the ocean

Star Magazine (the official magazine of elliptical machines and dentists who hate their patients everywhere) runs a feature called “Normal/Not Normal,” which is without a doubt the most important piece of investigative journalism since Andrea Zuckerman went undercover for that cafeteria exposé on 90210.  I can think of no other publication with the sheer audacity and grit to educate America on the fact that Shonda Rimes pumping gas in sweatpants is Normal, while Lea Michele drinking the blood of infants is Not Normal.  But I can’t help but wonder, like Carrie Bradshaw but without all the adultery, what our nation’s foremost purveyor of unflattering photos of Meghan Markle would make of 2021.  We all wanted it to be Normal, as we threw caution to the wind and took off our masks to eat our Breakfast Baconators, but as our news feeds filled up videos of people screaming at medical professionals about horse paste and conspiracy theories about John-John coming back from the dead to endorse Trump and find out how Friends ended, there did seem to be plenty of Not Normal to go around.  It was almost as though all of human behavior couldn’t be divided neatly into categories to fill out a two-page photo spread adjacent to an ad for that miracle pharmaceutical that saved Brooke Shields from her disgusting eyelashes.

My own 2021 was certainly Not Normal, but I have no complaints.  (Well, not no complaints; you should hear me when the Grubhub driver forgets my side of ranch.)  After spending almost all of 2020 in quarantine, devising unnecessary home improvement projects and realizing that we hate television, we basically hopped on a plane with the vaccine needles still hanging from our arms.  First we rented an incredible house in Palm Springs, which the pandemic had happily cleansed of both aspiring Instagram influencers doing designer drugs with names that sound like Muppets and colorful locals who think you want to hear stories about what Big Crosby did there in 1934.  We lounged by the pool with friends, we tried a shocking variety of alcoholic seltzers, we realized we were never going to learn to credibly perform the Janet Jackson “If” dance.  Then in October we went to Portugal for our friends’ wedding, which was frankly so amazing that everyone else should probably just stop embarrassing themselves by trying to get married now since it has already been done to perfection.  I mean, there were fireworks.  Set to “Can You Feel the Love Tonight.”  (Question mark omitted by The Walt Disney Company, thank you very much.)  The rest of Portugal wasn’t too shabby, either, from the castle-dotted mountains of Sintra, which Ian almost fell off of, to the wineries of Porto, which I almost moved in to.  So yes, not the worst year I’ve had, even if my sad craft production rate has dropped precipitously from 2020 levels. 

And we’re hoping for a little bit of Normal in this holiday season, as well.  I’m looking forward to the slow return of holiday parties, even though attendance now requires that I provide my complete health history and a pint of blood along with that gift bottle of a robust Shiraz.  It will be nice to watch my niece and nephew open their presents, despite the breathtaking unfairness of them getting so many more Legos than I ever did (or do, to this day; injustice is evergreen).  And New Year’s will in some ways even be improved by the elimination of indiscriminate kissing and hugging of strangers.  (That’s more of a St. Patrick’s Day thing.)  So happy holidays, and here’s to the indescribably Normal 2022 that’s sure to follow, although obviously no one can hold me to that.

There's nothing like a new wave of pandemic-induced panic to make your holidays merry and bright. Three weeks ago no one really looked askance at me flying to Philly for basically no reason (although I would argue that cheesesteaks always present a compelling case); last weekend my sister told me that she wants us to do home tests before getting together for actual Christmas. Don't get me wrong, as I am always happy to have an excuse to shove something up my nose. But I can't keep up with our constant national vacillation between flippant disregard of even the most modest safety protocols and terrified bunker stocking. Of course, we do seem to be all over the place with everything these days; just ask the people creating thousands of hot takes on Big's fatal peloton ride. At least we can all agree that Dear Evan Hansen was creepy as fuck.

This is the last post about our Philadelphia trip, primarily because I'm out of Philadelphia-based titles. I'd have to go with, like, "Philadelphia Cream Cheese" or "Philadelphia Starring Tom Hanks" or something.

Isn't it so arty that I got a picture of Ian taking a picture of the Liberty Bell? Less so that I got my finger in the picture.

I had a work event in Philadelphia last Friday, which we used as an excuse to spend a weekend there. We'd never been before and our verdict was that Philadelphia is cute and nice.

We didn't get off to the best start. There was an overhead compartment dispute and I was jammed into a middle seat next to a very large and talkative man on the flight out. He apparently missed my no-so-subtle social cue of staring at my New Yorker so intently that it nearly caught fire. Then there was traffic on the way from the airport, giving me way too much time to contemplate how unsightly the surroundings of so many major airports really are. How hard would it be to get a formal garden or at least a rolling meadow?

But the downtown had lots of nice old buildings, public art, and tree-lined streets, and it seemed comparatively less manic than downtown New York or even Chicago. Plus the museums were really good. The Barnes Foundation collection is frankly overwhelmingly gorgeous, even if it is a bit heavier on the Renoir than would really suit my tastes. And the Philadelphia Museum of Art has its own collection of hot hits, along with a Rocky statue out front that seems to be all anyone actually cares about.

Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell were also legit. I'm not sure I needed like six rooms of interpretative exhibits for a bell, but I'll take them, particularly in the early December chill. Freedom is actually pretty great, I think maybe.

Oh, and the food. I ate a giant cheesesteak with cheese fries. And then literally did not feel like eating again for 24 hours. Let's be honest that parceling out our diets into multiple so-called "meals" is pretty bourgeoisie.