I took a break from this newsletter last week because I was getting my author photo taken. As someone who loathes being photographed I was more or less dreading the experience, but the photographer was wonderful and I'm happy. Before getting my photo taken I spent time looking
Something that I used to have to think about more or less all the time when I was still employed in food media was the question of what was best. The best bakery, the best restaurant, the best bar, the best all-day cafe, the best bagel/pizza/breakfast sandwich/
I'm a bit out of sorts right now. To explain why would be tedious for all of us. That said, I can assign some of my mood to this Monday's Met Gala, or more precisely the act of looking at pictures of it. Obscene wealth, when
Last week my friend Zoe texted me with sad news: The Islands, a Brooklyn restaurant specializing in Caribbean food, had closed. It was a beloved, unassuming spot on Washington Avenue, a mom-and-pop shop with a legendarily relaxed vibe that translated to unpredictable delivery times. I last went there
If you didn't know that Lena Dunham just published a new memoir (her second), then you probably weren't reading the New York Times last week. In the space of approximately 24 hours, the Grey Lady churned out a review, a David Marchese interview*, a think piece,
When I finally gave in and bought a Criterion Channel subscription a couple of years ago, I readied myself for a steady diet of what a friend once referred to as broccoli movies, meaning movies that are good for you. Obscure European art house cinema, Golden Age Hollywood gems, the
When I was younger, I prided myself at not being a cryer. I didn't cry at movies, didn't cry over songs or commercials, except that one Sarah McLachlan did for the ASPCA. Crying in front of other people felt like an indignity, an unwelcome confession of
This Monday, my editor sent out the first blurb requests for my novel Small Kingdoms, which is scheduled to be published next June. I was cc'd on the requests, and their appearance in my inbox invoked equal parts excitement and anxiety. Because to me, this marked the moment
Twelve days ago, I turned 50 years old. It is surreal to write those words. I don't feel 50, but then I don't know what one is supposed to feel like at 50. When I was a child, 50 was 100. When I was 30, it
I belong to that subset of masochists who watch the Oscars beginning to end, year after year without fail. I once even found a way to watch when I was staying at a youth hostel in New Zealand, which was no small feat in the days before smartphones. I do
A brief weekly round-up of some good things this week. Some (spot-on) thoughts about the fancy-bathhouse trend. The Angelika Film Center was named after an actual woman named Angelika Saleh. Unfortunately she just passed, but this story about her is fascinating. I'm a big Rufi
I am very late to the Heated Rivalry party, and that is because I resisted it until last week. On paper, the tale of two gay hockey players is tailor-made for me; there's a reason my friend Gautam likes to call me a fruit fly.** But in