Did you know ancient Rome was "sustainable"?

Romans probably didn't use that exact buzzword, but apparently, they were recycling pioneers. When they weren't creating a mountain made out of garbage, that is.

In Italy, you don’t have one trash can in your house, you have five. Yes, five separate trash cans for the different kinds of trash you accumulate throughout your day.

As someone who's been to Italy recently, I can tell you that that legacy of recycling lives on. Frankly, it's a mixed bag.

If fact, the convoluted waste disposal system in that beautiful Mediterranean peninsula is the perfect embodiment of the current state of Europe.

Garbage in, garbage out

In America, you take your trash, and you throw it in the can underneath the kitchen sink. Then, when that bag is full, you take it out and throw it in the big can that you set out next to your driveway every week. It’s a simple system. Understandable and logical.

In Italy, you can’t just throw your trash — any trash! — in the bin next to the fridge.

No, in Italy you don’t have one trash can in your house, you have five. Yes, five separate trash cans for the different kinds of trash you accumulate throughout your day. You have one for carta (paper), one for umido (organic materials), one for plastica (plastic), one for vetro (glass), and one for barattoli (metals).

Of course, five different trash cans means five different trash days. Better not miss!

But the fun doesn't stop there: The days aren’t the same every week.

Trash talk

In some towns, they are in a state of continual change. Just when you've gotten used to Monday being umido day, they switch it up to vetro. Until they decide it should be plastica.

Not to worry. You can always print out a schedule from the local trash office. Just remember to dispose of it on carta day.

In Italy, managing your garbage is basically a part-time job.

And it’s not only the trash. There are a bunch of other systems and regulations that basically force you to waste time doing pedantic, pointless tasks, filling out some arbitrary paperwork that will be read by no one but you are legally required to file anyway, or going to the doctor to get a note verifying that you are healthy enough to go to the gym (yes, this is a real requirement to sign up for a gym membership in Italy).

All these reasons, and many more, are why they don’t get anything done there.

Come si dice 'start-up'?

I love Italy. It is, without a doubt, one of my favorite places to visit. But it’s just the truth that Italians don’t really get anything done these days. Their economy is in a perpetual state of struggle, no one has kids, and I am not even sure there is a word for entrepreneur or start-up in Italian.

This isn’t just speculation. A good friend in Italy has informed me that the official position of the government is to, more or less, discourage small business and further entrench the larger established corporations started more than half a century ago.

Athanasios Gioumpasis/Getty Images

Europe today is basically a museum. It’s the most beautiful museum there is, but it’s a museum. It’s not because the people are actually incapable of doing anything. It’s not because Europe as an entity is inherently incapable of seizing its destiny. All our Western history and culture up to a certain point came from Europe. America sprouted from Europe.

But no one in Europe can do anything today because everyone there suffers under an obscene, time-wasting, Kafkaesque bureaucracy perfectly exemplified by the ludicrous trash system in Italy.

One big museum

Yes, of course, many there are content with this system. Quite a few really do believe that separating the trash into five bins is a normal part of life and a sign that a society cares for the environment, the future, the children, and Mother Earth ... or something like that.

You might be thinking that separating the trash doesn’t sound like that big of a deal. You might be of the opinion that I’m just a stick-in-the-mud, resisting something just because it’s new. You might imagine that it can’t really take that long. You may say, “So big deal, you just take a little longer with the garbage, you just plan ahead a little more.”

That might sound right if you are doing this whole separating business one time as a fluke, but when you apply this system to everyday life, over and over again, with no escape, it wears people down.

That’s one of the ways European over-regulation turns society into an ossified museum. It’s not just the fact that it is legally difficult to do many things that should not be legally difficult to do. It’s that the pointless inconveniences created by the over-regulation wear people down mentally. At scale, over time, the trash (and every other absurd system similar to the trash) takes a toll on people. The very spirit of a people becomes different.

Move slow and repair stuff

Many of the regulations in Europe are designed to protect something. Sometimes it’s the environment, sometimes it’s the traditional architecture, sometimes it’s the people. Those things are all fine. Most of us care about protecting those things to some degree.

But you can take protection too far, and if you protect too many things too much, society ends up feeling like a museum where you look but don’t touch. That’s kind of how it feels for many Europeans.

