“One time…at a $5 punk salon… a guy with jiggy clippers… said, ‘Are you a model?’ and I, feeling model beautiful, indestructible, let him do whatever and ended up looking like a city rat gnawed my scalp bloody on one side.”
I stayed in Ireland for two weeks, a visitor, a tourist. Everywhere Sinead and I would go, we’d play a game Sinead invented called “Spot the American.”
On this day in end-times 1999, Jimmy Carter, the former president of the United States, that sweetheart, was on a flight I was working. It was a shuttle flight, D.C. to New York, maybe. No First Class, no fuss.
“Like homing pigeons,” a man in a New York bar once told me about Pittsburghers. “You leave. You go back. You’re lucky. There aren’t many places like that.”
On terrible pantyhose, bad sports writing, and the eternal kindness of the late great Franco Harris.
Andy Warhol meets the Breatharians.
"Is disease something we’re born with and prone to, or the result of a life lived in a place that can make anyone sick?”