Inside Robert Sarver’s 17-year tenure as owner.

Peggy Jo Tallas spent most of her adult life doing two things: taking care of her ailing mother and robbing bank after bank dressed as a pudgy, bearded cowboy.

Creating, and then attempting to dismantle, a fake persona based on a man who died in 1984.

A survey of sex on a Saturday night in New York City.

A Dickensian profession that can still pay upwards of $650,000 per year.

A profile of Broadway producer Jeffrey Seller, whose show makes more than $500,000 in profit every week.

A mysterious outbreak. Hundreds of stricken schoolgirls. Was it an illness, or was something darker to blame?

“Americans find it hard to believe that foreigners are unalterably foreign, for they have seen generations of immigrants who became Americans.”

Reexamining the murder of James Jordan.

The life and politics of Joan Didion.

Inside the world of competitive darts.

The author travels to North Korea in the years after Kim Jong Il’s succession. He also gets a haircut:

But suddenly the whole chair starts vibrating and I find myself surrendering to her, as she begins to knead the acupressure points on my forehead and neck. Next it's ginseng unguent all over my face. Gobs of pomade smelling like bubble gum go on my hair. Then, like a true daughter of the revolution, she upholsters her blow dryer and begins combing in the pomade and sculpting my now subdued hair. The pungent aroma of heated pomade, like fat frying in a pan, fills the room. My stylist gives my hair a little twist with the comb. It feels like she's making a Dairy Queen curl on top. Then she fries it in place with the dryer. Another dab of pomade. More mincing motions with the comb. Another blast of hot air. Suddenly I feel a moist breeze around my ears. She's taken out a can of imported aerosol spray and is cementing her creation in place. She's delicately patting my new coiffure now the way a baker taps a loaf of bread to see if it's springy to the touch. She murmurs something. I'm breathless with expectation. I open my eyes and gaze into the mirror. Magnifique! It looks like I have a loofah sponge on my head! I am reborn -- a cross between Elvis and a 1950s Bulgarian hydrology expert! At last I have become a true son of Pyongyang!

How Walter Liew stole titanium white from DuPont on behalf of the Chinese government.

Tom Wolfe on the development of ”New Journalism,” an unconventional reporting style which he helped to pioneer.

I had the feeling, rightly or wrongly, that I was doing things no one had ever done before in journalism. I used to try to imagine the feeling readers must have had upon finding all this carrying on and cutting up in a Sunday supplement. I liked that idea. I had no sense of being a part of any normal journalistic or literary environment.

An execution in war-torn Cuba.

Life and death in an underground economy.

He was white nationalism’s heir apparent. Then he went to college.

Chris, a 25-year-old black man, tries to get a good job.

How race and recollection still frame an Alabama football fatality 40 years later.

President Bush’s strange friendship with Vladimir Putin.

“Charlize Theron is anxious. Not greatly anxious, not distraught, but still. Anxious.”

A last-minute trip to Sri Lanka.

Arthur Mondella took over his family’s maraschino cherry business reluctantly. But once he had it, he started a second enterprise. Behind an unmarked roll-down gate, behind some of his prized luxury cars, behind a pair of closet doors, behind a set of button-controlled shelves, behind a fake wall and down a ladder in a hole in the floor, Mondella built a 2,500-square-foot marijuana factory. When the police finally found it, he shot himself.

Last Fall, America’s favorite focus drug suddenly went into short supply.

Two men named Nathan committed murders. Only one received a death sentence.