
A Lament for Southwest Airlines
Southwest assumed the best of its passengers and treated them like smart, capable people. And we rose to the occasion.
Southwest assumed the best of its passengers and treated them like smart, capable people. And we rose to the occasion.
I’m very supportive. I nod encouragingly. Even though a part of me expects that I am being had.
Live like you’re in a Ghibli montage.
Start with your community, your neighborhood, your roost.
I had totally conflated “my best” and “the best.”
Every event feels necessary, but most of it is nonsense.
The “salads” of the mid-twentieth century should probably be left off the Thanksgiving table. I’ve seen recipes for abominations that mixed lime jello, shredded carrot, cheese, and Cool Whip. I’ve heard stories involving tuna!
You can judge a true Irish pub by its seating situation—the sparser the chairs, the better the craic (music and merrymaking).
“You can leave our boy, GENERAL LEW WALLACE, famous author of Ben-Hur and fishing enthusiast, entirely OUT OF IT! Thank you very much.”
Do you get that heady rush after finishing a book? Like drinking a fruity cocktail too fast?
I can’t help but think that we do people a disservice when we view their gifts only or mostly through the lens of their pain.
Writing is a lot like your first eyeglass prescription. Suddenly, it is very intense to be alive.
Have we considered that the Tree of Knowledge could have been a prickly pear?
Overall, the album works, especially as an examination of what it means to outgrow a person, a place, a dream—bittersweet.
I got a new car, but I don’t really get my new car.
By asking silly or fantastical questions, you make space for another person to be a larger, truer version of themselves.
Imagine if we cloned ourselves as a normal part of middle school and each of our clones, identical to us in every way, went off to live independent lives.
“O Little Town of Bethlehem” is consistently (ironically) slept on in favor of the worn, saccharine “Silent Night.”
Numbers have a surprising tyranny over me, a word person.
It’s a matter of honor, not passion.
The more I think about it, the more memories I recall.
Even twaddle contains some truth.
We have this unfortunate habit of dieting joy and worshiping scarcity.
Every wondrous realization of truth begins with making your imagination big enough to hold it.
Maybe it’s the patriarchy, maybe it’s Maybelline.
“We live side-by-side with death.” And we are allowed to be afraid of it.
Ruins should horrify us—grim testaments to our permanent impermanence
“You’ve got it the wrong way around,” I imagine Tolkien saying.
Discipline is cool. A fascination with violence is not.
Are our true selves buried under all our stuff?