Once a week, I go for a swim & a shvitz at the Y. Right now, it’s my favorite ritual, a rare and welcome moment of peace in a time of chaos and upheaval. It’s where I do my best thinking.
Unfortunately, it’s not fixing my writer’s block. It turns out that when you work out and come home, all you want to do is eat steak, watch a weird movie, and pass out.
Worsening writer’s block is my frantic apartment search. Apartment hunting during a housing crisis has beaten me down. Coming to terms with the fact that I can barely afford to live in a city I’ve lived in my entire life is a profoundly bleak realization.
If you’ve been looking to upgrade your subscription, now would be a good time. If you’d like to send a tip, I’ll put it toward my move. If you want to suggest a topic for me to write about (or book recommendations), please e-mail me. Either way, thank you for being here.
I wrote this last week. Some musings on cancel culture, sobriety, and respectability. Oh, and the internet, of course.
Emil Wainstock
Sometimes, the jokes write themselves.
For example, sex pest Andrew Callaghan recently followed anti-cancel culture “activist” Cl*mentine M*rrigan on Instagram.
Whatever ideology M*rrigan has been pushing about the wrongs of cancel culture is now being sought out and adopted by petulant shitheads who, after suffering deserved public scorn (and one can assume some financial loss), want to find the language to excuse their behaviors and get back on top.
I don’t think cancel culture is anything we should cling to. Not to any of its incarnations thus far, anyway. However, when I say We, that excludes celebrities, excludes clout chasing, fame-hungry predatory journalists with HBO deals.
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