(Photo: Laura Branigan released Moonlight on Water in 1987.)

Mary McCarthy

We might be a more minor league fandom, but since the 80s I’ve been a big Laura Branigan fan. Saw her twice live in concert and was heartbroken when she died at age 52 of a brain aneurysm. It’s sad people only think of her when they hear Gloria, that she wasn’t around to forbid Trump from playing it at his ridiculous rallies. She had so many beautiful songs: one of my favorites was always How Can I Help You Say Goodbye, though it’s a cover. Even as a kid I felt the haunting beauty of that song as it walks you through life’s stages of loss, but having been through them all now as an adult, it’s more poignant.

In the past decade, I’ve lost two siblings and of course my mother this year. I lost my job, my home on the island and the museum I started there, and my kids have grown and gone. And I came out under the beautiful queer spectrum because I was in love with a woman. I also lost several close friendships. It’s been a lot of change. I’m not reporting these things to be melodramatic, it’s simply an accounting as I sit in a moment in the universe that’s a time for pivot, change and looking ahead: what’s the point in looking behind for any reason besides nostalgia?

A girl who’s always had her head in the stars, I believe in astrology. As a little girl I used to read my horoscope in the Philadelphia Inquirer every day— in fact, I read two and chose the one I liked best since I was born on the cusp of Taurus and Gemini. I read with interest the significance of the celestial events of yesterday and today: a lunar eclipse in Pisces and full Sturgeon blood moon bringing drama in the universe.

What’s going on upstairs around us signifies a massive cosmic purge, bringing deep-seated emotional truths and hidden relationship dynamics to light. Lunar eclipses represent the culmination and closing of chapters and this electric energy marks a tipping point where we can’t ignore energy that had been swept under the rug: long buried attachments rise to the surface and our emotional radar is active (especially for the mutable signs including mine (Gemini) and Pisces, Virgo and Sagittarius. The eclipse is expected to bring nervous system fatigue, sudden relationship reckonings and karmic shifts in our authentic selves.

Metamorphosis is in the air- but in the tarot, we know that the death card signifies transformation, necessary endings and new beginnings versus true death. In life we write our own books, it’s not a script that’s handed to us— it’s a choose your own your adventure book, so if we don’t like how it’s going, we can flip back to an earlier page and choose a new ending.

In my own life, I’ve never been good at goodbyes. Ever since my first best friend moved to Michigan in second grade and partly because our dad was a traveling salesman, I have textbook abandonment issues— but after years of work I realized the only one I needed to be afraid of abandoning me is.. me. I don’t have control over people who walk away or don’t prioritize having me in their lives. Would I keep them in mine if I could? Usually, yes. I’m a toxic stay-er.

I have friends who walked away that were so toxic people would tell me it was the best thing that ever happened to me, even as I cried for weeks and to this day if they called me I’d tell them how much I missed and loved them, or if they showed up I’d cry with joy and offer them everything I have no matter how much they’ve hurt me. Once I love you, I love you forever, I’m just a ride or die person to a fault, I’d never let you go. I’m a toxic giver. How you show up to me isn’t something I can control- whether you do the work to be the best person on your side of our relationship is on you. “I ask you to judge me by the enemies I’ve made,” said Franklin D. Roosevelt. If someone isn’t in my life anymore, it’s not because I didn’t try.

But lately, I realized that’s a bit exhausting. I got burned out. I’ve stopped chasing. And trying so hard. I want to be in places where I only have to walk half as far because I’m met halfway, where there’s equality. That’s not too much to ask, for people to be courageous enough to be authentic. I’m too old to chase and my joints require too many cortisone injections for running anymore. I’ve started to evaluate, acknowledge and appreciate my own worth, I won’t have it questioned while someone lashes out in projected anger or leaves because they question their own. I’m a loving friend and sexy girlfriend. I’ve done a lot of work on myself and provide a lot. I deserve positive energy and passionate love- life is short, I want to dance and sing, be creative, fix up an Airstream to travel around and see some cool stuff. Maybe this positivity all seems like “fork found in kitchen” to you, but when you spend three decades raising very amazing humans, it takes awhile for you to turn care toward yourself. I’m thankful for whoever joins me on whatever part of the journey we share, so I don’t have to walk the path alone.

Eclipses aren’t for manifesting, only letting go, so I’ll save my wishes for another day and focus on how I can help me to say goodbye to negative self-talk bullshit, scarcity mentality, fear of abundance and success, lack of joy, and feelings of unworthiness. May it be so, moon and spirit guide Laura Branigan, old gal pals.

—Follow Mary McCarthy on Substack, Instagram & Bluesky

Mary McCarthy

Nancy Mace would like everyone to stop talking about Nancy Mace.

The outgoing South Carolina congresswoman recently emerged from her spectacularly unsuccessful run for governor with a new YouTube show, a dramatically different look and arms covered in tattoos. Social media noticed.

Mace responded by posting a pouty photograph of herself prominently displaying the tattoos; what kids today might call a “thirst trap.”

“Thoughts and prayers to all those affected by my sleeves,” she wrote. “Made the mistake of opening my social media this afternoon. Some of yall are OUT OF CONTROL. My biceps should NOT be a news story. We have more important things to worry about.”

Tattoo facts that those aren’t sleeves aside, she has a point. There are so many more important things to worry about.

Nancy Mace’s biceps, for example, would rank considerably lower on my list than the years she spent obsessing over other people’s bodies.

Mace became one of Congress’ loudest anti-trans voices after Democrat Sarah McBride of Delaware became the first openly transgender person elected to Congress in 2024. Before McBride had even been sworn in, Mace introduced a resolution⁠ intended to prevent her from using women’s restrooms at the Capitol. Asked whether the measure specifically targeted McBride, Mace said yes.

She subsequently made anti-trans rhetoric part of her political brand, repeatedly attacking transgender people publicly and using slurs, begging the question in LGBT communities of whether the lady doth “protest too much,” along the lines of studies that show homophobia is linked to closeted homosexuality: could her transphobia could be a form of internalized homophobia? Does she hate on others because she hates a part of herself that she’s hidden for years like those tattoos?

I don’t care that Mace has tattoos. I love tattoos. I have tattoos. I don’t care how much skin she shows. Wear a thong bikini and bring a stripper pole to Congress if you write a law changing the dress code instead of wasting your time being a small-minded transphobe. I’m not interested in policing whether a 48-year-old woman is trying to look younger, hotter or different after losing an election. Women get enough appearance bullshit already. She’d be hot if she wasn’t a transphobic hatemonger who thinks it’s her job to police the bedrooms and bodily decisions of others. But that “if” carries the weight of a thousand suns.

What interests me is the freedom Mace automatically assumes belongs to her.

Her body. Her identity. Her decision. Sound familiar?

Mace explained she got nine tattoos during a difficult period involving personal and professional upheaval. She described tattooing as a way of reclaiming her body and processing emotional pain. People reported⁠ that Mace said she wanted to experience the physical “pain I need to feel.”

I have no problem with that explanation. In fact, I think people should be allowed to alter their bodies in ways that make them feel more comfortable living in them.

Funny how that works.

There’s also something cosmically perfect about one of Mace’s tattoo choices.

Running down her arm is the opening sentence of Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway: “Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.”

Yes. Virginia Woolf.

Yes. Mrs. Dalloway.

Queer publications immediately noticed the delicious incongruity. GO Magazine⁠ asked the obvious question: “Do we think she knows?”

Mrs. Dalloway is hardly obscure. Clarissa Dalloway recalls her youthful attraction to Sally Seton and describes kissing her as one of the most exquisite moments of her life. Woolf herself had relationships with women, most famously Vita Sackville-West.

So we have Nancy Mace, veteran culture warrior, walking around with queer literary history permanently inked into her skin.

You truly cannot make this shit up.

Before-and-after pictures of Mace compare the polished congressional headshot with inked baddie; her Twitter profile pouts “GET MACED” at you in pink puffy glitter. One meme described her before-and-after photos as “real life vs. Tinder profile.” Her transformation has generated enough chatter that Mace complained her biceps shouldn’t be news while simultaneously providing everyone with a closer photograph of the biceps in question.

This is the part mired deepest in hypocrisy.

She wants us to look.

She just wants to control what we’re allowed to say about what we see.

That’s where this stops being about tattoos.

For years, Mace has appointed herself an authority on how other people should present their bodies, describe themselves and move through public space. She decided Sarah McBride’s private trip to the bathroom was worthy of federal intervention.

Now Mace is experiencing something queer and trans people know intimately: people staring at your body, discussing your appearance, questioning choices you made about it and deciding what those choices supposedly say about who you are.

Apparently it’s annoying.

Who knew?

Nancy Mace is the gatekeeping body-autonomy bigoted Karenosaurus NIMBY at the dumpster fire HOA meeting no sane human would attend for three hours.

And there’s another layer here too. Mace’s tattoos and new public persona appear to represent some kind of personal reinvention after political defeat. Maybe they do. People reinvent themselves all the time. Divorce, grief, trauma, menopause, sobriety, coming out, turning 40 or 50 or 70, losing an election spectacularly. Human beings are allowed to change.

They can look in the mirror and decide the person staring back no longer represents who they are and alter the outside until it feels more like the inside.

Nancy Mace clearly understands this. But only when the body belongs to Nancy Mace.

—Follow Mary McCarthy on Substack, Instagram & Bluesky

Mary McCarthy

Neophobia (n): the abnormal or persistent fear and avoidance of anything new, novel, or unfamiliar. The word comes from the Greek terms neos (meaning "new") and phobos (meaning "fear").

Americans have always had a complicated relationship with new technology. We like convenience, speed and shiny new toys, but we also tend to get nervous when those toys start doing things previously reserved for humans. Artificial intelligence has taken that anxiety to a whole new level.

AI is suddenly everywhere: writing emails, summarizing meetings, diagnosing diseases, creating images, “helping” students with homework, screening job applicants and in tiny ways we may not even realize, like suggesting what we should watch next. Depending on who’s asked, it represents either an extraordinary technological leap or the beginning of the end of civilization.

Most Americans appear to be leaning toward fear-based nervousness that can often be generationally linked: kids who grew up simply embracing new technology as it’s launched are more accepting, while “neophobic” boomers are beyond skeptical and chicken-little declaring the end of all the water in the oceans.

A 2025 Pew Research Center survey⁠ found that 50 percent of Americans were more concerned than excited about the increased use of AI in daily life, while only 10 percent were more excited than concerned. People worried particularly about AI weakening human creativity and relationships.

