Here she comes back

It’s the middle of June now and it’s finally hot, and I mean hot. High temperatures for the last few days have been in the mid 90s with the kind of densely humid air that you don’t so much breathe as absorb. Throw in some ice cream, a graduation party or two, and a pool that’s finally warm enough to swim in, and you have what could actually pass for summer. 

Current events are much as they have been throughout this year. The terrible news is constant, but there are bright spots. The Iran war keeps running hot and cold, and the Epstein conspiracy appears to be even worse than we thought (and it was already really bad), and Elon Musk is now a trillionaire, which is a thing that should not exist. On the other hand, it’s been really fun watching New York celebrate their beloved Knicks. And Trump’s name is coming off the Kennedy Center today! And far be it from me to ever wish for bad weather, but maybe it’ll rain on his MMA birthday party on Sunday. 

*****

This year is the first year since 2007 - since Bush 43! - that we haven’t had any connection to our neighborhood swim team. My older son started swimming in 2007 and my youngest aged out of summer swimming in 2023, but then he came back as a coach for the 2024 and 2025 seasons, which meant that he lived at home and went to daily practices and Wednesday night B meets and Friday night pasta parties and Saturday morning A meets, and so our household routine felt very much the same as it had every summer for 19 straight summers. 

Now he’s living in Virginia - not far from home, which is nice - and coaching a big-deal summer team in Division 1 of the Northern Virginia Swim League. It’s a big promotion for him and he’s making a lot more money and he’s excited about doing something new, so I’m happy for him. But a hot Saturday morning in June with no one in the house running out the door to a swim meet? I’m not used to this. 

*****

And I’m a little sad about it, and about many other things. My mental health has not been so good lately, for a lot of reasons with which I will not bore you. Except that I will still rail about evil billionaires and even more evil would-be dictators - they are not the only reason why I’m depressed but they’re not helping matters, either. But swimming outdoors on a sunny day fixes a lot of things, and I felt much better yesterday after a swim. I don’t really swim in the winter anymore, so I’m working my way back on speed (from slow to less slow) and form and endurance. Yesterday, I did about ⅔ of my usual lap swim and I’m a little sore around the shoulders. But I’ll get back up to speed, so to speak. 

*****

It’s Sunday morning now, and I didn’t go to Mass. Maybe next week. I’m very happy for New York and the Knicks, even though Philadelphia and Washington are my cities, and I don’t pay much attention to basketball. Let’s call it East Coast Urban Solidarity - Boston and Philadelphia and Washington reserve the right to hate New York’s guts but the rest of the country better show some respect. Our New York family has been through a lot, and they deserve this win.They have the best mayor in the United States, and now they have a sports championship. Good for them. 

Later today, we’ll go to a graduation party for one of my younger son’s best friends and his older sister (who also graduated with her Master’s degree). His parents are our very dear friends too. This is one of the very few parties that I would not miss right now. And I’m hoping that the threatened thunderstorms don’t materialize because even though I’d love to see Trump’s birthday party ruined, I don’t want it to rain on my friends’ party. Maybe there will be a little microclimate event with derecho storms right over the White House. That would be nice, and fitting. 

*****

The weather held, for both the graduation party and for the $60 million taxpayer-funded birthday party for the worst octogenarian in the world. A MAGA MMA fighter insulted the former First Lady because nothing else he has to say would get any attention whatsoever, and I’m sure that everyone laughed when literally no one in that audience is worthy to be in the same room with Michelle Obama. The good thing is that last night it was too hot outside even for me, and I’m sure that it was miserable for everyone sitting in the seats surrounding that stupid octagon. I hope so, anyway, because I’m just that petty. Mrs. Obama once famously said “When they go low, we go high.” And I respect her for that, but from now on when they go low, I go subterranean. 

*****

It was nice while it lasted, that little summer blast. I shouldn’t complain because most people really prefer the weather we’re having now - sunny and very dry and breezy and not at all humid and rather cool. But it’s summer, and I love hot hazy summer days. I went swimming last night and the water was still warm, but the air was September cool. Getting in the water was fine. Getting out was not. And that’s a metaphor for a lot of things, isn’t it? 

Revolution on paper

I have this little book journal that I received as a free Barnes and Noble member gift. It has a cute little book patterned jacket, a section for a list of books, and then individual pages for each book, with spaces for the book’s title, author, publisher, publication date, and genre and then the rest of the page for the reader to write her notes or reflections on the book. Earlier this year, I thought that it would be fun to actually use the book journal but predictably, it became another anxiety-fueled compulsion; just another item to add to my to-do list. But then I did something very much unlike me - I just stopped. I put the book journal back on the bookshelf, and I went on my way rejoicing. 

*****

Last night, I attended the monthly meeting of our neighborhood association’s board of trustees, of which I am a member. We usually meet on Godforsaken Zoom but now that the pool is open, we met in person at the pool pavilion. Maybe it will be warm enough to swim someday, but that’s a conversation for another day.

It was nice to see everyone in person. I took notes by hand rather than on my Chromebook, which made it easier to participate in the discussion, but when it’s time for me to type up those notes, I might be questioning my life choices. My handwriting is not so good. 

When I wasn’t taking notes, I was looking at our treasurer’s notebook. If I could have taken pictures of that notebook, I would have, but that would have been weird. Still, though, that notebook was photogenic. It was a hardcover journal, possibly a Moleskine, with a ribbon bookmark and an elastic band to secure the cover. When the notebook was closed you could see the very clear demarcation between the crisp and undisturbed virgin pages and the pages that were already filled, slightly crinkled and puffy. When the notebook was open, I saw pages completely covered with tiny delicate script, from end to end and top to bottom. As the pages turned, I saw neatly aligned bulleted lists of things to do, with the completed things carefully crossed out. It was really quite beautiful. I wanted a closer look. I wanted to see if this notebook was mainly for work or if it contained her entire life. 

It was the latter. Oddly enough, someone else was as interested in that notebook as I was, and that person asked about the notebook, which meant that I got to hear all the notebook lore without having to be the weirdo who asked about it. 

The notebook owner seemed pleased by the question. “It’s a bullet journal,” she said. Of course! That’s where I recognized those hyper-organized pages with their bullets and check marks and other tiny symbols. “I need to write everything down,” she said, “and it’s much better if I keep everything - work, personal, kid stuff, volunteer stuff - in the same notebook.” 

Having tried the bullet journal method a few years ago, I know that it doesn’t work for me. Or rather, it does, but it becomes a compulsion-driven job in itself, just like the abandoned Barnes and Noble book journal turned out to be. It’s tempting, though. That notebook made me want to go home that minute, start with a fresh new notebook (I have several in reserve at all times) and to turn that new notebook into a gosh-darn work of art. 

