Three hundred sixty-five
Most reading this are at the age where our awareness of the quickening passage of time now spans decades, so it's a certain testament to the powers of the current Government of the United States and its enablers (foreign and domestic) in their ability to stretch out every second with their parade of grotesqueries. It's been a year of prolonged horror at rapidly accelerating despotism, but the time dilation of each new offense does nothing to slow the approach of Eamon's launch into the world or the breakdown of my own body.
It's been rough on many in both my personal and professional ambits. The decimations from resignations of conscience or simple resignation; from impoundment; from DOGE; from OBBBA; and from the shutdown are seen in tired faces and heard in bashful questions of and careful responses by career government professionals. I've watched whole populations disappear from portions of the city almost overnight, retreating from or being swept up by the first waves of the occupation. It was difficult to watch it happening around me, to uneasily observe the trauma inflicted on people I care about while experiencing the guilty relief that it wasn't happening to me (yet).
Somewhat surprisingly to me, given my understanding of history, is that I don't share the same degree of employment anxieties as some of my friends, even as there are very real threats to the organization I work for and to the members of the professions whose interests I represent and serve. It feels as if it's been going on for awhile. Fact is, I was born after the high-water marks of both educational access and the power of organized labor (curious, that). Since 2010, our organization has been in an existential crisis of some form or another with the attacks on public sector bargaining in Wisconsin, Michigan, Florida, and elsewhere, the Janus decision, the pandemic, "critical race theory" and "trans" panics, Moms for Liberty, vouchers, and whatever other wacky but well-financed assault on teachers, health care pros, and other public service workers that are floating around out there in the fever swamps.
Yet we persist, arguably stronger than we've ever been. I still get to do work that has a meaningful impact on individuals I directly work with and on a broader campaign for educational justice. We've existed under the threat of the end of the labor movement and public education for the last 15 years but have still managed important work that has improved lives for our members and the publics they serve, even now.
To be clear, it's not a working environment that I would recommend, and I've struggled these years to cope with the stress of constant crises and its accompanying affects on my personal life, not always successfully; but I have learned lessons that were important in (mostly) maintaining the head and heart necessary to navigate the last 12 months for myself and others. I feel like I have a good handle on the self-care and self-kindness and the commitment to creating the joy necessary to confront what lies ahead of us. Each of the next 365 days are not going to be starting from a great baseline, but I believe I have the will and support to make them the best possible for myself and the people in my life.
On the Platter
As is likely over-determined by someone with my demographic profile, I've made a hobby of collecting records. I won't embarrass myself by stooping to arguments about sound quality or the monetary value of certain recordings to justify my habit. I simply enjoy the experience of listening to vinyl and I really enjoy the experience of digging for vinyl and I really really enjoy sharing these experiences with other people. A couple of recent listens from this week past.
This was an excellent Christmas gift this year. I've owned a digital copy of Horses for years, but haven't listened to it much. I haven't prioritized finding a physical copy of it, and I certainly wouldn't have paid for this 50th Anniversary edition. But man, am I happy I have it in this form. It is an impeccable collection of songs that sound absolutely amazing on this pressing. Its solidity on the shelf has already generated infinitely more plays than its digital counterpart over the previous years. Thank you, T!
The thing-ness of records require a mindfulness paid to the space it takes to store them. I don't have any hard and fast rules about how many to own or how and when they're purged. Every now and again you just have to pull something out and make it justify its shelf-space. This gem I picked up on my most recent (and most frigid) visit to Ann Arbor in 2018 (!!!) passed with flying colors. The first set of straight-ahead jazz rock features Chicago session heavies Phillip Upchurch and pre-Miles Davis band Pete Cosey and has a groovy take on Hendrix's "Third Stone from the Sun" as well as a few smoking originals. The second record takes its cues from the early strains of spiritual jazz emerging in 1970. It's a bummer the dude was having to sell albums like this from his personal collection on account of health issues, so I'm happy to continue giving this one a good home.
On the books (and other things I read)
I've offered this information unsolicited to many people, friends and total randos, so there's no way I'm not sharing it with you: after bouncing off it a couple of times, I finished Thomas Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow this past summer, and just in time to hear from one of Eamon's friends (going to Oberlin, natch) that every educated adult should have a go-to insanely ambitious post-modern novel. CHECK. It was a challenging but beautiful read that somehow wove its way to coherence in fantastic fashion. With the difficult part of trying to understand the plot and its significance out of the way (not necessarily completed, but no longer a priority), I'm looking forward to another read to enjoy the prose and marvel at how it unfolds. It's also inflamed the itch to revisit other literary white whales like Midnight's Children. Or Moby Dick.
You may have the unfortunate memory that the current occupation of DC was kicked off because a 19 year old DOGEr known online as Big Ballz got roughed up by a couple teenagers at 3 am at the corner of Swann St. and 14th St. NW. Swann Street has a pretty neat local history that intersects with the movement for trans rights, DC punk, and international spycraft with a side-helping of weird coincidence.
Why am I recommending that you read a review of a greatest hits compilation over which we've all threatened someone with bodily harm when it was slapped in the CD player again, even though we, secretly or not-so, love many of these songs? Because it's a fascinating look at how the life and music of an extraordinary musician was repackaged as the ubiquitous and still best-selling (it was the #1 reggae album - again - in 2025) Legend that we all have such a complicated relationship with.
One last thing
Sarah and I just finished enjoying a good cry through our second watching of Ted Lasso. I love it, and it has improved on rewatching. After finishing I had the feeling that for me, Lasso is serving the same function as The West Wing did back in the Bush Jr. years for a different audience, showing corrupting institutions and personal failings being overcome by the pluck of a wacky and ambitious band of do-gooders. That it's a painfully earnest love-letter to football fandom is something deeply felt by me, all the more painful in this World Cup year. I know we all long ago stopped expecting even the pretense of morality from FIFA on down, and I enjoyed previous tournaments despite the monstrous ethical red flags. This time feels different to me, though. I'm usually starting to get excited about the World Cup at this point in the cycle, but the idea of enjoying it right now fills me with an uneasy revulsion.