Eddie Balchowsky’s lifestyle had its romance. But it also meant periods of homelessness, nights curled up in a friend’s bathtub to sleep, periods of depression so deep he had to be hospitalized. None of that tore away his kindness.
P.G. Wodehouse (pronounced Woodhouse, just to add a wrinkle) was one of a type I used to despise and now grudgingly admire: those who maintain their equilibrium by refusing to look at anything dark or glum. Sturdy as a hard rubber ball, he bounced along in near-total denial.
Are we taking revenge on The Mouse, or on ourselves?
With “Poor Things,” Yorgos Lanthimos has given us a film that is funny, sharp, poignant, imaginative, and visually stunning. I wonder if he knew his baby-woman would also summon a New Year’s resolution for the other end of life.
Zero-sum thinking shows up all over the place. It puddles in the Congressional aisle no one dares cross. It puts up trade barriers, panics at trade deficits, and insists on protectionism, isolationism, nationalism. It builds walls, both literal and figurative, to keep out strangers.
Sandra Day O’Connor’s role on the bench was big picture, as big as it gets, taking in the past and the future, precedent and legacy, along with the current context.
We face the same dilemma with gender that we face with race. Science has shown that neither is an essential category, just a convenient construct we imposed upon infinite variations. But because that construct allowed centuries of injustice, we have to keep using its labels in order to repair the damage they have done.
Reflection is the opposite of distraction. The opposite of impulsivity. The opposite of blind, atavistic selfishness. Done right, it stops us from lying to ourselves.
What first moved Antonio Douthit-Boyd to dance was a drumbeat strong enough to rattle the air. It was coming from a studio on Washington Avenue. He and his friends, all early teens, crashed the dance class for the hell of it.
If someone suffers from hallucinations, paranoia, depression, or intense anxiety in, say, northern India, what can they do? They can visit a Sufi shrine.
Dust is insidious, yet innocuous, tiny, and indeterminate. We do not see those wriggling bugs or vile toxins; we see only fluff. And so we grow accustomed to the stuff, joking about its presence when an unexpected guest comes to our home.
“Metaphysical Animals” is not a dry book about philosophy; nor is it a juicy book about women’s friendships and lovers. It is both, in perfect balance.