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Suggested Song: Time, Pink Floyd
Suggested Drink: French 75 cocktail (lots of bubbles): gin, lemon juice, champagne, simple syrup

Listen to this essay:

“Do not go gentle into that good night.”
– Dylan Thomas

Uncle John died on Monday. He was the final ascendant of my generation of siblings and his passing left a sobering reminder that we are now on top of the bubble; the next Pez to pop. No one left above appraising us with eyebrow raised, only those below to bless with our unassailable wisdom. Ahem.

I last saw John in September, when my brother Joe and I travelled to Montreal for a quick hello. We sensed that time was dwindling. John was in failing health, but still living independently in a facility for elders and engaged with the world. He never warmed to the internet, but followed the news through a heavy dose of journals and CNN, and was impressively current on everything obscure to global. He held no shortage of opinions, just ask.

John had more charm and cheek than a boatful of pirates, chatting with everyone, flirting with some, and repeating stories of his colorful youth in Montreal. The sleek cars and mafia dolls, hanging with his pal Billy at this hot spot or that, and 50 years of memories with Eileen, the love of his life. I can visualize a massive burst of life energy exploding into a kaleidoscope of cosmic dust the moment Uncle John finally let go.

Runways

I’m in pretty good shape, aka nick (the Brits), aka forme (the French). I follow the Mediterranean Diet, exercise, get in my 8 hours at night, stay social, make attempts at moderation, and juggle a collection of projects that fill me with purpose. In the past, when suffering a wobble I could survey the condition of older generations and feel, by contrast, blessed. Now I’ve lost that comparative advantage. The one-eyed cat with the ratty fur? Now that’s me.

This bubble slot prompts me to gauge the runway. I’m counting on 20 more good years, with 10 to 15 at full gallop and the rest at an inspired trot. I may do better on both counts, and then again maybe not. All one can do is try to stay in good shape, nick, forme (see above).

The capricious runway of one’s final act provokes an option to go bold (not gentle, to quote our Welsh poet) while able. What can I create and what can I consume that are most profound (and for whom) in the time remaining? I don’t value consumption as bold by the price tags of bumptious possessions gathering dust in idle sitting rooms. I similarly don’t measure creation as bold through numbers of followers, likes, or purchases it engenders. Can you imagine social media reactions in the early careers of Kafka, Cage, or Pollock? 🤷‍♂️😝👎

Being inspired and getting paid for it are conjoined for emerging creatives of any stripe: artists, architects, inventors, startup founders, etc. Not as much for those of us on the bubble. I want to be rewarded for my creative output, but won’t sacrifice my vision to that end. This is a luxury most younger creatives don’t enjoy. I’m looking to be remembered in 100 years, they are looking to pay the rent this month. Between these 2 extremes lies a spectrum of compromise. We all find our spot.

Bold consumption, for me, leans into personal enrichment. What can I absorb that strengthens my outer creativity? What can I absorb that deepens my inner journey? Answers? I’m not sure, but the fun is in figuring that out.

Family will play a larger role through these bubble years. More quality time spent with my siblings and California kids is growing in priority. Investing more in developing my various crafts is also taking on greater urgency. With whom can I collaborate to light the creative flame? What additional knowledge can deepen my appreciation for how this world turns? What experiences will render me a much richer and more interesting Bill to those with whom I commune? These have always been fun barstool considerations. As the runway shortens they take on greater urgency.

My Interprize Workshops have to-date centered on the art of mid-life reinvention. As I see that mid-life point coming into sharper rearview view, I’m reworking the concept and content to include those on-the-bubble considerations above. I plan to revive the workshops in the next year, so all thoughts are invited. ‘Till then, go have fun!

Bill Magill
Aix-en-Provence

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Suggested Song: Fortunate Son, Creedence Clearwater Revival
Suggested Drink: El Presidente cocktail. Rum, vermouth, orange curaçao, grenadine.

Listen to this essay:

I pledge allegiance to the flag
of the United States of America.

If you attended US public grade schools, then you almost certainly recited the Pledge of Allegiance at the start of each day. It is a verse so etched into our cerebral cortexes, even dementia finds it hard pressed to dislodge. (About 87% of American adults can still recite some or all of the pledge, according to YouGov.)

This vow is an artifact from our youths, its ceremonial value displaced by spirited anthems like the “Star Spangled Banner” and “God Bless America” for public events. Still, I’ve been meditating on its purpose and meaning recently, in light of current times in America.

Getting kids to recite this patriotic pledge daily serves to remind them

1. of a steadfast fidelity,
2. to a flag and country,
3. and the strong moral and democratic values for which it stands.

The Pledge of Allegiance, by Norman Rockwell

The pledge says nothing about America’s beauty and bounty (GBM covers that in spades) nor American’s valor and bravery (the domain of the SPB). It also makes no mention of historic leaders, inspiring heroes, or the royal divine (cue up “God Save the King”).

It is, instead, a short but profound oath to a flag and all that this simple piece of cloth symbolizes.

America is under assault. One man and a cabal of loyalists have infested the White House, bent on subverting American democracy into an authoritarian, mafia state and family cash machine. Hungary and Russia provide helpful DIY playbooks, and indeed their tyrants have been singled out for praise often by the aspiring despot. Team T’s agenda is enabled by a complete lack of spine on the part of our elected bulwark, compromised by higher priorities, it seems, than saving the nation.