You know those speed bumps they put on residential roads so that you slow down? Imagine if those were everywhere, on every road. That’s kind of what all the overbearing regulations feel like. That’s the general kind of system at every level.

If “move fast and break things” is American, “move slow and sometimes repair stuff” is European. It’s good to repair stuff, it’s nice that Europe maintains much of its cultural inheritance. Perhaps, that’s its role in our era, one of a museum curator. And the Italian trash system and its demand that you fastidiously separate your waste is, in some strange way, related to that spirit.

But that’s not our role in America. That’s not our spirit. We aren’t a museum, we look and touch and change. We don’t have time to waste separating the trash. We have things to do, stuff to build, a future to seize. And the truth is, I’m not sure you can do any of those things if you spend all your time and energy separating your trash into five careful little bins.

I went to a restaurant run by feminists, and it was terrible

I went to a restaurant run by feminists, and it was terrible.

You probably have a lot of questions. I would too if I were the one reading that sentence rather than the one writing it.

These people — the people most obsessed with 'acceptance' as a political virtue — are generally miserable to be around.

How exactly do I know it was run by rabid feminists? Why exactly was it terrible because it was run by such feminists? I will explain.

My wife, children, and I were on vacation. We were off in the deep north of the Middle West. After driving for a few hours, we were ready for a bite to eat. There aren’t too many options that far out in the northern wilderness.

We were thankful to find a place — any place! — about 15 minutes away, right on a lake. A small restaurant on a lake up north, that’s got to be an easy-going, relaxing place to have lunch, right?

Wrong.

Service with a sneer

The atmosphere was rank from the moment we opened the door. The woman at the front greeted my wife with a cold and sour, “May I help you?” We sat down and things descended farther. They didn’t have a children’s menu. Who doesn’t have a children’s menu? They didn’t have booster seats. Who doesn’t have booster seats?

Often, when we go out with our kids, we order a side salad for them to split. Basically every restaurant has one or will make one.

But not this one.

My wife politely asked, “Could we get a side salad for the kids to share?”

Our frigid, tight-lipped waitress curtly answered, “No.”

They had a tiny menu, obviously excluding simple fare to signal some kind of “finer taste.” Remember, this is in the middle of nowhere, no cellphone service. Who are they kidding?

Whine list

There was a small bar with a single bartender. She was the type of gender-confused leftist who dyes her hair black, then chops it off into some kind of faux mullet.

Adorned with doodle tattoos, no makeup, and tasteless piercings, she stood behind the bar seething. Her default facial setting was one of bubbling rage. It looked like she wanted to kill. It may sound like I am exaggerating, and maybe I am, but only barely. This is how she looked, this is how she acted, and this is how it felt.

The general vibe was more reminiscent of a hostage situation than a dining establishment. The tables were full, but barely anyone spoke. It felt like everyone was afraid to say anything. They were scared for their lives.

There was a tense hum of silence over the tables. An older couple came in to ask if they could get a table, and the woman at the front made it seem like they were asking if she could split the atom for them. It was bizarre.

Malice's Restaurant

Different places have different feelings. It doesn’t come down to just one element. It’s the sum of the parts. The way people speak to you, the way they look at you, the way the decor is arranged, the music, the signs on the wall, the kind of people working. Some places are warm, inviting, and comfortable. Others are not, and this place was not.

Everyone working was a woman. At the front, behind the bar, waiting the tables.

RELATED: Against women wearing pants

Bettman/Getty Images

It’s hard to describe why, but I got the sense that they were all owners, like they all pitched in together. They weren’t just workers with paychecks. There was something else there. They weren’t moms, young college students, or anyone else you might expect to be working at a restaurant. Something was off.

They all looked, and acted like, a different archetype of unhappy, unfulfilled feminist. They all had the same kind of unpleasant, tightly wound, ready to snap, judgmental demeanor. They all looked down on my wife and kids with a patronizing and adversarial predisposition.

Of course, they weren’t exactly friendly to me either.

Appetite for destruction

There is a certain way bitter feminists, angry lesbians, and gender destroyers look at me, my wife, and kids. My wife is beautiful; she wears dresses every day. My daughter too. I dress in a classic American style, and so does my son.

