Radio Daze.

Radio habits change. 30 years ago, I recall catching up with a friend and found it completely befuddling that his car radio wasn't tuned permanently to the local NPR affiliate. As time went on, I broke the radio news habit as well, perhaps because I found time to peruse a few newspapers in the morning or even page through a magazine every so often.

These days, I've been avoiding the radio news almost entirely. Perhaps because there isn't much to learn beyond the basic facts, which I seem to absorb almost by osmosis. It's hard to offer analysis and/or insight when the events grow more absurd and preposterous every day. So I drift elsewhere. It might be a recorded book. Maybe a medley from the newly classicalized Wisconsin Public Radio station--the more obscure the better (bassoon concertos from the Belgian baroque anyone?).

And, yes, even to contemporary pop, courtesy of another public station, 88.9 Radio Milwaukee. It's hit or miss with me, but I generally revel in the production values. There are sounds on these songs--original textures, often electronic--that are fresh and vibrant and great fun, even if the lyrics are either senseless or indecipherable or both.

Then there is the joy of the band names themselves, poetry that pops through the mundane, chattery fog—exactly what you want a band name to do. This week, I’ve heard music by Control Machete, Tame Impala, Kashus Culpepper, Unknown Mortal Orchestra, Gucci Mane, Perfume Genius, A Flock of Dimes, Cage the Elephant, Nipsy Hustle and Frankie Cosmos.

No more simple monikers like The Beatles or The Rolling Stones. These days, we’re more in the territory of 17th-century English theater, where names like Mrs. Malaprop and Mr. Pinchwife were all the rage. Now that’s entertainment.

Scraping the Sky

Ahh, the Chicago skyline. A panorama of architectural masterpieces that you can peruse while at a dead stop on the Edens Expressway. A recent trip to Chicago offered another perspective. See if you can identify these iconic Chicago buildings as they rise up to the sky on a gorgeous October day.

Get Me Hercule Poirot!

French police chat at the scene of the crime.

Most news isn't good news, but sometimes the bad news hits your pleasure centers like a good tale well told. After a daily heaping helping of nausea-inducing stories of Washington shenanigans, I perversely welcomed the news from Paris. A robbery! Of jewels!! From The Louvre!!!. This isn't mere schaudenfreude for the French, of whose baguettes and ripened cheese I have great admiration. But this is the stuff of best sellers and Hollywood blockbusters!

The thieves accessed the Apollo Gallery in broad daylight with what we Americans call a Cherry Picker. After smashing the cases and grabbing the jewels, they escaped on two Yamaha scooters! (Oui, tres French, no?) The jewels belonged to the wives of Napoleons I and III, and are basically priceless. Alexandre Giquello, director of the Drouot auction house told Reuters, “Ideally, the perpetrators would realise the gravity of their crime and the dimension they've entered into, and return the items, since the jewels are completely unsellable.”

Ahh, yes. But some supervillain is holed up in his lair cackling away. You can almost hear the gendarmes cry, "This looks like the work of Danny Ocean and company. Quick, get me Hercule Poirot!"

The Perfect Moment

I've not heard of the photographer Alex Webb, but "Bombay, India" 1981, which was featured in the November, 2025, issue of Harper's Magazine is an image that will stay with me. It revels in its mystery. My guess is that it's a street market. We see women in saris, but their shoulders and heads are hidden by shadow and by mysterious banners. There are half-obscured signs written in Hindi, and two large banners featuring single eyes, that peer back at you like the eyes of Dr. T.J. Eckleburg, the oculist sign in The Great Gatsby. In the foreground center, an enigmatic display ad for a brand of old-fashioned razor blades, "Topaz," which features another eye peering at the viewer, a light-skinned woman in profile. Behind the display, a child crouches in the shadow, looking directly at the viewer. In one click of the shutter, Webb has captured a complicated network of glances and gazes in an urban environment.

Alex Webb, “Bombay, India,” 1981.

Rosanna Warren.

Rosanna Warren

I happened on one of Rosanna Warren's poems in The Atlantic magazine, and my appreciation sent me to the library. Much of her work is steeped in nature, but it's attuned to both the light and the dark. Her newest book (Hindsight) was just published, but here's a piece from her 2020 collection, So Forth.

Augusting

Old news: leaf parchment crackles underfoot.
Pine needles, acorns, lichen. The waterfall
only a patter filming the cliff.
The slope rumples down through mountain laurel
and pitches below to ramparts of slate,
shattered quarries, a moss-streaked bluff.
We tread on silver flakes and shadows.
Downward, ever downward, to the meadow
where the ghost lily, late summer wraith,
gapes, ash-pink, with news
of the underworld dusted on its tongue.

Have a great week.