Some of those concerns are perfectly reasonable. AI can confidently provide information that is completely wrong, a phenomenon charmingly called a “hallucination.” It can perpetuate biases contained in the enormous amounts of human-created material used to train it. Generative AI has raised serious copyright questions for writers, artists and musicians whose work may have been included in training data without permission.

There are environmental concerns, too. The enormous data centers needed to build and operate AI systems require significant amounts of electricity and water. Those facilities have become controversial enough that The New Yorker recently reported⁠ that opposition to AI data centers is becoming an American political issue. And then there are jobs. Workers have been hearing for several years that AI may eventually replace them. So far, the reality is more complicated. An Associated Press report on a 2026 Gallup survey⁠ found nearly 30 percent of American employees now use AI frequently at work. Among AI users in management, health care and technology, roughly six in 10 said it had increased their productivity at least somewhat, but 18 percent of workers also believed technology could eliminate their jobs within five years.

Even people who see enormous potential in AI acknowledge the danger. Geoffrey Hinton, the Nobel Prize-winning computer scientist often called the “godfather of AI,” told CNN⁠ that AI could “make healthcare much better” and “make education much better.” He also said it could help design new drugs and materials and improve weather prediction.Gabriella Rosen Kellerman, a physician and workplace researcher, made another interesting case in a TIME interview⁠. People respond better to AI, she said, when we emphasize “what the AI is really good at that’s different from what a human’s really good at.”

There may be a lesson hiding in there. AI becomes much less threatening when we stop expecting it to be human. The critics have equally legitimate concerns. Hinton warned in that same CNN interview that along with AI’s “wonderful things come some scary things,” adding that too little effort is being devoted to mitigating those risks. There are smaller, more immediate problems as well. Daniel Zhao, chief economist at Glassdoor, told the Associated Press⁠ that using AI for job applications “absolutely does risk reducing your job application materials to the same style as every other applicant’s.”

Anyone who’s read enough AI-generated writing may recognize the problem. Certain phrases, sentence structures and habits begin showing up over and over again. Any student who asks an AI chatbot to produce a term paper will discover an Alice in Wonderland rabbit hole where everything is repeatedly defined using some variation of “it’s not X, it’s Y.” Apparently, even the machines have dreaded clichés. Just ask any English teacher or editor in the nation- the cadence and rhythm of AI writing is as identifiable as the generic AI font and flyers we now see at too many businesses.

But hating AI won’t make it go away: finding workarounds for its major challenges seems like a better strategy.

One of the funniest ongoing AI critiques comes from Husk on Instagram⁠, whose videos exploit its limitations by putting it into absurd conversational situations. His dry humor is perfect as it reads AI to filth in calling out the way technology can be sophisticated one moment and completely baffled by ordinary human weirdness the next. Even its creators have taken notice of his account as he converses in real time while AI consistently can’t spell certain words, has no concept of time or timers, an inability to express concern for dangerous circumstances, and more.

Its limitations ensure that humans, at least all of us, can’t be replaced. AI can organize information, analyze enormous quantities of data, brainstorm ideas and eliminate tedious tasks. Used thoughtfully, it saves time and makes certain parts of everyday life easier. But there are places it simply can’t go and things it will never be able to do.

AI can describe a sunset, but it can’t stand beside the Chesapeake Bay and watch one disappear into the water. It can spit out a poem about grief, fear or joy, but emotions behind words still belong to us; it can’t feel love. (Don’t tell the Japanese woman who actually married hers). AI can’t cuddle and watch a movie with you.

AI is inevitable. The more useful question is how much of it we want in our lives and where we draw the boundaries. Moderation seems like a pretty good place to start. As with everything in life, finding the balance is key. Technology has always been a tool. We still get to decide when to pick it up and when to put it down- and those boundaries are the real question, because the AI train has already left the station, so there’s no point in trying to stand on the tracks and push it back.

—Follow Mary McCarthy on Substack, Instagram & Bluesky

Mary McCarthy

Kyle Schwarber stepped into the batter’s box the other night looking like every Phillies fan has felt lately: frustrated, searching, hoping one good swing might bring the team back into the groove again.

The pitch came in.

He didn’t swing.

Instead, he tapped his helmet.

For a few seconds, baseball paused while Major League Baseball’s new Automated Ball-Strike system decided whether the home plate umpire had gotten it right.

An automated set of balls is exactly what was happening in that moment since everyone watching knew the pitch was absolutely a strike, since we all have eyes.

But what strikes me is how instinctive that ironic double-tap gesture has already become. Faced with an unfavorable judgment, the first response is no longer acceptance, a whiny little-leaguer tantrum-face towards the umpire or simply the game moving on to the next pitch.

It’s an appeal to a machine.

That little tap on the helmet has become one of the defining images of baseball’s newest era, and I can’t help wondering if we’ve lost something more valuable than a missed strike call.

A terrific recent New York Times essay by J.R. Moehringer, “Can We Keep One Small Corner of America Technology Free?” captured this “strike three and you’re out, human race” unease. He wrote that “robot umps will soon decide every pitch of every ballgame, and human umps will be reduced to costumed extras, shambling around the periphery like Cicil War re-enacts, only creepier and less relevant,” and simply that baseball “was never meant to be perfect.”

His essay is nostalgic, funny and delightfully grandiose, but beneath the wit is a serious question:

Does everything need to be optimized? Supporters of the Automated Ball-Strike system make compelling arguments.

Major League Baseball has repeatedly described the challenge system (which they constantly note is sponsored by T-mobile because God knows selling the sponsorship like selling out diamond real estate is what matters) as a compromise, preserving the human umpire while allowing obvious mistakes to be corrected. The league says the goal is to improve accuracy while adding “a fun new layer of strategy” (sounds like something your least favorite algebra teacher said when trying to make the homework interesting).

Baseball writer Tom Verducci  argued  the challenge format strikes a  balance between tradition and technology, noting “If you get a kick out of Yankees manager Aaron Boone blowing a gasket, I guess you’ll miss his rants directed at the home plate umpires.”

Reuters reported during the All-Star break that players including  Dylan Cease embraced ABS not simply because of greater accuracy but because they enjoyed the strategic element of deciding when to challenge. "I think it's entertaining," Cease said at the MLB All-Star Game press conference. "I like it when it goes my way, and I don't like it when it doesn't. I think it's entertaining, and it's just one of those where I've kind of just accepted it is what it is, and I thought it's ​been kind of nice."

ESPN’s Jeff Passan has been even more enthusiastic, arguing “just like with the pitch clock, the advent of robot umpires did not break Major League Baseball,” and further that, “not only does ABS work, it makes the game better.”

These aren’t wild opinions, and fans are probably right about one thing. ABS almost certainly produces a more accurate strike zone.

Baseball has followed me around for most of my life. I earned a varsity letter as my high school’s baseball manager after managing my younger brother’s teams. Years later, my husband coached our son Bobby while I managed his teams. I did time sweating inside the costume of the Orioles’ farm team  mascot uniform. And today, my son is a professional umpire. I love this sport. Which is why I keep asking the question: what problem are we actually trying to solve?

Major League Baseball’s own numbers show home plate umpires correctly call balls and strikes roughly 94 percent of the time. Think about that. They stand behind home plate judging a baseball traveling close to 100 miles an hour through an invisible strike zone that changes with every batter’s stance.

They’re right almost all the time. So when did 94 percent become failure?

We’ve become a culture that mistakes optimization for progress. If an app can save us three minutes, we’ll download it. If an algorithm can shave off one percent of human error, we’ll celebrate it. Somewhere along the way we began believing every disagreement has a correct answer waiting to be revealed by a screen.

Baseball never worked that way.

The strike zone has always been part science and part judgment. Researchers at Cornell even described it as a “social construct,” a point Moehringer wisely highlighted. That’s why fans argue and managers explode out of the dugout. It’s why catchers frame pitches and pitchers try to paint the corners. The strike zone is called a zone for a reason: it’s always existed in that fascinating gray area where reasonable people disagree.

It’s not a defect to be fixed: it’s baseball.

Watching my son develop from a great player in high school to an umpire himself gives me an appreciation for a job most fans (and hysterical travel league parents) never think about until they’re angry. Umpires spend years learning the rulebook, traveling endless miles, and making split-second decisions while masses of people enthusiastically inform them they’re blind.

Most fans remember the one pitch an umpire missed. They forget the other 200 he nailed. Sure, sometimes he misses one. So does the shortstop, the cleanup hitter, and the manager who leaves his starter in one batter too long.

Baseball has always acknowledged human imperfection. It’s the only major sport that literally keeps score of its mistakes. Every box score includes an error column. The game doesn’t hide our flaws. It records them permanently, shrugs because no one’s perfect, and tells everybody to come back tomorrow to play ball.

The advocates of ABS are right: the technology makes the strike zone more accurate. But accuracy isn’t the only value worth protecting. Tradition matters. So does accepting that human beings get things wrong.

Life doesn’t come with challenge flags. You don’t tap your helmet because your boss misunderstood you. You don’t ask a computer to review an argument with your spouse or overturn a decision that didn’t go your way. Human beings make judgment calls every day with imperfect information.

Baseball has quietly been preparing us for reality for more than a century. And it’s always evolved. Night games, free agency, instant replay and the pitch clock changed the sport in different ways. Not every innovation is an assault on tradition.

But I agree with Moehringer: not every innovation belongs between the white lines, either. At least not in any expanded way, which is what my concern would be about the technology. It’s one thing to have it, it’s another to let it replace the beauty of imperfection in human error.

Give me the occasional blown strike-three call, hotheaded manager kicking dirt on home plate, cacophony of fans booing in glorious unison, and arguments we’ll still be talking about over breakfast the next morning. (For example  if Schwarber had tapped his bat onto the ball like he’s supposed to for all that money, maybe he wouldn’t need to tap his helmet like a baby.)

Because if we let computers run the game, the ballpark becomes one more place where people are just looking at their phones. And who needs that?

—Follow Mary McCarthy on Substack, Instagram & Bluesky

 Robert L. Ripley (seated, in captain’s hat) and various guests enjoy a game of “mah-jongg” aboard the Mon Lei, a junk (type of Chinese sailing ship) he brought across the Pacific from Kowloon, on a cruise on the Long Island Sound in Aug. 1946. Ripley was known for his show "Believe it or Not!" which featured "unusual" facts from around the world. Bettmann Archive—Getty Images. 

Mary McCarthy

Mahjong is one of the latest fad games to take over American dining room tables, but its roots here stretch back more than 100 years. The game originated in China during the 1800s before making its way across the Pacific in the early twentieth century. In 1920, New York City’s Abercrombie & Fitch began importing mahjong sets from China, helping spark a nationwide fascination with the game. The demand was so great that the retailer reportedly dispatched buyers to China to purchase thousands of additional sets as Americans rushed to learn this exciting new pastime.

