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My Love,
Although it’s only been a few weeks since I last saw you at my grandson's expensive birthday party, you are all I think about. With every segment that passes on cable news, the distance between us becomes ever more unbearable, like someone on the highway driving a little bit faster than me. What’re they in such a rush for? They could’ve killed me! It’s an absolute nightmare, my darling. I mean, really. You can’t imagine.
I miss everything about you. The way you never hang up after a call and instead just put the phone down and wait for the other person to hang up. The way you get extremely agitated about even the slightest diversion from your routine. And, of course, the way you pamper your grandchildren with sugary sweets at all hours of the evening, despite the protests of their selfish, spoiled, parents.
I yearn to hear, once again, about your trip to Costco in 2011. About the cramped parking lot that you believe to be unlawfully designed and poorly policed. And about the disturbed man who you backed into and had the audacity to blame it on you. I could listen to you for hours– years!– telling me, over, and over, and over again, about how rudely he spoke to you, and about your hesitancy to bring up his ethnicity but you are unfortunately forced to do it when you feel it’s relevant.
We’ve worked so hard our entire lives. Nine to five, five days a week, from the day we graduated college into our early 60s without a single period of prolonged unemployment, at stable companies in thriving industries during the greatest economy in human history. And in addition to buying everything we wanted... we saved. Unlike our children who only call when they need something. Aren’t we entitled to relax? Just a little? I imagine us baking in the sun at our beach house, having left early Wednesday morning to avoid the weekend traffic, as well as the Thursday traffic trying to avoid the weekend traffic. It once took me four-and-a-half hours to get to the country from New Jersey. There was an accident, I think. It was awful. Just awful. Four-and-a -half hours on Route-17! And this was before Waze. Unbelievable. I’ll never go back. Unless it’s with you.
When it’s late at night and I can’t sleep, I think about that extraordinary night we shared in Cancun. The pillow you brought from home had obviously been tampered with by the large housekeeping woman who had it out for you from the very beginning, and I watched you lay into that hotel manager for nearly an hour, demanding a full refund and an apology. And by God, my love, you got it. You got it. I had never seen a more glorious creature in my life.
I must go now. The cashier is asking whether I’m okay, and clearly has no intention of letting me finish dictating this email into my app. I can’t wait for these morons to be replaced by AI.
But we will speak soon. I’ll send you a text a message from my email address... somehow.
I’ve been on a cleanse from all things content, but specifically podcasts. You may have noticed I’m on an extended break from Ami’s House, and it’s part of a larger movement for me away from the medium.
Podcasts are now characterized as background noise, but I’m old enough to remember a time they used to be worth giving your full attention to! I’m finally adapting to the new reality. In the last few weeks, I’ve massively reduced my podcast consumption, and if I do watch/listen to content about Israel or the DSA, I try to make sure it’s coming from the Left.
It’s been incredibly difficult, refreshing, and sometimes enraging, and has clarified for me that the Golden Age of Podcasts probably ended in 2020. The unedited weekly interview format has overtaken the highly-produced investigative format (think The Ringer outliving Gimlet at Spotify), and I think what I’ve been left with is an insatiable compulsion to consume information without much valuable media to consume. Most hourlong podcasts can truly be reduced to a 2-minute clip. Fortunately, those clips are conveniently created and posted for us on Instagram, which I now believe is a smarter way to engage.
Podcasts used to be surprising, informative, professional… and most importantly, not on any reliable schedule. If they came out… great. If not… I’d find something else to do. It commanded a lot of my attention, but there was usually a payoff. Now, Spotify shoves videos in my face just in case I would otherwise have had 10-seconds to hear my own thoughts, and I’m no better for any of it.
In the wake of 10/7, I needed to understand what was happening. It was important and helped ease my anxiety. But now, I really do not need 25 different podcasters– whether it be about the NBA, geopolotics, or TV reviews– recycling through the same guests, subject matter, and takes, in service of releasing a new hour of content every, single, week to satisfy their advertisers and the algorithm. It’s certainly not to satisfy the quality of their show.
So, what am I doing with all my free time? I’m reading more novels, watching more movies, and listening to more music. And I think my brain and attention are thanking me. And in that spirit, I won’t be sharing any reels this issue. Except for the ones below. Enjoy!
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Michael Weber is a writer and outspoken advocate for gender-specific porta potties. If you received this email, you signed up for his newsletter at some point. If you'd like to unsubscribe, you must first find somebody else to replace you. Share a link to subscribe!