Street Love Issue Crossword
Give this love–themed Crossword puzzle a go.
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Give this love–themed Crossword puzzle a go.
I don’t quite remember when it was, but one day, while I was doomscrolling on Instagram, my ears were blessed by a very lyrically complex, melodic sound that definitely cannot be described as “ostrich squeal rap.” As the line, “Shout out Martin Luther K–i–i–i–ing” emanated from the speakers of my phone, I knew I had struck gold with rapper Yuno Miles.
A well–written pop song can become inescapable once it leaves its mark across platforms, saturating TikTok feeds, dominating streaming charts, and echoing from car radios. Some of the most persistent earworms of the modern era have come not from traditional pop stars, but from beloved fictional characters. And yet, even when a trio of superhero K–pop idols can conquer the internet, the charts, and the cultural conversation, the biggest award stages remain far harder to claim.
If there was any doubt before, it is certainly clear now—the department store, or at least its traditional format, might just be a slowly dying art. Are the days of walking through the revolving doors into bustling department stores, dedicating entire afternoons to riding up–and–down escalators, combing through floors and floors of clothing, shoes, bags, cosmetics, and perfume, now just a figment of the past?
The Mütter Museum in Philadelphia is known for its Victorian–cabinet style spectacle of medical anomalies and preserved organs. Strolling through, visitors can see the Mütter American Giant—the tallest human skeleton on display in North America—or examine drawers from the Chevalier Jackson collection filled with objects removed from patients’ airways or digestive tracks. Other cases hold malignant tumors and pathological specimens, ranging from slices of Albert Einstein’s brain to Grover Cleveland’s tumor. One of the museum’s most well–known exhibits is the plaster death casts and conjoined liver of Chage and Eng Bunker, the original Siamese twins.
It’s strange to say a project made by 30–somethings is reminiscent of their “late style.” But for I Used to Go to This Bar, the latest release from California pop–punk outfit Joyce Manor, that descriptor feels more than apt. In 2011, Joyce Manor came screaming on to the national scene with its self–titled debut album, a project whose short, aggressive rock anthems bubbled with teenage angst and paranoia. In 2014, the band’s third album, Never Hungover Again, channeled that same adolescent malaise to even greater acclaim.
I used to think that love would announce itself—that I would meet someone and know immediately whether it was love. That it would be so clear and unmistakable I couldn’t ignore it. In the poems I wrote, the books I read, and the films I watched, I looked for love, hoping that I might one day recognize myself in the people I was writing, reading, and watching.
Every year, the comic book market leaves behind a paper trail of what actually matters. Not what critics praise, not what goes viral online, but what retailers order in bulk and what readers consistently pick up. The best–selling comics of 2025, viewed month by month, offer a revealing snapshot of where the industry’s commercial center of gravity now sits and what kinds of storytelling it is quietly incentivizing.
As Music editor, it’s my favorite time of year again: Grammy Season. All of music royalty gathered under one roof to celebrate, react, and judge their peers—it’s my Olympics. 2025 was no snoozefest for the music industry, with the neons of CHROMAKOPIA, the TikTok clipability of DeBÍ TiRAR MáS FOToS, and the Olivia Dean craze. While we all hope for a Cinderella story and are often faced with resounding predictability, the annual anticipatory forecasting is always a delight. Street is here to share their thoughts on who the winners, losers, and disappointments of the night will be.
As a self–proclaimed folk music fanatic, I’m thrilled to secure press passes to Gregory Alan Isakov’s concert last Thursday. I make the trek (thank you The Daily Pennsylvanian Uber budget) to The Met Philadelphia in sub–freezing temperatures, dressed in a classically impractical outfit. I walk in with an eager skip in my step and am immediately confronted with an unexpected surprise.
When you think of a “meet–cute,” what pops into your mind? Maybe it’s Hugh Grant spilling his orange juice on Julia Roberts on a London street in Notting Hill. Maybe it’s Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Zooey Deschanel bonding over The Smiths in the office elevator in (500) Days of Summer. Maybe it’s even Cinderella, in Cinderella, entering the ball and locking eyes with her prince. (That one seems less likely, but, hey).
Young people are facing a loneliness epidemic. At this point, it’s a modern–day truism that feels both unshakeable and all–encompassing. Research shows that Gen Z is the loneliest generation thus far, facing rates of isolation that are higher than both those of millennials and Gen X. We don’t get out of the house enough; we don’t meet enough people; we spend too much time on that damn phone; and, as we have all for some reason been told ad nauseum, we don’t have enough sex!
The S train on 42nd Street runs on the shortest subway line, connecting only two stops. On any given day, 100,000 people take the S, and on Dec. 26, 2018, I was one of them.
I have terrible luck with the date Dec. 31. Six years apart and somehow uncoordinated, two of my hometown best friends proclaimed love confessions to me on this day.
“Fiona, I’ll leave now—I don’t want to take up too much of your time.”
Philly calls itself the City of Brotherly Love—an earnest piece of civic mythology, and also reverently branded. But in our concrete jungle, much of the love here doesn’t feel so brotherly at all. If anything, it’s exposed. It’s nuanced and handwritten. Love in Philly is unguarded, at times stripped of subtlety, and often spray painted. It’s zip–tied to fences and visible from inside the steel walls of a rumbling train. Sometimes, it’s waiting for someone to stand in front of it to take a picture. But largely, it is that picture—stable and sustained long enough to be admired.
Male yearning isn’t new. Men are capable of romance–driven longing like the rest of us, but their stereotypical macho, no–feelings demeanor isn’t always broken through on the screen like we want it to be. So many of these fictional men hold back their feelings, shy away from communication, yell at their partners, and offer a half–assed love none of us deserve. However, in romances of the last decade, stories centered on male yearning dominate, and their most emotional moments are endlessly cycled online. From Theodore “Laurie” Laurence’s (Timothée Chalamet) heartbreaking confession to Jo March (Saoirse Ronan) in Little Women to Peeta Mellark’s (Josh Hutcherson) painful devotion to Katniss Everdeen (Jennifer Lawrence) in The Hunger Games saga, women eat male yearning up. Seeing men obsessed with someone—so much that it hurts—reminds us that men too are capable of emotional vulnerability and expressing love.
Night has fallen now in the square, and I’m sitting in the rain. I’m joined by a friend for safety and for company.
Earlier this month, a friend told me he felt he needed me to accompany him to a hip–hop club event. I love hip–hop, but I am certainly not as well–versed as he is. Nevertheless, he told me that he didn’t feel comfortable entering the space on his own because he felt that he shouldn’t enter a Black space as a non–Black person. He felt that entering the space of a culture he enjoyed would be an intrusion, even though he was genuinely appreciating the music that he loved.
It’s been quite a tumultuous time for country music. It seems that, in the past few years, the genre has been pushed into a moment of reckoning. While artists like Beyoncé and Shaboozey continue to spotlight the genre’s Black roots, the industry has met this increased culture awareness with an odd mix of defiance and disruption. Earlier this year, breakout country star Shaboozey stood on the AMA’s stage as a presenter while a whitewashed history of our country was espoused on stage. In 2024, Beyoncé received no nominations for the Country Music Awards, despite her unapologetically country record COWBOY CARTER being one of the most successful albums of that year. The explanation? That her album somehow lacked “authenticity” because of its less traditional sound, and that Beyoncé simply was not a real country artist, despite having produced music in the genre. Country artist Luke Bryan even justified the CMA’s choice not to nominate Beyonce for any awards by stating, “if you’re gonna make country albums, come into our world and be country with us a little bit.”