Being our semi-regular weekly survey of what's goin' down in the several states where, as we know, the real work of governmentin' gets done, and where, if he needs a third eye, he just grows it. I must have missed it on the news or something but, apparently, it was Crazy Wingnut Bill Filing Week out in the several states. Let us begin in Tennessee, which has become a target-rich environment for such things. |
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Pass me the Josh at the Bass Pro Shops closest to you, where I just fought someone for a Stanley cup. |
| Battery-backed hand warmers are your secret weapon. |
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Unleash your inner adventurer with the durable and reliable diver's watch. |
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| At eight years old, now-LPGA superstar Rose Zhang opened an issue of TIME for Kids and got her first impression of golf. Her verdict? Not cool, not for me. “I remember this so specifically, there's this one column section, and even though it was about Tiger Woods, it was still the cartoon version of this golfer," she says. "An older man, and he had gray hair, a Scottish hat, plaid outfit, with those wooden clubs. That's the first image that I saw. 'Oh, it's an old rich man sport.'" One look at Zhang kitted in Malbon’s new collaboration with Adidas, though, and even her eight-year-old self would get on board with the new vibe. Golf has long since found its cool, and Zhang—who won in her highly anticipated pro debut following a record-setting career at Stanford—has emerged as a source of it. |
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| Reader, you're special. Why? You’re a collection of specific interests like hiking, vinyl collecting, cooking, or whatever the hell else. You’re a mosaic of (hopefully) original opinions on art, literature, and television. But, you know why you’re not special? Because you’re a side sleeper. Come with me, and I’ll show you what I mean with these five best mattresses for side sleepers. |
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| It was not quite spring, the silent season before the search for salmon, and the old fishermen of San Francisco were either painting their boats or repairing their nets along the pier or sitting in the sun talking quietly among themselves, watching the tourists come and go, and smiling, now, as a pretty girl paused to take their picture. The fishermen, looking at her, made admiring comments, but she did not understand because they spoke a Sicilian dialect; nor did she understand the tall grey-haired man in a dark suit who stood watching her from behind a big bay window on the second floor of DiMaggio’s Restaurant that overlooks the pier. At fifty-one, DiMaggio was a most distinguished-looking man, aging as gracefully as he had played on the ball field, impeccable in his tailoring, his nails manicured, his six-foot two-inch body seeming as lean and capable as when he posed for the portrait that hangs in the restaurant and shows him in Yankee Stadium, swinging from the heels at a pitch thrown twenty years ago. |
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