*****

Thanks to social media, I know that I am definitely not the only person preoccupied with notebooks. Even in that quite small meeting on Tuesday, at least one other person was interested enough in someone else’s notebook to actually ask a question about it. Thank goodness I’m not also obsessed with pens because that could run into money. My favorite pens are the classic 4-color Bic pens that I have loved since I was 8 years old, and they’re pretty inexpensive. 

The thing is that those 4-color pens are perfect for bullet journaling because you can color code without switching pens all the time. They’re also great for making decorative little scrolls and doodles. And if I start keeping an organized bullet journal-style notebook, I’ll definitely improve my terrible handwriting because I won’t want to mess up my nice notebook. 

*****

I don’t carry a notebook everywhere I go. I always have a pen (usually several) and I can always find a scrap of paper if I need to write something down. If I need to really write something when I’m away from my laptop, I just use my phone. But I’m tired of my phone. I’m tired of phones in general. Everyone is. Maybe I’ll go out there and throw my phone into the nearest fountain like Andy Sachs at the end of The Devil Wears Prada.  Maybe other people will throw their phones into their neighborhood fountains. Maybe that’s what will start the revolution. 

Untimely reviews

Chris Rea’s “Fool (If You Think it’s Over)” is one of those songs that I can’t skip through. If it starts playing on the radio just as I’m parking, then I’m going to sit in the car until it’s over. 

This song was popular in 1978. I was 12, and I remember hearing it all the time and not particularly liking it. I liked up-tempo pop and disco at the time. “Fool” is not quite a ballad but it’s not really a pop song either. And something about it felt off. At 12, I was quite aware of creepy men, and I thought that the song’s voice was that of a creepy older man chasing after a young girl. But I was wrong. The lyrics that I thought were creepy turned out to be actually really sweet when you know the backstory. And thanks to the internet, I know the backstory. 

I hadn’t heard “Fool (If You Think it’s Over”) in literally decades, but it played on the radio one day, and I listened to it all the way through for the sake of nostalgia. And then something about the song grabbed me, so I listened to it again, and then again. Then I looked up Chris Rea, who was a pretty successful singer and musician in his native England. When he wrote “Fool (If You Think it’s Over),” he hoped to convince Al Green to record it, but the record company liked his demo recording and insisted that he record the song himself. It ended up being his only hit in the US.    

The real story, though, is the song’s inspiration. Chris Rea wrote “Fool” about his younger sister, Paula, who was heartbroken after her breakup with her first boyfriend. “The pains of 17/unreal they’re only dreams” is just the sort of infuriating thing a know-it-all big brother would say to a younger sister. But it’s clear somehow that he doesn’t mean “unreal” in the sense of imaginary or unimportant. The singer knows that the girl’s pain is real in the moment, but he also knows that it won’t last and that it won’t have any real impact on her life.  He wants her to know that she’ll move on and that things will get better. 

Context changes everything. “I’ll buy your first good wine..ooh we’ll have a real good time” was the line that made me think that the song was about a predator trying to groom a young girl. Instead, it’s a brother promising his younger sister that there’s so much more ahead of her - both good times and bad - than a teenage romance. And now, every time I hear that song, I imagine a brother consoling his younger sister over a bottle of wine. And I imagine the young girl cheering up and realizing that her brother is right and that the boy wasn’t worthy of her in the first place. And I imagine that the brother and sister actually do have a real good time. I hope that Chris and Paula Rea had a real good time. 

*****

During the early pandemic months in 2020, I started to watch “The Americans,” and I didn’t make it past episode 1. After a brutal rape 20 minutes in, I turned it off, absolutely furious. I’m tired of sexual violence as a plot point. Oddly enough, those of us who have actually endured it (and trust me that there are more of us than you think) don’t find brutal rape scenes very entertaining. 

Anyway, I started watching the show again recently. I skipped that scene, knowing that it was coming, but of course there was other sexual violence to come. And the almost lost me again, and not only for that reason. I just had a hard time believing in some of the period details and in the premise itself. But it started to grow on me. A few episodes in, I began to see how well it captures the period; not so much in visual details (but many of the visuals, especially the fashion, are spot-on)  but in the settled comfortable certainty of the upper middle class characters and their unshakeable belief in the mid-century idea of America. Then I watched three consecutive episodes when I was sick (again!) and the constant sex and violence and family drama felt repetitive. 

But the acting is absolutely brilliant. Keri Russell and Matthew Rhys and Noah Emmerich and the brilliant Alison Wright and Annet Mahendru. And while I still think that the sexual content is largely gratuitous and exploitative, the story and the pacing and the world that it creates are absorbing and compelling. Bottom line: This is a show best consumed a little at a time, with long breaks in between. 

Side note about Matthew Rhys - I’d heard somewhere that he was Welsh, but I’d never seen him play anything but Americans - mostly cold-blooded killers or dour misanthropes (I loved his performance as Lloyd in A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood). I guessed that maybe he was born in Wales but raised in the US. Then I saw an interview with him, and that man is as Welsh as Dylan Thomas and also an absolute delight. I imagine a director saying something like “I need an actor to play a remorseless, pitiless murderer and/or an absolute miserable son of a bitch” and the casting director responding “I know! Let’s get that charming Welsh chap who sounds like he spends his days singing with his friends in a cozy seaside pub!” Uncanny. Matthew Rhys is really good at his job. 

*****

Our neighborhood civic association sponsors a summer movie series. “Song Sung Blue,” a movie that I assiduously avoided when it was first released, was the summer’s first selection, and I went for two reasons: My friends asked me to go, and no one else was home so what else did I have to do? 

Why did I try to avoid this movie, you might ask? Because I grew up hearing Neil Diamond all day every day and even though I still like him (how can you not), I didn’t need to see a movie about crazy Neil Diamond fans. I lived with one. That was my whole childhood. At one point in the movie, the Neil Diamond tribute singer portrayed by Hugh Jackman argues with his manager, trying to make a case for “Soolaimon” as the band’s opening number. “Nobody knows Soolaimon!” the man yells. “I fucking know ‘Soolaimon,’” I thought to myself.  I haven’t heard “Soolaimon” in decades but I bet I remember every note. 

The movie is based on a true story, and was different and much better than I expected. Kate Hudson deserved that Oscar nomination. I might even listen to some Neil Diamond today. 

*****

I just finished reading Leaving Aberdeen, a memoir by Estell Sims Halliburton. Mrs. Halliburton is a Black woman who was born on a sharecropping plantation in Mississippi in the 1940s. Her memoir tells the story of her early childhood picking cotton and living in a plantation shack through her family’s first real home in the town of Aberdeen to her first year in college at Tuskegee to her first summer in New York City as a 19-year-old on her own for the first time. That summer then turned into years, as the young Estell takes a break from school, works as a model and bookkeeper and store clerk, and marries a young soldier who ships out to Vietnam shortly after their wedding day. 