To be fair, there has been no subterfuge as to the motives and objects of Team T. Transparency defined their election platform and early governance. They even published a 900 page manifesto – Project 2025 – laying out in clear detail the group’s ideology and intentions, should there be any confusion. (I like to consider it Stephen Miller’s little Mein Kompf moment.) And so for the citizens who continue to defend Trump, elected officials who refuse to check Trump, and corporate titans who stand behind Trump, your allegiances are clear.

Family heroes

My Canadian grandfather fought in the trenches of WWI. Two uncles fought in the Pacific campaign of WWII; one took a bullet. I live in France now, where a heroic underground resisted Nazi occupiers. My ex-wife’s father took tremendous risk, particularly as a Jew, to be a member of this Resistance in Paris. Knowing that our ancestors, when called, fought with the good guys is a respected badge of family honor. To share that one’s forbears aided and abetted the enemy? Not so good.

This is such a time in America. An existential threat to the nation has been spun in motion. It is interesting (and in many instances, confusing) to see where allegiances have formed. A record of this moment will be shared in family myths for generations to come. Are you standing beside the stalwart Jimmy Stewart in “Who Shot Liberty Valance,” or behind the sadistic Lee Marvin? This choice is being forced upon us.

Allegiances made

To Danielle Sassoon and the 6 federal prosecutors who resigned rather than acquiesce to Team T’s corruption of the investigation of New York City mayor Eric Adams, your allegiances are clear. It would have been easy to stay employed, arguing that someone with some level of integrity needed to remain in the building. Instead, when asked to kneel in fealty you stood with fists high and shouted a resounding Fuck No! Hagan Scott put a fine point on the collective refusal to obey: “I expect you will eventually find someone who is enough of a fool, or enough of a coward, to file your motion, but it was never going to be me.” Your children and grandchildren will long sing your praises. You are all to be saluted for your allegiances to the flag. (If passing through Provence, a first glass of rosé is on me.)

Danielle Sassoon, former US Attorney for the Southern District of New York.

To the current class of Republican Senators, your allegiances are clear. For some of you, it is to the convicted felon himself. For others, it is to the affluence and entitlement that comes with your seats. For none of you, is it to the flag and your nation, as evidenced in your votes. When not cheerleading Team T for crumbs of favor, you have enabled them time and again, certifying en mass and without exception the most unqualified of stooges like Hegseth, Kennedy, Patel, Gabbert, and Vought, who have openly collaborated with our enemies, disparaged our allies, shown shocking levels of ignorance in the face of proven science, and made clear their intentions to inflict grave harm to our constitutional foundations. You still voted Yea. Your children and grandchildren will avoid talk of the cowardice displayed when the nation called. You will be the shamed women of France who consorted with the enemy, paraded through cobblestone streets with heads shaved after the retreat of the Reich. History will not be kind.

To Speaker Johnson and the current slate of House Republicans, … no need to discuss. Apparently, there is no shame.

To Zuckerberg, Bezos, Zi Chew, Cook, Altman, Pichai, Nadella, and the other billionaire titans of tech and industry who joined Musk on the Trump stage for inauguration day, your allegiances are clear. It would be kind to say that it is to your shareholders. A less generous judgement would opine that each of you prioritizes one shareholder in particular. I do understand your dilemma. Most of us embraced Friedman and his doctrine that all boats are lifted – shareholders, employees, and customers, alike – when corporate profits are maximized, in stable times. These are not stable times (and Friedman’s doctrine has not aged well) . Each of you has more wealth in cash and shares than you could possibly spend in 10 lifetimes. Your grandchildren’s grandchildren are covered. When weighing your fiduciary responsibilities and personal abundance against the destruction of American democracy, how much is enough? You have achieved great things, but your legacies will be forever tainted by a condemning asterisk: “*Avowed champion of Donald Trump and his ruinous 47th presidency.”

https://static.euronews.com/articles/stories/08/98/20/44/1920x1080_cmsv2_70dc0eb6-eb9f-547e-b5b6-bc35fba2742d-8982044.jpg
Tech titans on the stage at President Trump’s 2025 inauguration.

(By the way, Jensen Huang, CEO of Nvidia – with a larger market capitalisation than Facebook, Amazon, Google, and all but 2 of your companies – declined the inauguration invite, opting to celebrate Chinese New Year in Asia instead. No asterisk required.)

Our pledges

We are at a crossroads. Camps are forming and alliances shifting, astonishingly fast. The crimes and chaos inflicted by the current regime are too many and too egregious to ignore. Indifference will be a sign of acquiescence. I fear that the center will not hold. Action is needed now.

Each of us has a choice. We who voted D, we who voted R, all of my friends and fellow Americans. In 4 years, or 10 or 40, how will your allegiance in this moment be remembered?

For me:
I pledge allegiance
to the flag
of the United States of America
and to the republic
for which it stands
one nation under God
with liberty and justice for all.

Bill Magill
Aix-en-Provence

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Suggested Song: Easy to be Hard, from the soundtrack of Hair.
Suggested Drink: Cup of Kindness: Ceylon tea, vodka, pineapple syrup, passionfruit purée, rambutan juice.

Bedside manner (noun): A person’s manner when dealing with others.
Merriam-Webster Dictionary

Chloé died in December. She had put up with me and a rotation of the kids for 14 years, in the same apartment on rue Manuel in Aix-en-Provence. Our relationship could get strained, but I did love that cat’s presence in the home, and she appreciated my reliable catering service. The final day was blue.