For these types of people, our family is an aesthetic refutation of their broken and disordered ideology. They don’t like us (or people like us), and it’s very obvious.

And that’s why their restaurant is so miserable. These kinds of people are not happy people, they are not welcoming people, they are not warm people. They don’t like kids, they don’t like families, they don’t like happy men or beautiful women. They only like bitter, broken, and disordered individuals.

They might make fine food — and the food was just fine — but their obvious disdain for us left a bad taste all the same.

Signal du jour

There were signals of their political orientation on the walls. There were two restrooms. Both had signs that read “All Gender Restroom” in the middle of the door.

These signs, if you haven’t seen them, include three figures. A man, a woman in a dress, and then a figure that is half-man and half-woman. Half pants, half dress. A perfect example of the laziest, most pathetic kind of leftist virtue-signaling.

Again, this restaurant is in the middle of nowhere. The restroom signs are a political act, an intentional provocation, and an obvious indication of who they are.

It was the type of place that hangs a sign in the window that reads “ALL ARE WELCOME” in a variety of colors, despite the actual atmosphere inside being one that is completely acidic and 0% welcoming.

Check, please!

It’s a fascinating thing. You see this a lot. Crunchy grocery stores, vegan restaurants, and other lefty-type places. These people — the people most obsessed with “acceptance” as a political virtue — are generally miserable to be around. They are devoted to acceptance on paper, but their aura is like that of an electric fence.

Women are warm, welcoming, and kind. It’s their nature. That’s why they are called the fairer sex. God made them best with kids and things more sensitive.

Extreme feminists of 2025 are none of those things and possess none of those wonderful attributes. They have, in general, made their identity into one based on opposing any natural female traits, virtues, or sensibilities.

They have instead set their sights on trying, and failing, to be men. They have decided to resist, reject, and make war on all the wonderful things of women. That’s why they are so unhappy, and that’s why their restaurant was so miserable. It was clean, the food was fine, the location was great, but the women were dreadful, dour, sad, and bitter.

Walking out of the restaurant, our kids stumbling over each other, our family gleefully disturbing the morgue-like pall of the dining room, we laughed to one another. Thankful we are who we are and aren’t who we aren’t. It must be a miserable life being an angry feminist.

Why I let my kids wear whatever they want

Every morning my young children choose their own outfits. They pretty much get to wear whatever they want.

I might suggest something with short sleeves on a sunny day or something made of wool when it's 11 degrees outside in the middle of February, but other than that I never really tell them, “No, you can’t wear that.”

On the other hand, having so many options increases the likelihood of making a bad decision. We simply aren't meant to have an infinity of choices. We aren’t that wise.

It’s not because they run the show. It’s not because they have the finest taste in clothing either. It’s because they can’t really make any bad choices.

You see, there are only good choices in their closets.

Crocs-free zone

There are no graphic T-shirts with stupid logos, no Crocs, no lime green sweatpants, and no hoodies with dinosaur plates running along the back.

Make no mistake, if we had all those things in the closet, they would probably choose that kind of stuff. But we don’t. And so they don't.

Take our son's closet: It is full of button-ups and polo shirts. Oxford cloth, flannel, poplin, seersucker, cotton pique. His dresser is full of blue jeans, khakis, and chino shorts. There are also, of course, cotton and wool sweaters on the shelves as well. Cream, brown, and navy.

Our daughter's closet is full of dresses. Thin, flowery ones for summer. Thicker plaids for the winter. Plain, practical cotton maxi dresses for everyday life. Leggings for when it’s cold. Cardigans as well. Cable knit in navy and gray.

Because we've left them with only good options, we're free to let the kids choose their clothes, knowing they'll always look just fine.

Loving limitations

This has an obvious practical purpose. We want our kids to look decent and don’t want to get involved in an endless back-and-forth every single day, litigating why they can or can’t wear the cartoon sweatshirt. But it’s also about giving them agency within reason. They have freedom and choice within a narrow framework set by us.

We also have our selfish reasons. We want to like how our kids look, and to be honest, it’s more pleasant looking at nice clothes. I would rather look at a plaid shirt than a stupid cartoon. Wouldn’t you?