American players gradually adapted the game, and in 1937 the National Mah Jongg League was founded in New York City by a group of Jewish women led by Dorothy Meyerson who standardized the game. The organization established a standardized annual card of winning hands that remains the foundation of American mahjong today. Over the decades, the game became especially beloved within Jewish American communities, where weekly games grew into cherished family traditions and social gatherings.

I started playing this summer when a very good friend of mine invited me to play at her shop, and have been surprised at how quickly I got sucked into the kinda-fun, kinda-stressful quicksand of glitzy matching tiles, mats, matches and merch. Last night I fell asleep when I was playing a game on my phone, which fell onto my face. I went to a neighboring town’s game and got completely overwhelmed because over 40 people were playing at once and the sounds of the tiles clacking at once almost drove me into overstimulation overdrive— I just wasn’t ready for that advanced level of play. I’m still a rookie, and not sure I will ever wear an MLB jersey— people who can consume multiple cocktails while playing are clearly experienced and brave; no way am I risking spilling booze on a $500 set of tiles while I’m still learning to tell them apart. 

Since I started playing this summer, occasionally the 152 tiles shuffle my way and I’ve managed to score a mahjong or two. My algorithm on social media has been affected, and of course I see funny mahj content. Recently I saw an interesting Chinese “cultural appropriation” post and thought, oh shit, am I going to be like cancelled for playing this?

In her book Mahjong: A Chinese Game and the Making of Modern American Culture, Annaleise Heinz says:

Chinese Americans speak out against some of the really clear appropriation of the game that happens at various points. They also look for opportunities to make money in a really discriminatory economy in which Chinese American college graduates in English and art and engineering could not get jobs outside of curio shops and restaurants and laundry work, the same stereotyped and segregated economic sectors. And for a brief period of time, teaching people how to play mah-jongg actually provided a more lucrative opportunity, in part because they are seen as authentic teachers. The meaning of the game for Chinese Americans is linked to specific ways that generations can connect to each other across really significant generational (and geographic) divides in the 1920s and ‘30s. Mah-jongg becomes one of many ways that Chinese Americans build a transnational nationalism.

The craze quickly spread beyond New York. Philadelphia embraced mahjong during the Roaring Twenties, with department stores such as Wanamaker’s selling imported sets and hosting demonstrations that introduced the game to curious shoppers. Before long, bridge clubs, neighborhood gatherings, and living rooms across the country were filled with the familiar sound of clacking together. The spelling of the word “mahjong” was eventually shortened; its original translation from Chinese means “clattering sparrows” after the sound the tiles make when shuffled.

Coincidentally, it also represents the clattering of my nerves when it’s my turn and I can’t commit to a hand. Luckily, learning the game at the same time as a group of other women tends to lend itself to a sort of survival-group mentality where we tend to support one another in the learning journey. There seem to be about eleventy hundred little rules and nuances, tips, tricks and strategies and even more subtle “house rules,” so having people around who can help you remember things, even when you forget them repeatedly, is essential. I’m not a big “get dressed in cute outfits” or “matching cocktails and tile sets” chick; my skills have come more from playing on the “Mahjong 4 Friends” (more like when you don’t have many) to fall asleep at night—trying to keep getting clocked in the face by my phone to a minimum—but learning the game this summer has been really fun and I’m grateful to my friend for bringing my me into the tile mix. I look forward to Mahjong Mondays.

 —Follow Mary McCarthy on Substack, Instagram & Bluesky

 Mary McCarthy

Photo: Ron Galella (from 1982 Radio City Music Hall Diet Coke premiere with Rockettes)

I guess when your kids start giving you Diet Coke themed gifts for Christmas, you start realizing it’s more than just a casual favorite drink. Spare me “that poison will kill you” lessons—as Rizzo used to say in Grease: “there are worse things I could do.” I’m aware it’s not exactly a healthy protein smoothie, and I limit my intake to exactly one a day, at lunch. 

The only change to this routine came recently when Coca-cola saw fit to disturb my long-established system by introducing Diet Coke Cherry. Long a fan of the “freestyle” machine at Wendy’s, Burger King, Wawa and some other locations, I love making Cherry Vanilla Diet Cokes, so when Diet Coke Cherry in a can was released, I switched over. Now I’m having a hard time finding it in the grocery store (get it together, Acme!) and worried it’s going to be dropped, so I’m hoarding it when and if I see it someplace. 

In February, Coca-cola was feeling nostalgic and re-released Diet Coke Cherry, originally available when I was in high school in the 80s. In fact, the whole thing is a 40th throwback; the company enthusiastically announced as part of their news release “celebrating four decades of cherry-flavored innovation”:

   “Introduced in 1985 as CocaCola’s first-ever flavored extension of the trademark brand, Cherry Coke established a legacy that continues to influence beverage culture today. In 2026, CocaCola builds on that heritage by offering consumers more cherry-forward choices than ever before, reflecting growing demand for nostalgic flavors.”

Ok, “cherry-forward” sounds like a Gen Z marketing chick is being unnecessarily woke about “beverage culture,” relax, Coca Cola, and also, Cherry Forward would sound better as a drag queen name. But in what they kinda ridiculously call their “cherry portfolio,” they introduced Coca-Cola Cherry Float and also CocaCola Zero Sugar Cherry Float, for a total of five (there’s also CocaCola Zero Sugar Cherry) cherry-related flavors.  

Here’s the problem: stores only have x amount of room on the shelves for Coca-Cola, and with the Mormons making “dirty soda” the hottest thing since coffee, brands are rushing new flavors to market. Long story short, there’s not enough room for five varieties of “Cherry-forward” Coca-Cola on the shelves and Diet Coke Cherry hasn’t appeared in my regular grocery store all summer. I’ve been stopping in random Walmarts and no-name weirdo grocery stores searching for the soda aisle like an unhinged junkie. I ran into someone recently in a neighboring town who said “I didn’t know you shopped here!” and mumbled something about grabbing something for dinner while in the area because I was too embarrassed to admit the cherry Diet Coke scavenger hunt. I even have mini cans of CocaCola Zero Sugar Cherry Float (which is actually really good) that I’ll mix into my Diet Coke (or make ice cubes out of to add) for when I’m running low on the endangered “cherry-flavored innovation” since I’m so worried they’re going to pull it. 

Diet Coke in and of itself is a culture. When I’m on Instagram, the algorithm will toss funny sketches, Diet Coke art items (yeah, there are tons) or Gen Z “fridge cigarette” content because as we know, Gen Z invented everything before they were even born and nothing existed before TikTok. Algorithms (and my fellow Diet Coke addict brother) being what they are, I consume a lot of Diet Coke content, and agree with my fellow DC community members that there is a hierarchy in the way we consume the beverage.

DC fans generally consider the aluminum can the day to day standard. Out in the world, we know a McDonald’s Diet Coke is superior and will go through their drive-through for Diet Cokes only. Damn them and their crispy coke bubbles, the Golden Arches have a chokehold on our addiction. On behalf of my brother, and for the record I’m not a fan of supporting Jesus Chicken and rarely go (nuggets for my son and that damn peppermint milkshake they have at Christmas are the exceptions), but there is something to be said for the environment-be-damned Diet Coke served in styrofoam at Chick-fil-A since it stays cold longer. You’ll never see me carrying this, as my gay card would be evoked immediately. 

I’ll go out on a limb and say if there was a Wawa next to a McDonalds, I would 100% go into the Wawa because I love that freestyle machine Cherry Vanilla Diet Coke that you can only get in that way. My DC fam knows ball, which means Diet Coke in a plastic bottle is always a last resort, especially a 2-liter bottle where you can hear it go flat as soon as you twist that top. 

A good friend gifted me the “I need a Diet Coke” sweatshirt for my birthday. As a miniaturist I’m in love with my mini Diet Coke cans. What can I say, it’s a “beverage culture” I guess I’ve been a part of for (apparently) four decades and if it ends up being the thing that offs me, that’s on me and my “cherry-forward” lifestyle choices I guess. But there are worse things I could do.

—Follow Mary McCarthy on Substack, Instagram & Bluesky

Mary McCarthy

Big week as a Philadelphia sports fan and a baseball fan in general watching the home run derby and the All-Star game, both hosted in Philly. In the derby, hometown favorite Kyle Schwarber was bested by Jordan Walker (despite magenta ball conspiracy theories since he won on a white ball) in a dramatic six-homers in a row ending. The stadium, exhausted from booing every MLB player from across the league all night, was justifiably silenced.

I thought, here we go, the online Philly fan hate. How dare we boo your precious best hitters and their fragile egos, barked sports-snowflakes coast to coast. This drew exhausted eyerolls once again from the Philadelphia fandom: there’s a reason our shirts already say “no one likes us, we don’t care.”What people don’t understand is that booing is a sign of passion. We boo opponents as a sign of love for our own team and players. Unless our own teams are doing poorly themselves, then they get booed also.

After the all-star game where he was hitless, Phillies’ Bryce Harper was asked “do you feel bad for Ben Rice when he gets booed by your Philly fans, or Wilson Contreras?” “No,” said Harper, laughing, “‘cause my fans boo me too. What’re ya gonna do? Hey, you don’t like it, play better, man.” 

Exactly. Philly fans don’t give applause-participation trophies. Even a few All-Star players seemed to acknowledge that, doing volume-up hands for boos as an acknowledgement of its honor. If you get booed enthusiastically, like when opponents from the National League east were announced, it means you’re a villain or threat in some way.

If you hear silence from a stadium in Philly, your mediocrity has been laid bare, and now you’ve really been giving something to cry about— so you should pray for those boos, kid. Jordan Walker looked thrilled: a big grin on his face as he received his boos on All-Star night after winning the home run derby the night before, because the rare *radio* silence he’d achieved wasn’t disinterest, it was something else entirely: the deer-in-the headlights standstill shock of a full stadium, fandom aside, acknowledging a moment in sports greatness.

By far the best moment of the week was the All-Star break for a full Broadway-level cinematic MLB musical reproduction of The Sandlot. While our own players whiffed completely in the game itself, the bells and whistles were undeniable- it was a stunning 250th celebration the country deserved. Dress the Phillie Fanatic in patriotic gear, throw in a casual recreation of the signing of the Declaration of Independence and a stellar fireworks show, and call it a win. The MLB went full baseball patriotic nostalgia with kids in backwards-baseball hats and jerseys of their parents’ favorite players like Mike Schmidt and Tug McGraw riding bikes out of their Philly neighborhood straight into the stadium and onto the field to stand beside players on the field, interacting with them while Ray Charles sang “America the Beautiful” and fireworks fell over the stadium.

