Life

Thursday

Kelly Chapman

No one in the DC political class is cool

No one in the DC political class is cool. For all our American spirit of independence, democracy still defers to the majority, and power compels even the most singular, Machiavellian mind to mold itself in the image of the people. Politics drains the blood out of the individual, replacing him or her with a bland and legible product, flattened into the image of at least 50 percent of the population. Prediction markets are a perfect example of this effect, shining the brightest lights into the caverns of cool, calcifying opinions into trends, trends into probabilities, and probabilities into certainties. There is nothing that poses more of a threat to cool than this, and no market hungrier for it than the politicos of Washington, DC.

Ruaridh Nicoll

Road-tripping across blockaded Cuba

My wife Camila doesn’t drive, but she does direct. Studying the map, she’ll say, “This road!”, and before I know it, we’re off down some track, startling locals who haven’t seen a “yuma” – technically an American but really any foreigner – for years. Cuba is a country that lends itself to country road adventure. Besides drinking daiquiris, it’s perhaps my favorite thing to do. And it’s what I miss most now that it’s impossible: the US oil blockade that began in January means there is no gasoline. ‘Is this ceviche the red snapper or the snook?’ I asked. The waiter shrugged, ‘Once it’s ceviche it’s hard to tell’ Few others seem to do it.

Josie Cox

My search for the perfect New York therapist ended badly

Before moving to New York City, I had a particular vision of what my life as a writer in this fabled land of opportunity would look like. I’d wear sleek, black turtlenecks and skinny jeans. I’d go to diners and eat bagels. I’d defy the caloric calculus and stay svelte. I’d write at my window like Carrie Bradshaw, getting paid at least $2.50 per word. I’d go to book parties and stroll through the West Village, occasionally bumping into a semi-famous friend. We’d spontaneously drink wine. Perhaps most importantly, I’d have an excellent therapist – someone who had many leather-bound books, a calm and reassuring presence that could effortlessly calibrate my mental state. He’d look a bit like Wallace Shawn or maybe Barbra Streisand.

Melissa Kite

Meghan is a woman much misunderstood

Lying in bed with a swollen face, I decided that the best thing to do was nothing, so I ended up watching the Duchess of Sussex make smoothies. I don’t know why everyone is so mean about her Netflix show because it hit the spot for me. As I took to my bed after surgery to take out the old screws and plates in my long-ago broken jaw, everything put me on edge apart from watching Meghan and her lovely way of smiling and smiling as she expressed wonderment at a bunch of grapes, or the way a liquidizer whirred. As my face swelled and turned some interesting shades of green and yellow, and I wondered if I would ever smile again, there was something absolutely restorative about watching Meghan gasp with enthusiasm about flowers and honey and lettuce. Everything was “amazing!

ski
Rachel Johnson

Never pass up a chance to ski

The snow is deep and crisp and even, the sky bluer than blue, and beneath my Black Crow skis the soft hiss of fresh powder. I’m rehearsing my excuses as I carve my wiggly way down a well-upholstered piste. “I’ve gone skiing by mistake,” I cry out on the pure mountain air. I’m almost embarrassed by my own excess as this is my second ski break of the year, and to go twice before Easter during a war and an energy crisis is giving peak first-world indulgence. Still, as I like to say, I have not one but two Agas, “just not in the same house,” so what the heck. Here goes. My two ski trips in two months, then.

Saturday

Melissa Kite

I’m stuck in a house of madness

“I want to learn Iranian,” said my father, resolutely, as he watched the bombing on TV. “Farsi,” I said, thinking I would talk to him about that very happily on the basis it was better than helping him contact the Ukrainian government so he can fight the Russians. “What’s that?” he said. “Farsi,” I repeated. “Parcel?” he said. But it was pointless trying to explain, for he was up and looking out the window and telling me to look in the parcel box. We were waiting for the special food I had ordered for the new cat someone irresponsibly rehomed to my parents and which already has a stress condition from living with two dementia sufferers. I need to take it with me back to Ireland when I get a spare week or two to gather the papers for the EU.

madness

Thursday

Chilton Williamson, Jr.

Is ‘international law’ practical?

The acceleration of history and the increasingly rapid advancement of the postmodern project, aimed at the transcendence of humanity by itself, makes consideration of the fundamentals of the progressive project necessary, but also inevitable. Among them is its dedication to the hectic search for hitherto unsuspected “human rights” and their instant realization in the name of “natural law,” a subject the French historian and political philosopher Pierre Manent has studied in depth and brilliantly illuminated in a number of works, most recently Natural Law and Human Rights: Toward a Recovery of Practical Reason.

