Judith Giuliani met her husband by boldly walking right up to him at his favorite cigar bar.
How infomercial king Ajit Khubani used his keen understanding of suburban anxieties to create lucrative markets.
Rocker-adviser reveals what’s the matter with kids today.
866 fire-code violations—but it doesn’t need to fix them.
Search-engine optimization catches on in popularity.
He’ll lose weight, recycle.
Over prime numbers.
It was a good week to consider one’s legacy, as the world’s most beautiful women descended on the Met to honor a French designer.
Meeting Michael Jackson has its price.
Who gets paid more for doing a job: Clemens or Gisele?
Downtown as Asian bedroom community.
The 2008 presidential-merchandise battle.
Miranda July, waifish casus belli.
A directorial mixed bag from Hal Hartley; a surprisingly enjoyable entry in the Brooklyn Mafia genre.
In the shadows of this overheated summer movie season, New York’s art houses are counterprogramming with some heavy hitters of their own.
The last work by August Wilson is as great as those that came before; a disappointing vehicle for the return of Angela Lansbury.
A pair of career arcs: Angela Lansbury’s real age, and the ages (estimated) of her characters.
Three average citizens deputized with critical authority review releases by Avril Lavigne, Feist, and more.
How 9/11 philosophically undermined the hot-selling photographs of Andreas Gursky.
A highly competent performance of Wagner that could’ve used more heat.
Our deliberately oversimplified guide to who falls where on our taste hierarchies.
An encounter with the weird seductiveness of Phil Spector.
The Ensemble Studio Theatre’s weeklong festival, “Shatter,” stages four one-acts per night, each with a distinctive style and voice.
The artist himself (or, in one case, borrowing a friend) becomes the material.
These performances—enhanced by their sacred settings—should get you to the church (or synagogue) on time.
Brooklyn beer, Long Island wine, and authentic Piedmontese in the spotlight.
New film sets dino facts straight.
One tiny Chelsea storefront’s hoard of hip knickknacks.
A redhead glad to have escaped hair-color persecution in the U.K.
At long last! A Japanese restaurant that’s not the size of a football field.
Prized by foragers and seasonally minded cooks, among others, the wild stinging nettle has a whiff of danger about it.
Readers sound off on Eddie Wise, Studio 54, and more.
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