Ideally, this interview would have been over breakfast at a diner in Omaha, and the local congressman, Don Bacon, would have ordered his namesake. He says he eats bacon two or three times a week when he’s in Nebraska; he likes it extra crispy and, if possible, prepared at home. “If you ask me for my favorite bacon, it’s Angie Bacon,” he told me this week, referring to his wife of 41 years. (Sadly, the congressman and I were speaking not over breakfast but by phone.

Pamela Anderson wore a structured Tory Burch gown to the Met Gala this year, its bell-shaped skirt, rounded neckline, and long sleeves hiding every part of her except her hands and her face, which was mostly free of makeup, her preference for the past few years; her blond hair was newly cut into a bob. It was the fashion of subtraction, only her face identifying her as the famous star.
If she had wanted something like invisibility, however, she missed the mark.

My father says to pick a beer.
Outside, two men in yellow coats
hose mud from a reef of oysters
to be priced and sold by the bucketful.
The owner’s a fellow named Tadpole.
Lives up Mosquito Creek
and raises labradors, without which
the basin’s fallen mallards
would vanish to the marsh
and the mouths of its gators,
which wear feathers in their teeth.
Write that down, says my father,
who knows a beautiful thing
when it slithers over his path.
I’ve seen him point a pistol
at a coiled cottonmouth.

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