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Drop by Drop Upon the Heart: On the Kennedy Center, the Kennedys’ Classics, and What a Nation Owes its Dead

On the afternoon of December 19, 2025, the board of the Kennedy Center voted to put a living president’s name on a dead president’s memorial. By evening, the letters were on the marble. A congresswoman who sits on that board by law tried to speak. They muted her microphone and called the vote unanimous. Chuck Redd, the jazz drummer who had played Christmas Eve at the center for years, saw the new name on the website, then on the building itself. He canceled within hours. Two years of this, in one afternoon: the inheritance retitled behind closed doors, the objection silenced, the musicians out in the cold.

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Love’s Best Habit: On Shakespeare’s Sonnet 138

Ask a room of readers which of Shakespeare’s sonnets is the greatest and the same three answers come back every time: Sonnet 18, the summer’s day; Sonnet 116, the marriage of true minds; Sonnet 73, the yellow leaves. Those answers are accurate the way election returns are accurate. Ask which sonnet is the most beautiful and the most honest at once, and the room goes quiet, because that question is a confession booth. What comes back tells you what the reader wants and what the reader is willing to admit. Mine now is Sonnet 138, the one that begins with a woman swearing and a man pretending. I say now because it was not always so, and I would not trust a reader whose answer never changes. The road here runs through changes in tone and taste, in wants and abilities, in hopes I no longer have, and the road is the subject of this essay. A reader’s favorite sonnet is a diary entry with the lock broken off.

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Preplay: The Courtroom in the Wings

The news of my removal from my own show came from the producer. I had obtained the rights, signed us to a first-class theatrical option, and written the book and lyrics, all of it inside the year the rights contract granted to us. The director hired to stage the all-or-nothing reading was not my choice, and he was friends with my collaborator. After the failed previews, I was unceremoniously let go. When I asked my composer collaborator why this had happened, the director called me instead, and said that nobody wanted to talk to me. I had no choice but to sever the show, and my attorney fought to get me paid, credit on show. Everyone stonewalled him as well. That is the whole record, at the width the print ruling allows, because the identifying details of the production and the collaboration stay blurred in print for the privacy of the living, and the blur is logged in the specimen record beside its telling.

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Mel Gibson: Watch the Hands

On Saturday, August 29, at the Metro Toronto Convention Centre, Mel Gibson walked out from behind a curtain to begin a retrospective Q&A at Fan Expo Canada, the sprawling annual gathering billed as Canada’s largest comics and gaming event and the third-largest pop culture draw in North America. An American Sign Language interpreter stood at the edge of the stage, doing the work that makes such an event available to Deaf attendees, work interpreters were doing at panels across the hall all weekend. As Gibson passed behind the interpreter, his hands went up in a burst of empty flapping, a second or three of imitation nonsense played for the crowd, and then he waved and took his seat to talk about his career. Fans had paid 275 dollars apiece for photographs and autographs. The clip of the flapping traveled across social media before the weekend closed, and by Monday he had issued a statement through the trades, blaming the disorientation of being pushed into a spotlight and apologizing to anyone who took offense.

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Jury Duty: Theatre You Cannot Leave

The envelope looks like a bill and behaves like a warrant. It arrives in the plain mail between a seed catalog and a credit offer, your name printed the way only a government database can print it, and inside is a summons: report to the courthouse on a Monday in March, at half past eight in the morning, prepared to stay. You did not audition for this production. You signed no contract, negotiated no fee, read no script. The paper tells you what happens if you ignore it, and what happens is contempt: a fine, a cell, or both. Of all the performances running in America, this is the only one that conscripts its audience. By the end of the week you may be deciding whether a stranger loses liberty, money, children, or, in the courtrooms that still ask the question, life. The republic keeps one room in which that decision belongs to twelve people who did not volunteer that morning, and every seat in that room is filled by force of law.

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The God Arrives Early: Rod Serling and the Endings That Paid Their Bills

The series died the year before I was born, and it hardly mattered, because the reruns never stopped. On summer nights in Nebraska in the early seventies, on the only signal that reached my grandfather’s corner of the state, a man in a narrow black suit would step into the frame and speak to me as if the two of us had an appointment. He promised a fifth dimension, called it “the middle ground between light and shadow,” and stood aside to let the story convict somebody. As a boy I thought I was watching monsters. The show was running trials.

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The Ghost, the Pope, and Peter O’Toole

Five days after he opened the National Theatre of Great Britain, Peter O’Toole sat in a BBC studio talking about ghosts. The date was October 27, 1963. His stage that week was the Old Vic, where the National had launched itself on October 22 with an uncut Hamlet, four and a half hours of it, directed by Laurence Olivier and starring O’Toole, thirty-one years old and world famous off the back of Lawrence of Arabia. On television he had company worth the license fee: Huw Wheldon hosting the late-night arts program Monitor, Orson Welles holding forth across the table, and the veteran Ernest Milton, who had worn the black doublet himself decades before. That conversation survives, and I have been living inside it for a week.

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