Salon.com > Dana Vachon

Email from Cairo: So now what?

Sun, 06 Mar 2011 17:07:00 +0000

It's basically ancient Rome out here, with the plebs gathering in Tahrir to demand reforms once a week, patricians coasting around in Mercedes and BMWS, trying to keep as many privileges as possible, the military holding all the real power (which they've had since Nasser) and everyone aware of it. All the main intersections are guarded by Abrams tanks and armored personnel carriers. But a lot of the soldiers don't even shave, often can be seen texting girlfriends from the tank cockpits, accepting another baby from some family excited for a photo-opportunity.

They seem more instruments of branding than anything else; "The army and the people are one," they chanted during the revolution, an idea reinforced with every GI-cuddling-infant Nokia snapshot. There's been only one exception to this: A group of commandos in balaclavas rushed Tahrir Square last weekend, beating the protestors with cattle prods, Kalashnikov butts, threatening live ammunition. They arrested a photographer friend of ours and accused him of being an Israeli spy. A Canadian, he had maple leaves tattooed on both arms -- which of course only confirmed their suspicions, the Israelis being masters of deception.

Shaun White: Mythic victory

Thu, 18 Feb 2010 13:19:00 +0000

Earlier in the evening a Swedish woman skiing the downhill tumbled grotesquely down an icy mountain slope over and again in extended slow motion, NBC's commentator analyzing the angles of her body to the ground, estimating the speed with which she hit the ice at 70 miles an hour. She had huge legs, twisted around, and when she hit a gate it seemed to tear her apart. An animated arrow showed the exact place where her skull whipped onto the ice; "She simply got way more air than she bargained for," the commentator said, as the Swede, Anja Paerson, lay vaguely writhing in excruciating contemplation of God's vast silence and her own fragile skeleton. "She was launched into orbit here," the commentator said. "We've seen a couple a big crashes today, this the biggest of them." The commentator had the voice of a Country Club woman who cares way too much about tennis. A few other Scandinavians fell, though not nearly so dramatically.

“I’m so tired of America”

Sat, 26 May 2007 12:00:00 +0000

At 33, Rufus Wainwright is the man that became of the young Orpheus who stunned and amazed with his 1998 eponymous debut and 2001 masterwork, "Poses." Since then, he has released two critically acclaimed albums, fallen in love, survived addiction, had an opera commissioned by the Met, and even written its first act. Just a day after its release, his fifth album, "Release the Stars," did something that none of its predecessors had managed: "I'm No. 2 in England today!" he said with mock pride during our phone interview. "I'm right behind Linkin Park!"

Iceboy cometh

Wed, 16 Mar 2005 22:39:00 +0000

At age 20, two-time U.S. National Figure Skating Champion Johnny Weir is America's best hope for a medal at this week's World Championships in Moscow (he is currently in 7th place, entering Thursday night's free skate), and a real threat to break Russia's domination of the event at the 2006 Winter Olympics in Torino, Italy. We met over coffee during his recent stay in New York to talk about the road to the Olympics, Russia's Evgeni Plushenko, and the challenge of drawing attention to the men's side of a sport historically dominated by women. Our conversation touched upon Weir's practice of Kabbalah, his love of fur, and his reverence for Paris Hilton.

As we talked, I began to sense that I was in the presence of something entirely new in the world of men's figure skating: a man who has never asked himself the age-old puzzler, What would Brian Boitano do? Indeed, Johnny Weir is an original. From his new love to his new Balenciaga bag to his old nickname "Tinkerbell," almost nothing was off the table in a wide-ranging talk with America's next great gold medal contender.

What is it like to be so exalted at such a young age?

Thong warfare and the kidnapped beauty queen

Sat, 15 Jan 2005 21:32:00 +0000

The New York Times doesn't know it yet, but it has a chief Venezuelan fashion correspondent. And I'm it. Models strut down the runway under an enormous white tent and wave to their sugar daddies. I'm not anyone's sugar daddy, but I wave back anyway. Through the sashaying legs I intermittently see a man who bears an uncanny resemblance to Ricardo Montalban. He has a blond on each side of him -- rib-removed, collagen-boosted silicone beauties. They wrap their pneumatic lips around fluorescent straws for hits of Bellini between jealous stares at the newer flesh up on the runway. The models come out one at a time in pink thongs, leopard-print thongs, jeweled thongs. Each thong draws a big cheer from the crowd until a bigger cheer is drawn by the next. Thong warfare.

This is the best assignment in the world, and I suppose I have Alex Deep to thank. His family owns the Casablanca Fashion Group, a chain of high-end fashion boutiques where affluent Venezuelans can get the latest from Dolce & Gabbana, Armani and Versace all under one roof. They produce this show annually to publicize the spring lines.