Michael Jordan

Now that men can have husbands I can relax and read a magazine, knowing our civil liberties are thriving.

Eventually though, one of us will have to get up to do the dishes and take the dog for a walk.

I'm watching a lot of TV, too much TV, so much TV I begin to wonder what would happen if television were to be shut down too. Could I survive? Would I march on city hall or the state capital demanding that I should be free to have access to my TV, whatever the dangers it might pose to my family and I?

On the other hand I'm now having trouble following the simplest mystery and detective shows on TV. Not too long ago I would solve the case presented on 'Vera" or 'Donna Leon's Commissario Guido Brunetti" in the first fifteen minutes or so. The moment the character who commiitted the crime came onto the screen I knew it was he or she who'd done it. Now I'm totally mystified: only when the show ends--if I haven't fallen asleep--am I sure of the culprit. Being of an age most vulnerable to the onset of this sort of condition I became very, very concerned until I woke up and realized I can no longer follow these mysteries, much less solve them, because I no longer care.

What else don't I care about? Michael Jordan.

What do I care about? Good Journalism anywhere I can find it. The questions children ask. The book I'm trying to read and the book I'm trying write. The Thirty Year War. The meaning of what Martin Heidegger wrote in his otherwise impenetrable prose, 'In order to hear a bare sound we have to listen away from things.'

I have lots of time now, time I didn't have before, time to read a magazine devoted to Culture of all things, United by sensibilty, history, aesthethics and taste--the groups of people who make culture what it is, the words say on the cover. Reading the thing feels like a luxury I'm not worthy of, page after page of ads for fashionable products,  Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Cartier, Rolex, Chanel, Tiffany, and editorial content focused on famous actors and actresses, celebrity chefs, fashion designers, a Japanese restaurant in New York City called Omen...

Reading the magazine, I begin to feel a longing for the world we once had and a sadness for all we have lost. I weep. I can hear my heartbeat through my bathrobe: Is this a good thing? My feet seem to be underground, growing like two turnips. I try to imagine what it's like to be homeless, sleeping in front of a vacant building I've just huddled up to. I watch little birds bathe in puddles on the sidewalk and then fly away, all clean. I can't imagine feeling this alone, but we are.