fromPitchfork
1 week agoTouching Grass at the Andrew Yang Party
The night is young in Flatiron. Finance bros with gray vests and backpacks and women in jeans and sweaters are still walking home from work. In the middle of 25th St, a man opens a red stanchion and ushers us toward a guard who stamps invisible ink on our wrists. We're each given a black plastic bag with a tear tab to lock our phones in for the night. We enter a silvery elevator, which takes us to the 38th floor.
US politics