How the governor of New Jersey got himself into an affair with an aide that ended in the worst personal and political mess he could imagine—and why it was the best thing that ever happened to him.
A Greenpoint factory site worth hundreds of millions burns before it can be landmarked; eleven fires hit a gentrifying stretch of Prospect Heights in three months. It’s enough make you wonder—in this booming borough, is fire just development by other means?
An overview of the thumb-sucking consultants, clothing coordinators, and other entrepreneurs who will, for a steep price, rear your child on your behalf.
The New York Review of Books was always the idiosyncratic product of Barbara Epstein and Robert Silvers, irrepressible editors who came of age at a time when a journal of lengthy intellectual essays could immediately draw funding and a wide audience. But Epstein has passed away, Silvers is 76, and book reviews aren’t exactly topping the cultural charts anymore. Will the Review outlive its loving parents?
Phalanx of bodyguards can’t protect him from PDA.
He understands now it’s campy.
Posters a lie.
No Q&A, no mercy.
For a week that passed in the shadow of the darkest day in city history, it probably was not surprising that red, white, and blue were on display, along with a surprising kaleidoscope of other colors.
Tammy Faye’s pierced-and-tattooed son has moved here to spread the word to Williamsburg. Are PBR drinkers ready for their own PTL?
Epidemic of carpet-tack attacks along the Hudson River paths.
Aeron designer dies, and office furniture loses its 9/10 innocence.
Somewhat persecuted area nudists escape to Gunnison Beach in New Jersey at the end of the season.
A powerful but easy-to-use telescope, miraculous mirror-clearing spray, and more.
Adrienne Wong of Superdeluxe.
Store openings this week.
The “Fli High Fli Guys” discuss the continuing influence of the Fresh Prince.
The Japanese Invasion continues in mediocre fashion.
A hatch green chiles rellenos recipe from a Kitchen/Market chef.
Ted Turner on the local restaurant biz.
A tale of two tomatoes.
Week of September 25, 2006: Pinkberry and Goblin Market. Plus, a menu translation for Lonesome Dove Western Bistro.
Bare-bones plain, cheap, and earnest, Je’Bon Noodles seems oblivious to our town’s bold new world of pulsating Asian eateries-on-steroids.
With the fall social season in full swing, some high-profile places start serving midday meals.
Celebrating hat season.
Finishing 40 years of construction in Battery Park City.
The Culture Pages
Scissor Sisters, chart-topping icons abroad, underground icons at home.
Michel Gondry’s latest is superb until the disappointingly bitter end.
Enjoyable, non-pedantic political films at the Toronto Film Festival.
An overly credulous account of Orson Welles’s mid-career misadventures.
Eve Ensler preaches to the liberal choir.
How to install a three- ton sculpture.
An exhibit on dealer Ambroise Vollard might be big-name tourist bait, but it’s still illuminating.
Yearning for the days when legal shows weren’t just about loud arguments and strange crimes.
Despite cast changes, rewrites, and producer musical chairs, this brainy soap checks in with promise.
Kyle Chandler is the new coach, Connie Britton his terrific wife, and Scott Porter the star quarterback injured in the first game of the season. The rest is claustrophobic hope and dread.
Smith seems to be shot inside the head of Orson Welles, kaleidoscopically noir enough to frighten even the French.
Q&A with the Grey’s Anatomy actress.
Our deliberately oversimplified guide to who falls where on our taste hierarchies.
Why it won’t matter how Eliot Spitzer wins once he gets to Albany.
Whether you’re celebrating Rosh Hashanah or just a standard-issue autumn week, spiritual matters dominate the bookstore scene.
Our picks from the Ohio Theater’s Ignite festival, a three-week downtown mix of cabaret, monologues, comedy, dance, and one-act plays.
Dance music may not be the dominant form it was a few years back, but don’t count out rump-shaking just yet.
The National Museum of the American Indian stays put—and grows into its building.
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