to see that Toronto had it’s own article. Being a Torontonian, I was looking forward to hearing about little known areas of this city that I hadn’t yet discovered. This expectation seemed reasonable
A Remnick addition to the New Yorker’s masthead, pop music critic Sasha Frere-Jones must have been the first person to sneak the phrase “inscrutable batphones” into the magazine (as in, “not all musicians below the age of 30 are getting tattooed with runic symbols and sending viruses to
Dear TMN, Today’s “Not an Open Letter” by Elizabeth Kiem speaks for so many of us who understand how the world works in shades of gray. I was sad and disappointed to learn about Grass’s secret when I first read about it. It was the same knee-jerk
Last night a pothole exploded on our street. Or so we think. No one I talked to on the block is positive about what happened. Here’s what we know: Around eleven last night, the lights in our apartment dimmed to brown and there was a massive explosion; our landlady,
I just spent two and a half weeks submerged in the woods and there wasn’t much music besides frogs and a neighbor’s chainsaw. Radio stations were few; the local NPR broadcast was locked in a fundraising drive; my iPod wouldn’t talk to the tape deck in the
Last weekend, my wife and I had two perfect New York days. We had friends over for dinner and stayed up late. We saw a very moving Douglas Gordon survey and ran around Manhattan. We visited with more friends, we had dinner in a restaurant, stayed up late and slept
Lorraine Hunt Lieberson is dead at 52. I want to dig a hole, erect a church on top, play her “Handel Arias” on repeat, and eat shirred eggs. Her Handel Arias are their own cathedral. I never saw her sing in concert. Tomorrow I will disappear, track down Martha Argerich
My great-aunt Mary lives year-round on an island off the coast of Maine and still smokes while she watches the tennis or enjoys a nightcap. It’s given her an amazing speaking voice: her register’s permanently cracked from the cigarettes, with bass-y wobbles, but her Maine
