The aftermath/non-thrilling non-conclusion of getting dragged into a global online conspiracy theory (healing and crying, crying and healing).

From April’s paid-subscriber email: Nine household haiku. I had a dream that / I was a Pilates wife. / Instead, I must work.

An evil version of Tuesdays with Morrie, or The Karate Kid if Mr. Miyagi and Daniel-san were intent on making people cry.

Channel-surfing for the 40-something set, and/or an occasional scream into the soft pillow of nostalgia. Who can blame you?

In which we are a single narrative in the constant and (virtuously) inefficient state of unfolding, again and again and again.

From March’s paid-subscriber email: Pronunciation is hard, but correcting it is harder (and ftr, anything I know how to pronounce is on accident)