Another Week: Number 122

I’m not entirely sure what to make of Easter. If a dead man literally came back to life, what good does that do the rest of us unless we can do the same? If the resurrection is instead a hopeful metaphor, then why does the church remind you, 46 days before Easter, that “unto dust you shall return”?

I don’t imagine anyone literally comes back to life, so I spent Easter by myself, hanging my hummingbird feeder, turning on the backyard hose, scrubbing my birdbath, and cleaning up some brush. On Easter morning, I saw a woman walking down the sidewalk in a black, knee-length puffer coat, reading a book. That gave me hope.

I also felt hopeful when the Vatican initially rebuffed Vice President JD Vance‘s attempt to force himself on the ailing Pope Francis. But they eventually relented, Vance got his photo op, and by Monday the Pope was dead — unleashing weeks of arcane rituals, like network correspondents jetting to Rome to recite the same dozen bullet points that even they don’t understand.

For example, “pontiff.” They use the word over and over, but never explain that it refers to the Pope serving as a “bridge” between the people and God. You’re welcome.

The current trend of men wearing plaid suits does not give me hope. Plaid suits make me think of rural travelling salesmen, or ventriloquist’s dummies.

Recently, Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth paired a blue plaid suit with a not-quite-matching digital camo tie. He should be fired for that decision alone — but he should be deported for his American flag pocket square. The U.S. Code states that “The flag should never be used for wearing apparel.” Pocket squares are stylized handkerchiefs. Was he suggesting he’ll use our flag to blow his fucking nose?

In my backyard, the cardinals have been singing a lot. As my grieving aftermath has morphed into an identity crisis, I have been spending most of my time figuring things out alone — so it was reassuring to stumble upon a Psychology Today article confirming my speculations: “Your Self-Talk Is Your Destiny—These 3 Words Matter Most.”

Thursday was nice — sunshine, temps in the mid-50s, and people out mowing. I walked 3.32 miles this week.

WISN 12 News loses its mind over NFL Draft

I grew up in Kenosha, Wisconsin watching Chicago TV, but modern technology has since segregated viewers into discrete markets despite their preferences. Now I watch Milwaukee local news, which has always seemed bashful, plaid, and parochial by comparison.

WISN 12 News is traditionally Milwaukee’s ratings leader, and has impressed me as the most professional of the city’s news operations. They even have a helicopter. Granted, 12 News mostly covers crashes and shootings, and they belabor the weather every three minutes — but meteorologist Lindsey Slater is a talent of national caliber somehow gracing a local station, so there’s that.

Recently, though, the 12 News vibe has been changing. President and general manager Jan Wade has retired, there has been some personnel churn, and things feel off. One anchor’s reading skills are so bad that newscasts become unwatchable, and a disjointed weatherman frequently gets lost in stumbling confusion.

But the buildup to the NFL Draft held in Green Bay this week was beyond all reason. Yes, WISN 12 was the station airing the draft live, so some cross-promotion was to be expected — maybe an onscreen countdown clock.

Instead, for days on end, we got a team of live, on-location reporters hyperventilating about Green Bay and 2025 NFL Draft as if the Land of Oz were hosting the Second Coming. The ever-grinning, headset-wearing Blake Eason sounded like Bugs Bunny on amphetamines as he raved about the astounding “green carpet” for arriving athletes. Chief meteorologist Mark Baden was made to focus on Green Bay’s weather for days, neglecting Milwaukee’s, 100+ miles south.

The impression 12 News conveyed went well beyond a small-market inferiority complex. There was a sense that someone had bet the farm on this event’s success — or that perhaps someone’s family was being held hostage.

At some point, local TV news is no longer about news at all anymore. It’s just another promotional vehicle.

Conclave (2024)

After Pope Francis died this week, the streaming audience for Conclave mushroomed, so I decided to watch it Saturday evening with my Roman Catholic mother via Prime Video.

As the movie open, a pope dies and the ensuing conclave (“locked room”) becomes a political struggle between several contending cardinals. One is a conservative Italian aiming to make Catholicism great again. He’s also a bigot, opposed to the Nigerian cardinal, who himself is a homophobe. Another, played by Stanley Tucci, is a skittish liberal. A fourth candidate (John Lithgow), has an undefined cloud hanging over him. And there’s a dark horse, from a mission to Afghanistan, appointed cardinal “in pectore” (“in the chest; in secret”) by the Pope the previous year.

Ralph Fiennes plays Cardinal Lawrence, who is running the whole process. He gives a strong performance as a man who admits some doubt, striving to do what’s right. Isabella Rossellini is also in this as a nun serving the conclave, but she doesn’t get to do much except advance the plot.

After a somewhat slow start, that plot begins moving like a chess match, and you know what machinery is going to produce — until you don’t. It poses some fundamental questions and has a clever way of suggesting God’s orchestrations.

Conclave is not a masterpiece — it takes a couple of large leaps away from plausibility — but it’s an interesting two hours in a setting that’s especially relevant right now.

We both enjoyed it.