PhilliesNation reported:

Brandon Marsh in right field with a boy in a red T-shirt and a backward Phillies cap and watched the fireworks burst around them. For the 28-year-old outfielder, “The Sandlot” was a childhood favorite. And at the end of the fourth inning during Tuesday night’s All-Star Game, Citizens Bank Park looked like a scene right out of the classic baseball film.

“That was honestly one of my favorite parts of the game,” Marsh said. “Just because that’s my favorite baseball movie growing up. When I hear that song, it almost just brings tears to my eyes, because it takes me back to being 5 years old watching that movie. So it was special. It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.”

When the kid hopped off his bike, the two got to talking. The boy told Marsh that his grandmother is a big Phillies fan who really loves Marsh; he pulled out his phone and recorded a message for her as the show went on. 

“We sent her a video and hopefully made her night,” Marsh said. “… He was ready. Locked and loaded.”

—Follow Mary McCarthy on Substack, Instagram & Bluesky

In a few weeks, my only son and youngest of my four children leaves for college: alas, the empty nest. It’s both not as dramatic as it sounds and somehow heart-stoppingly dramatic to my mother’s heart. I started this gig back in 1994, which seems like forever ago and yesterday. His three sisters have gone off- marriages, careers, medical practices, bands. Bobby successfully completed two years at Chesapeake College and works as a professional umpire; he’s remaining in-state at Towson for his final two years — I’m grateful he won’t be any further and am not sure why I’m acting like wooden crates are being shipped to New Zealand. His sisters will roll their eyes about it but also understand.

These four grown kids of mine are cool and successful despite whatever I fucked up and maybe accidentally because of a choice or two. They still talk about “my broomstick,” a reference to “getting on my broomstick” to come to their aid for any reason, they know (age 5 or 50), I would and will. And they’ll all roll their eyes but they know “you get a mom from Philly, she will kill or die for you, no questions asked, go Birds.” I’m far from the best, fuck up all the time, but I’m not the worst: always willing to take accountability, over-apologize and try to do better.

Growing up in a household defined by poverty and alcoholism, my own mom struggled with mental health and motherhood and I remember wishing she had more things of her own that brought her joy separately from focusing on her children. As a teenage psych major I went to Alanon, as a twenty-four year old I started therapy the day I found out I was pregnant: a certainty I had about motherhood was to do it differently than I'd experienced it. Although losing my mom was very sad, it didn’t change the difficult relationship- in fact, it added new waves of  inevitable Catholic guilt. But there are those of us who spent time in greeting card stores opening every one and not finding one that reflected how we felt. Over time as a mom, I’d have the recurring thought: motherhood is easy— you just say all the things you wish someone had said to you as a kid.

You find yourself drawn to depictions of bad moms, because they make you feel like “well, at least I wasn’t that bad.” Murder cult mom documentaries, check, I can quote chapter and verse of Mommy Dearest, my best friend growing up had a very difficult mom too because together we shared a lack of understanding for all the “normal moms.” I bawled my way through watching Jamie Lee Curtis as Donna Berzatto in the Fishes episode of The Bear – it has to be the finest performance of her career; she more than well earned the Emmy she won for the role which I imagine was deeply triggering to others as it was to me.

As a society we collectively understand the holy trifecta of America, apple pie and mom, and to disrespectfully speak of her is blasphemy. If you’re the eldest daughter in a big dysfunctional family and the only one who was treated differently, so your experience was unique, you don’t have anyone to talk to about it anyway. When you become a mom yourself, your life becomes an effort in self-firefighting to minimize the damage to your own kids when you feel ill-equipped to manage a role you learned from “what to expect” books.

Not complaining or playing the victim here, no point. I love my kids more than anything I could ever create or do on this planet. I kept my own work and hobbies and interests so I didn’t burden them by overfocusing and therefore putting too much pressure on them- they all seemed to have a great genetic ability to put so much pressure on themselves. I didn’t need to really add to it- so I never joined a PTA, logged into a single parent portal or read a single one of their texts. I was a free-range versus a helicopter parent. In true Gen X mom style, if they were tall enough to reach a counter, they were tall enough to make their own sandwiches.

I read something recently about when moms should “retreat” or disappear so their kid doesn’t remain psychologically stuck at 14, and felt good about raising mine as independent humans. But then in the comments realized I struggle with how much to call them as adults- I could count on one hand how often my mom called me during my entire adult life besides for my birthday, so I don’t really know what “normal” is.

This moment of Bobby leaving is just different. He crawled into bed as a little guy to hang out with me the longest, we watched all the baseball movies together, I kept score of a thousand of his baseball games. He used to need me and now he doesn’t. Well, maybe once in awhile he still does—they still do even as grownups in their own life moments. They know I’m here. I keep the broomstick dusted off, just in case.

—Follow Mary McCarthy on Substack, Instagram & Bluesky

Mary McCarthy

If you were a Gen Xer, there’s a good chance you wore out a VHS copy of Airplane! or memorized enough one-liners to annoy your friends. More than 45 years after the comedy first crash-landed in theaters, fans have a chance to relive the experience through the national Airplane! Live tour, featuring the film’s stars, Robert Hays and Julie Hagerty. I was lucky enough to experience the film, hosted with the live Q&A by Hays and Hagerty for my birthday recently when an extremely thoughtful friend bought tickets for us to attend in Philadelphia. 

The tour is exactly what nostalgic movie lovers could hope for. Audiences first watch Airplane! on the big screen, laughing along with a packed theater just like it was 1980 all over again. After the credits roll, Hays and Hagerty take the stage for a live conversation about making one of the funniest movies ever filmed. They answer audience questions, tell behind-the-scenes stories, and revisit scenes that have become comedy classics. Many tour stops also include VIP meet-and-greet opportunities with photos and signed memorabilia. There are currently three shows remaining on the tour.  

The joy of hearing a packed theatre of your fellow Gen Xers laughing just before such timeless, classic punch lines like “and don’t call me Shirley,” and countless others was unique and fun to behold- there’s clearly a cult status to the film that could easily be adapted into Rocky Horror Picture Show-like experiences. In what happened to be the inaugural stop on the tour, film stars Hays and Hagerty couldn’t say enough about how much joy it brought them, nearly a half century after making the movie, to listen backstage as the audience laughed over and over at the film’s many hilarious moments. “Listening to the crowd made our hearts warm and full,” said Hagerty.

When Airplane! debuted in 1980, nobody really knew what to expect. Directed by Jim Abrahams and brothers David and Jerry Zucker, the film spoofed the disaster movies that had dominated theaters throughout the 1970s. Instead of playing for laughs, Hays and Hagerty delivered every ridiculous line with complete sincerity, making the nonstop absurdity even funnier. That straight-faced delivery became the movie’s secret weapon and helped turn it into a box office smash that earned more than $170 million worldwide.

For many Gen Xers, Airplane! is one of those endlessly quotable movies that seemed to be playing at somebody’s house every weekend. Whether it was the inflatable autopilot Otto, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar insisting he was just Roger Murdock, or poor Ted Striker trying to get over his fear of flying, nearly every scene became part of pop culture. The film’s influence was so significant that it was eventually selected for preservation in the Library of Congress’ National Film Registry.

One of the things that makes the tour especially fun is that Hays and Hagerty don’t simply reminisce about the “good old days.” They share stories about working with legendary cast members like Leslie Nielsen, Lloyd Bridges, Peter Graves, and Robert Stack, reveal how some of the movie’s most memorable gags came together, and reflect on why audiences are still laughing all these years later. Because audience questions are part of every show, no two appearances are exactly alike.

In an age when Hollywood seems determined to remake everything, Airplane! remains proof that some movies really are one of a kind. The jokes still land, the visual gags come so quickly you’ll probably catch something new like we did (rows of mayonnaise jars at the “Mayo clinic” we hadn’t remembered), and hearing the stars tell stories in person adds another layer to a film many people already know by heart.

For anyone who grew up rewinding VHS tapes, quoting movies with friends, and believing that comedy didn’t need explosions or superheroes, the Airplane! Live tour is a welcome trip back to a time when being silly was more than enough to fill a theater with laughter. Moderator Dan Pasternak does a great job of keeping the Q&A flow going while inserting rare unseen clips from the originally low-budget film: a key grip still on screen holding equipment, a shot from the Saturday Night Fever dance sequence where Robert Hays and his stunt double are on-screen at the same time.

Audiences also learn fun facts about the film: like that Sigourney Weaver turned down the script because she wouldn’t say the “sit on your face and wriggle” line, and you see clips like when David Letterman auditioned for the lead role; Chevy Chase was also in the running. Many funny stories were told about Leslie Nielsen constantly walking around with a fart-noise machine. 

Both Hays, whose father was a fighter pilot in the Marine Corps, and Hagerty, attribute the success of the film to the same thing: not trying to be funny. Says Hagerty: “If you approach it like you’re gonna be funny, you’re not gonna be funny.”

—Follow Mary McCarthy on Substack, Instagram & Bluesky

Mary McCarthy

It was my great honor to participate in the International Guild of Miniature Artisans academy in Maine this past weekend to learn miniature pottery. Maine is my favorite state (of the thirtysomething I’ve seen so far), so I’m always thrilled to travel north from Maryland for the lobster, deliciously cool fresh air that ensures I won’t have a humidity-induced migraine during my stay, the blueberry ice cream, beachcombing, historic architecture, brilliant sunsets, and then some more lobster. 

I’d bought a miniature pottery wheel at home, promptly purchased the wrong kind of clay, and produced absolutely nothing, deciding to wait and learn from a professional. Our teacher, Troy Schmidt of Red Dragon Pottery in California, was perfect to learn from, not just for his expertise, but for his patient, calming nature in a setting that was stressful at times for a beginner depending on how much pressure we put on our innocent, fragile thimble-sized clay.. and likewise our often-thinned mental health. 

A six-day, seven-hour class that began at 8:00 a.m. was no joke. It was a crash course in tiny pottery on a tiny wheel. Somehow, I must’ve known it’d be at the limits of what I could handle, because I rented a little cabin on the lake in the woods where I could retreat (often crying on the drive), reinforcing the shaky foundations of my self-esteem by swinging on the porch swing, drinking in the sunset, getting high and creating a new moon crystal grid, and any other reiki-master woo-woo that could help me get through a week of the imposter syndrome I was experiencing at an astronomical level from being around such wildly talented people from 16 countries and 34 U.S. states. 

