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A writer attends Butt-Con, a celebration of the rear.
It’s fifty degrees in January, and the air in the Garment District smells strangely of pea soup. The building I’ve been directed to is supposed to be an art gallery, but all I can find is an office-supply showroom. I wait outside on a street…
It’s January 1, 1985, and in kitchens and cars across the US, National Public Radio is reporting the news: The man who hijacked American Airlines Flight 626 is in custody in Havana, Cuba;