Halliburton’s writing style is uneven, but in a good way. She veers back and forth between formal and colloquial language, and the tone is inconsistent. Sometimes, she just recounts events as she recalls them. Sometimes, she places those events in the context of the Civil Rights Movement and other major historical events of the mid-20th century. The emotional tone varies, too - from her righteous anger as a Black woman who came of age in the Jim Crow South and learned that often, the North wasn’t any less racist; to love for her husband, children, parents, siblings, and friends. The book reads as if it was written in spurts, a few pages here and there as time permitted. The resulting variations in tone and voice make it very readable and human and moving. 

The young Halliburton family seemed to have had a rich and interesting life as working people and parents in 1970s New York, and I was surprised by their decision to return to the South. Mrs. Halliburton wrote a second memoir about the family’s life in Atlanta after the move, so I’ll read it and find out if it was the right decision. I do hope so. I’m invested now. 

*****

I started this as just a little journal of short reviews - a song, a movie, a TV show, a book - and then I realized that it reads like I spend all my time reminiscing about the 20th century. And I do. 

No, I really don’t. I don’t miss most things about the 20th century. But I do miss believing that I lived in the greatest and most benevolent country in the world. I miss the world in which everyone knew more Neil Diamond songs than “Sweet Caroline.” I miss pop music on AM radio. 

This happened on Wednesday

Weather forecasts are just guesses now, aren’t they? Last week, forecasts called for partial sun on Monday and then sun on Tuesday and Wednesday and beyond. Then the target just kept moving. It rained all day on Monday and Tuesday, and today (Wednesday) also started with rain that was supposed to turn to thunderstorms, which were supposed to end around 4 PM. It’s lunchtime now, and it’s neither raining nor sunny. It’s trying to decide. I’m hoping it will decide in favor of sun or at least clear skies, because we’re going to see Mr. Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band for one of the last shows of the Land of Hope and Dreams tour. I’m very excited, and we’re going, rain or shine. The show is at Nats Park and our seats in Section 109 Row GG are under an overhang, so we should be fine unless it rains horizontally. And I’m not saying it won’t rain horizontally. It’s 2026. Anything could happen. In this brave new world, the weather forecast is “go outside and see what’s happening - that’s your forecast.” 

*****

As it turned out, our seats were in 129, not 109; and Row GG is NOT under an overhang in Section 129. It was clear and sunny when we arrived at 6:45. The lights went down at about 8:03 and Bruce appeared on the stage, opening the show with Edwin Starr’s “War,” with the whole stadium singing along. The rain started during “Born in the USA,” the second song; and it continued on and off throughout the evening. And it didn’t matter. The rain was heaviest during “Streets of Minneapolis,” but it didn’t stop 41,000 people from screaming “ICE OUT NOW.” 

This tour was very different from his last tour less than two years ago (we saw him in September of 2024). The setlist was a mix of protest songs and love letters to 20th century America. Bruce delivers a mid-show monologue decrying the Administration’s many crimes and misdemeanors, each sentence ending with “and this is happening now.” This was the first time I have ever seen him sit down during a show. 

*****

It’s Friday evening now, and today was the first completely sunny and dry day in over a week. It was bright and clear all day, with a nice breeze and temperatures in the low 70s. A perfect day, really. It might have been nice to have today’s weather on Wednesday, but in retrospect, I’m glad we had rain. There was something special about being out in the rain. I didn’t see one single person abandoning their seat to find cover and I didn’t see one single person leaving the stadium early. We all know that something extraordinary was happening, and we were all in it together. For three hours, we were all citizens of the United Free Republic of E Street Nation.

***** 

Of course, I’m sick once again for the third time in a month, and I have to think that maybe three hours outside in the rain dancing and singing and yelling at the top of my voice might not have been the wisest course of action for me and my broken-down Temu immune system, but I’ll get over whatever this is. And it was worth it. 

Updates

Do you know how many times my doctor’s office has texted me in the last few months? No, neither do I. I have lost count. 

I actually really like my actual doctor. She’s great. And her office is good too. It’s cheerful and pleasant, very conveniently located, with nice people at the front desk. But the nice people are not the ones who are texting me all the time. MedStar has a very eager team of AI-powered little bots who send me incessant reminders to complete their surveys (absolutely not), pick up my prescriptions (the pharmacy also texts me), get my blood work done, and schedule follow-up appointments. It’s a lot. 

After putting it off repeatedly, I finally scheduled my colonoscopy, which is happening at the end of June, about six weeks from now. Do I need the pre-operative and pre-anesthesia instructions now? Do they really need my consent forms submitted electronically six weeks ahead of the procedure, especially since they’ll probably make me do them again in pen and ink? And do I need reminders about this very important paperwork every single day? Well, to be fair, the answer to that last question is probably yes because I’ll avoid medical paperwork until someone forces me to do it or until the end of time, whichever comes first. But the constant reminders are exacerbating my already entrenched resistance to completing paperwork and complying with medical instructions. 

*****

“Entrenched resistance” is actually a good way to describe my attitude toward pretty much anything right now. I complain about every single task - silently, of course, because no one wants to listen to that. But I have to hand it to myself because other than cooking every day (again - absolutely not), I’m still doing almost everything else I need to do, and I’m doing it well and on time. I’m maintaining a good front. I’ll even deal with the pre-anesthesia forms. Just not today. 

*****

The pool opens on Saturday, marking the official start of summer, normally my favorite season. But I’m not looking forward to it as much as I normally would. My son won’t be home for most of the summer. It’s not the same. Everything seems off. But at least we get a three-day weekend. 

*****

The day after I wrote this was the day that a short but very intense heat wave rolled into the DMV. I went to work on Monday and when I went outside at lunchtime, the glass door of my building sighed and hissed a little as I opened it to step out onto the track for a short walk in the 95-degree heat. The air was dense, almost saturated with humidity. Even the military people were walking - not running, not doing calisthenics, not flipping giant tires across the soccer field - just walking. That is how hot it was. It was amazing. Even when everything feels all wrong, summer is still summer. 

But it’s 2026, so even summer is going to mess with me a little. It’s Tuesday now, and about 92 degrees at 6 PM. Forecast for Wednesday? 93 and sunny. Forecast for MDW Saturday? 58 and raining. It’s also going to rain on Sunday, with temperatures in the low 60s. On Memorial Day itself, it might climb all the way to 70. 

Maybe it won’t rain. The pool has been filled for several weeks now, so the water will have warmed up quite a bit. If the overnight temperatures don’t drop below the mid-50s on Thursday and Friday night, it might be just bearable for swimming on Saturday. I’ll report back. 