On day one, I was fairly sure I’d never be able to complete even the simplest of pots. My wheel rocked and rolled so hard I heard the “wobble baby wobble baby wobble baby wobble…” song on repeat in my head. I started learning some accidental life lessons along the week. The pottery wobbled because I was letting it control me— and don’t get me wrong, it doesn’t have a mind of its own. But I remembered my mom telling me about babies: you have to let a newborn know who’s in charge early or you’ll never get a good night’s sleep again. Dammit, pottery, you don’t own me. You might get to choose what you’re going to be someday because I do believe in free clay will, but I need to help shape you so you don’t end up like trash, too. Apply a bit more pressure, lovingly, so you know I care. 

The first thing you learn is how to center the clay. Centering. What a great life lesson. Don’t be off-kilter or all out of whack, or else the end result of your efforts will be off-balance too. Take the time to create a good, centered foundation. Sure, you can patch it up over and over later, but it’s best to start off centered.

And if things are completely fucked, know when to pack it and go for a fresh start. Don’t dig your heels in with a pile of clay you’re invested in because you have time in. Fixing and fixing is time consuming. Repeatedly during the week I found myself with Kenny Rogers in my head: you got to know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em… know when to walk away, and know when to run. 

But don’t be too much of a perfectionist. I used to always say “embrace mediocrity” and it drove my son crazy (he’s a Virgo), but never have I been more thrilled to be a non-OCD person than during my week learning pottery. Was this pot great? No. Was it good enough? Sure, since I’m just learning, and I’d like to move on to trying again with the next one. Now, I do actually have three Virgo placements in my own chart, so there were times, like when I learned trimming, where I could get down with learning to make things more detailed and better too, and I found that very rewarding. 

Transformation is beautiful. Especially during Pride month, it was so beautiful to learn and experience the process of glazing, and seeing work come out of the kiln in its new, glossy, colorful form after having been through its earlier cocoon stages. There’s so much magic and artistry in the choices you make with glazes and decoration that are so much fun: I can’t wait to explore them in future creations. 

Find the fun and create from the heart. In a week that could feel heavy and exhausting at times in learning (and often failing at) something new, I felt like it was important to create a few things that were sentimental or just for fun— and those things turned out to be my favorites.

While I was proud of a teapot that had been most technically difficult, I love the Corningware coffee pot I created in remembrance of the one my mom always used; she passed in January from brain cancer and it was during those long months that I made the decision to attend the academy so I had something to look forward to. I made an out-of-scale “Ms. Pac Man-ware” plate from leftover clay I’d used as a base for trimming, and my favorite: a humble ceramic Christmas tree- again, like the one my mom brought out every year (I collect them now): the whole miniature community came together to help me quickly find the electrical supplies and learn how to get her lit up in time for our graduation exhibit on the last night. 

—Follow Mary McCarthy on Substack, Instagram & Bluesky

It seems like bisexual people would naturally feel at home within the LGBTQIA+ community— after all, the “B” is right there in the acronym. But ask many bisexual people about their experiences, and you’ll often hear a different story. Along with prejudice from the straight world, many also encounter skepticism, stereotypes, and outright exclusion from within queer spaces themselves due to biphobia.

Biphobia is prejudice, discrimination, or negative attitudes toward bisexual people. Some researchers and advocates also use the term “monosexism,” the belief that people are only capable of being attracted to one gender and that anything outside of that is somehow less legitimate. According to Medical News Today, bisexual people can experience these attitudes from both heterosexual society and from lesbian and gay communities, making them vulnerable to what some describe as “double discrimination.”

One of the most common forms of biphobia is erasure, which happens when someone’s identity is dismissed or ignored. A bisexual woman dating another woman may be assumed to be a lesbian. A bisexual man married to a woman may suddenly be labeled straight. The assumption is that your current partner determines your sexual orientation, when in reality, orientation doesn’t disappear because you’re in a particular relationship. Researchers have argued that this constant invalidation contributes to feelings of invisibility and isolation, even among people who are otherwise accepted as members of the LGBTQIA+ community.

The stereotypes don’t stop there. Bisexual people are frequently told they’re “just going through a phase,” “confused,” “unable to commit,” or somehow more likely to cheat because they’re attracted to more than one gender. Healthline notes that these myths persist despite having no evidence behind them and continue to shape how bisexual people are viewed by both straight and queer communities.

One of the hardest realities for many bisexual people is discovering that prejudice doesn’t disappear after coming out. While LGBTQIA+ spaces are often welcoming, some bisexual people report being questioned about whether they’re “really queer enough” if they’re in a different-gender relationship. Others have been told they have “straight privilege” and therefore don’t belong in queer organizations or conversations. Those in same-gender relationships sometimes find their bisexual identity erased entirely, with others assuming they have “picked a side.”

Academic research published by Cambridge University Press argues that bisexual erasure is deeply embedded in discussions about sexuality and can cause significant psychological harm by making bisexual identities effectively invisible. The researchnotes that bisexual people make up a substantial portion of the LGBTQ+ population, yet their experiences are often overlooked.

That’s a dramatic contradiction considering that bisexual people represent one of the largest identity groups under the LGBTQIA+ umbrella. Yet visibility has not always translated into acceptance. Many advocates argue that bisexuality occupies an uncomfortable middle ground where people are viewed as “too queer” for straight spaces and “not queer enough” for some LGBTQIA+ spaces.

Fortunately, awareness has grown significantly over the past decade. Organizations, researchers, and bisexual activists have pushed back against myths by emphasizing that bisexuality is a complete and valid sexual orientation, not a stepping stone to being gay or a temporary stop before settling into heterosexuality. Publications like Them also highlight the diversity of bisexual experiences, reminding readers that no single relationship defines a person’s identity.

Ultimately, combating biphobia means recognizing that the LGBTQIA+ community is strongest when every letter is treated with equal respect. Inclusion is simply about believing people when they tell you who they are, rejecting stereotypes, and making sure that bisexual voices aren’t lost in conversations that are supposed to represent everyone.

—Follow Mary McCarthy on Substack, Instagram & Bluesky

Mary McCarthy

For many people, the standard rainbow flag is the first image that comes to mind during Pride Month. It flies from city halls, storefronts, and front porches every June, unless it’s been canceled and outlawed by the Christian nationalist regime currently in power, oddly threatened by Skittles colors and highly concerned about what goes on in the bedrooms of other people. But the rainbow is only one part of a much larger story. Over the decades, Pride flags have evolved into a colorful visual language representing the many identities that make up the LGBTQIA+ community.

The story begins in 1978, when artist and activist Gilbert Baker created the first rainbow Pride flag for San Francisco’s Gay Freedom Day Parade. Encouraged by gay rights pioneer Harvey Milk, Baker wanted a symbol that celebrated queer people rather than reminding them of persecution. Before the rainbow flag, activists often used the pink triangle, a symbol that had been used by the Nazis to identify gay men. Baker believed the community deserved something more hopeful. The original flag featured eight colors, each with its own meaning, including hot pink for sexuality and turquoise for magic and art.

As LGBTQ+ visibility expanded, new flags started appearing to give visibility to identities that often felt overlooked and represent the diversity of the community. The bisexual flagwas designed by Michael Page in 1998, and the transgender flag was designed by Monica Helms in 1999. The 2010s brought another wave of evolution. In 2017, Philadelphia introduced the “People of Color” Pride flag that added black and brown stripes to address conversations about race within queer communities. Shortly afterward in 2018, designer Daniel Quasar created the Progress Pride Flag, which incorporated those stripes along with the colors of the transgender flag into a chevron design pointing forward. The message was clear: progress is ongoing, and inclusion requires continued effort. In 2021, activist Valentino Vecchietti introduced a intersex-inclusive version, adding a yellow triangle and purple circle to ensure even more identities are visibly represented.

It can be controversial within the community that there are also many flags for different identities within the community. There are dozens of unique flags representing identities including lesbian, pansexual, asexual, nonbinary, genderfluid, aromantic, and many others. While critics argue the growing number of flags can feel overwhelming, supporters see them as evidence of a community becoming more visible and more nuanced. One commenter pointed out that in the United States, we have one flag, but when states joined, they had individual flags, while counties and cities have their own flags too.

Smaller groups within the community often want to celebrate how they identify by displaying their unique flag: learning the nuances about identifications and their affiliated flags (sapiosexual means sexual attraction based on intellectual attraction, versus demisexual meaning emotional connection, while abrosexual indicates that the way people identify changes over time, etc) is one way to become more educated about the wide array of preferences within the community. When people complain there are “too many flags” or identities, it can be seen as a form of homophobia: why is the issue bothersome to someone outside the community when it doesn’t affect them? Either way, the continuing evolution of Pride flags reflects a simple truth: people want to see themselves represented. In the current political administration where LGBTQIA+ rights have been increasingly endangered, community members have begun to fly Pride flags when they did not before, as resistance has become more crucial.

The rainbow flag remains a powerful umbrella symbol, but the expanding family of Pride flags tells a richer story. Each design represents a community’s effort to claim visibility, celebrate identity, and remind people they belong. In that sense, the evolution of Pride flags mirrors the evolution of the LGBTQ+ community itself—always growing, changing, and finding new ways to be seen.

—Follow Mary McCarthy on Bluesky and Instagram or check out her previous Pride articles:

Live Laugh Late Life Lesbians, Homophobia is Gay, Baseball is Gay, Zombies are Gay,Comphet: When Society Dictates Sexuality, It’s Not Veterans Month, Pride Was Always a Riot,  Queer Doll History, No Kings, Yas Queens,Corporations Chicken Out on Pride, Rainbow of Peace, Internalized Homophobia

Mary McCarthy

Last week I wrote an easy-breezy fun summer “listicle” opinion piece of “Top Ten Yacht Rock One Hit Wonders” and boy did Ipaddle my kayak into a perfect storm. For a style of music built on smooth grooves and easygoing vibes, yacht rock has generated an impressive amount of controversy—but I had no idea of the depths of the ocean until I dared set sail last week into the Facebook Yacht Rock sea by posting my article in a fan group. I awoke the next morning to a barrage of hate-mail comments: only four of the songs I picked were officially approved on a list in a genre I was unqualified to discuss, some are debatable as one-hit wonders, and I’m a failed journalist who’s broken the rules of Yacht Rock (YR).

In well over 30 years and over a thousand published pieces, in newspapers, nothing I’ve written has generated so much controversy and response as a piece that talked about the song “Steal Away” by Robbie Dupree (because I dared disrespect the song by calling it a one-hit wonder). The oyster pearls have firmly been clutched; the cravats clinched, the Sperrys spurned.

Like many others, I’m simply not on board with these guys who walk into the party like they’re walking onto a yacht: their apricot scarves are a bit much. Intense Facebook-shaming foroffending “the founders and creators of Yacht Rock” smacked of cult-culture on the silliest frat-boy level possible. I don’t know ifthe podcast originators platoon social media themselves or whether they’ve assembled an army of Michael McDonald-wigged minions, but there’s a reason Lonely Island’s “I’m On A Boat” was satire, and these guys are truly rocking nautical-themed pashmina afghans.