There's a bigger lesson here too. It’s about the need for limitations, guardrails, and choices within reasonable parameters. Any parent knows that kids need rules. Every parent is different. Some are more permissive than others, but no mother or father lets their kids do whatever they want whenever they want. Children need to be guided; setting them loose with a “good luck” and a shrug doesn't cut it.

The metaphor extends to society as a whole. What happens when we have ultimate choice? What do we do when we have no limits? When everything is on the table and there is nothing holding us back?

Option overwhelm

Decision paralysis is, of course, a thing. People stand in front of the options set before them, and they freeze. They don’t know what to do. They don’t know what school to choose, what job to take, what girl they should ask out, or what kind of man they should marry. When people are bombarded with the feeling that they have every possible option on earth, they often end up choosing nothing at all because it’s all just too overwhelming.

On the other hand, having so many options increases the likelihood of making a bad decision. We simply aren't meant to have an infinity of choices. We aren’t that wise. We have free will, but we don’t manage it so well. We can’t really control ourselves that much. We aren’t meant to be that free. We need limitations if we want to stay on the right track.

God and guardrails

Ever since having kids, I have been ruminating on the fact that though the distance between myself and my children is so great, we are all, in some way, still (God’s) children. Knowing this isn’t an excuse to be an idiot. It’s not an abdication of responsibility. It’s an acknowledgment that we are just not as smart as we think we are. We are not that great.

Let loose in a department store-size closet, we choose the lime green sweatpants. Without guardrails, we drive the car over a cliff. It’s why we have laws, it’s why we have religion, it’s why we have God.

We are not Him; we are foolish human beings. We need help doing the right thing. We can’t figure it out on our own. It’s true for 5-year olds getting dressed in the morning, and it’s true for us former 5-year-olds, adults trying to do what’s right in a messy world.

Fatherhood has ruined peace and quiet for me

I’ve been in Italy for the past 10 days, and I’m bored.

Yes, I’m bored, but not in the way you may think, and not for the reasons you may suspect. I haven’t been bored my entire time here.

My tolerance for input has increased since becoming a father, and now anything less than chaos is kind of a boring breeze.

The first week was packed to the gills. I was co-hosting a retreat centered around Josef Pieper’s "Leisure: The Basis of Culture." The days were full of stimulating, productive discussion with like spirits. Great food, great cigars, great beer, great sights, great minds, great insights, great developments. It was a busy week, a fruitful week.

But the retreat is over, and now I’m bored.

Missing the bickering

Why am I bored?

Because I am dull and just want to sit inside and watch television all day? No. I don’t like TV. Because I can’t entertain myself? No. I’m pretty creative. Because I don’t have a job or any obligations and thusly suffer from a kind of postmodern ennui? No. I have a job, that’s what I am doing here. Just yesterday, I drove eight hours south and will be here for the week taking photos for a photo book, writing, and working. I’ve been working ever since I landed.

So then, why am I bored?

Because I’m alone. My wife and kids are at home. All the yelling and screaming that I have become so used to over the past few years are on the other side of the world. The bickering over who stole whose toy first is still happening I am sure, but it’s out of earshot.

The endless questions about cars, trees and if we are going to get ice cream later have been paused. The nagging feeling about safety — that feeling that wears you down over the course of the day — is absent from my quiet mind.

Off-duty dad

I would think I would love this trip all alone: the chance to be free of fatherly responsibilities for a couple of weeks; the opportunity to focus on work without distraction; the chance to be by myself again. But I don’t love it. It was fine for a couple days, novel in a way, but now it’s just kind of boring.

My tolerance for input has increased since becoming a father, and now anything less than chaos is kind of a boring breeze. My love has expanded in a way that isn’t so easy to explain. It might be summed up by that feeling you get at the end of the day. You can’t wait for your kids to go to bed because you are exhausted and fed up, yet 25 minutes after they are sleeping, you feel the need to go into their room again and give them a kiss because you miss them.

What the hell is that? One of the strange feelings that only parents know.

Been there, done that

I’ve seen all this stuff before. I’ve been to Italy. I’ve already taken in all the vistas I’m taking photos of today. I’ve already experienced all this, and it doesn’t really interest me doing it alone. When I was 25 and single, sure. When I’m 38 with a wife and kids, not really. I’ve seen enough; I would rather show them.