Peter Watson

Palm Beach gets a European twist

In these parts, it is always said that the most disappointing aspect of Palm Beach life is… well, the beach itself. Yes, it has sand, sea, minimal surf (and, as often as not, “dangerous marine life,” as the deep purple flags flown at the lifeguard stations indicate). But that is all. There is nothing like what you get, for example, in the north shore of the Mediterranean where, from Gibraltar in the west to Bodrum in Turkey, thousands of miles to the east, every few hundred yards you have a chic café or a ritzy restaurant, or boutiques selling everything from bikes to bikinis. No, the beaches of Palm Beach are socially inept, empty of entertainment, where the most exciting thing I have seen (twice) is a seven-foot shark caught on a line, which is a touch off putting for bathers.

Gage Klipper

My barn dog is a Chow Chow

Even if you’re not a dog expert, you probably know enough to laugh at the breed of my resident barn dog. Chow Chows are not exactly cooperative, and while they are bred as territorial guard dogs, their cat-like laziness makes them, at best, capriciously protective of their owner. These little balls of fur are, however, pretty damn cute. My three-year-old, Winnie, embodies all of these traits – or at least she did as a puppy, with the occasional tendency to regress. But growing up around horses on an unfenced property shaped her more than any innate breed characteristics. Having owned pretty much all the conventional breeds, I can safely say she’s now more or less exactly what you look for in a farm dog.

Bill Kauffman

Robots are ruining baseball

FanDuel and DraftKings ads spice the early spring airwaves, robots deliver their unimpeachable verdicts on human actions and a family of four shells out 500 bucks for parking and tickets to attend a game. Major League Baseball has returned! At least this year MLB scheduled its Opening Day game – a March 25 interleague (yech!) contest between the New York Yankees and San Francisco Giants – to be played stateside. Mixing America Last-ism with corporate-culture imperialism, six previous Opening Day games have been played on foreign soil. That other countries might have sports of their own annoys the panjandrums of professional baseball and football, who seek to impose spectatorial homogeneity on a diverse planet.

Tuesday

Lloyd Evans

Do I have what it takes to be a magistrate?

I’m thinking of becoming a magistrate. Before applying, I was advised to attend a few sessions and find out how it all works. My first case was a bag theft from a London pub. The accused, an Algerian football ace, pleaded guilty through an interpreter. The court heard that his glittering football career had been cut short by “an accident” and he was currently living in London “with the support of friends.” The magistrate, a kindly, soft-spoken redhead, fined him £60 and made a note of his “good character.” She reduced his fine by £20 as a reward for pleading guilty. The defendant lounged against the rail of the dock looking irritable and impatient as his sentence was pronounced. Outside the court, he spoke to his lawyer without a translator.

Saturday

Ruaridh Nicoll

Life under blockade in Havana

Now, I’m here to write about life in Havana, about daiquiris, fishing and salsa. But it’s fair to say life in Cuba has been getting a bit intense. Not as tense as it is elsewhere, but we’re very definitely on the list of countries where the US wants regime change. Washington has cranked up its 64-year trade embargo on the island into an all-out oil blockade. Donald Trump said he is hoping to conduct a “friendly takeover” of the island. The Habanos cigar festival, which I had been planning to write about, has been “postponed.” So I find myself pushing aside my notes on the ever-higher prices of Behikes, instead scribbling the word, “siege” on my page. It all seems a little medieval.

havana oil blockade

Thursday

Peter Watson

An ambassador is the American version of a nobleman

America is, famously and proudly, a republic. Everyone is equal before the law. No earls or dukes or even knights of the realm. And a good thing, too. Er… not so fast. As one of the magazines devoted to Palm Beach life recently pointed out, there is one honor available to citizens of the United States that is much coveted because, as with princes, dukes and earls, the honorific comes before the recipient’s full name – and, like nobility (but not in Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor’s case), it is conferred for life. That title is “ambassador.

Josie Cox

February in New York: where dreams come to die

I probably sound naive, but February always struck me as a month that should be full of hope – brimming with the type of optimism that comes from new beginnings. At least here in New York, though, it was grim. Everything feels more expensive. Everyone’s temper seems as short as the blink-and-you’ll-miss-them daylight hours. And then there’s the weather. The streets are flanked like an Arctic military checkpoint by car-sized mounds of calcified brown snow. The kind of snow that has visible layers, like a geological cross-section of urban neglect. The kind that has already gobbled up who knows how many small dogs. The wind is so ferocious, it makes that chemical skin peel you’ve been targeted for on Instagram look pleasant. New York does sleep. And thank goodness it does.