I happened to swim into the sharky part of the water, butarguments have remained contested, from whether YR is even a real genre to complaints about fan gatekeeping and objections from some of the artists themselves. One of the most common criticisms of YR is that it wasn’t actually a genre when the music was being made since the term didn’t exist then.

Artists such as Christopher Cross, Steely Dan, Kenny Loggins, Michael McDonald, and Boz Scaggs were never marketed as yacht rock performers during their commercial peak. Their records were categorized as soft rock, adult contemporary, blue-eyed soul, pop, jazz-rock, or simply Top 40. The term “yacht rock” emerged in 2005 when creators J.D. Ryznar, Hunter Stair, and Lane Farnham launched their comedic web series Yacht Rock. The series affectionately poked fun at the interconnected world of Los Angeles studio musicians and songwriters responsible for many of the era’s smoothest hits.

Critics argue that because the label was invented decades after the fact, YR functions more as a retrospective category than a true musical genre. Unlike punk, hip-hop, or grunge, there was never a scene of musicians identifying themselves as YR artists. Instead, the genre was effectively created by fans, critics, and comedians looking back at a particular sound and era; it hasn’t stopped the label from becoming widely accepted, but remains one of the central debates surrounding YR today.

Perhaps it’s the orphany-foster kid genre debate origin story that led to the militant defense and protection of a narrow definition of exactly what YR is or isn’t, according to its heavenly fathers. The “Yacht or Nyacht” list is considered by acolytes to be “the bible,” it’s ranked by a scoring system, and according to Facebook page rules, you can agree with it or be wrong, since their list has already determined what’s canon law, so Ricky don’t lose those ranking numbers.

For rebel listeners who dare have unique opinions, the term applies broadly to mellow, sophisticated pop music from the late 1970s and early 1980s. For cult loyalists, the definition is far more specific, involving particular musicians, production techniques, jazz influences, and even connections among Los Angeles session players.

This has led to endless debates over artists who seem like obvious fits but remain controversial. Hall & Oates, Fleetwood Mac, The Eagles and Jimmy Buffett, sounds you’d think fit the era and soft rock sound are all rejects by the yacht rock coast guard. The creators painstakingly etched rating systems onto stone tablets to determine whether a song is “Yacht” or “Nyacht.”

Supporters argue that these distinctions are necessary because they help preserve the unique musical characteristics that separate yacht rock from generic soft rock. Critics argue that the genre’s increasingly complex rules have created an exclusionary culture where fans spend more time on social media policing definitions than enjoying the music. It doesn’t seem like the modern criticism and hysteria matches the laid-back tongue-in-cheek jocularity of the original podcast at all.

The irony, of course, is that a genre celebrated for its relaxed atmosphere has developed one of the most passionate gatekeeping communities in popular music. Music appreciation will always be objective and if people collectively like a type of music, they should celebrate it together in a fun way, not find negative, nitpicky ways to ruin it (talk about familiarity breeds contempt- sheesh, lighten up, Francis). You like the Lido Shuffle by Boz Scaggs or Diamond Girl by Seals and Crofts? Too bad, incel, they’re on the Nyacht-y list, but with scores in the 40s, how dare you!

The most interesting YR criticism comes from the musicians of the era themselves. Over the years, several artists associated with YR have expressed skepticism—or outright hostility—toward the term. One example came from Daryl Hall, who publicly dismissed yacht rock as a label that never made sense to him, arguing that much of the music grouped under the banner was rooted in rhythm and blues, soul, and sophisticated pop songwriting, and yacht rock was a nickname that gained momentum long after the records were released.

The most notable example occurred when, for the Yacht Rock Dock-umentary, upon inquiring of one of the genre’s musical founding fathers, Steely Dan’s Donald Fagen about whether he’d like to be interviewed, in a response that would be helpful to keep in mind anytime arguments erupt over Ambrosia or any other soft hits of the 70s and 80s: Fagen replied, “why don’t you go fuck yourself?”

—Follow Mary McCarthy on Substack, Instagram & Bluesky

Mary McCarthy

I’m on record as a Yacht Rock nerd willing to take hits for being an Air Supply fan: please refer to me in the correct Airhead nickname format. Yes, I’ve seen and love the “dock-umentary,” though it takes itself a bit seriously for a genre based on chilling out. Yacht Rock (YR) is supposed to be about vibes over genre, not arguing over whether Hall and Oates is “too Philadelphia,” whatever that means.

It lives somewhere between soft rock, bluesy soul, and smooth summery radio polish that defined the late 1970s and early 1980s. It’s just sophisticated enough to make you feel like you should be listening to it on a boat while sitting in traffic. While the heavy hitters like Steely Dan get most of the attention, there’s a niche mix of catchy one hit wonders that helped define the sound just as much. In a way, being a one hit wonder is a perfect fit for the easy-breezy, careless style of yacht rock: romance without commitment, longing without achieving.

Here are ten picks, in no particular order (except the last one is my personal favorite).

“Brandy (You’re a Fine Girl)” by Looking Glass, a song that somehow feels like it was born salty and sunburned. It tells a whole wistful story in just a few minutes, about a barmaid in a harbor town and the sailor who could not stay: a track that feels like it belongs to a specific place and time.

“Escape (The Piña Colada Song)” by Rupert Holmesmight be the most narrative-driven yacht rock hit of them all. It’s basically a short story set to music, complete with a twist ending that people love to chat up, especially any time the drink is in sight. The campymelody masks a slightly absurd premise, but it’s allpart of the charm, like overhearing gossip at a beach bar.

“Romeo’s Tune” by Steve Forbert is a lesser known, slightly different flavor of yacht rock, catchy, artsy: “let me smell the moon in your perfume,” and fits the mood well. There is a gentle urgency to it, a sense of longing that carries the song forward. It’s a track that feels deeply personal but somehow universal at the same time.

“Lonely Boy” by Andrew Gold is another deep cuttune with a bit of bite, driven by its piano hook and a vocal that carries that sea-salty hint of frustration. It fits the yacht rock vibe, especially in its production and melody, yet is unique enough to take on the age-old universal Shakespearean level tragedy of losing one’s status in the family as an only child. 

“Steal Away” by Robbie Dupree deserves its own props even if it got bashed in Yacht Rock dock-umentary for Robbie-ing the hook from “What A Fool Believes” by the Doobie Brothers while also coincidentally sounding like Michael McDonald (and looking like Kenny Loggins). As one YR forum noted: “You can almost hear the conversation between him and his manager. Robbie: "Hey, I wrote this song. I think it's a hit but most of it sounds stolen from the Doobie Brothers." Manager: "Hey, if it's a hit, then steal away Robbie." Shout out to Dupree’s only other real hit Hot Rod Hearts, not enough to topple him from the one-hit list.

“Baby Come Back” by Player is probably the most popular in the group due to a social media resurgence among the Millennials and Gen Zers. It’s pure yacht rock perfection, hitting all the smooth but slightly melancholic checkboxes paired with the classic miss-you longing theme and a chorus that just jams.

“Thunder Island” – Jay Ferguson feels like it should be playing during the opening credits of a 1979 coastal road trip movie. It’s about “chasing love,” like most YR songs, with lesser storytelling vibes of “Brandy,” a little more laid back and dreamy.

“Moonlight Feels Right” by Starbuck: the funkiest marimba solo in history alone earns it a spot. It leans slightly more pop, but the breezy, jazzy, sunlit feel absolutely qualifies. It’s one of those songs people know instantly but rarely remember who did it, and as a Marylander on the Eastern Shore, the mentions of Baltimore and “pop the top at Chesapeake Bay” seal the deal.

“Make a Little Magic” by the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band is my wild card and more controversial pick on the list, so hear me out. First, they’re kinda more country, but it could be argued that many country crossover songs like this lend themselves to smooth yacht rock (the dockumentary could never!). Second, it could veryeasily be argued that the song isn’t a one-hit wonder because the band’s song Mr. Bojangles was their much bigger hit. However, that song is NOT YR while I argue this song is --the smooth arrangement and easygoing rhythm land it squarely in YR territory.

“What You Won’t Do for Love” by Bobby Caldwell is often rediscovered by new generations who are surprised to learn it came out in 1978. Listeners are often surprised to learns he’s white, since his original R&B record label kept his image off his album to conceal that fact. The groove is undeniable, smooth but intricate, and Caldwell’s vocal performance sits right in that sweet spot between soulful and restrained. It is yacht rock at its most refined, the kind of track that quietly elevates everything around it: my biggest pet peeve of the Yacht Rock dock-umentary was leaving my favorite song off their overly curated list.

—Follow Mary McCarthy on Substack, Instagram & Bluesky

Winston Pingeon became a Capitol Police Officer not long afer graduating from American University, proudly serving this nation and never imagining he’d be defending the Capitol against violent attacks on January 6 2021 (insurrectionists are referred to on the official White House web page as “patriotic Americans” and “peaceful protestors”). This week Trump created a $1.776 billion “anti-weaponization” fund “to hear and redress claims of others who suffered weaponization and lawfare.”

On January 6, Winston was physically assaulted while struggling to defend his gun from being removed, was pepper sprayed, and feared for his life. In total, 174 officers were injured and a total of five died resulting from the violence that day. Winston left the force ten months later and is now an artist; his works depicting the day have been donated to the Smithsonian and appear on his Instagram.

He shared with me some thoughts about current events:

Mary McCarthy (MM): You were on the front lines on January 6. When you hear about a federal fund that could potentially compensate individuals connected to that day, how does that sit with you personally and professionally?

Winston Pingeon (WP): I was incredibly disappointed to hear the news, and yet nothing surprises me at this point.  I continue not to be surprised by how horrible the re-writing of history of the January 6th attack is and the injustice that remains.  The President could’ve just moved on from the attack he inspired. He did not need to pardon violent felons who were convicted of serious crimes of attacking police officers, my colleagues and friends. But instead, he seeks to completely rewrite the facts of what actually happened, and celebrate those violent criminals by pardoning them, and now seeking to PAY them. How can any reasonable American even remotely think that this is OK? The Trump administration is trying to celebrate insurrectionist treasonists as “patriots”. 

MM: Critics are calling this $1.7+ billion “Anti-Weaponization Fund” a potential “slush fund.” From your perspective as someone who experienced the violence firsthand, what are the ethical concerns that stand out most to you?