Some guys have a fear of settling down and starting a family. They are afraid of getting trapped or stuck with no way out. In a sense, they are right. When you have children, you are trapping yourself. You are forced together as a man and a woman. You are stuck forever as a father. You cannot go back. Your life is no longer only yours. You will never be as free as you were once before.

Stretching the soul

It’s true in all the shallow, obvious ways. But it’s true in a deeper, stranger, more emotional way, as well. My soul has been expanded outward. It's broader than it was when I was just me. Yet, somehow, it didn’t become more shallow in the process. It’s actually grown deeper at the same time. It's one of the mysteries of love. It grows.

I am no longer contained in a tight little shell that follows me wherever I go. I want to bring my kids with me, not out of duty — though duty is, of course, important — but because I am kind of bored without them. Because I want to share my world with them. It's not because I love them — though I very much do — but because I like them.

From island to archipelago

I know that as soon as I get home, the chaos will hit me like a two-by-four right in the face. I will be forced to dole out instructions and mediate arguments. I will be exhausted by the time 8 p.m. rolls around. I will snap my fingers once and sternly tell them to stop whatever it is that they are doing. But in all of that, I will be whole as I know myself to be at this stage in my life.

Having a family means you are no longer only you. Your children are also you. Your sense of wholeness is deeper, yet more terrifyingly fragile at the same time. You are no longer protected and self-contained. You stop being an island and grow into an archipelago. What it means to be you means more than merely you.

That’s why I am bored here in Italy. I’m here, but it’s only one part, and I miss the whole thing.

Watches, clothes, and cars are no substitute for character

If you spend any amount of time on X (formally known as Twitter), it’s hard not to notice the incredible amount of daily anxiety people experience.

It’s all over. There’s political anxiety, height anxiety, weight anxiety, relationship anxiety manifesting in an accelerating gender war, and, of course, class anxiety. And my God, the class anxiety is so painful, so fraught, and so vapid. Really, it’s so absurd you have to laugh.

In our degraded era, developing into a civilized, literate Westerner is considered boring.

“If I have to read one more post about what something ‘codes as,’ I am going to throw my phone through the (insert expletive) window.” That was my sentiment about three days before I finally muted the phrase, “codes as.”

Code breaking

For those not in the know, the latest trend online seems to be analyzing a person's every sartorial/consumer/personal choice and determining what it says about their status. In other words, what it "codes as."

Universal History Archive/Getty Images

It gets old quickly. How many posts can be made analyzing what a car "codes as"? How many hot takes can there possibly be on the apparent class-signaling evident in how a woman does her hair? How many overwrought opinions clearly overcompensating for a hidden fear about “downward mobility” can really be sent out into the X-verse?

It appears there is no limit, no ceiling. This silly, trite — though pretending to be enlightened and insightful — discourse knows no end.

Mixed signals

We all know that we all send signals all the time. Sometimes we send them intentionally, other times unintentionally.

We understand that what we wear says something about what we value. That how we speak reveals something about our upbringing.

The watches we wear, the music we hear, the way we talk about faith, and the way we voice our disagreements with those opposite us all speak volumes. The way we talk about money — or more importantly, the way we don’t talk about money — the manners we have or the ones we don’t have, all these things are signals.

So what’s wrong with analyzing these signals?

Trend traps

Nothing. It’s the talking about it publicly. It's a bit gauche, especially when it leads to obsessing over our own choices and what they communicate to others.

Being in a constant state of trying to anticipate trends or copy the taste of others is exhausting. To base your identity entirely on signaling as a certain class and how others see you as an embodiment of that class is silly.

It’s a sign of having no internal compass, opinion, or taste of your own. It’s a sign of extreme over-socialization. It’s closer to slavery than freedom. It’s no way to live life.

Improving your manners is good. Manners are a sign of dignified civilization. Trying to dress well out of respect for others is also good. Dressing well is a sign of decency. Becoming musically literate so as to understand some of the most beautiful music ever written is key to understanding the greatness of Western civilization. These things used to be attached to class in some way. Now, not so much.

Personality void

In our degraded era, developing into a civilized, literate Westerner is considered boring. Today, class anxiety mainly revolves around buying the right things and consuming them in the right way.

