I dreamt last night that an army of vampiric clowns rose up to attack human society, but were met with overwhelming resistance, were stomped to death, and were eventually annihilated. Really not making that up.
Category Archives: slices of life
Eminent Domain and the Resort to Force
I was pleased to see that my letter on Princeton’s use of eminent domain to acquire Westminster Choir College was printed in the January 7 issue of Princeton’s Town Topics, with a note from the editor (p. 13): “Thank you for your letter. We stand corrected.” Good to hear it.
Whether the topic is genocide or eminent domain, mainstream American journalists have an addiction to euphemism about the use of force that should be corrected at every turn. If journalists described the use of force more vividly and accurately, people would grasp its ubiquity in public life, and stop being surprised when it took egregious forms, as in the killing of Renee Good. Continue reading
Stirring the POT (5)
Politics and the Problematics of Fun
I started my “Stirring the POT” series earlier this year as a vehicle for announcements, but it gradually morphed into a series of ruminations on conferences I attended. The latter turned out to be the more interesting enterprise, so I’ll close out the year with a belated conference rumination. This past April, I went to San Francisco, at the invitation of Roderick Long and the Molinari Society, to be on an Author-Meets-Critics panel on Gary Chartier’s Christianity and the Nation State. It promised to be a good time, and it was. Continue reading
Out in the Cold
It’s a good day, just really cold. I go to the gym. I get my hair cut. I go to the public library, and get some books to read. On my way out, I stop by an exhibit displayed with great pride in the lobby: the municipality is tearing down the lo-fi flyer kiosks in town and replacing them with hi-tech versions, at an estimated cost of $80,000. Stupid, I think. Expensive, vain, and pointless–but typical.
It’s dark now, and even colder than it was when I left the house–somewhere in the 30s. I’m annoyed at the prospect of having to bike home in the cold, but it’s festive in the square, and for a minute or two, even I manage to feel a bit of holiday cheer, Scrooge that I am. Continue reading
Thoughts on a Self-Deportation
I was at a self-deportation the other day. Someone who’d been in this country for decades decided it was time to leave, even at the price of breaking up the family. So, surrounded by friends and family, they did.
I’m not sure what verb to use for my presence at this scene. I was present, but not wholly present, engaged, but not fully engaged. I had things to do that day, and couldn’t afford the luxury of wholehearted empathy or grief. Did I observe? Bear witness? Psychologically flee the scene? A little bit of all of the above.
The English language lacks a word for the act of observing, but deliberately holding oneself aloof from, another person’s misfortune. It’s too bad, because self-deportation and family dissolution are quickly becoming commonplaces. We can’t be fully present for all of them. So the word we lack is a word we need.
Start Spreading the News
Current status: paying $70 to take an Uber to work, care of a well-dressed driver named Roberto who’s blaring Sinatra in my ear. Feel like I’m en route to another meeting with Batista over the Castro/Che problem, but no, just another day of DRG Downgrade appeals with assorted hospital clients, paying top dollar to get paid.
“I’m gonna make a brand new start of it—Metropark, Metropark.”
Somebody kill me.
Great Moments in Pedagogy
Professor, can I ask you a question? What does Sophocles want?
–Exasperated student to my friend Charles Persky, Professor of English at Hunter College, City University of New York (1970-2017)
The Activist As Revenue Manager
Between doing the numbers for Hartford HealthCare, and prepping the inventory reports for the Atlantic Health System—and blogging to excess in the middle of it all—I left the office late, got on a late train home, and once again got my ass stranded at Princeton Junction Rail Station. No sooner did I get there, but who should show up as if waiting for me but my favorite Arab taxi driver? Meaning the same guy who gave me the free ride last time.
Continue readingDreams of Death
I dreamt last night of my late wife, Alison. I didn’t see or hear her, and I was in a mostly unfamiliar place, but her presence was unmistakable. I knew that we were somewhere in Washington Heights near the George Washington Bridge, where we used to live. We were dating in the dream, not yet married, and it was late, so I’d decided to go back home. For some reason, I had to go across the street to a pay phone to call an Uber. It was midnight, but paradoxically enough both bright as noon and dark enough to obscure the way. I called the Uber guy, who was hard to hear, but he said he was coming, and there the dream ended. Continue reading
Dreams of MacIntyre
I dreamt of Alasdair MacIntyre last night. He looked exactly like his Wikipedia photo, except that he was wearing the old blue jacket he always wore when I knew him, with a grey turtleneck underneath. I was sitting down, reading or writing something about Machiavelli: it was either a philosophy conference or a bus station, I’m not sure which.
He walked in, smiling this weird Mona Lisa smile. He seemed happy to see me, or maybe just happy to be back. My first impulse was to ask him what the Afterlife Dept was doing about the genocide in Gaza or ICE, but I didn’t. It somehow seemed inappropriate to ask, like those were my obsessions, not the afterlife’s. You might as well ask a retiree to solve problems at work. Gauche. I hugged him, something that neither of us would have done in real life. I was sort of shocked: bro was ripped. For a second I wondered what part of the afterlife they’d sent him to. Did Mac get misdirected to Hell and spend the last couple of months working out in the yard? Stuff you never expect. The dream ended there. He was inscrutably silent the whole time.
Policy of Truth 