Tom Junod

Stewart isn’t just being a bully here. He is being disingenuous, and he knows it. Worse, he’s tapping into the collective fantasy without knowing it. He’s the gunslinger saying he’s going back to the farm while at the same time putting notches in his belt. More precisely, he’s the presumptive Edward R. Murrow saying that he’ll go back to comedy once he cleans up journalism. But he can’t go back. He can’t go back to the pleasures of fart jokes and funny faces — the pleasures of comedy — because he’s experienced the higher pleasure of preaching to weirdly defenseless stiffs like Jim Cramer. He’s saying once again that he’s outgrown comedy and is no longer a comedian. But he’s not saying what he actually is, because then he’d be judged. And Jon Stewart, to a degree unique in the culture, exists outside the realm of judgment.

Ten years later, Tom Junod revisits “The Falling Man.” “Now Jonathan is buried in Mt. Kisco, next to his mother, who died in 2009. But Gwendolyn doesn’t visit him there, because he is not there, any more than he is there in Richard Drew’s photograph. ‘I believe in the trinity of the human being — mind, body and spirit. And I know that after the death of the body, he’s not there. He’s in God’s hands.’ In the same way, he’s not in the photograph of the Falling Man. ‘People have to get over wondering who this man was,’ she says. ‘He’s everybody. We’re so stuck on who he was that we can’t see what’s right there in front of us. The photo’s so much bigger than any man, because the man in the photo is clearly in God’s hands. And it’s God who gives us the grace to go on.’ ” #Sept11

This, however, is not a story of my cooking, or the odd combination of freedom and thralldom it confers. It’s the story of what — or who — inspired my decision to be my family’s cook, gave me the will to do it, and made it both a practical and, apparently, a psychological necessity. It is the story of my mother — of my mother’s cooking.

Does any of us win all the time? Of course not, or else we wouldn’t be average. But Roger Ailes does. And so, Mr. Ailes, Esquire has a question, on behalf of other average Americans: What kind of man wins all the time? What kind of man gives his country, in roughly this order, Mike Douglas, Richard Nixon, Tom Snyder, Ronald Reagan’s “Morning in America,” the Willie Horton ad, the ad in which Michael Dukakis rides around in a tank and looks like a chipmunk, the presidency of George H. W. Bush, CNBC, Fox News (upstart-insurgent edition), Fox News (airwaves-of-the-empire edition), Fox News (“Obama sux” edition), and Fox News (Tea Party edition)? More pointedly, what kind of man figures out at age twenty-seven how to use television to legitimize Richard Nixon and then at age seventy to legitimize Sarah Palin?

Once upon a time, a long time ago, a man took off his jacket and put on a sweater. Then he took off his shoes and put on a pair of sneakers. His name was Fred Rogers. He was starting a television program, aimed at children, called Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. He had been on television before, but only as the voices and movements of puppets, on a program called The Children’s Corner. Now he was stepping in front of the camera as Mister Rogers, and he wanted to do things right, and whatever he did right, he wanted to repeat.

The oil will have stopped gushing into the Gulf. The shoreline and the estuaries and the beaches will have been scrubbed clean by man and nature. BP and Transocean will have resumed business as usual. But the original wound will never heal. This is the story of what’s been lost.

You think it’d be impossible to share your house with your wife, your daughter, and fifty million or so Argentine ants. And you would be correct.

As the Obama administration prepares to try the 9/11 plotters in military tribunals, David Iglesias stands at the ready to prosecute them — and maybe just save the legacy of the White House that fired him #Sept11

As the people who ran Wall Street struggled to avert a complete economic collapse, an epic battle for power and, above all, cash was being waged between Barclays and JPMorgan Chase. How Bob Diamond walked away with everything he wanted.

In his controlling hands, technology became both the engine and the emblem of transcendence. But as the iPhone slips from his grasp, Jobs is making his final bid for immortality. “Steve Jobs has become Steve Jobs by doing what nobody else has done before—by treating computers not just as tools but as mirrors, by making technology not just the engine but the emblem of transcendence. One day, however, he will have to do what everybody else has done before, and will wind up demonstrating what it’s like to be mortal, even in the age of the beautiful machine.”