It’s what happens when one lacks a personality or confidence. It may sound strange, but it takes confidence to be who you are, enjoy what you enjoy, pursue what you believe, learn about art and culture out of genuine curiosity, and be a decent person because it’s the right thing to do.

Horst P. Horst/Condé Nast | Getty Images

If you are in a constant state of reacting to the world and then becoming whoever you are based on that reaction, what are you? Is there anything in there, deep down? Do you have autonomy, or are you just a pinball bouncing around?

That’s the problem with all of this. That’s the story under the story. That’s what the obsession with what everything "codes as" reveals. A lack of self and an inability to be someone — anyone! — without first consulting the trend opinions of everyone else.

It’s a life lived for others. A life without honest direction or authentic intention.

Not without my fur baby! Our bizarre new dog-worshipping religion

Dogs. They're everywhere.

Stores, cars, restaurants, coffee shops, bakeries, airports, and airplanes. Our world has been taken over by the K9s.

Banning dogs from certain places is now seen as 'exclusionary.' According pets human status — behavior once limited to the eccentric rich — is now everybody's prerogative.

Places previously reserved only for those who walk on two feet and upright are now open to all species. No beast is barred from the dairy aisle, no hound is left out in the cold.

I know it’s hard to believe, but it wasn’t like this until very recently.

Planet of the fur babies

Dog culture as we know it today was virtually unheard of when I was a kid. Traditionally, the only people who exemplified any kind of behavior resembling the “fur baby parent” of today were old, frail ladies who developed inordinately strong attachments to those little rat dogs with curly hair and an annoying yapping bark.

That archetype was goofy. That’s the other thing to remember. The old dog lady archetype was viewed as kind of silly. She wasn’t valorized, she was kind of made fun of, she was seen as odd.

Up until just a few years ago, dogs were never in stores. You didn’t see them inside the market, gas station, department store, or Home Depot. It simply didn’t exist.

Photo by Xavier ROSSI/Gamma-Rapho via Getty Images

Blind item

The only exception was a seeing eye dog accompanying a blind person, but even that was so rare that when it did happen, it was kind of cool.

I remember sort of standing back and watching, stupefied, feeling like I shouldn’t make any noises so as not to distract the dog. It was serious business. The dog was there for a purpose, and its purpose was to serve its master. That was, of course, the traditional purpose of dogs.

Dogs in restaurants were also, obviously, not a thing. Go back to the year 2000 and tell someone that in 25 years they will be sitting down to lunch in a cafe, eating a Caesar salad with a labradoodle to their left and a golden retriever to their right. Tell them that people will increasingly bring their dogs on airplanes, claiming they “need” them for “emotional support.”

This sweet, naive soul from Y2K might develop serious questions about the future and what went wrong.

Dog years

It’s important to remember what things were like. If we can’t remember what things were like, we are unable to accurately understand what it is that we are living in now. If we retcon the past, wiping our memories so we can live in a state or pure present where nothing ever gets better or worse, we are unable to grasp any broader trajectories of life, society, or culture.

But people don't like to be reminded of the fact that things were not always this way. They will resist admitting it. They will lash out if you remind them of it. They will find absurd edge-case exceptions to the truth in an attempt to convince themselves that things have always been this way.

It’s a fascinating phenomenon and a root cause of the inability to understand our culture and society. If you are convinced everything has always been this way, then any critique of the current reality feels like a critique of all reality, and instead of being anything insightful worthy of consideration, any critique can simply be dismissed as being overly negative.

Survival of the dimmest

Part of the reason people don’t want to be reminded of the fact that things were not always this way is because if they do realize things have changed, and are able to accurately judge the development of culture, they are more likely to correctly assess the negative developments and more likely to end up depressed about the current situation.

Image source: Pueblo County (Colorado) Sheriff's Office

Are they somehow anticipating this without realizing they are doing it? Is there some kind of purpose to not being able to remember the past? Is there some preternatural in-born resistance? Maybe most can’t handle the possibility that things are getting worse so there is something in us that basically tells us not to think about it too much. Maybe it is some strange ignorance, a bliss survival instinct.

In dog we trust?

