I met Hoo-dini, a great-horned owl and love-child of Muppets Bert and Statler, at the Woodford Cedar Run Wildlife Refuge in Medford, New Jersey the other day. Perched behind his woody shelter, he bored his lazily blinking eyes into mine. As one of Hoo-dini’s eyelids retracted a bit slower than the other, he was constantly winking at me, the feathery old flirt.

Six weeks into his second term as President of the United States, Donald Trump addressed Congress and the world at large, the whole shebang a display of American idiocy at its finest. Republicans were on their feet whooping “USA! USA! USA!” while Democrats remained seated, meaning to “disrupt” the chamber with their Barbie pink blazers, glittering brooches, and black and white ping pong paddles.

This past Saturday, March 1, Marco Rubio, invoking unspecified “emergency authorities”, bypassed congressional approval to send an additional 35,000 2,000-pound U.S. bombs to Israel, equating to $4 billion. Tack on the $8 billion that was approved in early February, and one wonders why (I mean, not really), in less than a month—during a supposed ceasefire—the U.S. government has armed Israel with $12 billion in weaponry, and (more importantly) what this means for Phase 2 of the three-pronged Israel-Hamas ceasefire agreement. Since the deal went into effect on January 19, Israel has flagrantly violated the agreement hundreds of times over, effectively continuing its siege on Gaza.

Like the average American, to regain consciousness after sleep and strange dreams, I require coffee first thing in the morning. I can't think of a better way to orient myself than the aroma of fresh grounds, the liquid taste and temperature, the steam that rolls off its filmy surface, warming my skin and temporarily steaming up my glasses.

Apart from being happily married with a partner of 15 years, I really have no business giving relationship advice. But since today happens to be my sort of nine-year wedding anniversary, and since this is my blog, why not?

There’s a lot of evil, conniving shit that goes down in New York City. There’s also a lot of brave, furious pushback from its inhabitants. While the efficacy of said pushback is dubious at best (counterproductive at worst ☹), attend any NYC protest and you’re bound to be met with an overwhelming feeling of solidarity, a shared electric hum of determination and rage. You’ll know you're not alone in your feelings.

I love a clear, rising moon. Not the bad kind, mind you. The Caspar kind. Not the friendly ghost (that’s reserved for Devon Sawa), but Caspar David Friedrich, the early 19th century German romantic landscape artist, whose first comprehensive exhibition in the US, Caspar David Friedrich: The Soul of Nature, opened earlier this month at the Met. Honestly, I cannot believe it’s taken this long for a holistic Friedrich exhibition to hit the US. His work is particularly singular and has always stood out. Friedrich didn't think like his contemporaries; what he painted—how he painted—he was ahead of his time.

I've been sick all week, occupying myself with the miserable activities of the indisposed—breathing steam, hoarding tissues, brewing copious amounts of herbal teas, deciding between uninspiring medicine combinations—it’s all deplorably tedious. Plus, thanks to round-the-clock frowning, my forehead has aged no less than 10 years over the last seven days. I swear to god it looks and feels like someone took a fucking carving knife to my head and scored the number eleven between my brows, bearing down as hard as they could.

I’ve always had a tenuous relationship with my hair, particularly the stuff on my head and forearms. The hair covering my scalp is a bitch, a grueling combination of body, frizz, curls, waves, fine, and thick—wholly uncooperative with a mind of its own. Too much time and money has been spent on changing the cut, color, and texture of my hair. I’ve also tried shaving the problem away at least three times (growing that out is an even bigger bitch). My arm hair isn’t as bad; it’s just dark and there’s a lot of it. I’ve waxed it off twice in my life, and regretted it both times. Not because it was painful (which it was) or I missed the hair (never), but because the black stubble is so much uglier than the fine soft hair it eventually becomes.

It’s currently mid-February, and the Williamsburg Duane Reade has already begun dollying up its store with Easter holiday merchandise. Perhaps if Duane Reade was a quirky neighbor on my block known for putting up decorations two months too early, I’d be sympathetic. But Duane Reade is not my neighbor; it’s a company, and it doesn’t give two shits about springtime or holiday spirit. Duane Reade moves up its merchandizing schedule earlier each year because its profitable. So when I see chocolate bunnies, basket grass, and plastic eggs in the height of winter, I’m not charmed; I’m revolted.

Friends, Over the weekend, New York City and me agreed to an open relationship for the foreseeable future. After nearly 16 years together, we feel it's the best thing for us. The decision was mutual. I’d like to meet other cities, and New York wants to explore the swell of transplants it's put on hold for the last decade out of respect for me, which, personally, I think is a great idea; New Yorkers just aren't what they used to be, and the two of us suspect our exclusivity is to blame.

In 2025, I cannot think of a situation more straightforward or dire than Israel's illegal occupation of Palestine. For Americans still wrestling over the “complexity” of the Palestinian plight, hindsight offers us examples of indisputable right vs. wrong, oppressed vs. oppressor, colonized vs. colonizer—chattel slavery, Native American genocide, South African apartheid, and the Holocaust immediately spring to mind. When looking back, we know these things to be wrong (well, hopefully you do). But what about this moment, when looking around at the here and now?