Anthony Fauci is up against more than a virus

“It is very, very upending to live through this,” Fauci says, seated at his kitchen table in the midwinter light. He pauses. “I’m trying to get the right word for it.” He is examining himself now, at 81, in the shadow of the past two years. “It has shaken me a bit.” (Jan. 27, 2022)

America slouches into a new pandemic year

These are exponential times, and we are a logarithmic people. Germs outpace behavior. Mandates clash with advisories. Tell us what to do, but don’t make us do anything!. (Dec. 30, 2021)

Here are some good things about this year

Yes, a truly rotten year. America ragged, wrung-out, coding blue in hospitals, bleeding red in the streets. A frightening spring, a feverish summer, a school year in shambles, a third wave of virus, a hard-candy Christmas. Restaurants, theater, church and sports turned into herky-jerky approximations of what used to be routine joy. Jobs gone. Togetherness gone. One in every 1,000 Americans, gone from covid-19. Millions more who don’t care, who are living in their own worlds instead of the one that desperately needs their cooperation. It was hard to breathe. It was hard to see smiles, even if they were there. It was hard to think good thoughts when bombarded by so much bad.

Here’s something, though: Eloise learned to ride a bike. (Dec. 29, 2020)

The president is sick but his followers feel great

“TRUMP FOREVER,” the woman on the median shrieked. “TRUMP FOREVER. TRUMP FOREVER.”

Four years ago, this might’ve sounded like a prescription. On Sunday it felt like a diagnosis. (Oct. 4, 2020)

American exceptionalism was our preexisting condition

America is sick. Still sick. The fever spikes, abates, returns. The shortness of breath lingers. America is waiting in virtual bread lines, listening to bad jazz, on hold with the unemployment office. America is strewn with the glass shards of Starbucks windows, busted by protesters, and bullied by unidentifiable agents of the government. America, barefoot and in Brooks Brothers, is defending its marble palazzo with an AR-15 rifle. (July 23, 2020)

The pandemic isn’t over, but America sure seems over it.

We’re over it. The masks, the kids, the Lysol. Over it. The tragic hair, the diminished hygiene, the endless construction next door, the Zoom meetings from hell, the mind games with the unemployment office, the celibacy, the short tempers and long evenings, the looking forward to the mail, the feeling guilty about the mail carrier working double time, the corporate compassion pushing products we didn’t need even before the world went funky and febrile. The now-more-than-everness, the president-said-whatness. Over it. (May 29, 2020)

Nurses are trying to save us from the virus, and from ourselves.

First, arrive at work before dawn. Then put on a head cover, foot covers, surgical scrubs, and a yellow plastic gown. Next, if one is available, the N95 mask. Fitting it to your face will be the most important 10 seconds of your day. It will protect you, and it will make your head throb. Then, a surgical mask over the N95. A face shield and gloves. Cocooned, you’ll taste your own recycled breath and hear your own heartbeat; you’ll sweat along every slope and crevice of your body. (April 28, 2020)

It’s 5 o’clock. Do you know where your president is?

America has better places to be but nowhere else to go. Theaters are closed, sports are iced, the news has tunnel vision, and Donald Trump has a captive audience. TV viewership for these briefings has sometimes exceeded 10 million. C-SPAN carries it from start to finish. Cable-news channels serve up large chunks of it, then chew on the leftovers into the night. Twitter froths with disbelief. People have always tuned in to the Trump show for the spectacle, but now, at a time of profound crisis and fear, they show up for their families and their own lives, hungry for information. (April 20, 2020)

On oral history of the Zaandam cruise

The cruise ship Zaandam is nine decks of escapism, stretching 781 feet bow to stern, with a casino and spa, a steakhouse and two swimming pools. Its walls are adorned with signed guitars from Iggy Pop and Eric Clapton. It was christened 20 years ago by Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen, who wore matching nautical suits. On March 7, four days before the novel coronavirus was classified as a pandemic, the ship set sail from Buenos Aires for its routine trip around Cape Horn. It carried more than 1,000 passengers from around the world. They were hoping for an unforgettable journey. They had no idea. (April 2, 2020)

The power of Purell compels you

The Purellification of America is about sanitation, but it is really about sanity. Fear, control, and the fear that we have no control. (March 26, 2020)

Spring is in bloom, and so is our dread

The hyacinths are up. So’s the dread. It’s a bad mix. The mulch is here. Neighbors are gardening. The phlox is spaced just so. The rosebushes can be trimmed, tamed. Nature is blooming as the economy closes. It’s the beginning of a David Lynch movie. Little niceties mask hidden trouble. Everyone’s out jogging, and at first it felt like a national holiday, or some alternate dimension. A fitness utopia. But then: Should we be out jogging at all? Will we look back and think: What were we all doing jogging? (March 23, 2020)

Coronavirus is a test no one knows how to pass

Now we’re all under the microscope. An invisible virus will make visible our true strengths and weaknesses. It will expose the faults in our systems, the sincerity of our relationships, the ways in which we work together or don’t. The week started out with cute quips about chapped hands and voyages of the damned. It ends with few certainties except these: There will be more sickness and death. The farther we remove ourselves from each other, the more we will need each other. Our way of living will be upended, and for how long? (March 13, 2020)