Displays of empathy

Our vet has a magical way with animals. I made only a couple of appointments with him through the years, as Chloé would fight tooth and switchblade claw against getting in that red plastic travel box. Oven mitts were required to scoop her up and I would still take some bloody nicks from those flailing paws of furry. For the short walk through town she’d be wailing a lament so defiant and intense that everyone on the street turned to stare; that evil man is torturing this sweet kitty! But once on the vet’s table she was as calm and compliant as a med school cadavor to his prods and pokes.

Chloé keeping guard on the courtyard, on a warmer summer day in Provence.

Chloé’s kidneys were failing and there was little to be done. The vet ran some tests and kept her for the day, and when I returned that evening he laid out the options. When I decided to put her down the vet concurred, with a bedside manner of incredible tenderness and empathy, as if the decision was as difficult for him as me. He left the exam room to prepare the injection but gave us as much time alone as desired, despite the late hour. I stroked Chloé’s sedated head and reminisced through her greatest hits of wayward behavior: the digs and sudden scratches; the piddled blankets and ruined furniture; the mad bolts for our building’s basement. Damn it Chloé, I’ll miss you. Then, a deciding shot and she was gone.

It wasn’t easy to bid Chloé adieu, but the vet’s soft bedside manner eased the grief. It struck me, walking home that evening with the empty carrier, that his heartfelt display of emotional intelligence was increasingly rare in today’s world. Acts of kindness and compassion are considered reflections of weakness. Inflictions of cruelty and callous indifference signs of strength.

Displays of cruelty

The most vulnerable are suffering the greatest. In Gaza, almost 18,000 children have been killed in the past 16 months and that small sandy strip “is home to the largest cohort of child amputees in modern history,” according to the United Nations. These horrors are rationalised with a dismissive well they started it shrug of indifference.

In the US, massive “soft sided” internment camps are being planned to contain tens of thousands of immigrant families while their cases are reviewed. For many parents the options will be (1) leave this land of promise as a unit and deprive their children of hope and opportunity, much less personal safety, or (2) leave the kids on American soil, to be raised by relatives or put up for adoption, and suffer unbearable separation, perhaps permanently. This nightmarish choice is being casually swatted away with a well, that’s their call shrug of indifference.

Spirit of America, by Norman Rockwell

The bluntness with which men like Itamar Ben-Gvir, Stephen Miller, and Tom Homan can dispel with any hint of person reflection and humanity is staggering. The peace and love idealism of the ‘60s died at Altamont, folks. Move the f*ck on. (Google it.)

I’m a weak man. I see a young girl crying out for her even younger brother on the evening news and tear up. Watching a family frog marched out of their home, into a van, and away from the years of memories and hopes that had fuelled their American dream; this crushes me as well.

My Scots-Irish immigrant grandfather gave my dad the most precious of gifts: the possibility of a bountiful life. And my parents, in turn, shared this blessing with me. I made something of it, and want everyone on the planet to equally have that chance. This is naïve, I know. There will always be suffering, I know. Life ain’t faire, I know. I accept these inequities, but can take a page from our vet’s playbook and at least treat those less blessed with humility and compassion. This makes a difference and costs me nothing, just a bit of gentle bedside manner.

Bill Magill
Aix-en-Provence

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Suggested Song: With a Little Help From My Friends (as performed by Joe Cocker)
Suggested Drink: Charleston 75: Bourbon, St. Germain, Citrus, Sparkling Rosé.

“A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for adversity.”
Proverbs 17:17

Birthdays are fun milestones to celebrate when younger; pesky reminders to commiserate when older. Family and close friends are welcome allies in both cases.

Friends

We gathered in Charleston this past weekend to celebrate a friend’s 60th. We, being a collection of good friends who’ve fêted this man through the decades. I wrote about his 50th ten years ago in an essay titled All The Fishes in the Sea, and looking forward to the next happening in 2035. He pulls in a crowd.

Decade birthdays offer a nice span for reconnecting. Enough time passes for real change, but not so much as to trigger amnesia. Who are you again? I have a high school reunion this fall and doubt I’ll recognize anyone. With my hippy days long faded, they’ll be stumped by this bald pate as well. It’s been 40 years since I last communed with the high school coterie. A lot of water under that home-town bridge.

Mike’s circle hales from a kaleidoscope of fascinating backgrounds and beautiful locales, which eases the decision to book the flight and join. Creatives, entrepreneurs, business types of every stripe, lawyers, bar owners and restaurateurs, dreamers, all coming from across the pond, around the country, and up from the Caribbean. A lively gang of rapscallions and bon vivants. Damn good fun.

Birthday boy Mike Sottak in the center chair.

A lot has been published about the harmful effects of alcohol recently, and a few at the birthday bash were running on no-octane, 0.0. The rest of us were imbibing along a spectrum of one-and-done to mumble-and-stumble. I’m trying to be more conscious about my intake this year and considering longer-term options. But this celebration didn’t seem like the time to hazard sobriety. Madness prevailed as we slow rolled through Charleston’s assortment of rooftop lounges and back street bars over the weekend. Moments like these are best spent with those allergic to incriminating photos and judicious with camera phones. Delete, delete, oh definitely delete.