*****

I worked from home on Tuesday and I couldn’t log in. After a few unsuccessful tries, I got the dreadful and dreaded “CAC is blocked” message, leaving me with no choice but to get in my car, drive to the badging office, and get someone to help me. I almost walked out the door without the said CAC card, which would have been a fun thing to discover just as I reached the gate. Thankfully, I remembered it, and then spent the whole ride to work worrying that maybe I’d been fired and that no one had told me. But I got through the gate with no trouble, and after a few anxious minutes in the badging office (anxious because I was parked illegally - the badging office people are quite lovely), I had a working CAC card and an unticketed car and I returned home to work, rejoicing all the way. 

It’s Wednesday now, and intensely hot again. We expect thunderstorms later in the day, followed by a sharp temperature drop. It’s a good thing that I don’t do the whole “pack clothes away for the season" thing, because it seems that I will need summer and winter clothes available at all times; sometimes both on the same day. El nino, your timing is terrible. We live in interesting-enough times without the constant weather drama. 

*****

It’s Thursday and I’m working from home again but I’m not actually working right now because my computer is taking a little break. More about that in a few minutes. 

Yesterday it was sunny and blazing hot. Then it rained and rained and rained and now it’s pearly gray and cool. Internet joke that I wish I’d thought of: Maryland weather went from 95 to 58 so fast you’d think it spotted a state trooper. 

I got another text message from MedStar, warning me that this would be my last text message and that if I didn’t respond, they’ll be left with no choice but to call me. Say less, bro. You could have just done that in the first place. Meanwhile, just as I finished scoffing at that text message and put the phone down, my computer displayed a dodgy, fake-looking pop-up notifying me that I had 60 seconds to save my work before it shut down on its own. This pop-up looked like every phishing scam ever presented in every DoD cyber awareness training module ever. Blurry outline, garish colors, low-resolution font, little yellow exclamation point triangle - the whole shebang. 

Without much time to react, I tried to get a screenshot of the dodgy pop-up and I managed to get it but the computer shut down before I could send it to anyone. And before I could react any further, the computer turned itself back on and started a series of updates. And those updates took almost two hours. 

There’s a lot more to this story, but I’m bored just writing about it so I will spare you from reading anymore. Cutting to the proverbial chase, it was a legitimate update, and several other people experienced the same thing, and the computer is fine now. The end. 

*****

Time to wrap this up. It is Memorial Day Weekend Friday and between the 55 degrees and cloudy weather that’s better suited to late October and the general all-around garbage pile that constitutes modern life at this moment, it really doesn’t feel like MDW, except that we will be attending a graduation party on Sunday. And I might try to swim tomorrow, but not if I’m the only person in the pool, and what other idiot is going to try to swim outdoors in this weather? This is the extent of my weekend plans, and I don’t mind. I might even do the stupid colonoscopy paperwork. Or maybe I’ll install some updates. I’m sorely in need of updates. 

Bibliography 2025 - BLTN Edition

I never did finish my 2025 book list. I’ve become very lax about tracking and documenting my reading, and now I’m looking at a list of what I read last year and I’m finding two things: There are several books that I read and vividly remember but never added them to my list; and there are books that are on my list but I barely remember a word of them. 

Does it even matter? Some people just read books and move on and never even think about adding titles to a list or writing down their thoughts about the books they read. Those people aren’t me, though. It bothers me that I haven’t published a 2025 book list and so I’m going to do it now, just as we’re approaching the middle of 2026. Better late than never. So here’s the list: 

The Hard Crowd (Rachel Kushner)

We Want Everything (Nanni Balestrini). I’d never have picked this up if I hadn’t read Rachel Kushner. It’s about social upheaval and revolution in 1970s Italy, and it’s great. Whoever came up with the phrase “Become ungovernable” must have read Nanni Balestrini. 

The Let Them Theory (Mel Robbins). What was she thinking, you might ask? Click the link and find out. Five eye rolls. Highly unrecommended.

The Picture of Dorian Gray (Oscar Wilde). This was my first time reading Dorian Gray, and I went in knowing nothing other than what everyone knows, which is that Dorian Gray remains ever young while his portrait in the attic ages hideously. And rightly so, because as it turns out (SPOILER ALERT), Dorian Gray is an absolutely hideous person. I’d expected that he would be vain and selfish and trifling and dishonest, but he’s a straight-up murderous monster, lacking in all human decency. He’d be right at home in 2026. 

The Beauty of Everyday Things (Soetsu Yanagi). I’ve actually not yet finished this book. It’s on my coffee table, and I read it a page or two at a time. It’s a series of essays about ordinary household objects made by Japanese craftsmen and artisans. The essays and accompanying photographs are quite beautiful - inspiring, too - and I like his Yanagi’s idea that patterns and technique and their limitations are prerequisites for beauty, not hindrances. No one, not even a genius, is endlessly creative. Structure is helpful. But I hate his blithe dismissal of the craftspeople themselves. He insists that craftspeople are artisans NOT artists, and that anonymity is essential to their work. He disdains the idea that a craftsperson should try to put her personal stamp on anything she makes. He seems to believe in a permanent underclass who should quietly work their lives away creating beauty and comfort and ease for their betters. Another one who'd be right at home in 2026.

Demon Copperhead (Barbara Kingsolver)

David Copperfield. Charles Dickens.

Family and Other Calamities (Leslie Gray Streeter) and Trespasses (Louise Kennedy)

The Crow Trap (Ann Cleeves)

Mansfield Park (Jane Austen)

Iris in Winter (Elizabeth Caddell)

The Pursuit of Love, Love in a Cold Climate, and Don’t Tell Alfred (Nancy Mitford)

The Truths We Hold and 107 Days (Kamala Harris). I read the first book early in the year, amid the early Trump 2.0 chaos of DOGE and USAID and plane crashes, when people on the internet were seriously, with a straight face, asking why Kamala wasn’t “doing something about all of this.” Never mind that Kamala actually asked for the chance to lead, by running a near-flawless campaign for President. Never mind that she warned us - repeatedly and clearly and convincingly - that everything that happened last year and that is happening now would in fact happen. And never mind that 76 or so million Americans looked at the smart and compassionate and principled and accomplished Black lady and the 34-count pu$&y-grabbing corrupt racist insurrectionist felon and said “yeah, we’ll take the White dude.” Kamala was RIGHT THERE, ready to lead, and this country said “no thanks, we like the conman.” Yes, it’s been almost two years, and no, I am not over it. 

Lovely One, Ketanji Brown Jackson. I often wonder what it’s like for Justice Jackson to finally fulfill her highest ambition, only to be surrounded by the six worst Supreme Court justices in history. And Justices Kagan and Sotomayor, too - but at least they had a chance to serve when the Supreme Court wasn’t a wholly owned subsidiary of a corrupt Executive Branch. Anyway, it’s a very good book. I just finished Uncommon Favor, Dawn Staley’s memoir, and there’s a common thread connecting them. Both of these women knew what they wanted to do from a very early age. Both of them knew that they were extraordinarily gifted. Both of them were singularly dedicated to pursuing their goals. And of course, both of them had to be twice as good as white men to get half as far. 

