Reading
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 […]