Family

I stayed with my two sisters in Charlotte during this trip, and one was having a decade birthday of her own. (We’ll not discuss which particular decade.) It’s an easy drive from there to the coast for a weekend bash. A heavy dose of billboard porn keeps you awake on Interstate 26 across South Carolina. Displays for personal injury lawyers (just dial 999-9999!) and soul saving dominate. God bless America and ambulance chasers. My soul was ripe for revival after the weekend bacchanalia, but no legal services were required (somewhat amazingly).

My sisters have beautiful homes in charming towns north of Charlotte. Restaurants and cafes abound, people are friendly in that uniquely Southern way (what will it be, darling?), and the brothers-in-law enjoy their wine. All this to say, I feel spoiled when visiting.

I don’t see Joanie and Sue nearly enough and I appreciate them even more when together. Despite the distance we are a close clan, those 2 and my brother and me. If your life is filled with trusted, engaging friends and loving family, you are blessed. I am blessed. I never take this for granted. Ma vie est belle.

Fools

I can be a fool. I procrastinate, navel gaze, spread gossip, go hermit, waste money, inflate achievements, drink too much, and … what am I missing? Perhaps billboard Jesus will consider a pardon (they’re the rage these days), but that’s a mighty ask. Mercifully, I have friends and family who not only embrace my virtues but forgive my sins, and what more can one celebrate in life than that? Amen.

Bill Magill
Aix-en-Provence

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Suggested Song: Hard Candy Christmas, Carol Hall (and sung by Reba McEntire).
Suggested Drink: Chateau LaCoste NOOH sparkling rosé, non-alcohol.

Big resolution pledges.
Big travel plans.
Big work ambitions.
Big fitness commitments.
Big hobby launches.

My cat never made big plans, and she seemed to enjoy life just fine.

Chloé at my bedroom window, making absolutely no plans at all.

The new year is about to break over the horizon. I’ve got big plans for 2025; I’m sure you do as well. It’s fun to imagine where we will be in another 12 months if these campaigns find achievement. Some may, some will not, but experience tells me it’s not the big things from the coming 12 months that I’ll remember most fondly. Ten favorite memories of 2024 are a collection of small moments shared with family or friends. They include, in no certain order:

  1. Placing a small vase of tulips on my daughter’s bedside table, just ahead of her visit home (well, her old home in Aix-en-Provence).
  2. Hearing the cork pop from a first bottle of Prosecco, opened by our waitress late morning at seaside in Italy, with a couple of close friends.
  3. Surveying endless rows of sun-splashed lavender bushes folding up and over the rolling Provence hills in hot, sunny July.
  4. Sharing thoughts about life with a young woman from Hong Kong, while in a 30-minute line for a paper plate of fried kway teow mee from Outram Park in Singapore’s Chinatown.
  5. An impromptu sharing of my umbrella with an Italian teenager, in a sudden heavy downpour in Ospedaletti, then talking about his travels to the US. Signore, per favore!
  6. Staring up at a large, original Banksy (The Mild Mild West), painted high on a wall and just around the corner from a friend’s home in Bristol.
  7. Comforting my cat Chloé last month with strokes and memories before the vet returned with the final, deciding injection. She survived 3 kids, frisky dogs, and a torrent of late-night dinner parties through the years, but couldn’t beat old age.
  8. Singing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” with my 3 kids in the bleachers at Oracle Park, and watching the SF Giants lose on a beautiful June afternoon. (Not a good year for the boys in orange and black.)
  9. Listening to Ermonela Jaho sing Puccini’s heart-tugging “Un Bel Di Vedremo” from Madame Butterfly, during the summer opera festival in Aix. No tears, damn it, no tears!
  10. Leafing through a photo album of memories with my 89 year-old Uncle John in Quebec, hearing tales of prized cars, old flames, and a perilous romance with a spicy mafia doll in Montreal. What a life.
The Mild Mild West, by Banksy. In Bristol, England.

I sit here now, in late December, plotting a 2025 of stretch goals and travel destinations. Some might even happen, and won’t that be amazing? I’ll be equally alert to the everyday little things that keep the joy ballast topped up. Unexpected moments with friends and family, and the beauty of nature. I’m blessed to live in the sun dappled south of France, with god’s greatest hits at every turn.

I’m wishing you hope and happiness for the year ahead. May your big plans come through, and those small joys provide a scrapbook of great memories for year end.

Bill Magill
Aix-en-Provence

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Suggested Song: Don’t Worry, Be Happy, Bobby McFerrin
Suggested Drink: Easy Breeze cocktail: vodka, grapefruit juice, cranberry juice.

“Don’t worry, be happy.”
– Meher Baba (and popularized by a Bobby McFerrin hit)

I spent 3 days at CERN recently, capping off a course on deep tech venture creation that I teach for INSEAD. CERN is the home of the Large Hadron Collider. At 27 km in circumference, it is the world’s largest particle accelerator designed to explore the world’s deepest unknowns. Uncovering the origins of our vast universe. Detecting the tiniest, most elusive particles of matter. Measuring dark energy and black holes. Creating a globe-spanning network called the internet.

The progress of knowledge at CERN is based on the scientific method: a rigorous adherence to observation, hypothesis and testing. This method is taught in first year STEM programs and followed by all reputable research centers across the globe. When conducted objectively its findings can be reviewed and reproduced by peers repeatedly, and the conclusions considered definitive. Penicillin, solar power, the detection of gravity waves; none of these are possible without the scientific method. The simple but demanding framework also strengthens our theories in domains as diverse as economics and geopolitics. Observation, hypothesis, testing, and repeat. Solid.

