In a rare stroke of March luck, my bracket leads both leagues I’m in. But this position is precarious. I need Villanova to win and then lose. Go Loyola!
It is March.
From a Times profile of a career NBA assistant coach:
And though in professional basketball he has never been a head coach, he says, “it probably worked out the way it should.”
“I try to be an artisan,” he adds. “There is a purity to teaching as an assistant — a virtue in being a craftsman and having a craft. It’s the nuts-and-bolts stuff that appeals to me, and the relationships.
When a man with a great voice (Jose James) and a great band (Nate Smith and James Francies, among others) and access to a great stage (the Kennedy Center) has a love for a musician whose music you also love (Bill Withers), you go. I also love it when the Kennedy Center lives up to its potential of feeling like the most D.C. place possible. My hometown makes me happy. The crowd of all colors and ages was just what last weekend needed, along with a sick dog getting on the mend just in time to catch the show. The songs at the tribute were warm and soulful and brought out the writing that makes Withers work. Good seats, too.
So many good articles have appeared in The Sunday Long Read email newsletter the past two weeks. Some newsy, some of business, some personal and those have been my favorites.
“Notes on Being Very Tall” by Nicholas Kulish.
“On Losing a Husband, and (Almost) Losing a Wedding Ring” by Ben Loehnen.
“The Breakup Museum” by Leslie Jamison.
And my favorite kind of email newsletters are doughnut email newsletters?
I’ve been entranced by the art in District Doughnuts’ latest emails. This is not ad, I promise. There have never been ads in this blog, nor will there ever be. I just love these pictures of doughnuts. And enjoy the taste of them. And dream of them at night.
I’m not familiar with U.S Catholic magazine and I have no idea of its politics or history or anything. But this short essay from the magazine turned up in my feeds this week, and the simplicity was a nice way to start a day. The essay, all four paragraphs of it, is about a tiny wooden church in Alaska.
And the young man packing his gear? He is on the road, said the elderly man. He’s in transit. We don’t ask any more than that. Our feeling is that a real church is a place of rest and restoration. That boy’s on the road, just like Jesus was, and who are we to turn him away? A church ought to be a sanctuary. Otherwise it’s just a corporation like any other.