Crash Course

By From the July 1994 issue

In mid-July, fragments of a fearsome comet are scheduled to blast into Jupiter -- just as the U.S. gets set to commemorate the silver anniversary of man's first steps on the moon. What are we doing watching it all from down here?


Wanna Party?

By From the October 1988 issue

THE SATURDAY NIGHT before the Republican National Convention opened, I arrived in New Orleans, dropped my bags at the hotel, and set off through the French Quarter in search of a late dinner. It was almost like walking onto the set of Satyricon, the difference being that, for this version, central casting had brought in all Republicans: a kind of PG-13 Satyricon. But the spirit was willing. First I saw Senator James McClure (American Conservative Union rating: 100) sauntering down Bourbon Street, the legendary avenue of gin joints and flesh parlors. I caught sight of him as he passed by Big Daddy's All-Female Wrestling Parlor. He didn't stop, I admit, but he was smiling, and the incongruity -- What's wrong with this picture? -- startled me. Across the street some middle-aged folk in Robertson hats glanced good-naturedly into a saloon advertising "Unisex Love Action." They elbowed one another and laughed. A few doors down, a woman with a BUSH sticker wrapped around her rump was pouring beer over the head of a woozy friend, who had collapsed against the side of a gift shop that sells what used to be called French postcards.