Lifestyle
9 movie scenes I couldn't stop thinking about in 2024
Some scenes just stay with you. Clockwise from left, I Saw the TV Glow, My Old Ass, Trap, Tuesday.
A24/Screenshot by NPR; Marni Grossman/Amazon Content Services; Warner Bros. Pictures; A24
hide caption
toggle caption
A24/Screenshot by NPR; Marni Grossman/Amazon Content Services; Warner Bros. Pictures; A24
As a critic, I’m sometimes asked about my note-taking habits: Do you take a lot of notes? (Almost always; my memory can get fuzzy fast.) How do you do this in a dark theater? (Absolutely no phone screens! I scribble furiously with a pen and paper and hope for the best.) What do you usually take notes about?
To that last question, it truly varies, but I can say that I’m consistently being pulled in by words, spoken and unspoken. The profound, the funny, the relatable, the subtext-laden; the lines that reveal some kind of truth about the world on screen and thus the world we’re existing in now. When I think of some of my most memorable film-going experiences of 2024 – a great year for movies! – these are some of the moments and performances that have moved me, and stuck even many months later.
“I’m a little sick of the fluff.” — Girls State
Emily Worthmore, one of the candidates for governor at Girls State, poses with friends.
Apple TV+
hide caption
toggle caption
Apple TV+
Gendered inequities become glaringly obvious very quickly in Jesse Moss and Amanda McBaine’s fascinating documentary about the long-running high school program known as Girls State. Like many before them, the ambitious civic-minded teens profiled here set out to build their own government from the ground up. But the film was shot in 2022, the first time the Missouri chapter hosted both the girls and boys programs on the same campus at the same time, and the girls spend much of their time observing how much attention is paid to the enforcement of dress codes and how little is given to discussing more substantial and urgent political issues. (Meanwhile, there’s ample evidence the boys’ ambitions are taken far more seriously. Among their advantages: being “sworn in” to “office” by the state governor.)
In one scene some of the girls commiserate over their disappointment with the tenor of the program, with one of them calling it out as distracting “fluff.” The moment speaks to the obstacles that still persist for women in politics and is a sobering depiction of young hopefuls getting an early taste of political disillusionment.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry about before. I’m sorry about that before.” — I Saw the TV Glow
Owen (Justice Smith) panics at a child’s birthday party at the end of I Saw the TV Glow.
A24/Screenshot by NPR
hide caption
toggle caption
A24/Screenshot by NPR
The final lines of Jane Schoenbrun’s challenging and mesmerizing transgender allegory are a wallop of a denouement, proffering both sadness and hope. The sadness comes from everything we’ve learned about the meek protagonist Owen (Justice Smith) to this point – how, out of paralyzing fear, they’ve made a deliberate choice to deny their true self, and live a depressing and unfulfilling life. Now working at the kind of job that can only be described as the stuff of nightmares – a Chuck E. Cheese-like amusement center – the crushing weight of their denial finally hits, and sends them into a panic attack in the middle of a child’s birthday celebration.
But Schoenbrun leaves room for hope when Owen collects themselves in the bathroom and in a visually stunning sequence, realizes that who they are is still very much a part of them no matter how much they try to ignore it. They crack a slight smile that suggests some relief and then return to work, ambling past patrons and colleagues while mumbling apologies for their outburst. In a way Owen is still shrinking themselves, apologizing for being who they are. And yet: There’s a sense there’s finally been an existential breakthrough, and perhaps a less painful way forward.
“What the f***? Did you honestly think you were going to be married and have multiple kids and your dream job by the time you were 40?…Oh, you did. OK.” — My Old Ass
In My Old Ass, Maisy Stella plays soon-to-be college freshman Elliott — and Aubrey Plaza plays 39-year-old Elliott, a PhD student.
Marni Grossman/Amazon Content Services
hide caption
toggle caption
Marni Grossman/Amazon Content Services
The beauty of Megan Park’s coming-of-age dramedy is that it never attempts to explain how 18-year-old Elliott (Maisy Stella) comes to encounter her 39-year-old self (Aubrey Plaza), beyond a hallucinogenic mushroom trip the first time she appears. The obvious and more pressing question then is, What does my future hold? When older Elliott delivers the sobering news to younger Elliott – that life rarely plays out exactly as planned – the reality of many millennials and Gen Zers the world over is succinctly and wittily acknowledged. Own a house? Work a fulfilling job that also pays at least a living wage? LOL.