Black Widow (Leslie Gray Streeter) and The End of the World is a Cul de Sac (Louise Kennedy)

The Sum of Us (Heather McGhee). I’m not sure why I didn’t write about this before, because it is very good. I have always been impressed with Heather McGhee when I’ve seen her on discussion panels, and I am consciously trying to read more books by Black authors, especially women. McGhee’s central thesis is in her subtitle: What Racism Costs Everyone and How We Can Prosper Together. She touches on some of the same themes that Heather Cox Richardson wrote about in Democracy Awakening, which explains what Richardson calls the “liberal consensus,” the social welfare system that pulled us out of the Depression and made America free and prosperous in the post-war years; and its gradual dismantling beginning with Ronald Reagan and continuing through the first Trump administration. McGhee covers this as well, but with a much closer examination of the role of race in the dismantling of the social welfare system and the ways in which Reagan and others in the public and private spheres exploited racial fears to hoodwink the so-called “white working class” into believing that equality for Black Americans would equal poverty and deprivation for them. Sadly, their tactics worked and continue to work, to everyone’s detriment. We really could have a just society and a fair distribution of wealth, but only if we understand that racism is the major obstacle. 

Ten Days that Shook the World, John Reed. As I mentioned here, I re-read Ten Days after watching Reds for the first time right after Diane Keaton died. Fair warning - this post touches on pretty much everything, so don’t expect a book review. 

Erasing History: How Fascists Rewrite the Past to Control the Future, Jason Stanley. God, I spent a lot of 2025 neck-deep in fascism, didn’t I? No wonder my brain is in the state it’s in. Anyway, this book touches on some of the same things that Heather McGhee and Heather Cox Richardson and Timothy Snyder and Anne Applebaum have covered in their recent books, with a bit of a narrower focus. Stanley examines a specific tactic of fascists - the rewriting of history, the flooding of the zone with bullshit, making it harder to tell truth from lies; and of course, the framing of oppressors as victims. It’s DARVO on a macro scale. Jason Stanley and Timothy Snyder are both in Canada now. I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to characterize their departure as fleeing the US. I worry about HCR sometimes.  

I read a few other things here and there, too. I listened to an audiobook version of Jonathan Alter’s His Very Best, a biography of Jimmy Carter. I don’t consider that I really read it, not because I don’t think listening to an audiobook is reading (keep me out of that debate) but because I didn’t really pay attention to the recording. I ended up buying a copy of the book, an actual copy, because it was right on the front table of a new locally owned bookstore that I really like. The parts that actually penetrated the brain fog when I was listening were quite good so maybe I’ll actually read it this year. If I do, you'll see it on my 2026 book list. God willing, I will publish that sometime before the end of 2027.

Semi-sick day

It's Wednesday afternoon, and I just finished work. I worked at home today. I haven't been in the office all week and I won't be in the office until Monday because I have bronchitis. I've been sick on and off for weeks - weeks,  I tell you! - but according to the tests administered by urgent care two weeks ago, whatever it was was not COVID, strep, or flu. I had hoped for strep because then they'll give you antibiotics. I'm a big fan of antibiotics. Antibiotics always work. 

It got better and then it got worse and then it got a little worse until I was up in the middle of the night coughing so that the neighbors could probably hear me. Back to urgent care again, where I had a chest x-ray because the nurse didn't like the look of my pulse ox, and it turns out to be bronchitis. They gave me doxycycline, methylprednisone, and some cough suppressant thing the name of which I cannot remember. Oh for the good old days when a doctor would order pathetic specimens like me to the seaside for a month. But I'll take the drugs, and I'll be fine in a few days. 

Fictional Mitfords

I’m way behind on writing about books. This is something that I wrote in 2025 and never published. I’m publishing it now so that I can include it in my 2025 book review post. God willing, I’ll finish that before the end of 2026. 

*****

My life as an American woman in God-help-me 2025 is nothing like the lives of fictional British middle- and upper-class women in the early and mid 20th century. Nor do I want it to be - I wouldn’t want to be either the victim or the beneficiary of the English class system. When it comes to repressive social hierarchies, burn them all down is my motto. 

Still, I love reading about these characters, and so British womanhood in bygone eras seems to be a dominant theme for my reading - well, that, and the state of the world in God-help-me 2025. It’s quite the contrast. I read three of Nancy Mitford’s four novels in 2025. The Pursuit of Love, Love in a Cold Climate, and Don’t Tell Alfred are the stories of the Radlett family and their lives at Alconleigh, the family’s ancestral estate, and beyond. All three are told in the first person by Fanny Logan, the Radletts’ first cousin and daughter of Lady Alconleigh’s sister, known as “the Bolter” because of her history of marrying and abandoning a series of men. 

I read them out of sequence - I started with Love in a Cold Climate and after I finished, I remembered reading that Mitford had written several Radlett novels, and I got my hands on them as quickly as possible. The Pursuit of Love was the first in the series so I read it as a prequel. Don’t Tell Alfred, which I’m in the middle of now, takes place about 20 years after the events of Love in a Cold Climate, when Fanny’s husband, a quiet Oxford don whom we don’t hear from much in the earlier novels, is appointed British Ambassador to France. All of a sudden, unassuming Fanny and cerebral Alfred are thrust into the rarefied worlds of high Paris society and international diplomacy during the Cold War. 

I’d kick like a mule if I was yanked out of my cozy life as the wife of a high-ranking academic at Oxford and thrown headlong into a world of daily parties and reporters and photographers and visiting heads of state; but after overcoming some initial trepidation, Fanny adjusts quickly and becomes interested and invested in her new role. She manages one comic crisis after another, without much help from her beautiful but flighty assistant, and keeps the Ambassador on a need-to-know basis - hence the title. But Alfred is not a fool. He knows what’s up - he just chooses what he sees and what he doesn’t see. 

*****

In the earlier books, especially The Pursuit of Love, the Radlett daughters live in a world of privilege, but not ease. Marriage is their only prospect of independence. The rules of primogeniture dictated that none of the daughters could inherit their father’s considerable wealth, and Lord Alconleigh (based on Nancy Mitford’s real-life father, Lord Redesdale) believes in the rules of primogeniture and does not believe in formal education for women. Lord Alconleigh is also a tyrant - mostly a benevolent tyrant, but a tyrant nonetheless - whose whims and preferences completely dominate the family’s life. The “Hons Cupboard” - a closet that the girls use as a retreat and clubhouse - is their only escape from Alconleigh’s strict rules and erratic discipline. Yes, the Radlett girls live in a stately home on a huge estate where they are tended by servants and never want for anything, but their lives are not their own. Fanny, the first person narrator of all of the Radlett novels, is a little wistful about her own quiet life with her Aunt Emily, compared to the riotous family togetherness of Alconleigh; but she’s also glad to return to her serene and pleasant home after long visits with the boisterous Radletts and the mercurial Uncle Matthew. 