Freedom from rigor

I, for one, am relieved at our change in political fortune, for it marks a liberation from the onerous demands of the scientific method. Its demanding framework under which knowledge has blossomed since Newton gets in the way of the most prized alternative: wishful thinking. The world faces a host of vexing challenges – the climate continues to change, viruses spread, prices rise, dictators invade – and that these could be resolved (or simply denied) with a snap of the fingers is certainly aspirational. The incoming regime has an agenda to meet, quickly. Wrestling with the complexities of climate change, pandemics, inflation, and wars will get in the way. Time for a bit of wishful thinking.

Team Trump operates in a parallel multiverse of alternate facts and established principles. (For a brilliant short introduction to the multiverse by science writer Brian Greene CLICK HERE.) The conventions that govern science, economics, and geopolitics in our standard universe (let’s call it SUni) don’t temper ambitions in the Trump universe (TUni). There is no need for knowledge and doctrines based on decades of observation, hypothesis, and testing, which can run frustratingly counter to the president-elect’s priorities for self-glorification and financial gain. It’s a fresh and fluid perspective we all can embrace.

Crossing multiverses through a wormhole.

Just a few of the irritating annoyances we won’t need to put up with in TUni.

Vaccines

The US led the world in Covid cases and deaths, the latter topping 1.1 million as of mid 2023. The NIH estimates that at least 232,000 of these fatalities could have been prevented during just the 15-month peak if the unvaccinated had sought out just one injection. (Vaccines have been saving lives and reducing illness around the world since the invention in 1796 for Smallpox. Their safety and efficacy as a bulwark against infectious diseases have been thoroughly studied and well-documented for the past 220 plus years.) But vaccines are a pain! Appointments, and getting to the center, and was your previous shot a Pfizer or Moderna? Ahh, exhausting!

Should a new pandemic emerge (Avian Flu and Monkeypox have epidemiologists drinking heavily through their wine cellars at the moment), we won’t have to worry about vaccines in TUni. RFK Jr., tapped to direct American health policy, insists that vaccines cause autism (universally discredited in SUni) and accuses Anthony Fauci and Bill Gates of “a historic coup d’état against Western democracy”, by having promoted vaccines as the best defense against Covid. Instead, we will be popping ivermectin (an anti-parasitic treatment to deworm livestock) from the comfort of home and as Trump says, “it’s going to disappear, one day — it’s like a miracle — it will disappear.” Wishful thinking, easy peasy.

Wars

The war in the Ukraine is about to hit its 3-year mark and the pounding in Gaza exceeds 14 months. The toll on life and property has been unimaginable for all: the good guys and bad guys and particularly the civilians caught in the middle. The combined death toll among non-combatants approaches 60,000 and the US bankroll will top $200 billion in the next few months. Hostages are murdered and children starve. Totalitarians dream of empires of old. Extremists dance the dervish to antediluvian homelands and califates. In a world of global trade and corrupt leaders, the lines between ally and enemy blur. Negotiating with world leaders and jihadists tormented by fantasies of predestination can be, well, complicated!

But not in TUni. Trump will sit Putin and Zelenskyy down mano a mano and force a settlement that “I’ll have that done in 24 hours.” The plan, outlined by JD Vance in September, invites Russia to keep all the land it has grabbed illegally to date and in return Ukraine will promise not join NATO or the EU. Huh?

“If history teaches us anything, it teaches that simple-minded appeasement
or wishful thinking about our adversaries is folly.”
– Ronald Reagan

In political science the word for this is appeasement, and through decades of experience (observation, theory, and testing) we understand it’s efficacy. Indigenous Americans attempted appeasement with the arriving hoards through treaties, alliances, and trade to preserve their tribal lands. That didn’t work out so well. In 1938, Chamberland and Daladier appeased Hitler over a sliver of Czechoslovakia, who quickly resumed his march through Poland and the rest of Europe. And post WW II, Europe offered little reproach to Stalin’s territorial ambitions in the east, resulting in a domino fall of satellite puppet states and decades of Cold War turbulence. In all instances, self-delusion on parade. Wishful thinking shows a poor track record in SUni.

“I know Putin well,” Trump avows, and in TUni Putin’s word is gospel. Estonia, Lithuania, and Latvia (former Soviet satellites widely speculated to be next in Putin’s crosshairs) might want to get on the TUni train, and NATO as well. By dint of Article 5, NATO will be required to come to these Baltic states’ defense should bad shit happen. Putin wouldn’t do that, right? Better sleeping through wishful thinking.

Prices

The mechanics of economics have been well tested and boringly reliable for the past 100 years in SUni, since JM Keynes (Johny-boy to his friends) was kicking around Cambridge and pondering the Great Depression (so, how the hell did that happen?). The dismal science offers strong views about lots of things involving public spending and trade, tariffs included. The effects of tariffs have proved so ruinous to economies on both sides of the spat that most all countries (164 to be exact) have signed on to the Agreement on Tariffs and Trade (GATT), created in 1947 to end tariff wars and ensure free and open trade.

Tariffs cause inflation. It’s simple math:

Old Price of a good with no tariff (say, your next dishwasher from XYZ Corp.)
+ tariff % (essentially a tax)
————————————-
≈ New Price of same good under tariff (so XYZ Corp. can preserve its margins)

“Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.”
– Alber Einstein

This uncomplicated algebra, suffered painfully pre-Great Depression in SUni (during an American policy of isolationism), doesn’t add up in TUni, and praise be to god. Our close allies and global trading partners need a proper come to heel debasing, and under TUni math they will happily absorb the tariffs and not pass them on to American consumers. SUni economics is for gloomy losers. TUni economics is for wishful thinkers. Stay hopeful.

