The Weekend in Foolish Attention

Bits and bytes of the week

HOPE IS A LOADED GUN. As so many on the Left of the partisan divide, I am gobsmacked at our current Chief Executive and his unhinged bulldozing of the American economy, mad smashing of immigration policies, a deranged bull in a china shop carelessly destroying anything and everything that feels remotely woke. A part of my medulla oblongata holds the feeling that this shit is going to go really south. Sending people to foreign prisons. Ignoring court directives. Playing economic chicken with China. H-O-L-Y fuck. I hope it isn’t as bad as I fear, you know?

There’s a weird kind of madness in hoping for the best while simultaneously bracing for everything to go sideways. It’s like riding shotgun with a drunk circus clown on acid—you hope he makes the turn, but your knuckles are white and your soul is whispering last rites just in case. This is the modern condition: the eternal tightrope walk between maybe everything will be okay and we’re all fucked and the sharks have lasers now.

Hope, in its pure form, is a dangerous drug. Uncut optimism. It can keep you alive in a foxhole, but it can also make you walk back into the blast zone because the sky looked a little clearer that day. And fear—sweet, sharp, constant fear—is the dull ache in your ribs reminding you that gravity still works and the universe does not owe you a happy ending.

To hope for the best is to invite heartbreak. It’s gambling with loaded dice and smiling anyway. It’s sitting in the doctor’s office pretending that mole is probably nothing. It’s refreshing your inbox waiting for that yes, knowing damn well the system loves to say no.

But what’s the alternative? Full nihilism? Climbing into the barrel and letting the waterfall take you while muttering “nothing matters anyway” like a sad, wet oracle?

No. You hope. But you fear. And then you act like both are liars.

Because the real trick—the dark, greasy truth behind the whole thing—is that both hope and fear are just emotional hallucinations projected on a reality that doesn’t care. The future is a rabid dog. It doesn’t love you. It doesn’t hate you. It just bites.

The smart ones hope, fear, and move anyway. They wake up and send the email. They kiss the girl. They go to the job interview even though their stomach is a pit of doom. They know hope is fragile and fear is loud, but progress—any kind of progress—demands motion.

We are creatures of forward collapse. We burn the past, we clutch at the future, and we stumble into the now half-blind with a Molotov cocktail in one hand and a white flag in the other. And every day is a reroll of the dice.

But that’s life, baby. That’s the whole show.

Hope for the best. Fear the worst. Laugh like a maniac in the middle.

And whatever you do, don’t stop.

The clowns are behind the wheel and the fuel gauge is broken.

Keep moving.

Trust no one.

Bring snacks.

SICK WITH EXPERIENCE. I’m caught in a recommendation spiral about the latest season of Black Mirror, I know. The fifth episode, entitled Eulogy, starring the amazing Paul Giamatti, is a beautiful devastation.

Phillip, portrayed by Giamatti, is a solitary figure whose life is disrupted by the news of his ex-girlfriend Carol’s death. A tech company named Eulogy contacts him, requesting his participation in creating a memorial by sharing his memories of Carol. Initially resistant, Phillip agrees and is guided by an AI assistant, known as The Guide (played by Patsy Ferran), through a process that allows him to re-experience moments from his past via immersive technology.

Phillip realizes in this process that he has cut Carol’s face out of every existing photo he has of her and the game within the episode is that he cannot remember her face. He discovers that he wants to see her face badly and he jumps in, revealing bits and pieces of his own complicity in the break up.

As Phillip delves into his memories, he confronts the bitterness and unresolved emotions stemming from their tumultuous relationship. He discovers that Carol had a daughter, Kelly, conceived after their breakup. The Guide reveals herself to be a digital representation of Kelly, adding layers of complexity to Phillip’s journey of self-reflection. Through this process, Phillip uncovers a letter from Carol that he had never read, revealing her desire to reconnect. This revelation leads him to a moment of catharsis, as he finally comes to terms with his past actions and their consequences.

It’s heartbreaking and lovely. I wept for twenty minutes following the conclusion.

HE SAID IT BETTER THAN I WOULD. “About the specific issue of trans women in sports, I confess that my default stance at this point is exhaustion; it’s just such an incredibly small bore issue, of relevance to a tiny minority of trans people, that I struggle to see it as something worthy of expending great political resources. This is particularly true given that the public genuinely is not on our side here. Hell, 45% of Democrats say that trans athletes should be “required to compete on teams that match their sex at birth.” One of the great weaknesses of contemporary liberalism is the absolute inability to take an L on any issue; scroll around on BlueSky and you’ll find, for example, vast throngs of progressives who are completely unwilling to admit that mass immigration of unskilled labor into the United States is deeply unpopular. I think the left’s control of our arts, culture, and ideas industries have left too many of us thinking that we can’t lose a culture war. But in the broad sense, we currently are.” — Freddie deBoer

THE MOST EXPENSIVE BACHELORETTE PARTY EVER. Bezos sent his fiancé and a capsule full of giggly idiots into outer space this week. I’m not entirely certain what it was he was trying to accomplish but it sure feels like a “Let them eat cake” moment.

IT’S ABOUT THE LECTURE, NOT THE DIVERSITY. Thirty-two years ago a black man was the lead in a Star Trek show that ran 7 seasons, got 31 Emmy nominations, and was one of the most acclaimed series in the franchise

No fan outrage was present.

Thirty years ago Star Trek Voyager featured a woman captain. No outcry.

Aside from the presence of social media, what was different about these experiments in diversity? Simple. The writers didn’t feature the skin color or the tits as a part of the message. These characters weren’t DEI hires—they were simply characters in a coupla shows set at a time when that shit simply didn’t matter. It was… [gasp] color blind.

The current crop of toxic fans respond more to the lectures on what is morally righteous than to casting choices. Yeah, some are just utter twats, but most just want a good story, compelling characters, and no unnecessary moralizing about how we are supposed to feel and behave accordingly.

THINGS I’M EXCITED ABOUT. Thunderbolts. My trip to Kansas at the end of the month. The summer in Millennium Park to enjoy without working it. Fantastic Four: First Steps. Taking a work buddy who does not love Chicago to some of the old haunts that solidify my own incredible fondness for the city. Mission Impossible: Final Reckoning.

As fucked as things feel in the greater sphere, it’s mostly just noise. The things that are real and in person are the things most important.

---

That’s the weekend! Thanks for reading. Do something nice for a stranger with no expectation of return. It’ll make you feel more in tune with the planet.