Park’s film mercifully doesn’t dwell on such cynicism, but it is all the better for those little nuggets of pointed commentary peppered throughout, blending a healthy dose of lived wisdom with the energy of youthful optimism.
“I love you so much more than me, and this is your life. And from now on, we’re gonna do what’s best for you.” — Tuesday
Lola Petticrew plays the titular character in Tuesday, a teenager with a terminal illness. Julia Louis-Dreyfus plays her mother, Zora.
A24
hide caption
toggle caption
A24
Julia Louis-Dreyfus’ Zora is unquestionably relatable — what person wouldn’t do everything in their power to ward off a loved one’s impending death, especially their child’s? But ultimately, Zora’s impulses are more harmful than good for her terminally ill daughter Tuesday (Lola Petticrew), who’s already come to terms with her own fate. It takes several extreme attempts at “killing” Death, imagined here as a majestically baritone macaw voiced by Arinzé Kene, before Zora understands she must set aside her own fears of what’s to come and live in the present.
When that epiphany arrives, their mother-daughter relationship begins to heal; Tuesday no longer has to worry about how her mother will fare once she’s gone, and Zora can cherish and appreciate what little time they have left together.
“Why didn’t they call me by my real name? Don’t they know it?” — Dahomey
A wooden statue of King Ghezo, who led Dahomey in the 19th century, is given a voice of its own in Dahomey.
MUBI/Screenshot from YouTube
hide caption
toggle caption
MUBI/Screenshot from YouTube
Twenty-six pillaged artifacts from the Kingdom of Dahomey were returned by France to the Republic of Benin in 2021. One of those objects, No. 26, is given a literal voice in Mati Diop’s stunning documentary, composed from a mix of male and female voices blended to create what she describes as “genderless vocal texture in deep, metallic frequencies.” As Diop’s camera captures the meticulous process of preparing them for transportation, that voice poetically ponders what it means to go back to a home you no longer recognize, through lines written by Haitian author and poet Makenzy Orcel. It’s a poignant reminder that even well-intentioned correctives to historical blights are insufficient in making up for what’s often lost — memories, names, and above all, a sense of self.
“You have a kind of — a forthrightness, you have a kind of aggressive quality. It sounds like a criticism; I don’t mean it as one. I’ve just always worried — I’ve just always wondered how that would work with a man. I’ve wondered if it might be easier for you to be with a woman.” — Janet Planet
11-year-old Lacy (Zoe Ziegler) and her mom, Janet (Julianne Nicholson), in Janet Planet.
A24
hide caption
toggle caption
A24
One night, inquisitive tween Lacy (Zoe Ziegler) asks her mom Janet (Julianne Nicholson) if she’d be “disappointed” if she dated a girl when she’s older. Janet, an acupuncturist and total hippie, admits she’d be neither disappointed nor shocked if that came to pass. The clarity of the observation about her daughter reveals that Janet sees a quality in Lacy that doesn’t exist within herself, namely that “forthrightness,” a lack of interest in tamping down any part of who she is.
This plays out throughout writer and director Annie Baker’s quiet drama, as Janet slips in and out of relationships with men who are no good for her, and as Lacy looks on skeptically. But the mother-daughter divide is made most honestly plain in this scene, which is both tender and (metaphorically) loud in the way it speaks to how women are traditionally conditioned to act and think about themselves. There’s care in Nicholson’s delivery, along with a tinge of regret.
“I need you, because I hate myself.” — The Substance
Elisabeth Sparkle (Demi Moore) attempts to revive her younger counterpart, Sue (Margaret Qualley).
MUBI/Screenshot by NPR
hide caption
toggle caption
MUBI/Screenshot by NPR
There is nothing subtle about this movie, but in a sparse script overflowing with bluntly obvious points about the horrors of sexism and misogyny, this line is the most apt thesis statement. What makes Coralie Fargeat’s astounding, seismic body horror so unique is that the external forces – men, the patriarchy writ large — are on the periphery. Instead, Fargeat is preoccupied with what those forces stir within Elisabeth (Demi Moore), a TV aerobics star resorting to the most desperate of measures to regain her youth, and Sue (Margaret Qualley), the other, younger half she gruesomely expels from her body with the aid of “the substance.”