WP: How is giving taxpayer money to convicted felons OK? The credit and compensation should be given to the Capitol and DC Police officers who valiantly fought to defend Congress and our Democracy on that day. This fund is a very public message that criminals who are willing to be loyal to the President are completely immune from any prosecution. Many January 6th offenders have continued to commit crimes since. 

No person is above the law-  I believe that justice is crucial to moving on from the attack on the Capitol. But at this point, I think it’s likely impossible justice ever will occur, given what has happened since. When our nation of law and order fundamentally is altered by the President who granted sweeping pardons to those who were convicted in a court of law, by a jury of their peers, for violently assaulting my fellow officers, at this point I don't even know how we could get true justice. This fund is corruption at the highest degree. When I was a police officer, I wasn’t even allowed to accept someone buying me a cup of coffee. And now, the President of the United States can simply allocate over 1 billion dollars to support his convicted criminal supporters. 

MM: Supporters of the fund argue it’s meant to help people who were unfairly targeted by the justice system. Do you see any legitimacy in that argument, or does it conflict with what you witnessed during the attack?

WP: No actual facts exist that support the argument that people who stormed the Capitol were unfairly targeted. The people who committed crimes and assaulted police and illegally trespassed all faced consequences for their actions and were convicted in a court of law, by a jury of their peers, or in a plea agreement. That is justice, and that is how our system is supposed to work. The January 6th attack was one of the most widely documented crimes in American history. Yet so many people cherry pick the footage and simply ignore the violence, or blame it on completely false conspiracy theories. 

MM: There are concerns that people involved in the Capitol riot could be eligible for compensation under the fund’s broad criteria. What message do you think that possibility sends—to law enforcement, and to the public?

WP: The Capitol Police sacrificed so much on that day. and continue to make sacrifices in service to Congress, and to our Country. They should be the ones being rewarded. The only thing officers got that day were scars, both physical and emotional, and now the criminals who inflicted that damage are the ones being rewarded? I don’t think the American public, especially half of the country, realize how much damage was done on January 6th and how devastating it was for the officers. 

MM: We just learned that two officers have filed a federal lawsuit to block this fund, calling it unconstitutional and dangerous. Do you support that legal challenge, and what do you hope comes from it?

WP: I am glad to see that Officer Hodges and Harry Dunn have filed a lawsuit- I commend them for their continued commitment to doing the right thing and seeking justice. At the minimum, I hope this suit will cancel this fund. And ideally, I would hope that it would prevent anything like this from being possible in the future. 

MM: Looking forward, what would accountability or justice look like to you now, more than five years after January 6?

WP: It is difficult to think about how negatively this could affect things ahead. If criminals are literally rewarded with cash for their crimes, what does that say to the public? As a police officer, I swore an oath to support and defend the Constitution of the United States. It’s hard to not lose hope when that oath is so blatantly disregarded at the highest levels of government. I choose to try and stay optimistic but it’s not easy. Police officers are problem solvers- but our democracy being slowly and systematically dismantled is not a problem I or any officer individually can solve.  We must all continue to resist the corruption that's been normalized by this administration, and help our neighbors- do the right thing.

Find Winston on Instagram.

—Follow Mary McCarthy on Substack, Instagram & Bluesky

My small-town racist version of Devil Wears Prada.

Mary McCarthy

Once upon a time, in a magazine editing job long ago in my past, I had a Miranda. Fresh off watching a planned double-feature of Prada last night, the story was shuffled to the forefront of my memory like a crusty minor league PTSD moment.

I planned to see the The Devil Wears Prada 2 with one of my life’s best friends and thought it was a decent sequel to the first film, which I put on yesterday afternoon while crafting.. I don’t agree it’s quite as lackluster as its 2.5 stars on Roger Ebertthough the review there is accurate— I’m just a sucker for nostalgia. Watching them back to back, the first one made me cry and the second one did not (nearly everything makes me cry)if I wanted to swap out a “wet tissue” versus “rotten tomato” review approach. I get the typical “second one never as good as the first one” effect many films suffer, but it’s absolutely worth seeing for the performances of Meryl Streep, Emily Blunt and Stanley Tucci alone. To me, “Anne Hath-a-way of always playing Anne Hathaway” if you catch my drift, so no change there— but all four of them haven’t really aged a day in twenty years.

In the theatre last night, I was reminded of my small-town Temu Prada journalism experience just before the first film came out over two decades ago. I was working as a Managing Editor of a regional magazine, and my personal Miranda was a tyrant publisher who terrified the entire editorial staff, particularly at our weekly Monday Morning Meeting. She’d go around the room choosing different publication editors to verbally belittle, demean and humiliate, often screaming. When she was in the office, the vibes were filled with fear and currents of gossiphummed as folks worried whether, when and where her wrath would descend. I kept to myself in my tiny, windowless depressing cubicle, so proud of my first full-time editorial position— the stuff dreams were made of allegedly, just keep your head down and do your job, I thought. As a kid who was raised in an alcoholic household, the feeling was familiar: avoid conflict at all costs.

One day, as our collective monthly publications had already gone to print, I happened to be the last one working late in the office— alone, I thought, when suddenly: it happened. Marshall’s Miranda came stomping down the hall screaming “WHO DID THIS?!” My heart gripped with fear. I knew there was no one else to answer that question, and that my cubicle was the last in an empty row. I had no way to flight, and I did not want to fight. She appeared- red faced, furious, and clutching a loose magazine wedding cover.

“Who approved this black-white wedding?” she screamed as she got to my cubicle, turning the wrinkled page to display the beautiful Jamaican wedding cover that had been featured, photographed and sent to print. It took my brain a second to register that race- a mixed-race bridal couple- was what she was referring to when she said “black-white” because in publishing I’d immediately thought of coloration scale— like the photos were black and white versus color. I remembered the feature produced by my friend the weddings editor.

But it was a color photo, and in that moment I was learning of her racism. I didn’t know how to respond. She already knewhow the publication process worked in terms of approvals, so I just offered: “It’s already at print.” She screamed, “Pull it! We are pulling it.” I suggested, as gently as possible, that the cost of this would be extremely high, but also that the optics of stopping the presses for her were poor. It was then I remembered the freelancer who wrote the piece- either the bride or the groom was her kid. She hissed she didn’t care, it was getting pulled and she stormed off.

After I heard her leave the building, I quietly packed my few belongings into an empty copy paper box, printed out a two-line resignation letter to leave on my desk, and I left the building. It was one thing to work for an insane person, but another entirely to work for a racist.

—Follow Mary McCarthy on Substack, Instagram & Bluesky

Saying goodbye to Athena, the best cat ever. 

Mary McCarthy

The naming of cats, as T.S. Eliot told us in his 1939 poem (later adapted by Andrew Lloyd Weber into the musical Cats) is “a difficult matter,” consisting of three different types of names: the “familial name” the cat's family use daily, the "fancier" name derived from ancient and mythological figures, and the "ineffable" secretive name that Eliot states only "THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess."

Our cat Athena, (household nickname Kika), died in my arms this week after courageously battling brain cancer for several months, sadly and ironically diagnosed just after my mom died of brain cancer in January.

About a decade ago, my daughter Molly (now a veterinarian) and I walked into a crowded cat rescue and Athena chose us by being the coolest, most somehow simultaneously nonchalant and passionate cat there, sitting on the windowsill and acting like she didn’t care about the tiresome behavior of the other cats, yet fighting them for our attention when necessary to ride the gravy train out of there. 

Molly named her for the Greek goddess Athena, one of mythology’s most fascinating feminist icons who ruled with intelligence and strategy over chaos or brute force. Unlike gods obsessed with conquest, Athena represents calculated justice, wisdom, democracy, and disciplined warfare: she invented the modern day jury system, and the Statue of Liberty is fashioned after her. She was also the patron of handicrafts, especially weaving, proving power exists in creativity as much as combat. Cities looked to her for protection and fair leadership, most famously Athens, which was named in her honor. 

Molly had no way of knowing at the time how perfect the name was for the intelligent cat we’d adopted. Her incredibleability to craft different nuanced relationships for each family member based on our personalities ranged from athletic wrestling opponent to patient, comforting lap cat in times of emotional need. There were moments of humor: as she began to lose her vision and walked the house to “map” it in her mind, my son, her wrestling buddy gave her yet another cat nickname: “the Roomba.”

I became a reiki master years ago because I was fascinated by universal healing and the practice of the body’s ability to heal itself. I’d remembered learning pet reiki and when Athena got sick I sat with her almost every day in this gentle practice of deep relaxation. Since there is so much stress around a beloved pet’s terminal illness, these were treasured moments for me and I believe, for her, as she was very peaceful during these times. I thanked her for the years of joy, love and comfort she brought to our family and told her that I didn’t want her to suffer on our behalf. I’m not sure which one of us was providing more comfort during these sessions.

Although she was named for the goddess of war, I didn’t want her “fight” to be more prolonged or painful than necessary as we worked through her palliative care with the medications we were given, managed by the local veterinary clinic where our daughter had worked as an intern during high school, college and veterinary school. Molly’s support during this time, even as she manages her own veterinary practice and the difficulty of dealing with the sadness of losing a beloved pet of her own, was appreciated beyond words.

We didn’t know if we’d have to make the terrible decision to take her to the vet to end her suffering, but she made the choice for us. After a tough day, which she spent outside in the sun, her favorite place, the morning came. She gave one last head-butt to her dad, which had been their signature greeting. A bunny came to the front door, as though representing her neighborhood sworn enemies whose offspring the goddess of war had long slain: a dignified farewell.

She died in my arms with the gentlest purr for a goodbye. It will be awhile before I’m able to buy a can of sardines— we used to share them for lunch; many of the pieces you read by me were written with her sleeping between me and my laptop. 

—Follow Mary McCarthy on Substack, Instagram & Bluesky

The Gift of Not Belonging by Rami Kaminski is the black sheep bible.

Mary McCarthy

Since I was a little kid, I haven’t fit in. No need for tiny violins, this isn’t a victim-sobbing post, merely reporting facts for observation and analysis. As a kid I grew up in an apartment complex just outside the main line of Philadelphia, surrounded by some of the wealthiest people in the world while my parents never owned a home. I worked at the mall, others shopped. In college I worked three jobs to pay tuition, no time for sororities or parties. When I became a mom and didn’t like ball-pit mom-groups, I worked at home as a journalist; lifelong preferring 1-2 close friends to a clique. As a writer, candlemaker and miniaturist, my pursuits are solitary; happily working on an island for 13 years.

But I’m also outgoing and tend toward leadership:  a former elected official, magazine editor and executive director of a number of nonprofits, speaking on beachcombing education from coast to coast. So I’m not shy exactly in certain environments. It’s weird: I’d rather speak on a topic I’m passionate about to 5,000 people than be in a room of 25 people because I get social anxiety. So: am I an introvert or an extrovert?

