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Esquire used to be one of my favorite magazine subscriptions, but then out of sheer laziness I let it run out and haven’t bothered to send a new subscription card in.  That was like five years ago.  Can’t say I’ve really missed it, but I do remembered enjoying it greatly.

Anyway, the magazine has selected it’s Seven Greatest Stories and have been nice enough to supply full text!  Woot!  Woot!

Among the stories you’ll find are: Tom Junod’s “Falling Man” (2003), Gay Talese’s “Frank Sinatra Has a Cold” (1966), C.J. River’s “The School” (2006), Richard Ben Cramer’s “What Do You Think of Ted Williams Now?” (1986), Tom Wolfe’s “The Last American Hero is Junior Johnson.  Yes!” (1965), John Sack’s “M” (1965) and Norman Mailer’s “Superman Comes to the Supermarket” (1960).

Maybe it’s time to renew that subscription.  I’ve read all of these pieces at one time or another and can’t recommend them highly enough.

No sane person I know actively went out and saw the (I’m assuming) schmaltzy Jack Nicholson/Morgan Freeman flick The Bucket List. But that doesn’t mean that we can’t come up with our own personal list of stuff to do before we die.

Over the years I’ve managed to knock off a bunch of stuff I’d like to do which includes: painting a self-portrait, running with the bulls (well I may have to do this one again as I didn’t run so much as get caught on the course but then I was so freaked out by the bulls I bailed at the end before sneaking back into teh stadium), sky diving, and so many others.

But there is still plenty left I’d like to do: from camping in New Zealand, scuba diving, driving a high-end sports car, attending the Oscars, publish a book, brew my own beer, learn to make one perfect cocktail, cook a seven-course meal for family and friends using produce I’ve grown myself, visit every MLB ballpark with my Dad in one summer, see the Kentucky Derby, ride a motorcycle, visit every continent, et cetera.

We all have these kind of things that seem like an unreachable dream. But does that make them any less achievable?

Esquire is helping the ball rolling by publishing their list of “75 Things Every Man Should Do Before He Dies.” The list is a bit dude centric, but what do you expect from a men’s magazine.  The point, of course, is not to check things off a list, but rather make a concerted point to live a full and rich life.

It’s about saying yes to things rather than no, it’s about facing fears and meeting them head on, it’s about embracing challenges for no reason other than to conquer them.  Too often we don’t appreciate small things like a great meal or that perfect glass of beer at the end of a tough day, or we don’t think making a perfect omelette is worthy of praise.  Ultimately, lists like these are nothing more than an excuse to rejigger your life and get a fresh perspective.

I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ve accomplished more than my fair share of things on Esquire’s list.  What would be on yours?

Well, it’s over.  But still, Snoop shared his thoughts on Barack Obama getting the nomination in Esquire’s “What I’ve Learned” spread.

“Barack Obama makes me feel good to be a black man. Just seein’ him up there representin’ intelligently and really knowing what he talkin’ about and defending his shit even when they try and shoot at him. The old president and baby girl — Bill and Hill — they tried to double wop on him. Boo bop. But he have enough game to get out of that.”

I’m not quite sure what it means to double wop on someone, but I’m pretty sure no one actually tried to shoot Barack Obama.  Also, wouldn’t it be great if Snoop Dogg could narrate your life and make even the most trite and boring aspects of your day sound exciting?

“Yeah that’s Jim representin’ the moring cereal.  Double O’s!”  You best believe that I’m going to double wop on Phil from accounting later today.  I’m sure there are a million more jokes to be made that I don’t have time for… but just think about Snoop Dogg narrating your day.  [via]

Esquire has taken the time to fill us in on the best sammies in America. There are some great choices on here, including one from Portland, a couple up in Seattle and then taking the time to hit every geographic location and the sandwiches they made famous.

But then they sully their reputation by including the Mc “freakin” Rib. Seriously. They included a limited-offer sandwhich from McDonalds. And they want us to take their opinion how? Regardless, I’ll be trekking into downtown Stumptown to try Portland’s offering:

Reggie Deluxe

Pine State Biscuits, Portland, Oregon

A hangover cure found only at Portland’s Farmers Market (for now): fried chicken, bacon, cheddar, gravy, and an over-easy egg on a cream-top buttermilk biscuit still hot from the outdoor oven. (South Park Blocks, SW Harrison and Montgomery; Saturdays)

If I may make a suggestion for next year, it would be to head into downtown Boston, sometime at midday during the work week and head to Chacareros. It’s a Chilean sammy and perhaps the greatest concoction ever.

Does this wet your pallette?

“It begins with homemade bread, that we make fresh daily. The main ingredient is either tender grilled steak or chicken (or both). Then with your main ingredient, we add steamed green beans, which gives it that authentic Chilean touch, Muenster cheese and fresh tomatoes. After that, we add an avocado spread, salt, pepper & our secret hot recipe to complete the sandwich.”

Simple, delicious and unexpected. The green beans and avocado spread smack your taste buds into your stomach.

Anyone in Portland know sandwhich places or sandwiches worth trekking for?

This is a fairly interesting work over at Esquire. Lisa Taddeo has written a recreation of actor Heath Ledger’s last days. As a work of fiction it works well. As a testament to the actor it feels icky. It feels like something of a disrespect for his life, but it also works on a level of social critique at all of us who were sweating over the moronic details of his last few days.

Taddeo manages to just straight kill this and make us all feel ikcy for every wondering what happened leading up to Ledger’s death.

It becomes theatrically important, after you die, what your last few days are like.

For me, it was just like any other weekend in my life. I didn’t eat a last meal, I didn’t jerk off any more or any less, I didn’t climb a mountain or end up swinging from a noose with Mozart’s Requiem in the background. But suddenly it’s important exactly what I did, because they are the last few days, and what you do in the last few days, down to your last lunch, becomes a fairy tale.

If you force me to make my last weekend a microcosm of my existence, and what my existence means to you, then I’ll tell you how it went and who I played. But first things first: It was an accident. I’m not some fucked-up star who couldn’t deal. I could deal; I just couldn’t sleep.

Read the entire thing here, which Esquire is calling reported fiction. Whatever that means.