I didn’t use my camera at Andrew’s wedding this past weekend, but in the tradition of Rosecranses in my family, I did give a poem-toast, right before they cut the cake and after Ashley told hilarious stories about their romantic pasts, and Andrew’s brother Ken went
Writer, funny man, contrarian Andrew Borowitz on three ways to kill a joke, the environment in Kandor, and poor Jim Dixon, hero for all.
In which the editors and some writers met at a bar for drinks, talked about girls, other writers, stories about our parents, trips to Mexico, the Flaming Lips; then someone went to the toilet. Dennis, turning away Paul, Andrew, beer Paul, jolly, two beer Rosecrans, Clay, three beer Toilet, shot
A photograph of Manhattan taken this morning from Brooklyn and part of a poem by Frank O’Hara, written in 1964. 6:45 am, 11 September 2002 Lunch Poems
Today is my last day at a web design company I’ve worked for since August 1999. In the span of three years, I have: survived 13 rounds of lay-offs; moved offices twice; sat in five different cubicles; received three complimentary massages; drank, approximately, 732 free beverages, mostly seltzer;
Singer-songwriter Chris Lee on New York City’s best-kept secrets, Bill Hicks, and strip clubs with good salads.
A friend recently asked me to describe some of my dreams in an email for him to analyze. For the sake of full-disclosure (wait there buddy boy, what full-disclosure? No one asked you to share, and in fact, this desire to share your, what, nocturnal anxieties, is probably
Writer and firebrand Andrew Sullivan on acting Shakespeare, his reverence for Margaret Thatcher, and the difference between essay-writing and blogging.
Dork Gets Shirt.
Falling in love is no joking matter; falling in love with your best friend’s girl is ass-whuppin’ time. Our writers recall the woman that came between them.