Perhaps, it’s because dog culture is part of the new religion of our time, and the thing about religions is they are supposed to be eternally true, so if we can remember a time when none of this dog stuff was a thing, it casts some kind of doubt on the validity of this new secular religion.

Or even worse, if people can remember a time when they specifically weren’t into the dog stuff, or maybe even made fun of the dog stuff, they will do everything in their power to forget all about it and pretend they and everyone else were always the way they are right now.

People may also just be ashamed of the fact that our society has morphed into a society of frail, old, kooky dog ladies. If they have any sense of shame, they might just be embarrassed about this fact, and they might just try to forget how bad it is. Deflect, ignore, deny.

Whatever the reason may be, many people do not like to be reminded of the fact that things were not always this way.

An unhealthy trajectory

Is dog culture the worst thing in the world? No. But it isn’t a sign of a healthy trajectory. It’s a sign that something is off.

Banning dogs from certain places is now seen as “exclusionary." According pets human status — behavior once limited to the eccentric rich — is now everybody's prerogative.

That’s the new religion.

Our society no longer believes in the old hierarchy of man and animals. The beasts are now elevated to the place of man. That’s actually what’s happening beneath the surface, and it’s disordered. Somewhere, deep inside, people feel that, and they don’t want to be reminded of it because they know it’s wrong. At the very bottom, that’s why people don’t like to remember it wasn't always like this.

When did America's public libraries become homeless encampments?

What happened to libraries?

No, I’m not talking about school libraries being turned into propaganda factories, shelving what amounts to textual pornography for middle school students, all justified under the guise of “inclusivity.” That’s a discussion for another time.

One December, as my wife left the library, a homeless man spit across the stairs onto the back of her dress. She turned around to find him quite satisfied with himself.

I am talking about the fact that across the United States, a tragic number of public libraries have turned into daytime homeless shelters and temporary asylums for the mentally ill, the insane, and generally disturbed.

Furious George

Go to any public library in any big city, and you will see a security guard slowly patrolling the quiet floor. Every once in a while he wakes up a bum up who’s sleeping on a bench behind the periodicals.

“No sleeping,” he mumbles as he nudges the drowsy man. Unkempt and disturbed homeless men in their 50s hunch over the computers while mothers pull their 3-year-olds close, hurrying past on their way to the children’s section.

Hanging around, right inside the lobby in the winter, the insane argue as a fight is about to break out. You walk by, head lowered, hoping to get inside without attracting any attention.

Great expectorations

Years ago my wife and I lived in Milwaukee. The library there was like any city’s library. A big, beautiful building right downtown full of books — and vagrants. So many of these old city libraries are so structurally stunning, and there is something darkly poetic in this. These grand buildings, built at a different time, a higher time, now lower than ever.

The bricks are the same, but their purpose has been degraded. One December, as my wife was leaving, a homeless man spit across the stairs onto the back of her dress. She turned around to find him quite satisfied with himself. This is the current state of these once-great testaments to literacy.

There may be no greater metaphor for our collapsing society than the demise of the library. Before everyone had money to buy the books they want, the library was a lifeline. Before the internet and before everyone had a telephone in their homes, the library was an oasis of knowledge. In the desert of the new world, the library was a miraculous thing. It was a symbol of civilization itself.

Goodnight, literacy

Today, however, people don’t read. They can, I think. But they don’t, that’s for sure.

They watch TikTok and rot their brains consuming gutter slop content. The majority of the population no longer desire the library like they once did. They, of course, still need the library, but they don’t want the library. This is another part of the story that is the demise of the library. The people are degenerating.

Of course, some people still read. I read, you read, we all read here. What are you doing right now, after all? But many of us buy our books. Personally, I end up buying books so I can support the author and own the book myself.

Often the books that I end up buying are a little off the beaten path, so they won’t be found in the library. Though I do use the library for a host of more general research purposes. Nevertheless, I know I am not the norm and neither are you. People don’t read.

Do people refrain from reading because of the homeless in the library? Probably not. People don’t read because people are getting dumber and their attention spans are fried.

Crime and... crime

But there is a certain percentage of people who visit the library less because of the general anarcho-tyranny of the situation inside. My wife stopped visiting the library after she got spit on. I stopped after being worn down by the generally depressing scene of disheveled men sleeping next to the nonfiction.

