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Free Willy Horton

BY Jonathan V. Last

March 15, 2010, Vol. 15, No. 25

There was a hubbub recently when Tilikum, a resident of Orlando’s SeaWorld theme park, attacked and killed one of his trainers, 40-year-old Dawn Brancheau. People were surprised that a killer whale would kill. But then, killer whales have been misunderstood for a long time. 

Dream Ticket

BY Mary Katharine Ham

March 8, 2010, Vol. 15, No. 24

There’s nothing like the grit and majesty of the Olympics, savored in sweatpants in front of the TV, to get you thinking about your own glorious sports moments.

Arnold Beichman, 1913-2010

BY Christopher Caldwell

March 1, 2010, Vol. 15, No. 23

The Snows of Yesteryear

BY Christopher Caldwell

February 22, 2010, Vol. 15, No. 22

Ralph McInerny, 1929-2010

BY Joseph Bottum

February 15, 2010, Vol. 15, No. 21

When Ralph McInerny landed back in the United States and cashed his GI check, a civilian again, the first thing he did was run to a bookstore to buy a copy of Lord Weary’s Castle, Robert Lowell’s new collection of poems.

Babes in Toyland

BY Victorino Matus

February 8, 2010, Vol. 15, No. 20

 

Not surprisingly, a network’s decision to yank a popular host from his time slot and replace him with someone who lacks the same broad appeal has resulted in controversy. The network to which I’m referring is Sprout, a 24-hour children’s channel operated by PBS.

By Stuff Possessed

BY Philip Terzian

February 1, 2010, Vol. 15, No. 19

 

The Ties That Bind

BY David Skinner

January 25, 2010, Vol. 15, No. 18

I am not a free man. I have kids, a wife, a job. I am, as they say, tied down. This means that no matter where I go, I remain tethered by invisible strings of love and obligation to people who depend on me—and on whom I depend.

But for a couple of hours a day I slip the knots. I do so by simply leaving my house or my office and taking with me no communications devices—because I don’t own any.

Father Time

BY Matt Labash

January 18, 2010, Vol. 15, No. 17

For the last many years, my New Year’s Eves have had a ritual sameness: Put on my party heels, pour several warm-up pops, then take off for a friend’s house to join him, his lovely wife, and a circle of regulars, who, as my friend delicately puts it, “come to watch you make an ass of yourself.” It’s an evening full of bellicose singing, filthy limericks, libidinous overtures, and tearful confessions. That’s when my wife usually says, “Are you done? We’re here.

Rage Against the Machine

BY Christopher Caldwell

January 4 - January 11, 2010, Vol. 15, No. 16

My wife, back from walking the dog in a rainstorm, was drying her wet sox by the electric space heater in my attic office. I told her to be careful.

"Careful of what?" she said.

"Well," I said, "the space heater."

"What about it?"

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