I read a book recently that finally made sense to me: I’m neither. There’s a quiet disconnect that doesn’t get talked about much: not loneliness exactly, and not social anxiety either. It’s more like being present in a room full of people, participating, sometimesenjoying yourself, but still feeling slightly outside of it all. That’s the space Rami Kaminski, M.D. has put into words in The Gift of Not Belonging, by introducing a term most people haven’t heard before: the otrovert.

Kaminski’s concept is that not everyone is wired with the same internal drive to belong. While most of psychology has treated belonging as a basic human need, he pushes back on that. As he puts it, “belonging is not a requirement for living a rich, rewarding life.” It’s a simple sentence, but flips a pretty deeply rooted assumption. Instead of seeing that lack of pull toward group identity as something to fix, he treats it as a different way of moving through the world.

The term “otrovert” comes from the spanish word otro, meaning “other.” These are people who don’t necessarily feel excluded, but who also don’t fully buy into the shared experience of a group.

Kaminski describes it pretty bluntly: “otroverts never feel part of the shared experience.” That doesn’t mean they can’t socialize. In fact, many of them are perfectly capable in social settings. The difference is internal. There’s no real sense of merging with the group identity.

That distinction separates otroversion from introversion. An introvert might feel drained by social interaction. An otrovert might not feel drained at all, but still walk away thinking, I was there, but not really part of it. 

Kaminski emphasizes the upside of this. If you’re not anchored to group belonging, you’re also less dependent on group acceptance. “when you have no affinity for a particular group, your self-worth is not conditioned on the group’s approval.” That independence can show up as original thinking, or resistance to going along with the crowd. He frames it as a creative advantage, noting that otroverts tend to resist “hive mind” thinking and come up with ideas that aren’t shaped by consensus.

There are challenges. The world is built around belonging. School, work, friendships, even casual social life all assume some level of group participation. If you don’t naturally feel that pull, it’s easy to internalize that as a flaw: “feeling like you don’t fit in.”

The broader conversation around otroverts is still developing. It hasn’t fully landed in academic psychology, and some people are skeptical about whether it’s a distinct personality type or just a reframing of existing ideas. But culturally, it’s starting to resonate. A piece in the Guardian framed it as a kind of independence from tribal thinking, suggesting that not needing to belong can actually be a ‘superpower.’

“Because they don’t feel an obligation to endorse the collective position, opinion or point of view, otroverts are fiercely independent, outside-the-box thinkers who approach problems from new angles, leading to creative discoveries and contributions. And because they define success by what they achieve, not what they achieve in relation to others, they are more fulfilled creatively and professionally.”

It’s been helpful for me to find a new way to describe the “lone wolf” (not in the serial killer/assassin way) lifestyle I’ve naturally had for over half a century. No PTA, no sorority, no “girls weekends,” always a bride, never a bridesmaid. I don’t mind being alone because there isn’t stress to be surface-y and performative and I’ve encountered so few emotionally intelligent people who are capable of deep, meaningful interaction. The key is just to find a few other cool otroverts; I wish there was a bar. Apropos of the beachcombing community I’ve encountered, I’m often reminded of the Anais Nin quote: “I must be a mermaid. I have no fear of depths and a great fear of shallow living."

—Follow Mary McCarthy on Substack, Instagram & Bluesky

Canon in D is Blues Traveler’s secret weapon.

Mary McCarthy

There’s something quietly genius about “Hook,” the mid-90s hit by Blues Traveler, and once you really hear it, you can’t unhearwhat it’s doing. On the surface, the song is catchy, loose, a little rambling, driven by harmonica and an unmistakable sing-talk delivery. But underneath, its intellectual lyrics explaining why songs like it work in the first place, poking fun at why you love it.

At the center of it is John Popper, one of the more unlikely frontmen to ever land a Top 40 hit. Born in Ohio and raised partly in New Jersey, Popper built his reputation less on image and more on pure musical force. He’s a virtuoso harmonica player, the kind who treats the instrument like a lead guitar, weaving rapid-fire solos that feel almost impossible to replicate. Blues Traveler itself came out of the late 80s jam band scene, eventually breaking through with their 1994 album Four, which went multi-platinum and turned songs like “Run-Around” and “Hook” into radio staples.  

“Hook” is easily the most self-aware of the bunch. The song famously opens with the line, “It doesn’t matter what I say,” which is less a throwaway lyric and more a thesis statement. Popper is openly admitting the trick. As one critic says, the song is essentially a commentary on how listeners latch onto melody and delivery more than meaning, a kind of inside joke about the music industry itself.  

If the melody sounds oddly familiar, that’s because it is. The structure of “Hook” borrows heavily from Pachelbel’s Canon in D, one of the most recycled chord progressions in Western music. That progression acts as the literal hook, reinforcing the song’s argument while also proving it. You’re already wired to like it. Popper knew that and leaned all the way in. One criticdescribes the philosophy behind the song, stating: "the commentary is a big joke about how listeners will like just about anything laid on top of the chords of the infinitely clichédPachelbel canon, even lyrics that openly mock them for liking it."

What makes the song stick decades later is how shamelessly it pulls back the curtain. At one point, Popper basically confesses, “I’ve said nothing so far,” and keeps going anyway. It’s funny, ironic and smug, but deeply honest in a way pop music rarely is. The chorus drives it home with that line everyone remembers: the hook brings you back. Not the lyrics (though their message ironically also turns out to be meaningful), just the hook.

Popper has talked about the unique circumstances of writing“Hook”; it’s one of a kind track that functions as both parody and proof of deeper meaning in melody and lyric: critiquingshallow songwriting while becoming a massive hit using the same tools.  

Of course, Popper himself hasn’t exactly had a quiet career outside the music. He’s been open about struggles with weight and underwent major weight loss surgery, something that changed both his health and stage presence. There’s also been controversy, including a well-publicized 2007 arrest in Washington state involving weapons and marijuana, and a 2017 online harassment situation, which added a layer of notoriety to his public image. Neither derailed his career, but reinforced that he’s always been a complicated figure, not just the guy with the harmonica.

Through all of that, his musicianship has never really been in question. Even critics of the band tend to concede that Popper’s technical ability is on another level. “Hook” is probably the best example of that balance between skill and concept. The harmonica lines aren’t just instrumental, they’re part of the argument, pulling you in while the lyrics quietly explain why you’re being pulled in.

What’s interesting is how the song ages. The music industry it critiques has only gotten more formula-driven, more algorithmic, more dependent on that instant grab. If anything, “Hook” feels less like satire now and more like a blueprint. The idea that a familiar progression and a strong melodic loop can outweigh lyrical substance is standard industry practice now.

The song still works exactly the way Popper said it would. You can analyze it, break it down, appreciate the irony, and still find yourself humming along without thinking twice. That’s always been the trick. In the end, he told you the truth from the start. The hook brings you back.

—Follow Mary McCarthy on Substack, Instagram & Bluesky

Bitch about it in Kylie Kelce’s comments and out yourself as a dumbass.

Mary McCarthy

I’ve never been big on celebrity news, gossip, whatever— in my lifetime have never purchased a tabloid magazine at the checkout or watched a newsmagazine show if that’s what they’re called. And not to throw shade at all, but none of my kids happened to be fans so I’m not sure I could name three songs by Taylor Swift.. I don’t dislike her, just haven’t really been exposed to a lot of her music because I’m old and it was never really playing around me. I admire her story and in interviews she’s clearly brilliant and funny. So I assume how I saw this story is because as a Philadelphian I’m a Jason Kelce fan and follow the New Heights podcast. By default then, I do see some Travis/Taylor content. 

So one day I see a clip of Kylie Kelce (wife of Jason) in a podcast where she is expressing strong opinions about the tabloid media hounding her mother-in-law Donna about the upcoming wedding of Travis and Taylor. In this segment, Kylie says: “Stop f–king asking my mother-in-law, TMZ. F–king being creeps in the f–ing airport. Ew. Here’s the thing, even if I did have any information, I’m not f–king telling you. That’s private information between family.” Going forward, Kylie said her “new answer” will be: “Suck my a–.”

Enter the online trolls, bullies and critics clutching many strands of pearls and policing her language. She’s “ripped by fans” and the “internet has bad blood” with her (yes, I get the Swift reference.) The comments were brutal; there was even a South Park style cartoon comparing Kylie to Megan Markle and Prince Harry with a caption stating her podcast exists “for the sole purpose of monetizing her relationship/proximity to Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce.” 

This overinflated outrage is ridiculous on a few fronts. First of all, Kylie Kelce, who’s earned the nickname “Princess Kyana” in Philly as a well-loved mom of four, is not a try-hard fame-chaser wannabe. Her podcast “Not Gonna Lie” was covered by the New York Times when it ranked above Joe Rogan (the Times demurely described it as “often laced with four-letter words”). While being married to a famous retired NFL SuperBowl champion didn’t hurt, many women are married to NFL players and don’t have wildly successful podcasts at age 34 while raising 4 kids. She earned her success in podcasting because of her own personality, experience and talent: she has a degree in communications from Cabriniwhere she worked in newspaper and radio and was also a 4-year NCAA starter field hockey athlete, later becoming a high school field hockey coach.  

Secondly, she was defending her family. The TMZ clip of Donna Kelce being hounded in an airport while trying to remain polite is cringy at best, and Kylie is responding to it authentically. She curses. If people don’t like it, they shouldn’t follow her or listen to her podcast, it’s really simple as that. Trying to turn it into a punching down moment with churchy, outraged comments against her is stupid. She’s not a privileged, elite, condescending celebrity type and if you’ve listened to her content for five minutes or know anything about her, you know the royals cartoon is silly. 

And finally, acting like profanity makes her trashy is the wrong take. People mistakenlyassume swearing signals language laziness, but research suggests the opposite: people who use a wider range of profanity often have larger vocabularies and verbal fluency. One study found that people who use more swear words also have a higher vocabulary in general. Other research links profanity with emotional intelligence and honesty. In everyday conversation, a well-placed expletive reflects expressive skill rather than a lack of intelligence.

Bottom line is this: Kylie is athirtysomething down to earth field hockey coach Philly girl who happens to be married to a famous NFL player (she methim on Tinder!) whose famous NFL player brother happens to be marrying a famous pop star. Fame is something that happened to her, it isn’t something she sought. Her podcast is adored by moms, sports fans, and tons of folks and should be avoided by conservative, pearl-clutching, holier-than-thou types whose criticism says more about their condescending envy than it fuckin does about her.

Follow Mary McCarthy on Instagram.

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