• "She holds out her right arm to show me her tattoo of Marilyn Monroe. All that remains of Marilyn is a few drops of black against skin that is the color the moon possesses in the thin air of northern winters."—Stephen Marche on Megan Fox, Esquire, February 2013.
• "Her skin is lined and slightly worn and depends on light from other sources—from her eyes, from her smile, even from the hounding incandescence of television."—Tom Junod on Hillary Clinton, Esquire, February 2008.
• "I can't help but notice her skin. It's the smoothest skin I've seen outside of a Clinique ad."—A.J. Jaocbs on Rosario Dawson, Esquire, [...]
Part of a series about youth.
When you turn twenty-seven you start noticing the number, everywhere. Suddenly everyone else is twenty-seven, too: Every athlete and actor, all of the dead people who ever did anything. Your age is everywhere because you, at twenty-seven, are perfect. Just there. Just where you are right now: educated, but no longer preachy; fuckable, without being whiny; mature, and not yet fat. Never change.
At least, that's what you feel like America keeps telling you.
An old Esquire article, randomly stumbled across, only confirms that you weren't imagining things. This ode to "The 27-Year-Old Woman" is a love-letter to your agesake, [...]
May I totally gay out on you for a minute? There are two Esquires, at war with each other. There is the magazine that published the Roger Ebert profile, which is, by all accounts, amazing. (I can't read it yet because I don't have any time for a meltdown right now!) Then there is the magazine that is producing "Inside Their Olympics: Get All-Access Analysis from Lovely Athletes at the Winter Games (Easier on the Eyes Than Costas, Eh?)," starring "North America's Loveliest Olympians," which, wow, seriously, stab yourselves, your ironic Mad Men shtick is not actually ironic. I think it is this latter Esquire that is [...]
We're only something like four months prior to the opening of James Cameron's Avatar, which is apparently the most important movie of our generation (what if it sucks though!?), and already the pre-buzz has put bricklayer-hot Australian actor Sam Worthington on the cover of Esquire. (Perhaps you remember Worthington from such movies as that last Terminator mess, and, um… that episode of Jag? Or, uh, doing Macbeth in Melbourne?) The magazine describes him, very weirdly, on the cover, as "The Greatest Actor of Our Time?" Because you know, when someone finally says that about you, do you really want it to be ending with a question mark? Is [...]