As Elisabeth’s experiment goes awry, she begins to regret what she’s done and attempts to kill Sue, but can’t bring herself to go through with it. Now haggard and pitiful, Elisabeth says the not-quiet-at-all part even louder: “… I hate myself.” The film is a testament to how corrosive that hate can be.
“I’m taking such good care of my little white boys.” — Challengers
Tashi (Zendaya) and Patrick (Josh O’Connor), her ex-boyfriend.
Amazon MGM Studios
hide caption
toggle caption
Amazon MGM Studios
There’s so much narrative possibility packed into this throwaway line, spoken by tennis star-turned-coach Tashi (Zendaya). She’s a ruthless striver wedged in the middle of a homoerotic love triangle because she married Art (Mike Faist) after first having dated his best friend Patrick (Josh O’Connor). Does she love either of them as much, if not more, than she loves the thrill of a little green ball connecting with a swinging racket in a game of “good tennis”? Doubtful. But she’s dedicated her life to making sure Art does what she wasn’t able to accomplish on her own after a career-ending injury, and she’ll be damned if she’ll let Patrick humiliate him on the court.
Zendaya, of course, is a Black woman playing an athlete in a predominantly white and occasionally racist sport. Director Luca Guadagnino and screenwriter Justin Kuritzkes mostly ignore this reality, arguably to a fault; the movie’s avoidance of Tashi’s perspective in this regard keeps it from having any true thematic heft. But what little it does give us is in the form of this brief acknowledgment from Tashi that she’s hitched herself to these two pathetic “little white boys” who’ve squandered all their privilege and talent right before her eyes.
“Reminding everyone, visual markers. Surveillance footage from area of where victims were found recorded men of various builds: A redheaded male; two African-American males, above-average height; a male with white hair in his 60s; a white male in his 30s with a tattoo of a rabbit or animal on his right arm. A white male with a scar on his lower jaw.” — Trap
Josh Hartnett as Cooper and Ariel Donoghue as Riley in Trap.
Warner Bros. Pictures
hide caption
toggle caption
Warner Bros. Pictures
Look, I never said this was a list of the best movies of 2024. M. Night Shyamalan’s nepo-baby project starring Josh Hartnett as a hot and doting dad who’s also a serial killer is truly one of the dumbest, most nonsensical things to come out of Hollywood in recent memory. But it’s fun as hell, and the commitment to such a ridiculous premise is weirdly audacious: The F.B.I., led by a serial killer “profiler” played by Haley Mills, has trapped thousands of people at a pop star’s concert to catch a guy who could be literally anyone. (That pop star is played by Shyamalan’s daughter Saleka.)
What does this killer look like? Who knows! Except if you’ve seen this movie and made it through to the end, you eventually realize that everyone hunting this guy down should’ve absolutely known. It makes no sense. The plot holes are abundant. This is cinema.
When Marian Sherry Lurio and Jonathan Buffington Nguyen met at a mutual friend’s wedding at Higgins Lake, Mich., in July 2022, both felt an immediate chemistry. As the evening progressed, they sat on the shore of the lake in Adirondack chairs under the stars, where they had their first kiss before joining others for a midnight plunge.
The two learned that the following weekend Ms. Lurio planned to attend a wedding in Philadelphia, where Mr. Nguyen lives, and before they had even exchanged numbers, they already had a first date on the books.
“I have a vivid memory of after we first met,” Mr. Nguyen said, “just feeling like I really better not screw this up.”
Before long, they were commuting between Philadelphia and New York City, where Ms. Lurio lives, spending weekends and the odd remote work days in one another’s apartments in Philadelphia and Manhattan. Within the first six months of dating, Mr. Nguyen joined Ms. Lurio’s family for Thanksgiving in Villanova, Pa., and, the following month, she met his family in Beavercreek, Ohio, at a surprise birthday party for Mr. Nguyen’s mother.
Ms. Lurio, 32, who grew up in Merion Station outside Philadelphia, works in investor relations administration at Flexpoint Ford, a private equity firm. She graduated from Dartmouth College with a bachelor’s degree in history and psychology.
