A good holiday read about Larchmont’s famous native daughter, Joan Rivers, and the realities of a bygone “man’s world” that became her favorite subjects, in next week’s New Yorker.
“I’m from a little town called Larchmont, where if you’re not married, and you’re a girl, and you’re over twenty-one, you’re better off dead. It’s that simple, you know? And I was”—her voice became a growl—“The. Last. Girl. In. Larchmont. Do you know how that feels? . . . Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-four…” more