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Close your eyes and picture Sept. 11. The memories are cauterized, familiar forever. The second plane banks and slides in, the fireball blooms, the towers peel away as if unzipped from the top.
The millions of Americans voting in midterm elections Tuesday were not always sure what they wanted, or even whom. But many knew they were unhappy — uneasy about the economy, frustrated with the direction of the country and dissatisfied with politics.
Reports of sudden acceleration in the Toyota Prius have spiked across the country. But that doesn't mean there's an epidemic of bad gas pedals in the popular hybrid.
These Olympics will be remembered for all the wrong reasons.
You can see it at the waterfront Olympic cauldron, transformed overnight from something more like a prison yard into a proud public square.
They finally freed the flame.
If it's not the weather, it's the cauldron. Or the hay. Or the ice machine at the skating rink. Or the spigot at the luge track.
Canada says the gold rush on its soil is coming. It's just a matter of when and where it gets discovered first.
They marched in more like an honor guard than an Olympic delegation, standing out for their stoicism — black armbands and black scarves marking their grief, their faces still and almost determined.
Toyota executives have been virtually silent amid a recall of millions of their cars because gas pedals can become dangerously stuck. For their customers, oh, what a feeling — fear, frustration, confusion and anger.
It had the makings of a nightmare before Christmas: a snowstorm that wrecked the last big shopping weekend of the holiday calendar. Holiday travelers lost in a tangle of flight cancellations. Delivery people fighting ice and snow. Zhu Zhu Pets tragically left homeless.
The nation was focused on a tropical storm spinning off the Carolinas and a hurricane headed for Florida. People were gaming out how a political novice named Sarah Palin might upend the presidential campaign.
The crowd at Oriole Park at Camden Yards was so sparse on a recent weeknight, its murmur so low, that you could hear clear across the field when a fan let out a disappointed wail at first pitch: "Where IS everybody?"
From the boisterous streets of New York to the suddenly silent casinos in Las Vegas and virtually everywhere in between, Americans celebrated Barack Obama's inauguration by answering his call for national unity: They gathered together.
Chesley Sullenberger spent practically his whole life preparing for the five-minute crucible that was US Airways Flight 1549.
Chesley Sullenberger spent practically his whole life preparing for the five-minute crucible that was US Airways Flight 1549. He got his pilot's license at 14, was named best aviator in his class at the Air Force Academy, flew fighter jets, investigated air disasters, mastered glider flying and even studied the psychology of how cockpit crews behave in a crisis.
Relief on Wall Street over the hard-won passage of a $700 billion bailout package for the financial system apparently hasn't yet trickled down to the pubs, storefronts, car lots and malls of Main Street.
It is not a tidy anniversary this year. Seven years between that awful day and this Sept. 11, the terrorist attacks linger somewhere between the immediate, a conscious part of our days, and the comfortable remove of the distant past. No longer yesterday and not yet history.
She had a 13-hour window to vote in the Arizona presidential primary, but Mona Reese decided she couldn't wait. She didn't even brush her teeth or change out of her pajamas before leaving home.
Peter Mohan traces the path from the Iraqi battlefield to this lifeless conference room, where he sits in a kilt and a Camp Kill Yourself T-shirt and calmly describes how he became a sad cliche: a homeless veteran.
Make no mistake: "Change" is in the air, the undisputed buzzword of the turbulent 2008 campaign. Lodged squarely at the intersection of politics and marketing, the word has had an almost spellbinding power over voters in election after election.
Hillary Rodham Clinton likes to say she was born in the middle of the country at the middle of the century, in a Chicago suburb that defined a childhood out of "Father Knows Best" or "Ozzie and Harriet."
The first thing you notice is how tiny they are: Row upon row of babies, some no older than this day, hooked to grotesque jumbles of tubes. Press your palm against the incubator wall and the infant inside disappears from view.
What it looked like was not so much an alphabet but a masquerade ball for 26 capital letters that had arrived early, stayed late and gotten into the good liquor.
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