Mr. Nguyen, also 32, was born in Knoxville, Tenn., and raised in Beavercreek, Ohio, from the age of 7. He graduated from Haverford College with a bachelor’s degree in political science and is now a director at Doyle Real Estate Advisors in Philadelphia.
Their long-distance relationship continued for the next few years. There were dates in Manhattan, vacations and beach trips to the Jersey Shore. They attended sporting events and discovered their shared appreciation of the 2003 film, “Love Actually.”
One evening, Mr. Nguyen recalled looking around Ms. Lurio’s small New York studio — strewed with clothes and the takeout meal they had ordered — and feeling “so comfortable and safe.” “I knew that this was something different than just sort of a fling,” he said.
It was an open question when they would move in together. In 2024, Ms. Lurio began the process of moving into Mr. Nguyen’s home in Philadelphia — even bringing her cat, Scott — but her plans changed midway when an opportunity arose to expand her role with her current employer.
Mr. Nguyen was on board with her decision. “It almost feels like stolen valor to call it ‘long distance,’ because it’s so easy from Philadelphia to New York,” Mr. Nguyen said. “The joke is, it’s easier to get to Philly from New York than to get to some parts of Brooklyn from Manhattan, right?”
In January 2025, Mr. Nguyen visited Ms. Lurio in New York with more up his sleeve than spending the weekend. Together they had discussed marriage and bespoke rings, but when Mr. Nguyen left Ms. Lurio and an unfinished cheese plate at the bar of the Chelsea Hotel that Friday evening, she had no idea what was coming next.
“I remember texting Jonathan,” Ms. Lurio said, bewildered: “‘You didn’t go toward the bathroom!’” When a Lobby Bar server came and asked her to come outside, Ms. Lurio still didn’t realize what was happening until she was standing in the hallway, where Mr. Nguyen stood recreating a key moment from the film “Love Actually,” in which one character silently professes his love for another in writing by flashing a series of cue cards. There, in the storied Chelsea Hotel hallway still festooned with Christmas decorations, Mr. Nguyen shared his last card that said, “Will you marry me?”
They wed on April 11 in front of 200 guests at the Pump House, a covered space on the banks of Philadelphia’s Schuylkill River. Mr. Nguyen’s sister, the Rev. Elizabeth Nguyen, who is ordained through the Unitarian Universalist Association, officiated.
Although formal attire was suggested, Ms. Lurio said that the ceremony was “pretty casual.” She and Jonathan got ready together, and their families served as their wedding parties.
“I said I wanted a five-minute wedding,” Ms. Lurio recalled, though the ceremony ended up lasting a little longer than that. During the ceremony, Ms. Nguyen read a homily and jokingly added that guests should not ask the bride and groom about their living arrangements, which will remain separate for the foreseeable future.
While watching Ms. Lurio walk down the aisle, flanked by her parents, Mr. Nguyen said he remembered feeling at once grounded in the moment and also a sense of dazed joy: “Like, is this real? I felt very lucky in that moment — and also just excited for the party to start!”
He always texted when he was outside. No call, no knock. It was just a message and then the soft sound of my door opening. He moved like someone practiced in disappearing.
His name meant “complete” in Arabic, which is what I felt when we were together.
I met him the way you meet most things that matter in Los Angeles — without intending to. In our senior year at a college in eastern L.A. County, we were introduced through mutual friends, then thrown together by the particular gravity of people who recognized something in each other. He was a Muslim medical student, conservative and careful and funny in the dry, precise way of someone who has always had to choose his words. I was loud where he was quiet, messy where he was disciplined. I was out. He was not.
I understood, or thought I did. I thought that I couldn’t get hurt if I was completely conscious throughout the endeavor. Los Angeles has a way of making you feel like the whole world shares your freedoms — until you realize the city is enormous, and not all of it belongs to you in the same way.
For months, our world was confined to my apartment. He would slip in after dark, and we’d stay up late talking about his family in Iran, classical music and the particular pressure of being the son someone sacrificed everything to bring here. He told me things he said he’d never told anyone, and I believed him.
The orange glow from my Nesso lamp lit his face while the indigo sky pressed against the window behind him. In our small little world, we were safe. Outside was another matter.