There are plenty of other vexing issues prime for a TUni multiverse. Immigration, unemployment, climate change, misinformation in the media, gun control; all of these are complicated challenges requiring tested policies based on best practices forged through years of mistakes and correction. Effective policies often require negotiation, compromise, and serious amounts of time to implement, in a SUni multiverse. No worries, just wishful thinking.

Bill Magill
Aix-en-Provence

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Suggested Song: Everyday People, The Family Stone (A Soundcloud remix)
Suggested Drink: Yuengling Traditional Lager (from America’s oldest brewery. Pottsville, PA)

“Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty.”
– Attributed to Thomas Jefferson, during the Constitutional Convention of 1787.

An election hangs in the balance. Two opposing views on who we are as Americans and the future we imagine for our nation. The selection we make will impact our lives in critical ways both globally and individually: our nation’s singular role on the world stage, and our own personal freedoms and prosperity. The stakes are high, the choices stark. And, to my community of old friends in Pennsylvania, you are once again bearing the burden and privilege of the Keystone State.

A covered bridge in Perry County, Pennsylvania.

I was born of Perry County dirt, and its residue remains stubbornly etched under my nails. Despite the many years away, its core values guide my moral compass (with occasional success) still: modesty, honesty, charity, country. An outsider would have considered my high school class a white-bread collection of rural, Protestant, conservative hicks. We were. But diversity in lifestyles and beliefs deepened with age and our individual journeys. Post graduation, some of us assumed the family farm, others took up shifts at Bethlehem Steel or the Hershey Creamery, and a few of us continued on to college, mostly within an afternoon’s drive from home. I ventured out to California and then France (quelle horreur!). We each grew in different directions, beautifully.

The scourge of social media offers at least one welcome benefit: friends can stay in regular contact, despite the miles, hours, and years apart. I rarely like or leave comments on my friends’ Facebook posts, but if you’re reading this, know that I enjoy following your lives and the choices you’ve made. The photos from class reunions I’ve missed, kitchen accomplishments (My Friday night chicken pot pie!), grandkids’ talents, and a healthy dose of Jesus (Share this post if you love the Lord!), keep me up to speed on the rhythms of my first community.

These online citations remind me from where I come and how much I’ve changed since my hillbilly youth. Change is a healthy result of roads travelled, mistakes made, lessons learned, and new ambitions ahead. Also, there is great value in staying closer to ground and resolute in one’s life-held beliefs and values.

Up for debate

I believe in the separation of church and state. I respect an athlete’s decision to take a knee while the Anthem plays. I believe that a woman’s right to choose is paramount to a fetus’s right to life. When it comes to the unchecked availability of handguns and semi-automatic assault weapons, the downsides far outweigh any benefits, in my opinion. You may hold different opinions that I respect in these contentious issues, and a well-oiled democracy encourages our disagreements through an orderly process of resolution. We debate and we vote.

“I do not seek to have my will be a law. I seek to govern my will by law.”
– William Penn, 1681

There are 2 candidates vying for your vote on November 5. One is making a case for the merits of idolatry and authoritarianism. “Our country is going to hell” and “only I can fix it” because “I am the chosen one,” so just give me the keys, now. And for those pesky patriots who disagree, “unrest should be very easily handled by, if necessary, by National Guard, or if really necessary by the military.”

The nut of this candidate’s pitch? Individual rights and differing opinions (mine and yours) will surrender to top-down decrees, enforced through boots on our streets. The checks and balances that keep lawmakers, law-enforcers, and justices of the law restrained and accountable to us will need to be dismantled, of course, for they are what bind a disagreeable democracy together.

The other candidate, whose policies you may despise, has spent a career in all 3 branches of our Constitutional system – as a district attorney, senator, and vice president – preserving our rights to express different opinions, to debate them openly, and to resolve them peacefully through the ballot box.

Of principles, not policy

“Get out and vote. Just this time. You won’t have to do it anymore. Four more years, you know what? It’ll be fixed, it’ll be fine, you won’t have to vote anymore.”
– Donald Trump, 2024

Policy differences place no role in my pitch to you now. Our opposing positions on immigration, reproductive rights, gun control, racial justice, Ukraine, Gaza, cryptocurrencies, and other burning issues should be shelved for this singularly grave election. One candidate will defend our rights to debate these opinions in the future, and to purge her from the office in 4 years, should we the people decide it’s time for a change. The other is putting steps in place, now, to cancel future elections, censor the press, imprison detractors, and stifle the debate I want to have with you at next year’s class reunion. Please weigh the options.

Wait, what reunion?

I’ll be back in Perry County next summer for my high school class’s 50th reunion. I am excited to see old friends and catch up on the mendacities of our little lives. I know, too, that differences in our views of the world may bubble up through the Yuengling beer. But, I want our fiercest exchanges to center on Penn State versus Pitt football or the best purveyor of Lebanon bologna, not the future of American democracy. Who will give me an amen to that?

Bill Magill
Aix-en-Provence

on by

Suggested Song: Old Man, Neil Young
Suggested Drink: A Golden Ale from Brasseurs de West Shefford.

