July 7, 2019
“I knew I was a girl from the age of 5 or 6. There was no denying it. When the boys were out playing sports I was home trying my mom’s dresses and high-heel shoes. Now I celebrate who I am with entertainment. I’m a drag queen.” (Photo by Donato DiCamillo)
Four portraits of modern tresses, and one toupee.
I had the strange but wonderful pleasure of meeting Chrissy while taking a stroll on Manhattan’s Lower West Side.
Meet Mr. Stubbs. He was injured while being trafficked by illegal animal smugglers. He was found in a vehicle with roughly 20 other alligators. It would be safe to say Mr. Stubbs was hurt while being held by traffickers says Alex, his handler at the Phoenix Herpetological Society. As…
At first, I thought Moltbook was a hoax. An AI social-media platform operated entirely by bots? Then the coverage started to build, and I decided that surely all these tech-oriented humans could not be so easily fooled. A friend, brilliant at IT, took Moltbook lightly at first, then emailed in…
Another fluffy news release about home interiors. I move to delete it—but the backstory catches me. An interior designer who had to tear apart her own home because her toddler was struggling to breathe? She wound up a certified expert in home wellness because of all she learned. And…
Snow fell with the confidence of something that knew it would be felt. Streets emptied. Sound dulled. The city became a held breath between east and west, a place where movement slowed because it had to. There was nothing especially dramatic about this at first. Just cold. Just accumulation.
Though their lives wound up linked, these three men could not have been more different. Perry Smith was as poor as used-up dirt. Truman Capote sparkled like diamonds and partied with stars: Marilyn Monroe, Elizabeth Taylor, Frank Sinatra…. Philip Seymour Hoffman landed in the shy middle, living off his talent as simply as one can in New York. What they shared was a sensitivity too raw to hide, and pain that sent them running.
It seems like St. Louis would like to bury this heart-wrenching failure beneath time. However, fortunately and unfortunately, it is hard to be metabolized. For fifty years, no developer could truly swallow the land left vacant after Pruitt-Igoe was demolished.
Finding a museum dedicated entirely to Churchill, in Fulton, Missouri, two hours west of St. Louis, seems as odd as it would be to find a Charles de Gaulle museum in Brooklyn (the one in lower Alabama), just north of Rome (in Alabama’s Conecuh National Forest).