Word: denims
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Dates: during 2000-2009
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...visionary” and “humanist.” Here in the U.S., media reactions have been more muted: a faithful reflection of our general domestic indifference toward the intricacies of Gallic theory. (That the anthropologist shares his name with the most American of institutions, a denim manufacturer, lends his fate something of a surreal twist; a Google image search intersperses pictures of primitive art with links to purchase boot-cut flares.) Yet Lévi-Strauss deserves a moment of genuine recognition and remembrance—his life, if perhaps not completely successful in the ways...
...height and shoulders that seem perpetually raised near his ears. He looks exactly like the headshot on his wildly popular economics blog, down to the the half-smile, mysterious as that of the Mona Lisa, which never leaves his face. He sits with arms crossed, wearing a button-down denim shirt and one leg crossed, utterly relaxed except for an occasional foot wiggle. For someone with a cult of personality and a class size that sometimes reaches into four digits, he is eminently unthreatening. His aura is kind. The decor of his office, in contrast, is sparse and blocky, with...
...posted: "Caution, American-size portions served here." In my mind, that says it all. I live in Europe where food is enjoyed but rarely abused and it pains me to see how my compatriots who come to visit stand out in any crowd not just for their sneakers and denim shorts but for their bulk. America needs not just to exercise but to eat less and better foods. Waldo Martin, Frankfurt, Germany...
Hells Angels can be recognized by their leather or denim jackets featuring the red-and-white winged "death's head" logo, the letters HAMC and often the number 81 - representing H, the eighth letter of the alphabet, and A, the first. Like soldiers who don emblems on their military uniforms, Hells Angels wear a variety of patches on their jackets indicating their status in the group; the precise meaning is known only to fellow Angels (full-fledged Angels are known as full-patch). Members are known to one another only by their road names; a memorial page on the gang...
Familiar strangers turn into characters in my mental summer narrative. There’s the tough guy with a reddish brown ponytail climbing the subway stairs. A week later, again wearing a denim shirt and jeans, he gently leads a lady down King’s Road. Every morning the woman in an orange vest grins around sticking-out teeth, blithely handing out free newspapers. There is a man with a two and a half foot beard selling novels on Lamma Island. A shopkeeper in front of my apartment explains how her dresses can also be skirts. The squat blond...