Down the milky corridors of fog, starless scenery, the rubble of ocean's breath, that lone figure strolling, gathering about him without shame a small flood of damages, concessions to a frailty that was his long before he knew what he must do or what he must be, and now, with his hand outstretched as if to greet the future, he comes close and pours out to me the subtlety of his meaning, and I see him, my long-lost uncle, great and golden in the sudden sunlight, who predicted that he would reach over the years and be with me and that I would be waiting.
A Cold One With Donald There has never been a better candidate to have a beer with than Trump.
Hang Up And Listen
The 11th Worst Super Bowl in History How do you measure Super Bowl mediocrity? Slate correspondent Justin Peters stacks them up.
Why You Hated the Super Bowl It was hard to tell if it was a great defensive contest, or a terrible offensive one.