The blizzard of vengeful executive actions, the horrible spending freeze, the cruel deportation roundups, the purges of the DOJ and the FBI, all coming one after the other after the other, seemed to just overwhelm us. Then the DC plane crash happened.

      Somehow, that touched a new nerve. I got a call the day after the crash from a good friend. No specific reason for the call, except he clearly just had to vent. Despite probably knowing better, he had just watched the televised news conference the president had given after the crash and he had to talk to someone and spew.

      My friend was so angry, so upset, he could barely get the words out. . . .

     When I was 12 years old my dad got me my social security number. I think he figured I was child labor and had better start saving for retirement. 

      Whatever his reasoning, he put me to work painting his horse fencing that encompassed his 900-acre horse farm in Pennsylvania. It was a summer job, and the paint was stinky (probably toxic) and way too white.  I was paid 25 cents an hour. 

      I then got a job in his nursing home as a nurse’s aide where I bathed, dressed, emptied bed pans and fed wonderful elderly people. I eventually graduated to the breakfast cook and learned how to make rice pudding, oatmeal, fresh fruit juices and watery broths. The people loved me, and I believe I lifted their spirits and brought them joy along with their daily enemas. 

      After college I took a job with my dad’s accountant who chased me around the office and tried to kiss me. . . .

hurtling back in time over the railroad earth,

jerk-swaying over the rail joints,

breaking out from beneath the bay

into the bright spring light,

garish on the Oakland row houses,

the strobe-flash glimpses of tired, dirty buildings and streets

flashing by in near sync with the memory fragments

of those times when young seemed eternal hallmark

and we were inventing a new way

of living, loving, and being against the old backdrops

of war, greed and aesthetic numbness,

the new world way bursting into being. . . .

      Before going out, we used to just check out the menu. Did the restaurant have things we could eat, stuff we liked, dishes that sounded interesting?

      And maybe, then, we’d take a look at the prices—were the prices reasonable or did the salmon entrees begin at 40 bucks?

      Now, even before checking out the menu, before glancing at the prices, we ask: how noisy is the restaurant?

      Is it a place where we can actually have a conversation? Where we can talk to friends or each other—and really hear what anyone is saying? . . .

      For a quarter of century Paul Krugman had been bringing two important perspectives to the New York Times opinion section: that of an extraordinary economist (Krugman won the Nobel Prize in Economics in 2008) and that of a consistently insightful progressive.

      But Krugman, who is 71, and the Times parted ways in December.

      Some news organizations lately have been accused of trying to temper their criticisms of Trump and his new administration. We would like to think that was not a factor in the Times-Krugman divorce. We would also like to think that age was not a factor. Whether we would be right to think those things is not entirely clear.

      The best third-party account we had seen of the discussions leading up to Krugman’s departure, including quotes from Krugman’s editors at the Times, was written by Charles Kaiser in the Columbia Journalism Review.

      But Paul Krugman himself has just published his explanation of why he left the Times on his new and wonderful Substack. Here are some paragraphs from his first-party account . . . .

      There seems to be no instance of the media going beyond citing TikTok’s Chinese ownership to show how it’s propaganda seducing American children with membership deals in the Communist Party or even to order egg foo young from their local traiteur.

      And data mining? Even though everything points to 98-percent product pitches by a class of people calling themselves influencers who are evidence of a society failing itself, I accept that data mining could be a problem. But data mining what?

      That in the past three days alone I went on Amazon and bought tung oil, two pounds of Ukrainian kasha (my idea of staking a political position), a bottomless supply of dog rawhides or a couple bottles of Pinaud Bay Rum aftershave (in a tricky calculus of not much to shave and an estimated 3,654 days left on the planet).

      I haven’t read anywhere what is the useful data involved, or that the Chinese will one day send me messages on how to cook the Ukrainian kasha in the Pinaud Bay Rum to poison my body if not my mind. …

      You don’t need a weatherman and you don’t have to have seen the new Bob Dylan movie “A Complete Unknown” to understand that the winds of change were blowing through the American music scene in 1965. Not only did Dylan complete his transformation from a topical folksinger to a poetic rock n’ roller, this was an extraordinarily exciting year for those who loved the new sounds, from the Beatles, Stones and other British Invasion bands, to the rise of Motown to the dawn of blue-rock and folk-rock. 

