The Lauren Spierer Mystery, Unraveled
Where is the missing IU student?
Not that any of this has made Brown and her business partners rich. Though evREwares netted $20,000 last year, none of the owners made any money, and they have a long way to go before they equal the mega-success of Indy’s Mister Steamy dryer-ball inventors, who have infomercialed their way to sales of more than 5 million. But the women could be on the verge of something huge: The adhesive that allows StickyTies to be reused lends itself to other novelties. Brown and her business partners have created ice-breaker drink labels for parties and stickers for decorating a school locker. Their big moment came earlier this year, when they struck a deal with a national company that will use evREwares’ concept to make its own reusable adhesive products, which will be sold at J.C. Penney. The agreement requires Brown to keep the product lineup confidential, but more importantly, it promises the young company a cut of the sales. “Three percent of a lot,” Brown says, “is still a lot.”
The Internet is still in its infancy. We haven’t even reached Web 3.0 yet, so just imagine what Web 10.0 will look like. Crowdsourcing will be a huge part of what comes next. I flew back from the Consumer Electronics Show in Las Vegas recently, and I’m beginning to think there will be no more secrets. There are even shirts that say “What happens in Vegas, stays on Facebook and Twitter forever.” I just ordered a new video camera that you wear on your ear like a Bluetooth headset. It’s uploading video constantly. I think a lot of people will wear jewelry that records every minute of their lives and uploads it to the cloud.
A tiny blonde who looks nowhere near her years—she is sometimes mistaken for one of the hip, youthful servers—Hoover has achieved success through a variety of means. The type of restaurant she introduced to the city came at the right time. She ignored the cautions of industry veterans who told her that she could not prepare foods the way she wanted to. And, above all, she focused on details to an extraordinary extent.
Editor’s Note: Somehow, despite his hailing from England, the loss of Dan Wheldon has hit our community close to home. For years now, we have felt especially attached to him. There are the two 500 wins, certainly—including this past edition’s dramatic and improbable finish—but it was his warmth and humor that made him a favorite with fans and media alike. Once, in July 2007, he even invited us in to his home, letting us showcase his condo in our pages.
As a tribute to his all-too-short life, we offer our May 2005 profile, published in the same month he first won our race. Our thoughts and prayers go out to the IRL and to his family.
Five miles east of Monument Circle, on the far edge of Irvington, the railroad runs past factories and warehouses and a tiny asphalt racetrack. There is no infield, just a rubber-streaked oval two-tenths of a mile in circumference, little bigger than a hockey rink, surrounded by a wire fence and grandstands of bleachers and folding metal chairs. During the week, the Indianapolis Speedrome stands as empty as many of the abandoned buildings on the industrial east side. But every summer Saturday night, the place comes alive with beer-swilling fans who’ve paid $11 to watch four hours of action, semi-pro drivers trading paint in everything from go-karts to jalopies, all of it just prelude to the mayhem that is the main event, a little-known battle royale of bent metal that may just be auto racing’s truest spectacle: the Figure 8.
Editor’s Note, September 2011: When we profiled Steve Goldsmith in December 2010, we headlined the piece about New York’s deputy mayor, “If He Can Make It There.” Apparently he couldn’t. Read the original article about his brief time there before the shame of an arrest for domestic violence led him to resign.
Here comes Rich Burd, emerging from the rows of gleaming automobiles, extending his hand in your direction as if he’s been expecting you. You’ve seen him before, in his cheesy TV commercials—“Haven’t you heard? Burd’s the word!”—and here he is in the flesh. He’s a bit shorter than you expected, but there’s that same round face with heavy eyelids, the same blond buzz-cut standing motionless in the breeze, the same knowing smile. He wants to welcome you to his kingdom of freshly washed and waxed coupes and sedans, half-tons, full-tons, SUVs and hybrids, if that’s your thing, each adorned with a bright-colored balloon and priced to sell. He grips your hand firmly, looks you in the eye, and asks if he can show you something, as if he already knows exactly what you want, what you need, and what you can afford.
The boss thinks Friday is a workday. And maybe it is for the rest of those poor folks back at the office. But when the days are sunny, the nights are warm, and the water’s just right, two-day weekends hardly seem long enough. So we hereby declare Friday workdays to be optional. And by “optional” we mean we won’t be showing up at all. Join us, won’t you?