I saw this on Bluesky today. Using an image because I’m not sure why, but enjoy, if that’s the word:

Friends, I’m starting to think we’re in trouble here. I know the cabinet is stuffed with toadies, each one more toadying than the last, but at some point people — even his own people — have to be getting a wee bit concerned. They’re not all pushing 80. The soft bed of wingnut welfare is not unlimited in size and scope; at some point the grift will run out, and there will be no more book contracts, sinecures at right-wing think tanks or panel spots on cable news. Everyone has to be thinking exit strategy, and not just from Iran.

Meanwhile, our portfolio continues to drop in value as the stock market declines. Young people can’t find jobs — in a labor shortage. The other day I watched that Netflix doc on “the manosphere” and I was struck by…well, by a lot of things, but at one point the host, Louis Theroux, talks to two young men who idolize one of the rancid “influencers” Theroux is profiling. These boys are not, needless to say, the sharpest knives in the drawer. Rather, they’re the kind of dumb fucks who will pay an extra $20 to get their comment featured during a live chat for a second or two, who believe these trashy grifters who claim to have made £1,500 before they got out of bed, because their crypto or supplement brand or parlay or something else rose in value. Of course these two youngsters want their own piece of the pie, and talk about red pills and blue pills and all that stupid shit. (I had to explain the concept of red and blue pills to Alan, who never saw “The Matrix,” bless his heart.)

“The 9 to 5, that’s the matrix,” one said, and all I could think is, son, you have no idea. Once upon a time we all had one, yeah, one job. If you went to college, that one job was the e-ticket to at least the middle class and maybe higher. It was often a pain in the ass, maybe you considered your own soul-crushing, but at 5 p.m. you could slide outta there like Fred Flintstone down the dinosaur tail and start the portion of your life known as “personal.” You weren’t reachable 24/7. You didn’t have to be “making content” all the time to keep your idiot followers happy.

And in time, even the bad job memories fade. I recently learned one of the bosses of my youth is in ailing health, and I called him and we had a perfectly pleasant 45-minute catch-up. All was forgiven. (This is not true for all bosses, I should add.)

I started work on an essay that began with a working title — the unquiet death of Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy — but is evolving into something else. I was thinking offering it to the Freep, but it’s a little too women’s-pages for an op-ed. I’ll let it marinate. But it gets into this, a little bit, the idea that once upon a time we weren’t all grubbing for the few dollars that haven’t been hoovered up by Jeff Bezos, et al, and life was better.

Meanwhile, how many of you saw Zohran Mamdani’s St. Patrick’s Day message?

Happy St. Patrick's Day, New York.

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— Mayor Zohran Kwame Mamdani (@mayor.nyc.gov) March 17, 2026 at 11:23 AM

A generational talent, this guy.

How was everyone’s weekend? I spent mine working on our taxes, and I must say, TurboTax has lost a step; it’s not giving me the performance I’ve come to expect. I’m going to investigate FreeTaxUSA next year, but for this I’m committed, and it’s not going well. Stupid Intuit spent too much money on lobbyists, and not enough on user interface.

I did find time for the Sunday swim, followed by the vast feast to fill the hole that inevitably asserts itself in the shower afterward. Then I felt logy all afternoon, but I closed my rings with a vengeance, so who cares.

Have a good week, all.