Funfare for the Common Man

Deal with it. Accept it. That’s the reality. In all likelihood. ‘…as we barrel toward the first anniversary of the World Health Organization declaring the coronavirus a pandemic, the physical consequences of extended disruption, isolation, and stress have begun to make themselves known en masse, in doctors’ offices and telehealth video calls.’ Closing in on a year of this, with some kind of end in sight, hopefully, and we aren’t really sure of the ramifications as of yet. Everyone’s suffering. To some extent. Everyone’s struggling. To some extent. We’ve all got our issues and problems. But face it: your problems are inconsequential. We’re all wrapped up in our own solipsistic worlds. We’ve all got our own stuff to worry about. A month ago I came across yet another pandemic-themed article, from the Atlantic , entitled ‘Yes, the Pandemic Is Ruining Your Body :  Quarantine is turning you into a stiff, hunched-over, itchy, sore, headachy husk.’ You don’t need to read it. The title says...

It’s my annual year in review. I think I’ve done one of these every year. Or most years. I don’t remember. In keeping with the spirit of the holiday season last couple of months, which have been oh-so-frenetic, this too will be a rushed, whirlwind recap of what was truly a raucous annus horribilis. And if that makes no sense, that’s because this year hardly made sense. The biggest positive to emerge from 2020? One of my most productive years of reading ever. But that also came at the cost of other things. When people ask ‘how do you find the time to read?’ I answer: ‘because I don’t do most of the stuff I should be doing instead of frittering away my time reading!’ Herewith 2020 in review. The books are a selection of my favourites and highlights. Mercifully, not all of them. January and February: months like any other, for the most part Grand Hotel , Vicki Baum; Flights , Olga Tokarczuk; Love, Poverty and War , Christopher Hitchens; Cooked: A Natural History of Transformation , Michae...

This is a direct nod to Barry Ritholz, one of my everyday go-tos for his Daily/Weekend Reads ( The Big Picture ). Though they are mainly and ostensibly about business and finance, there are very often some fascinating links to a wide range of articles about much else besides. I’m still ‘in between’ ideas for posts – I’ve got 3-4 bubbling away on the backburner – so for now, I thought I would share a few of my own random observations. Except that I have to be really pedantic and pernickety to start off with – these are anything but ‘random’. Arbitrary, perhaps, but more like inchoate. Or half-baked. But I’ve put at least some thought into them, and they are things that have been floating about in my head for the past week or two (or three or…) Here’s his full list: Ritholz’s Random Lockdown Observations I’ll quote just two of my favourites, one to get the ball rolling. ‘There are two kinds of people during this lockdown: Those who are having a bit of fun with it, and those with kids. No...

9pm every night, after the little one is tucked in for the night With apologies to Gabriel García Márquez After last week’s heavy theme of the [potential] doom and gloom of the future, this week will be a different kind of heavy: heavy on links, light[er] on commentary.  If there’s one thing this quarantine is doing to people – me, especially, but if Twitter is anything to go by, many of us – it’s sending us down all sorts of nostalgia rabbit holes. You know, I’m not really sure if we can go down nostalgia rabbit holes, but you get the idea. I’ve been down this…road before, just a fortnight or so ago with my ‘Mixtape’ post. That, along with some comments from old friends, has really kicked the music nostalgia urge into overdrive, and I’m trying to put together a music-themed post. But I’m struggling to find the right angle. So in the interim, let’s focus on links and love.  As in, this is about the point in the quarantine, if you haven’t reached it already, where tempers are r...

“A writer who waits for ideal conditions under which to work will die without putting a word on paper.” (E. B. White) I’m hardly stooping so low as to refer to myself as a ‘writer’. But this is the situation I always seem to find myself in, and life during this quarantine is only exacerbating this. The time, the mood, everything always has to be just right. If I don’t have a chunk of quiet, private, guaranteed uninterrupted time, then I’m hopeless. Just the mere hint of interruption is enough to send my heart into palpations. BUT…this quarantine has been a blessing in disguise, at least as far as writing goes. I’ve not only written more, whenever I can squeeze it in, but I’m being a bit more social in terms of keeping in touch. But ‘paper’? Good lord, how old-fashioned can one get? Am I cut out for this world and its impatience? I’ve already written one excessively long diatribe about the news and newspapers and what a dying art sitting down to read in long stre...