      Indeed, I think 1965 was the greatest single year in the history of popular music over the past century.

       Of course, this is debatable. . . .

      In Swedish, it’s called “döstädning,” which translates in English to "death cleaning."

      The idea is to declutter and organize your life before you pass away. And do it when the idea of passing away is no longer hypothetical. Don’t leave it to the kids.

      Seems like a good idea, particularly at our age, except that for me and my wife—and I would suspect for many others around our age—it seems almost impossible.

      Take, for instance, this plastic bag of keys that’s on top of the filing cabinet that’s in the closet that’s in the office. There may be hundreds of keys in the bag, hundreds of keys with no piece of identification attached to them. . . .

      In her photography, social documentarian Dona Ann McAdams focuses on the particularity of a place and the innate humanity of the people in that locale.

Her latest book, Black Box: A Photographic Memoir (Saint Lucy Books), chronicles her stellar 50-year career, beautifully reproducing 107 pictures as well as serving up interesting backstories.

      I’ve known the artist for over forty years. In the 1980s I attended performances at P.S. 122, the seminal venue for avant-garde performance in New York. Often, I would notice her, off to the side, seated on the floor, taking photographs with a Leica camera. . . .

Click here for John R. Killacky’s

Mini-Documentary on Dona Ann McAdams

      Over yonder … just me, just sitting on the stone bench within the old cemetery’s iron fencing. Around me hatched shades of green speak of desultory human attention, blessedly absent from the surrounding dry grass. But green or dry, these wild weeds are congenial to my spirit.

      Just me, still above the hardscrabble, if ever more tenuously. Me, quietly nursing a new sharp pain at the juncture of left femur and pelvis, nevertheless content to just sit through these last final chapters. Just sitting, nearly as still as the old regularly clumped bones of my future neighbors, below.

      If cemeteries don’t encourage reflection, no settings will. . . .

Is enough indeed enough? This less-than-3-minute-long video experiment argues—with help from Leonard Cohen, William Blake, Ecclesiastes and Anaïs Nin—that it is not, that we ought indeed to ask for MORE.

Indeed this short video itself—with highly animated text and multi-layered audio—represents an effort to show that video might be able to say MORE—an argument I first made a quarter-century ago in my book, the rise of the image the fall of the word. Can’t say the evidence I was right has been pouring in, but there are glimmerings. . . .

Click Here to View Video

     A good friend died on the Saturday before the November 2016 election.

      I’ve been wondering ever since: would he have believed what has happened in the years after? How could I possibly have explained what has transpired? How could he have possibly imagined  

•      That a TV reality show personality with no experience in government and a history of failed enterprises and outrageous comments would be elected president of the United States.

•       That a buffoon who was president of the United States would lie about everything from the size of crowds to the direction of a hurricane, to the tune of an average of 21 public lies for each day of his presidency.

•       That a conman who was president of the United States would try to ban residents of Muslim-majority countries from coming to the United States.

•      That a grifter who was president of the United States would refer to developing nations as “shithole countries” . . .

     Meditation is the art of stabilizing the mind to create awareness and a calmness that helps to heal the body, mind and spirit.

      I am an exploding ball of energy, or as my father would fondly say, “you are my thoroughbred.” He raised horses and his thoroughbreds were high stepping, agitated, overly nervous and always the first out of the gate and the first back to the barn.

      For me, learning to control my thoughts, which are like a boomerang on steroids, has always been a struggle. My thoughts leave my brain and then return within a split second and before I know it I am going down another rabbit hole. I am aware how important it is to calm my thoughts because only then can I feel solace and contentment. . . .

      I was some age in the mid-single digits. For it was sometime in the mid-1950s.

      My dad, who edited the newspaper for a left-leaning union, was attending a union convention up in the Catskills somewhere. My mom and I went along.

      Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., was a strong supporter of labor unions—particularly left-leaning labor unions. And those unions, to their great credit, were early supporters of the work Dr. King was doing as one of the most aggressive leaders of the Civil Rights movement.

      So, Martin Luther King, Jr., was speaking at that union convention somewhere in the Catskills—at least that is how I remember it. And my mother, as I recall, handed me—a shy kid—a piece of paper and a pen and pushed me toward the front of the room. . . .

      The day on which we celebrate Martin Luther King Jr.’s birthday will also be one of the darkest and most shameful days in the history of this nation, when the man who attempted a coup against the United States will be sworn in for the second time as president.

      Let me reassure you about a few things.

      First, if you’re outraged, disgusted, or depressed by this, you are hardly alone.

      Even though Trump got the most votes, his margin of victory was razor-thin. More than a third of eligible voters (many of whom voted for Biden in 2020) didn’t even vote. According to yesterday’s New York Times/Ipsos poll, most Americans are either worried or pessimistic about Trump’s second term. Half of America hates him.

      I also want to assure you that although Trump is bonkers, his madness will be contained. . . .

This is a short excerpt from Robert Reich’s excellent Substack. For the full post or to subscribe, on paid or free plans, click here.

      I have a lunch date expressly scheduled for Monday. It will begin before noon, and I’m hoping we will hang out for the rest of the day.

      If it has to end because my lunch partner has to return home or go to work or has some other feeble excuse, I will go to the movies. Maybe I’ll see “A Complete Unknown” again or maybe, if I really want to stretch it out, I’ll go see the interminable “Wicked” for a second time.

      Then I’ll go get a bite. And maybe go for a walk. Or go get a drink in a bar without TV screens if such a place still exists.

      What I mean is, I’ll do anything to avoid Monday’s inauguration . .

      The first presidential inaugural I ever attended (and covered as a reporter) was Richard M. Nixon’s first, in January 1969. 

      The coldest inaugural I ever covered was Ronald Reagan’s second, in 1985. (The inaugural parade had to be held at an indoor arena near Washington since the wind-chill during that time in January was minus 25!) 

      The most litigious inaugural I ever covered was Nixon’s second, in 1973. (I was arrested and later was branded by the FBI as “potentially dangerous” for simply doing my job covering the parade.) 

      The most embarrassing inaugural I ever covered was Jimmy Carter’s, in January 1977.  (I’ll explain in a minute). 

      Until Donald Trump shat all over it, the peaceful transition of executive power in America, symbolized by the celebratory, even giddy, inauguration of a newly-elected president, was one of the shining jewels of the American experience. God willing, it will become that again, when Trump, set to be inaugurated one more time on Monday, exits the stage for good. …

      I’m a lyrics guy. With one notable exception, I know them. I remember them. The exception is: “Tumbling Dice” by the Rolling Stones.

      However, I’m also a guy who can’t carry a tune.

      Which sucks. I know—except for “Tumbling Dice”—all the words but can’t sing them.

      Karaoke is, of course, out of the question. Joining in when everybody is feeling “Yellow Submarine” is also out of the question, even though I know it’s: “And he told us of his life in the land of submarines.”
      And on those increasingly rare occasions when I might find myself in the midst of a singalong, I’ll manage to position myself next to a fellow or gal who can sing, so I can prompt him or her with the words: “…But then I spent so many nights thinking.” Pause. “How you did me wrong.” Pause. “And I grew strong” . . .

Being able to see the Milky Way at night

Greeting someone at the gate

School snow days . . .

And more of what we don’t miss

Watches we had to wind

Dissecting frogs

Suitcases without wheels . . .

     I’ve found a new way to annoy companions.

      When walking or driving at night, even with other people, I suddenly stop when I see an unusually bright, unblinking star and spend some time trying to figure out—often making use of my “Skyview” app—which planet it is.

      This is not much of a problem here in Manhattan, where the light pollution often succeeds in obscuring whatever stars the buildings fail to block. But there are still plenty of places in this world where planets can easily and regularly be discerned. And planet discerning—abruptly looking up—has apparently become one of my responses to aging. . . .