Old man take a look at my life,
I’m a lot like you.
– From “Old Man”, Neil Young

Joshua Tree on the Gatineau

I just spent a few days in Quebec, with a final long weekend in Wakefield. It’s a bohemian village of artists and stargazers strung along the western bank of the broad, dark Gatineau River, 30 minutes north of Ottawa. Creative crossroads like Joshua Tree or Taos share similar vibes. Rustic cafes, organic bistros, and artist boutiques. (Kaffe 1870 is a locals favorite for lunch and an afternoon craft beer.) You’ll see more indigo ink and Doc Martins than Estée Lauder and Jimmy Choos.  I can do the high life, I can do the low life, and I can definitely do the boho life. I love the energy in towns like Wakefield.

The placid Gatineau River, from my cousin Ellie’s deck, near Wakefield:

My brother and I had come to Quebec to visit our Uncle John, who has taken up residence in a very senior, senior center. He’s the last of our aging cohort of aunts and uncles, and at a spry 89 eager for company and a chance to get out and about. Morning coffees at Tim Hortons, lunch takeout from the local grocery, then dinners in town, somewhere simple with a few beer-on-tap options for Joe and me. John prefers a tall glass of milk these days.

My apple hasn’t fallen far from John’s tree. I take that as a good thing. His mind remains sharp as a tack, even if the body is conceding to age and entropy. He cut a dashing figure in his youth, and shared my fondness for cars, bars, and good fun with close friends. He has a sharp wit, curious mind, and stays on top of all events local and global. He also remains a bit of a flirty rapscallion, age be damned.

I’m not a carbon copy of my uncle, however, and it takes just a short visit to be reminded. I am my mother’s son, and she was a calmer, more compromising version of her kid brother. Qualities that still serve me well.

Carbon copies don’t exist in the wild. Neither with humans nor beasts. Even among identical twins, divergence starts early. We are formed and forged by a multitude of factors beyond genes: personal tragedy and triumphs, parental guidance (or lack of), cliques of friends, economic class and opportunities, formal education, environs (urban center, leafy suburb, hippy village, …), and the like. This truly singular identity is what makes us each so damn fascinating and shapes the gifts we are uniquely armed to offer.

I wrote about the beauty of singularity in a 2013 essay titled “Y U r U” (click here to read), after being gobsmacked by Michael Phelps’ dominant performance at the 2012 Olympics. (How’s he do that?) In all ways physical and mental he was uniquely gifted to move unnaturally fast through water. It’s as if the gods of swim looked down upon the newborn Phelps and said, yeah, this one will be our swimmer. So, what was their plan for me?

Imagine a world where the likes of Phelps, Aretha Franklin, Banksy, Frank Lloyd Wright, Richard Feynman, or Greta Thunberg stood apathetic to their exceptional gifts. Their indifference would be our great loss. In this era of staggering challenge, are we no less obliged to appreciate our particular talents and share them for the good, … with family, in the local community, or on the world stage? Some food for thought.

Back to the Gatinea

Caitlin Dolan is a talented singer/songwriter in Wakefield with a trio called the Artichoke Hearts (click here to learn more). They released an alt-acoustic EP in 2016, with a new album dropping this October. She’s family of the once removed variety, from a different generation, gender, geography, and entire life experience. So, our musical styles are understandably different, … but similarities curiously abound.

We’re storytellers, leaning into emotional entanglements both beautiful and painfully not so. She’s fond of strings, piano, and harmonies to build passion and add depth. I do as well. I am sure she shares my compulsion to play, write, and share. See that guitar over there? I think I’ll go pick that up. It’s something I cannot not do, despite life’s many little obstacles. Genetic predisposition? Just a bit more food for thought.

He says lie down beside me
let me whisper in your ear
remember me now
in this moment right here.
– From “Last Valentine,” Caitlin Dolan

Holding me near
feeling your breath
warm on my ear
and I hear
baby I love you so.
– From “I Won’t Miss You,” Bill Magill

Bill Magill
Aix-en-Provence

on by

Suggested Song: Weird Fishes/Arpeggi, Radio Head.
Suggested Drink: Weird & Wonderful cocktail: vodka, Saint-Germain liqueur, lemon juice, tonic water (ChatGPT vows for its authenticity, drinker beware!)

Listen to this essay:

“I am not eccentric. It’s just that I am more alive than most people.
I am an unpopular electric eel set in a pond of goldfish.”
– Edith Sitwell

I was listening to an interview on NPR’s Fresh Air with the actor Aunjanue Ellis-Taylor today (click here to go there). I’ll pass on that, I initially thought, but so happy I didn’t. She comes from a fascinating Mississippi upbringing and shares that she felt weird as a child, just knew that somehow, in some ways, she was different than others; really different. I got that.

The term “weird” has suddenly taken on cultural significance in the current election. Tim Walz pegged JD Vance and his handmaiden take on family policy as just plain weird. Pundits from the right huffed back that Walz’s son was the truly weird one, for tearing up while his dad accepted the VP nomination.  While these attempts to own the term reveal a lot about each party’s identity, I’d prefer that it not be hijacked at all by 2024’s political, … weirdness.

A very proud Gus Walz embracing his father at the 2024 Democratic Convention.

