It's noon on a Friday in New York as I write this, and by now someone nearby is cracking the first beer of the weekend, declaring, "It's 5:00 somewhere!" Redbook is the magazine that reminds you that it's 1955 somewhere. In the pages of Redbook, to be exact. Here women use Valentine's Day cookie cutters to slice "a message of love" into their husbands' morning toast. Here women buy their husbands a gift for every day they're away on a business trip....
According to its publisher, Promenade will serve the "wealthiest 1% of the world's population when they're visiting New York." Fair enough. But if the old adage is true -- you can tell who reads magazines by the ads -- the top drawer wants dental implants, antique paperweights and oversized fossils.
As a middle-period baby boomer, I feel a vague sense of guilt because of the recent lionization of what Tom Brokaw dubbed "The Greatest Generation." But wait! Our parents also did something not just noble, but cool! They moved into ranch houses with screen-block walls and turquoise Formica and Eames chairs and Saarinen tables and, out back behind the carport, Tiki bars! Atomic Ranch celebrates that style with panache.
The call has gone out -- and not to the writers and TV execs to settle the strike. Thanks to their intransigence, studio wrestling will probably win the first-ever Emmy for Live Action in a Ring. Like all entertainment-starved Americans, I'm prowling for alternatives. So if you're focused on creative can-do, look to Make It Mine.
Like High Times before it, Imbibe helps you celebrate a pastime not endorsed by the PTA. It's a swinging shindig for the liquor-happy booze hound -- or at least when it's focusing on booze.
When Lenny Bruce did his sketch -- Jewish or Not Jewish -- the Jews got it. Trailer parks? Not Jewish. New York? Jewish. Fruit salad is Jewish. Lime Jell-O isn't. Here's another: the name Rex. This is a moniker one finds at the Museum of Natural History, usually preceded by the letter T. It is not commonly found on a bar mitzvah invitation. It is, however, the name of the Jewish Living editor's son. I'm sure he's a good kid, and we don't name ourselves. But as my grandmother would have said, meshuggeneh. Still, there's much to savor in the …
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