In Love in a Cold Climate, the girls grow up and gain some independence (mostly by marrying rich men). Don’t Tell Alfred is Fanny’s story. After a lifetime as a second banana to her Radlett cousins, Fanny really comes into her own in Paris despite her initial reluctance to leave her life in Oxford. She is surrounded by beauty and elegance and luxury every moment of the day, so much so that she quite sympathizes with her predecessor who refuses to vacate the Embassy, knowing as she does that she also won’t want to leave when her time comes. But even better than the richness of her physical environment is the freedom and autonomy that she enjoys as an older woman (of course, “older” is relative - Fanny is probably about 45 in this book).  Amid the chaos of a hack journalist’s efforts to undermine the Ambassador and his wife, and her socialite secretary’s failure to do much actual work, and her predecessor’s popularity and unwanted presence in the Embassy compound, Fanny perseveres. She outwits her adversaries and becomes a person of importance in Paris. 

*****

I’ve read enough about the Mitford sisters to know that The Pursuit of Love and Love in a Cold Climate are straight-up roman a clef novels in which art imitates life very closely. Lord and Lady Alconleigh are very much like David and Sydney Freeman-Mitford aka Lord and Lady Redesdale; and Linda Radlett must be Diana Mitford. Spoiler alert: Linda Radlett dies tragically at the end of The Pursuit of Love. Nancy Mitford loved her sister Diana, but was horrified by her political beliefs and rightly so because Diana was a Nazi. Maybe Nancy thought that death in childbirth was a better fate for Linda than Diana’s actual fate (imprisonment as a traitor to England during WWII followed by permanent exile from England). Runaway Jassy was obviously Jessica, my favorite Mitford. Even the Hons Cupboard was taken from real life at the Mitford home. 

Don’t Tell Alfred, on the other hand, seems more invented - in a good way. One thing I don’t know about the Mitfords is if they had a cousin like Fanny, or if she’s pure invention. I’ll have to find out, I guess, but I’m inclined to believe that it’s the latter because Fanny is, I think, a combination of Deborah, the youngest Mitford, and Nancy herself. Like Nancy, Fanny finds herself very much at home and at ease in Paris, but like Deborah, she also finds herself successfully managing a large and complex household and navigating the ins and outs of life on a very big stage. It’s a huge change for Fanny - from a quiet life in Oxford as a privileged but dull academic wife to wife of the English Ambassador to France in the postwar years. 

*****

The Pursuit of Love and Love in a Cold Climate are both almost entirely rooted in Mitford family history, with the former written as a tragedy and the latter written as a conventional society novel. Don’t Tell Alfred’s Fanny is informed by Nancy’s real life in Paris, but its events are entirely imagined, and its tone is society drama meets screwball comedy - somewhere between Barbara Pym and P.G. Wodehouse. With these three books, Nancy Mitford proved that as a writer, she could do pretty much anything. 

Devil Wears Prada 2 - SPOILERS LEFT, RIGHT, AND CENTER!

Last week, I saw the new Devil Wears Prada movie, and I’m still thinking about it. It’s not quite as good as the first one, of course, because that is a very high bar indeed. But it’s a worthy successor, and I was glad to be among the first to see it so that I could form my own opinion before all the other idiots had a chance to write about it on the internet. Sorry not sorry. I gotta write about something, you know? 

****

There are a few new characters but the story still focuses on the four main characters (Miranda, Andy, Emily, and Nigel). They are the same people we remember, but all of them have grown and changed, for better and for worse, in the 20 years since the first movie. Miranda is still imperious and demanding, but she’s no longer the devil. She’s mellowed enough that she even allows her first assistant to remind her that she can no longer say and do things that were acceptable in the 80s and 90s and early aughts. 20 years ago, Emily and Andy would have had their heads handed to them had they dared to comment on Miranda’s behavior. 

The sequel echoes themes from the original - betrayal and loyalty, the value of beauty and art and glamor, the moral issues around extreme wealth, the balance between work and life or if such a balance is even possible. And it touches on what it’s like to be a person and a professional in the year 2026. There are heartless billionaires, cliched but nonetheless utterly believable. There is downsizing and rightsizing and cost-cutting and evil tech bros not so subtly threatening to replace everyone and everything with AI. 

*****

The filmmakers did a good job of visual contrast between Runway 2006 and Runway 2026. Miranda’s office is still luxurious, but there are signs that Runway HQ is fraying a bit around the edges. Miranda assigns Andy to a cluttered, bare-bones office, which we know is meant to be a punishment - but the old Runway suite would never have had a cluttered space in the first place. There are fewer people and less activity and less glamor - the new Runway looks like any other modern open-concept office. It looks like a LInkedIn video depiction of a corporate “creative space.” It’s clean and bright and pretty, but it’s not awe-inspiring. There’s no mystique. 

*****

One of the questions that The Devil Wears Prada 2 asks is how much of all of this - fashion, “lifestyle,” beauty - are we supposed to care about. Do we mourn the loss of the aspirational fairy-tale world of 7th Avenue and Milan and Paris and the Hamptons, or is it good riddance to all of it? I think it’s a little of both. In the original movie, when Nigel lectures Andy about Runway’s place in art and culture, we know that he’s sincere and that Runway really is a “beacon of hope” for him. I felt that way about fashion magazines myself when I was young. I loved Vogue and Vanity Fair and Harper’s Bazaar and the whole world of high society and fashion and glamour that they presented in their beautiful, glossy pages. 

Nigel is partly right about fashion. The visionary designers of the 20th century really were artists, even when they weren’t very good people (Coco Chanel, I’m talking about you, girl). Designers really did, and still do, fulfill the need for beauty and elegance in our lives. Couture is out of reach for almost everyone, of course, but its ideas filter down to the rest of us - as Miranda says, all the way down to that infamous lumpy blue sweater in that tragic Casual Corner clearance bin. A young person in a big city earning an entry-level salary can buy a designer-inspired dress or purse and feel connected to a world of beauty and possibility. What could possibly be bad about that? 

Both movies answer that question, in different ways. In the first DWP, the bad part is (of course) unrealistic beauty and body standards. Perfectly normal Andy is the “smart fat girl.” Miranda rejects a photo spread of female paratroopers because they’re all “so deeply unattractive,” because in 2006, it was every woman’s job to be thin and attractive, no matter what else she might have accomplished in her life.* Poor Emily eats practically nothing to maintain her extremely slim figure, but even though she’s already reed-thin, she still hopes for that one stomach virus that will make her just a tiny bit thinner. No wonder she’s so grouchy all the time. 