Weird (adjective): of strange or extraordinary character.
– Merriam-Webster Dictionary

I like weird people of the Merriam-Webster sort; the odd and the unconventional. A few of my most treasured friends fit that tag to a tee. The uncomfortably unfiltered, the guardedly mysterious, the unmoored pirate, the avid hedonist, the ever evolving. Some are my close pals, and some are their spouses or even kids (the Bill Magill family plan for friends). All thrive along uniquely colorful spectrums that defy measure and metric. All can drive one a bit mad with their eccentricities and bluntness. But none are boring, and there is inestimable value in that entertaining quality.

Friends will attest to my nuttiness and it’s differing manifestations. I’ve always been introspective and easily distracted, a navel gazer, which can be a healthy thing, and then not so much. My dad would tell the story of 12 year-old Bill sent to our lower field on a summer day to weed the potato patch. An hour later, on his tractor, Dad passed me cross-legged in a pasture of wildflowers, spellbound by the nature all around: the colorful flowers and buzzing bees and crawling beetles and soaring birds above, the warm breeze and smell of Central Pennsylvania farm country. I remember that moment well, waving to my dad and him nodding back, high up on his red International Harvester. He just shook his head and drove on. We all had a good laugh over dinner that evening.

Boredom was a common affliction for kids in small town America, pre-internet and cell phones. I would look for distraction through creativity. I had no talent for painting but found a groove in the graphic arts. Specifically, projecting images onto tee shirts, tracing the outlines with a charcoal pencil, then acrylic painting in the details. Album covers offered great inspiration. One of the cool jocks in high school once commented that my tee shirts were kind of crazy and would I do one for him. Later that day we passed in the hall and he cancelled. Magill, your shirts are pretty weird actually. YOU are pretty weird actually. My tribe of teenage friends didn’t mind being considered weird. We did hate being considered boring. That would have been a rusty shiv to the teenage heart.

Graceful Electric Eel in Deep Ocean | Colorful Corals & Fish
Electric eel, by unknown artist in Easy-Peasy.ai

Gus Walz’s unrestrained emotional display during the Democratic Convention reminded me of the beauty of weirdness and the singular splendor alive in us all. Edith Sitwell’s electric eel. Each other’s unique kookiness. Suppress that? Oh hell no. Lean into that. Show us your colors, paint that shirt with a palette only you posses. Get weird.

remember me in blazing shades
of indigo and vivid red, not grey
I never want to fade to grey
(From Strange, off my 2018 album Last Night at the Ha-Ra.)

Bill Magill
Aix-en-Provence

on by

Suggested Song: Smells Like Teen Spirit, Nirvana.
Suggested Drink: Sea Breeze cocktail: vodka, cranberry juice, grapefruit juice.

Listen to this essay.

“Smells are the fallen angels of the senses.”
Helen Keller

Then

US 50 runs the width of America, from Sacramento to Ocean City, Maryland. Every July my family would join this historic highway near Annapolis to make our summer sojourn to the sea. The towering Chesapeake Bay Bridge was a prominent midway point, and from there we’d pass south through Maryland’s Eastern Shore to Cambridge, and then due east. “One hour to Ocean City” my mom would say, and we’d all light up with the tingle of holiday anticipation.

What I remember most about these drives are the smells, in particular the briny aroma of the Atlantic Ocean that would tease us over those final 30 miles into OC. Our provenance was Central Pennsylvania farm country, with a July bouquet of shucked corn, cow manure, and farm machinery. I was a lucky child to have this upbringing, but eager to leave it behind for a week of waves and boardwalk adventure. On the long approach to OC we’d start passing a stream billboards advertising beachside hotels and restaurants (Philips Crab House: the Best Jimmies in OC!), the sky would assume a blue shimmering haze, and then the first waves of salty air would work through the vents of my dad’s 1960s blue Buick wagon.  All thoughts of home, gone.

Now

My days in Provence are also marked by a broad palette of smells, particularly rich through the summer months. The August stalls at the daily markets are full of ripe local peaches, apricots, and plums. It was strawberries in June and mountains of cherries in July. The figs and Cavaillon cantaloupes are so full of sugar now their skins crack and honeybees hover. Bunches of bright green mint sit among the fresh coriander and parsley at every stall, and lavender, harvested last month, is arranged in bouquets wrapped in twine or offered in small cloth sacks perfect for winter closets or dresser drawers. It can be sensorially overpowering.

Cavaillon melons at the local market.

This rich symphony of perfumes will fade in the fall, yielding to the more subtle scents of Mediterranean herbs – thyme, rosemary, bay leaves – and gourds halved or quartered for your Sunday soup. But it will be a fade, not a fold. I swear the blind can navigate Provence, at least the markets, on scent alone year around.

If I leave Provence someday it’s the smells that will most linger in memory. I don’t take them for granted, but I also don’t grant them enough significance in my calculus of happiness and place. The sight of lavender fields in June; the sound of cigale hordes (cicadas) in the hot summer countryside; the tang of local olives and chilled rosé at apéro hour, and the laughter of friends sharing said apéro; these things are unique to Provence and core to its charm. But it’s the fragrance of life here that I find most enchanting.

You

Are there scents that bring back your favorite memories? Are there smells uniquely symbolic to the region in which you live now? I ask you not to take these for granted. You may want to seek them out for a quick trip down memory lane. My dad (of the big blue Buick) lost his sense of smell around retirement age. He was not one to complain, but the enjoyment of my mom’s delicious casseroles was forever dimmed, as was his savoring of a ripe, juicy tomato picked from the family vine in July and sampled between the rows. Wow, that is a tomato!  Now, go out and have a good sniff!

Bill Magill
Aix-en-Provence