Steve Tuttle

If 50 is the new 40, I must be 60.

When Democrats and progressive pundits start whining about how we're having an anti-intellectual moment, it can mean only one thing: they just got their butts handed to them in an election.

An intense reporting trip to the battered nation ends with a hurricane and a lesson in survival.

A trip into the heart of Haiti's cholera zone reveals a people armed with both fatalism and fortitude.

I'm an almost-every-day jogger, but I hang my head in shame when I gaze upon the running record of Mark Covert, the so-called Cal Ripken of U.S. streaking. In this case, "streaking" is the term for running a long stretch of days in a row, not running without shorts.

Why do adult men dress up like MLB players for games when we're not baseball players and it's not even Halloween yet?

The writer looks deep inside the frightening Tea Party movement and finds nice people and potato salad.

The Republicans offer up a "Pledge to America" at an industrial-park hardware store in suburban Virginia, and hilarity ensues. (Not really.)

Guys in TV advertising are getting marginally manlier, but compared to what?

When my kids started complaining recently about having to go back to school, I told them the same thing my parents used to tell me: "You're going to look back on these days as the best of your lives." Sometimes I find my mouth saying other shockingly unhip dad stuff like, "Are you trying to heat the whole outdoors?!" when they leave the door open, or "If your friend jumped off a bridge, would you jump off a bridge?" I was reminded of my sage advice this week when I got the rare chance to...

It's been nearly four years since the nice sonogram technician waved her magic wand over my left testicle and said: "Uh-oh." At least I think that's what she said. Your brain tends to blank out when you're in full-on flop-sweat panic.

People are simultaneously branding themselves on Facebook and Twitter when it suits them and at the same time trying to maintain their privacy. The two things are incompatible.

Monday was a really big day in my life, as it was for many of my friends and colleagues at NEWSWEEK. For the past few months, we've all been anxious with anticipation. I've speculated wildly, started unfounded rumors, and chewed my nails down to the quick. But finally, on Monday, I got the news I'd been waiting on for so long.

There's a fun advertising Web site that's been making the rounds in booky blog circles the last couple of weeks called I Write Like. Basically, you cut and paste some of your personal prose into the little box and hit the Analyze button, and the magic machine tells you which famous author your writing most resembles.

President Obama gets accused of a lot of things, but it would be tough to argue that his administration's constitutional challenge of Arizona's anti-illegal-immigration law was poll-driven. Because even though you might not know it from some of the media coverage, Arizona's new law is really, really popular.

How bluegrass, bourbon, and deviled eggs keep the men in my family sane, and the women in our lives happy for at least one week a year.

Last night, I sat in my usual box seats at Nationals Park to witness firsthand the debut of the Nationals' 21-year-old rookie fireballer against the Pittsburgh Pirates. I discovered that "Baseball Jesus" has arrived and, yes, he does walk on water.

Michigan Gov. Jennifer Granholm just tweeted that she's overruling an apparently blind Major League Baseball umpire and issuing an official state proclamation declaring that Detroit Tigers pitcher Armando Galarraga did throw a perfect game.

Am I the only one that sees the irony in quitting Facebook because you feel your privacy is being violated? You signed up for it. It's a free service and you volunteered to use it. You can always sign off.

In which the author lauds one old-school product that's managed to survive the transition from paper to digital.

For centuries, my Appalachian ancestors have gone to the woods to hunt for deer, pick wild asparagus and blackberries, and fish for trout in streams. But of all the hillbilly delicacies to be found gratis in the great Virginia outdoors, the most precious is also the least lovely.

In which the author touts his radical three-pronged weight-loss plan to save America: eat less, exercise more, and be ashamed of yourself.

Tired of all the Tea Party talk, Annabel Park decided to throw a Coffee Party—and 200,000 people showed up.

Pew Polling and Pulitzer Prizes: How a tiny newspaper in southwest Virginia restored my faith in journalism for at least a few minutes.

In which the author looks deep inside his Southern heart and weighs in on Virginia's declaration of April as Confederate History Month.

In which the author weighs in on the latest U.S. Census controversies, identification politics, and taxidermy.

Now that the leaders on the Hill have scheduled the big health-care vote for this Sunday, they also had to find a way to keep the members around on Friday night and Saturday.

Everything old is new again, even generations-old technology.

An open letter to Conan O'Brien.

In which the author sends his regrets to the Finer Things Club.