June 16, 2018

Has it really only been seven days since last week?


Self-portrait by French painter Henri Richelet, who turns seventy-four today.

Alright, people! We’ve done it again: survived the cruel procession of indignities and predations, the foul and pestilent congregation of vapors, known as “this past week.” Let’s face it, it hasn’t been easy.

But we’ve made it, and here we are. Stupid old 2018 is now 45¾% over, Donald The Terrible is seventy-two years oldPaul Manafort’s back in jail, and many of us could use a minute to catch our breath. Here on the blog, there’s been an awful lot going on:

“In Dovedale” by John Linnell (not that John Linnell), born 226 years ago today.

There were also, inevitably, stories we didn’t quite get to:

And finally, you have survived a full sequence of six temporal units that do not rhyme with “batter play,” earning, in the process, your right to a cartoon. This week, an excellent one: 1963’s The Critic, by Ernest Pintoff and Mel Brooks. It is joy. You will love it. And it won the Oscar for Best Animated Short! Mel Brooks saying, in his exaggerated Yiddish accent, “Could dis be de sex life of two things?” may be one of the high points of human culture so far. Pintoff died in 2002; Brooks’s ninety-second birthday is next Saturday.

That’s it for now — rest up, drink plenty of water, and we’ll see you right back here on Monday, when things, presumably, will be strange once again.