The Common Reader

I took a Flix bus to Chicago, determined to be there for the Juneteenth opening of the Obama Presidential Center. “You took a what?” friends said, bemused that I did not fly, drive, or even take the train. But I love buses. I love the way everybody shows up prepared, arms stuffed with their own pillows, blankets, snacks, and books. I love that there is no snobbish sorting into pricey, spacious elite seats and seats for the rest of us.

One foot on a tangle of tree root, I looked down at my beloved Merrell hiking boots and noticed big, frayed holes on both sides. Time to spring for a new pair. To be loyal, I went—in the flesh—to REI, but they had only waterproof hiking boots. “Tariffs,” muttered the salesperson. This might be harder than I thought. I tried Lorrie’s, where I was informed that they never carried anything but waterproof, and it really was best, otherwise my boots would smell. I came home and took a big sniff.

It is foolhardy to assume we can know a foreign country enough to draw lessons from it after just nine days of indulgent tourism. It is also foolhardy to assume tourists would learn nothing from that foreign country at all. Building that bridge between innocence and experience is what makes foreign travel the multi-billion-dollar industry it is, not to mention all the fun and culture when the exchange rate is right.

The documentary Mr. Nobody Against Putin (2025) is about a Russian events coordinator and videographer who documents the militarized indoctrination at the primary school where he works, after Russia invaded Ukraine in February 2022. The film has won major prizes, including the Academy Award for Best Documentary Feature Film in March. Predictably, the Russian government hates it and has taken steps to punish those involved.

“Those poor brutish Epicureans that have nothing but the meer husks of fleshly pleasure to feed themselves with.” ~John Smith, 1660 How did we get Epicurus so wrong? Foodie websites, luxury magazines, gourmet shops…he would be aghast. His goal was to remove pain and fear, not pile up pastry. Limited desires, sustainable desires, should be met, he said, and life should remain simple. Like the U.S. Constitution, Epicurus emphasized the pursuit of happiness.

We have given ourselves two more years, ample time to continue spreading out in this friendly, comfy, century-old house. Two more years, my mother’s daughter whispers, to keep weeding, scrubbing, repainting the wrought-iron fence…. By the time we leave, we will be thoroughly ready for a smaller, more practical, inevitably less charming abode. This is what people do at our age. Downsizing, it is called. A horrid corporate word, cloaking rejection and existential panic.

David Hockney’s works never had the reputation in contemporary art of conveying intellectual dilemmas, much less casual profundity. They were much too fun for that. Or, as art mavens have been fond of reciting for at least the past two decades, “calling [insert cultural of the day here] into question” was not his concern. Looking at his most famous works, you felt right away that he only wanted to dazzle and charm. That aim is not nearly as frivolous as it sounds.

Anger has never been my go-to. Now and then I fume, even simmer a while. But I recoil from rage; for me, it is far easier to find excuses or let slide. Until now. The Trump Administration has undone six decades of complacent serenity. No doubt its supporters would be thrilled to know this. Hear the snarky anger there? It is retaliatory, because so many of them seem to traffic in anger, thrill to its power, strike it and pour gas.

The Spirit of St. Louis Air Show and STEM Expo took place last weekend, sponsored in large part by Boeing, whose Defense, Space & Security division is headquartered in St. Louis. Out by the Missouri River, an F-22 Raptor did its magic tricks, barely lifting off the runway before going vertical in a puff of vapor, then stopping midair for a bit, pretending to fall tail-first toward the ground, and shooting away with glowing afterburners and a roar felt in the chest.

Every week, I page through: nope, nope, nope. All I want is one New Yorker cartoon as funny as they used to be, so I can stick it on the fridge and grin at it when I start dinner. Is it me, have I misplaced my sense of humor in the piles of chaos the news brings every day? Or has the humor itself changed, become so small and dry that I can nod once, getting it, but not want to return? The question begins to haunt me, until I am so puzzled that I resort to asking AI.