Christopher Hitchens reflects personally on the untimely death of Tim Russert. Who would not hope to be eulogized thusly?
(Note to Vanity Fair: Maybe you could suppress the icky Angelina bath photos on the sidebar, just for this piece? Don’t worry: no one will overlook your enthusiasm for learing celebrity pervert pieces.)
It’s not what I expected. My dad’s biannual visit was to put us in Okiboji for the Fourth. But joyous hometown developments reshuffled my calendar (including October’s China adventure, though how significantly is unclear).
Seems like it’s been no time since they merged their record collections, but Kirk and Sarah announced two weeks ago that they’re getting hitched. Though it feels abrupt (I got no hint when I hung out with Kirk in May), the consensus among their friends (my sister:Sarah::I:Kirk) is that this is nothing but wonderful, and I concur. They’ve allowed themselves six weeks to plan and execute a massive blow out in Des Moines—250+ peeps—that promises to unite even our most far-flung and reluctant friends to witness their Holy-Moly Matrimony.
I am privileged to have a role in the proceedings as a groom-booster with brother Matt. Not to get all superstitious, but you know it’s meant to be when you score the assigned grey pinstriped suit in a single stop: $12.99 at Valu Village in Golden Valley. The pants are short, but Thom Brown and Allie Nassif say it’s kosher.
Check me out:
There are going to be parties for days. Matt and I are making buttons for the bachelor part.
I picked up the soldering iron more often then expected this spring. And while the cuts and solders are crude and the material choices feel arbitrary, the ideas and the pieces keep improving.
Ira Glass’s pep talk to wannabe storytellers is relevant for any enterprise: you have to face a lot of bad work until it happens, but eventually your ability will fulfill the promise of your taste. I’m not anywhere near that point, but I’m optimistic.