Melissa Kite

My mother has become a hostile stranger

‘Do you know who I am?’ said the voice belonging to the lady who used to be my mother, crossly, at the end of the phone line. The truthful answer is no. Since the dementia took hold, a hostile stranger who doesn’t think much of me inhabits my mother’s mind and body. A hostile stranger who doesn’t think much of me inhabits my mother’s mind and body No matter what I do, no matter how many times I ring or visit her, this person who used to be my mother is always cross and disappointed. ‘Oh, you’re alive are you!’ the strange voice barks, before asking me what I’m up to, with a sarcastic edge. Whatever I tell her I’m doing, even if I say I’m lying down with a headache, she snaps back: ‘That’s nice for you. You enjoy!

Nicholas Farrell

My wild house parties with Rose Wylie

Dante’s Beach, Ravenna I rang up my old best friend, Luke-John, for a chat a few days ago and to ask him about his mum, Rose Wylie. She is 91 and has just become the first ever female painter to be given a solo show at the Royal Academy. When I was in my late teens and early twenties, her house in the village of Newnham, near Faversham, became a safe haven for me, and I used to stay there a lot. Rose and her husband Roy, who was also an artist and died in 2014, were just so dead cool. Neither was well-known, and they had little money, but they were seriously intellectual, seriously stylish and seriously good-looking. He had been to Goldsmiths and then been a student of David Bomberg’s at the Borough Polytechnic, and was doing a PhD on him at the Royal College of Art.

Tuesday

Bill Kauffman

The life of Karl Zinsmeister

It’s strange interviewing a friend who is dying, but Karl Zinsmeister is at peace. I met Karl in Washington, DC, in the spring of 1981, when we two Upstate New York hicks were new to the staff of Senator Pat Moynihan. The first thing I learned about him was that he and his girlfriend (and later wife) Ann, while on some do-gooder mission in Africa, had wandered into Tanzania and been held on suspicion of being spies. (They weren’t.) Karl threw himself into both intellectual and manual labor with fierce enthusiasm, doggedness, even hard-headedness. Over the past 45 years he has edited magazines, renovated ruined tenements, been embedded in Iraq, raised three kids, lived with Ann on a houseboat, served as White House chief of domestic policy and produced more than 20 books.

karl zinsmeister

Thursday

Gage Klipper

Missing Cowboy, our great farm manager

Life in the country is unforgiving. Animals die, labor is unceasing and nature fights back at every turn. We say losing a beloved horse or a loyal farm dog is like losing a member of the family. But while the pain is real, it’s certainly not the same as losing a dear friend. Our long-time farm hand died late last year. He was not an old man by any means and he had the vigor of a younger man still. By the grace of God, he passed away peacefully at home in the small cottage just down the road from the farm. I’ll call him Cowboy, because in truth, that’s what we called him most of the time. He didn’t like his real name. And he certainly lived up to the moniker. Cowboy could solve any issue, big or small.

Peter Watson

The sorry plight of Palm Beach’s iguanas

The old saying, “It’s an ill wind that blows nobody good,” has received strong reinforcement during the recent unprecedented cold spell in the Palm Beaches. The rest of the world almost certainly thinks we lead a sybaritic life down here with the perennial sunshine taking the edge off the normal hardships that everyone else has to contend with. But one unusual side effect of the recent cold spell (and though it wasn’t cold by, say, Canadian standards, it was the coldest spell we’ve had here in 27 years) was the carnage it wrought on the iguana population. We have a love/hate relationship with iguanas here. When they first arrived in the early 1980s they were regarded as cute, but a decade later the mood changed.

Chilton Williamson, Jr.

America’s future looks vulgar

The latest Super Bowl offers the most recent opportunity to reflect on the terminal state of our national culture, held together chiefly by a distractive and unhealthy mania for commercial sports and perfectly exemplified by the infantile yet aggressively transgressive nihilism of a brainless showoff calling himself Bad Bunny and dressed all in white, suggestive perhaps of an anti-Easter Bunny. Why, one wonders, has no political theorist from Hobbes forward posited the ideal human community as one which would combine political democracy with cultural and intellectual aristocracy – as, indeed, America at the time of her founding and for several generations thereafter did? Such an arrangement might satisfy critics of democratic society on the anti-egalitarian right, such as T.S.