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I get it. Pickleball ruined your neighborhood. Tennis courts are completely booked, people you once called friends now go “dinking,” and that incessant popping sound from a plastic ball echoes off suburban walls like circling birds of prey waiting to close in on your sanity. But look, pal, you’ve got it easy. You think pickleball is bad? Try living next to an eighteenth-century warship.
It was like it happened overnight. One day, we’re all living in a regular neighborhood, participating in usual landlocked recreational hobbies, and then, boom—a massive wooden barge is anchored outside our cul-de-sac. Now, all anyone wants to do on the weekends is sail the high seas and join a press gang. Can’t we just stick to charcuterie and Bunco?
I’m not one to typically tell people what they can or can’t do. You want to man the oars during doldrums while chanting along to rhythmic sea shanties? Be my guest. But when your newfound nautical interest resuscitates a modern scurvy epidemic, now we’ve got a problem—a vitamin-deficient, gums-bleeding-out problem.
When COVID struck Rebecca Saltzman’s family, the virus unmasked a life-changing discovery: her husband and two of their kids had genetic heart disease. The kind where people drop dead. As their healthy wife and mother, Saltzman had a new role too—guiding her family through what Susan Sontag called the Kingdom of the Sick. In this column, she’ll explore the anthropological strangeness of this new place, the mysteries of the body, and how facing death distills life into its purest form: funny, terrifying, and sublime.
Read Part I, Part II, and Part III.
The ‘moons and the days’ have brought us round again to the anniversary of the greatest tragedy of modern times, the Commune of Paris of 1871, and with it the recurring duty for all Socialists of celebrating it both enthusiastically and intelligently. By this time the blatant slanders with which the temporarily unsuccessful cause was […]
We’re like the early seasons of Great British Bake Off, where everyone helped each other and drank tea while they waited for things to finish baking and occasionally got berated by an older white man who is creepy toward some of the women.
We’re like a group of high school friends who went out one night and accidentally killed someone and then hid the body because they were scared of the consequences, and now we’re forever connected by the shared guilt, fear, and shame.
We’re like a group of people constantly eating at Olive Garden.
We’re all bound together by our fervent belief that our god-like CEO will rescue us from the apocalyptic visions of a dying Earth by taking us to a terraformed paradise in space. Also, we’re not a cult.
We’re like a fictional soccer team with a folksy yet wise coach who is determined that we all should grow into the best versions of ourselves. He also somehow never feels the need to replace anyone because of poor performance or financial realities. (Please note: we do have at-will employment.)