On our first real date, I took him to the L.A. Phil’s “An Evening of Film & Music: From Mexico to Hollywood” program. I told him they were cheap seats even though they were the first row on the terrace. He was thrilled in the way only someone who doesn’t expect to be delighted actually gets delighted — fully, without guarding it. I put my arm around his shoulders. At some point, I shifted and moved it, and he nudged it back. He was OK with PDA here.
I remember thinking that wealth is a great barrier to harm and then feeling silly for extrapolating my own experience once again. Inside Walt Disney Concert Hall, we were just two people in love with the same music.
Outside was still another matter.
In February, on Valentine’s Day, he took me to a Yemeni restaurant in Anaheim. We hovered over saffron tea surrounded by other young Southern Californians, and we looked like friends. Before we went in, we sat in the parking lot of the strip mall — signs in Arabic advertising bread, coffee, halal meats, the Little Arabia District — hand in hand. I leaned over to kiss him.
“Not here,” he said. His eyes shifted furtively. “Someone might see.”
I understood, or told myself I did, but I was saddened. Later, after the kind of reflection that only arrives in the wreckage, I would understand something harder: I had been unconsciously asking him to choose, over and over, between the people he loved and the person he loved. I had a long pattern of choosing unavailable men, telling myself it was because I could handle the complexity. The truth was more embarrassing. I thought that if someone like him chose me anyway — chose me over the weight of societal expectations — it would mean I was worth choosing. It took me a long time to see how unfair that was to him and to me.
We went to the Norton Simon Museum together in November, on the kind of gray Pasadena day when the 210 Freeway roars in the background like white noise. He studied for the MCAT while I wrote a paper on Persian rugs. In between practice problems, he translated ancient Arabic scripts for me. I thought, “We make a good team.” Afterward, we walked through the galleries and he didn’t let go of my arm.
That was the version of us I kept returning to — when the ending came during Ramadan. It arrived as a spiritual reflection of my own. I texted: “Does this end at graduation — whatever we are doing?”
He thought I meant Ramadan. I did not mean Ramadan.
“I care about you,” he wrote, “but I don’t want you to think this could work out to anything more than just dating. I mean, of course, I’ve fantasized about marrying you. If I could live my life the way I wanted, of course I would continue. I’m just sad it’s not in this lifetime.”
I was in Mexico City when these texts were exchanged. That night I flew to Oaxaca to clear my head and then, after less than 24 hours, flew back to L.A. No amount of vacation would allow me to process what had just happened, so I threw myself back into work.
My therapist told me to use the conjunction “and” instead of “but.” It happened, and I am changed. The harm I caused and the love I felt. The beauty of what we made and the impossibility of where it could go. She gave me a knowing smile when I asked if it would stay with me forever. She didn’t answer, which was the answer.
I think about the freeways now, the way Joan Didion called them our only secular communion. When you’re on the ground in Los Angeles, the world narrows to the few blocks around you. Get on the freeway and you understand the whole body of the city at once: the arteries, the pulse, the scale of the thing.
You understand that you are a single cell in something enormous and moving. It is all out of your control. I am in a lane. The lane shaped how I drive. He was simply in a different lane, and his lane shaped him, and those two facts can coexist without either of us being the villain of the sad story.
He came like a secret in the night, and he left the same way. What we made in between was real and complicated and mine to hold forever, hoping we find each other in the next life.
The author lives in Los Angeles.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
The art industry is increasingly shaped by artists’ and art businesses’ shared realization that they are locked in a fierce struggle for sustained attention — against each other, and against the rest of the overstimulated, always-online world. A major New York art fair aims to win this competition next month by knocking down the increasingly shaky walls between contemporary art and fashion.
When visitors enter the Independent art fair on May 14, they will almost immediately encounter its open-plan centerpiece: an installation of recent couture looks from Comme des Garçons. It will be the first New York solo presentation of works by Rei Kawakubo, the brand’s founder and mastermind, since a lauded 2017 survey exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Costume Institute.
Art fairs have often been front and center in the industry’s 21st-century quest to capture mindshare. But too many displays have pierced the zeitgeist with six-figure spectacles, like Maurizio Cattelan’s duct-taped banana and Beeple’s robot dogs. Curating Independent around Comme des Garçons comes from the conviction that a different kind of iconoclasm can rise to the top of New York’s spring art scrum.