The fashion industry didn’t invent unattainable beauty standards, but they might as well have. Before the advent of social media, fashion magazines led the way in perpetuating and normalizing airbrushed bodies and faces. Fashion magazines foisted toxic diet culture on us. Vogue has a lot to answer for. 

In the second movie, Runway’s dark side is farther upstream. After a 20-year absence, Andy returns to provide some serious journalistic credibility as the magazine tries to distance itself from a child labor scandal involving one of its most prominent advertisers. Meanwhile, the billionaires smell blood in the water, and they’re circling around like vultures waiting to snatch up the pieces if Runway doesn’t survive the scandal. The nepo baby finance bro billionaire is trying to “optimize” his late father’s media empire, and that includes stripping Runway down to the bare bones - Miranda, flying to Milan in COACH! - while the tech bro billionaire is trying to buy the magazine and by extension a place in the cultural hierarchy for himself and his girlfriend. Both of the billionaires are ready to dispense with as many of the humans behind the crown jewel that they’re fighting over, never mind that it’s human creativity and human blood sweat and tears that built Runway and made it a crown jewel worth fighting over to begin with. 

A spoiler - things end the way most of us who love the original would have hoped. One more even better spoiler: Both of the billionaires lose. 

*And thank God it’s not like that anymore, amirite? LOL. 

An exasperated sigh

Serious news media are mostly covering the incident at the White House Correspondents Dinner as a real assassination attempt. Some people aren’t so sure, though. The whole thing seems a little bit off. There are a few things that don’t add up. 

Like what, you ask? OK, let’s look at the guest list. Why on earth were the VP, Secretary of State, Secretary of Defense, Secretary of Homeland Security, Attorney General, FBI Director, House Speaker, and Treasury Secretary all in the same room at the same time during a war? That doesn’t seem right. And then the immediate messaging on the ballroom, which seemed very well coordinated. Every MAGA loudmouth on Beyonce’s internet posted a similar message - boiled down to “See? Now do you understand why we need the ballroom?” within minutes of one another. Very odd. Very coincidental. 

*****

Not to mention that there’s absolutely no reasoning that supports the security rationale for the ballroom to begin with. If they build the ballroom, will the President ONLY attend functions that are held there? No more million-dollar-a-plate fundraising dinners, no more WWE, no more rallies? Is he going to give up golf? Is he going to stop having dinner in the Mar a Lago dining room? Is Trump Tower off-limits until 2029?

*****

If I hear the word “rhetoric” one more time, I’m going to heave a big exasperated sigh, and maybe roll my eyes. Nothing more than that, I promise. Because if I say that if I hear that word one more time I’ll scream or I’ll throw a plate or something, then someone might accuse me of fomenting violence. (Oh, and ballroom too - that word has also long since worn out its welcome.) 

Maybe there are lots of baby brain people out here who just don’t understand the difference between emphatic expression of strongly held opinion - in other words, speech, which is (for now) still protected by the First Amendment to the Constitution. Or maybe - just maybe - the people screaming about “violent rhetoric” endangering their beloved Donald Jiminy Trump understand that difference perfectly and they’re using Saturday’s events as yet another opportunity to flood the zone with bad-faith bullshit. 

I think it might be the latter. 

*****

But in case it’s the former, let me help the baby brain people: Donald Trump is a bad bad bad President - the worst ever - and he’s also just objectively a terrible person. That’s just a statement. It’s not a call to violence. By the way, of all people, Donald Jimmyjohn Trump knows what violent rhetoric really is. He’s an expert.  

Again, for the sake of clarity: I don’t want anyone to do anything bad to Donald Trump, other than to hold him legally accountable for being a bad bad bad President. I don’t want anyone to physically attack or hurt him or anyone else. Just need to make that clear, so I don’t end up on Kash Patel’s list of things to do. Oh, and more thing: Grow up, baby brains. There are so many snowflakes out here that I need my ski boots. 

Work time, sick time, down time

It’s Thursday morning, and I’m home sick. I might have COVID, or I might have strep. I’m going to go to the neighborhood urgent care in a few minutes. I hope I test positive for strep because then they’ll give me antibiotics. I really feel quite terrible. 

Yesterday was a very busy day. I didn’t even have time to write. But a person I’ve worked with for four years told me that she’d always thought that I was in my mid-40s and was shocked to learn that I’m actually 60. And then a very distinguished speaker at a symposium that I was supporting was carrying the very same purse that I was carrying that day. I was winning on every front. As they say on the internet, you can’t tell me nothing. 

OK, it’s 11 AM, and I’m still hanging around the house. Time to get a move on. My throat is absolutely killing me. 

*****

Well, it was nothing, so why did I feel so terrible? Tests for COVID and strep and flu all came back negative, even though I had a fever and the doctor said that my throat was very inflamed. I was a little disappointed, honestly. I know that a Z-Pack would have cured me. Plus, it's always nice to have official validation.  

It's Friday and I'm at work now. I don't normally blog when I'm at work but whatever virus I have seems to have infected my stupid computer. It won't sync my Google Drive files and my browser tabs keep closing on their own, and now it is taking a hot minute to restart. Just remember, little computer: an antibiotic won’t do a thing for a virus. Drink lots of fluids. Get some rest. 

I rested yesterday, too. I worked for half an hour, and I did the bare housework minimum but I spent most of the day on the couch and in the backyard, just sitting and reading and sleeping and watching British murder mysteries on TV. I feel 50 percent better today, but my throat still hurts. I'm not at all convinced about the negative strep result. I should demand a recount. That strep test was rigged. 

*****

The computer did finally restart and the rest seemed to have helped it because it stopped behaving badly and allowed me to finish my workday. It’s Saturday now. I’m on my way out to a nice little neighborhood anti-concentration camp rally. Do I want to be spending my early old age fighting fascism in the gosh darn streets? No, I do not, but I also didn’t spend a good part of my childhood reading about concentration camps and gulags for nothing. I’ve been pretty much preparing for this moment for my whole life. I trained for this. 

*****

That was fun. Less than 90 minutes holding my little sign and waving to the people who honked and waving even harder at the three people who flipped us off. They’re so cute, with their little middle fingers. Then I ran errands and went home. That’s Saturday in the Year of Our Lord 2026 - post office, protest, Safeway, and back home. 

*****

Well, that was something, wasn’t it? The entire line of succession shows up at the annual dinner of the White House Correspondents Association, an organization held in universal disdain by the Trump administration, and a shirtless gunman gets past security and fires shots before he’s taken down by the Secret Service but not before one of them takes a bullet from his own colleague. And then minutes later, dozens of MAGA personalities tweet in unison about the desperate need for a billion-dollar ballroom. And then they catch the guy and the Acting Attorney General announces that the suspect was “targeting administration officials” because of course he was, he said so right in the inscriptions on the bullet casings. And I’m guessing that it’s case closed, and we won’t hear another thing about this guy or his failed “assassination attempt.” Well at least we know that gilded ballrooms are the solution to gun violence. I’m sure they’re planning to build one in every school in America. 

*****

After a few days of summer preview weather, the temperatures dropped and the sky clouded over, and we had a weekend of chilly gloom suitable for hibernation. I didn’t hibernate for the whole weekend, but I did take a few hours on Sunday afternoon to just hang around in comfortable clothes, just being a person at home. It was nice. It’s Monday morning now, bright and get-up-and-go sunny. And once again, I am blogging during my work day, because once again, my computer is taking a little downtime. It’s in the middle of a very long update that I started as soon as the pop-up appeared, rather than waiting until it forced me to. So while my computer finishes its little self-care routine, I’ll finish this little patchwork quilt of random observations and notes. The computer updates are 92 percent complete now. Time to get to work. 

Be right back

It’s a rainy Sunday morning, 20 degrees cooler than yesterday. I’m going to Mass in a few minutes, and I should get up and get dressed. And I will. But right now I’m writing, with TV news in the background. I think I wrote something yesterday about the Strait of Hormuz being open again, but I was behind the times because it’s closed again. Apparently, the Strait of Hormuz is like one of those twee little boutiques on 96th Street in Stone Harbor. It’s open when it’s open. If you plan a little shopping trip to the Strait of Hormuz, maybe you’ll be lucky and the doors will be open. Or maybe you’ll show up to find the “Sorry you missed us, be back soon!” sign, even though it’s 3:30 PM on a Tuesday. The Strait of Hormuz doesn’t care. It knows that you need it more than it needs you. It’ll be back at 3:30 - 4 at the latest. Just relax. 

*****

Someone on social media called our distinguished FBI Director “J. Edgar Boozer,” and now I’m questioning every joke I’ve ever made because I will never top this. 

I haven’t read the Atlantic story and probably won’t because I can’t afford any more subscriptions. But they don’t strike me as a careless publication, so I’m sure their story about Kash Patel was very well-sourced and meticulously reported. And we all saw how he behaves around alcohol on camera for the whole world to see, so we can just imagine his behavior when he’s out of the public eye. But we won’t have to imagine because the Atlantic is not going to settle that lawsuit, so everything will come out in discovery. Something tells me that Kash is going to drop the matter rather than sit for a deposition. He’s a fool, but he’s not stupid. 

Well, he is kind of stupid, but he’s not stupid enough not to know that discovery for his $250 million lawsuit will open cans of worms that he very badly wants to keep closed. 

*****

In other current events, my spring anxiety and depression are back with a vengeance. I’m coping by eating chocolate and spending money. I’m great. Everything is great. Everything is fine. 

*****

I have two finished posts - one about wristwatches and another about a book - that I could just publish today. But there’s a lot going on - too much to keep up with, really - and I feel like I need to write about what it’s like to be alive as an American in the middle of the year 2026. But I’ll publish the other ones soon. Analog wristwatches and early 20th century English literature are not exactly the most current topics right now, but maybe sometimes it's better to look backward. 

Testing

Today at work, we had a test of the “Giant Voice” base-wide alert system. My office is in an odd little out-of-the-way spot, on the third floor with an open walkway outside. We call it the Crow’s Nest. It used to be that we couldn’t hear the Giant Voice up there in the Crow’s Nest. We could hear the alarm, but not the actual announcement, unless we went out onto the walkway and strained our ears. Well let me tell you that the Giant Voice works just fine now.. I’ll hear that Giant Voice in my sleep. Holy cannoli

*****

Oh and speaking of holy. The President, such as he is, is doing the most to force people to choose: Christianity or MAGA. Jesus or Trump. It’s getting interesting. Meanwhile, he appears to have confused Pope Leo with the Mayor of New York, because Popes don’t have much influence on law enforcement and crime policy. The Pope might be “weak on crime,” but he’s probably not weak on blasphemy. Side note: I work in a medical school, surrounded by doctors, and not one of them has ever appeared at work in a long white robe with a scarlet stole. 

*****

There’s always a bright side though, and that is that the memes coming out of the Dr. Donald Jesus debacle are top-tier. Hilarious people all over the internet are finding ever more creative ways to roast the “I thought it was me as a doctor” claim and each roast is better than the last. 

And the Pope Leo crashout continues. Yesterday, the brilliant JD Vance extended his winning streak by telling a nearly-empty arena that the Pope needs to watch his step when he’s commenting on theology. Nice work, Thomas Aquinas. Good way to sell your new Catholic conversion memoir. You’re a genius. 

My favorite thing is how news media thinks they're covering a Leo-Trump "feud." Pope Leo is not feuding with anyone, especially not the likes of Donald J. Trump. His Holiness is out here saying stuff like “war is bad, love one another, pray for peace” like pretty much every Pope since the last Pope Leo. Trump then comes back with a clever rejoinder something like “Shut up, bro, you suck and you wouldn’t last a second in the UFC octagon.” This morning, as a little social media joke, I posted an offer of $50 to the first reporter to ask Karoline Leavitt if the President is suffering from PDS (Pope Derangement Syndrome). By the end of the day, eight commenters had offered to match the $50. And that offer remains valid. We will pay up. 

***** 

It’s Thursday morning now and I'm sitting in the doctor's office waiting for the scheduler to come in. I have been putting off my colonoscopy appointment. Considering my very long history of medical avoidance, it’s hilarious that I work at a medical school. Do as I say, not as I do. 

Anyway, I’m going through with it now. I actually had a colonoscopy in 2019 so I know it's not a big deal. The day before is dreadful but the procedure itself occurs during a deep sleep brought on by really good drugs. And then you wake up and go home and eat your first solid food in 24 hours. It’s fine. It’ll be fine. Everything is fine. 

*****

Actually, things might be temporarily fine. Israel and Lebanon reached a cease fire agreement and the Strait of Hormuz is open again. We went to war to accomplish the same conditions that existed before this war started, at the cost of many lives and many millions of dollars, but if this cease fire gives innocent people a reprieve, then it's all to the good. 

*****

It's Friday now. I feel like it wasn't a particularly productive week, but I accomplished quite a bit. I'm just always distracted. I've always been scatterbrained and easily distracted but I'm hanging on by a thread now. 2026, man, you know? Thank God for Pomodoro timers and lists and sublists and Google reminders. Maybe I need my own Giant Voice just to keep me in line. Good luck, Giant Voice. If a Giant Voice can prevent me from going off on tangents every five gosh darn minutes then it would be money well spent. 

*****