Elizabeth Dee, the founder and creative director of Independent, said that making Kawakubo’s work the “nerve center” of this year’s edition was a “statement of purpose” for the fair’s evolution. After several years at the compact Spring Studios in TriBeCa, Independent will more than double its square footage by moving to Pier 36 at South Street, on the East River. Dee has narrowed the fair’s exhibitor list, to 76, from 83 dealers in 2025, and reduced booth fees to encourage a focus on single artists making bold propositions.
“Rei’s work has been pivotal to thinking about how my work as a curator, gallerist and art fair can push boundaries, especially during this extraordinary move toward corporatization and monoculture in the art world in the last 20 years,” Dee said.
Kawakubo’s designs have been challenging norms since her brand’s first Paris runway show in 1981, but her work over the last 13 years on what she calls “objects for the body” has blurred borders between high fashion and wearable sculpture.
The Comme des Garçons presentation at Independent will feature 20 looks from autumn-winter 2020 to spring-summer 2025. Forgoing the runway, Kawakubo is installing her non-clothing inside structures made from rebar and colored plastic joinery.
Adrian Joffe, the president of both Comme des Garçons International and the curated retailer Dover Street Market International (and who is also Kawakubo’s husband), said in an interview that Kawakubo’s intention was to create a sculptural installation divorced from chronology and fashion — “a thing made new again.”
Every look at Independent was made in an edition of three or fewer, but only one of each will be for sale on-site. Prices will be about $9,000 to $30,000. Comme des Garçons will retain 100 percent of the sales.
Asked why she was interested in exhibiting at Independent, the famously elusive Kawakubo said via email, “The body of work has never been shown together, and this is the first presentation in New York in almost 10 years.” Joffe added a broader philosophical motivation. “We’ve never done it before; it was new,” he said. Also essential was the fair’s willingness to embrace Kawakubo’s vision for the installation rather than a standard fair booth.
Kawakubo began consistently engaging with fine art decades before such crossovers became commonplace. Since 1989, she has invited a steady stream of contemporary artists to create installations in Comme des Garçons’s Tokyo flagship store. The ’90s brought collaborations with the artist Cindy Sherman and performance pioneer Merce Cunningham, among others.
More cross-disciplinary projects followed, including limited-release direct mailers for Comme des Garçons. Kawakubo designs each from documentation of works provided by an artist or art collective.
The display at Independent reopens the debate about Kawakubo’s proper place on the continuum between artist and designer. But the issue is already settled for celebrated artists who have collaborated with her.
“I totally think of Rei as an artist in the truest sense,” Sherman said by email. “Her work questions what everyone else takes for granted as being flattering to a body, questions what female bodies are expected to look like and who they’re catering to.”
Ai Weiwei, the subject of a 2010 Comme des Garçons direct mailer, agreed that Kawakubo “is, in essence, an artist.” Unlike designers who “pursue a sense of form,” he added, “her design and creation are oriented toward attitude” — specifically, an attitude of “rebellion.”
Also taking this position is “Costume Art,” the spring exhibition at the Costume Institute. Opening May 10, the show pairs individual works from multiple designers — including Comme des Garçons — with artworks from the Met’s holdings to advance the argument made by the dress code for this year’s Met gala: “Fashion is art.”
True to form, Kawakubo sometimes opts for a third way.
“Rei has often said she’s not a designer, she’s not an artist,” Joffe said. “She is a storyteller.”
Now to find out whether an art fair sparks the drama, dialogue and attention its authors want.
-
Texas2 minutes agoCarnival is Choosin’ Texas for its Newest Excel-Class Ship
-
Utah8 minutes agoGAME DAY: Golden Knights seek to retake advantage in first playoff trip to Utah
-
Vermont14 minutes agoCOMMENTARY: It’s time to invest in Vermont
-
Virginia20 minutes agoDemocrat Beyer blasts GOP plan to counter Virginia redistricting by eliminating his seat
-
Washington26 minutes ago
2026 NFL Draft Grades | Washington applauded for selecting ‘instant alpha’ linebacker Sonny Styles
-
Wisconsin32 minutes agoWildfires are down in Wisconsin so far in 2026. Here’s why
-
West Virginia38 minutes agoDrug Take Back Day this weekend across West Virginia
-
Wyoming44 minutes agoDecades-old, newly restored Smithsonian carousel reopens — to children’s delight