The homeless invasion of the library is a tragic example of a society that no longer has the will to keep order as it ought to be kept. The reason vagrants populate the library is the same reason cities tolerate shoplifting and general disorder. The institutions responsible for keeping order and maintaining a decent public space are too cowardly to do so. They sacrifice the rights of the upstanding citizen for the sake of the dysfunctional and disturbed.

You might think that this all sounds too harsh. One might protest, “Homeless people have a right to be at the library too!” Well, to a degree, they do. But vagrancy is a thing, and we all know what it is.

A farewell to harms

There was a time when our public spaces were kept more orderly. When those disturbing the peace were told to move along and if they didn’t go on their own, they were made to go. The homeless have rights, but so does everyone else. Public spaces deserve to be orderly, and if our government and institutions can’t ensure that, then they are failing.

There is a bigger question running like a thread through all this. Is it humane to turn the insane loose on the streets? For a while people were institutionalized; that was our solution. But then we stopped, and for the past few decades or so we’ve thought the best option was letting people go free, even if they end up harming themselves or others.

Which way is the right way? That’s a big question. I don’t know what the exact answer is. I’m not sure there’s a solution that makes us all feel good. But what I do know is that the scene of mentally ill homeless people disturbing everyone else and turning the public library into a homeless shelter is an acute example of societal dysfunction and degeneration.

There is something dark, depressing, and poignant about the scene of the city library today. This place where people used to learn before they fried their brains is now a homeless shelter.

We're all 'too busy' to eat dinner as a family — but we should do it anyway

What does it mean to eat dinner together as a family?

Why do we do it? Or rather, why did we do it? It seems the number of families who eat dinner together every night is shrinking.

I remember that if the phone rang during that time, my parents would look at one another shocked. 'Who would be calling during dinner?'

It feels like every year it becomes more rare. The image of a mother, father, and a couple kids sitting around a table, full plates in front of them and a few serving dishes in the middle, is becoming an old-fashioned image in our day and age.

Today, families are too busy to have dinner together. Too much work, too many obligations, too many schedules.

Dad has meetings, mom has to go to the gym, the kids have practice, dinner will have to wait.

Grab and go

A house today is more a place for atomized individuals to rest their heads at night before heading out and on their way every morning. It’s more a hostel and less a home. Breakfast out the door, lunch on the go, dinner on your own.

What kind of family life is this?

In the preindustrial world, families saw a lot of one another. Life wasn’t a fairy tale back then, times were tough, I am not sure people were always so chipper or joyful, but families did spend a lot of time together. That’s just how it was.

Life in the modern world, on the other hand, is hectic. Today, families are pulled apart by the chaos of modern life: the activities that never stop, the nagging sense that we might be able to “have it all.”

An antidote to atomization

For a while in the 20th century, families coped with the fracturing chaos of modern life by eating dinner together every night. It was a standard thing. All across American society, families ate dinner together.

Not just on Sunday or Saturday. Every night. Practices, classes, and rehearsals were scheduled around dinner. People weren’t forced to choose between dinner and some prescheduled activity or obligation.

Even deep into the '90s, there was a sense that you shouldn’t call anyone between 6:30 and 8:30 in the evening. That was when people ate dinner. There was an assumption everyone was eating with their families. I remember that if the phone rang during that time, my parents would look at one another shocked.

“Who would be calling during dinner?”

Dinner was the final sacred realm. The last untouched territory. Everyone might be out on their own all day, but at 6:00, everyone came back together as a family again.

Kids would tell one another, “I’ve got to go, I have to be back for dinner.” The street was quieter at those times. The world slowed for a couple hours. For the sanctity of dinner, the sanctity of family.

This is gone today. That societal detente has been eroded. Dinner is no longer respected.

Making dinner matter again

Now, parents eat separately because it’s easier. Kids eat on the bus on the way back from the volleyball tournament. Families go out to eat, and they all sit around the table scrolling their iPhones not saying a single word to one another. Today, for most, dinner doesn’t matter.

But it can. Even though society tries to fracture the family in 100 ways, we don’t have to go along with it. We still have free will. We can choose a different way. We can still come together as a family for dinner every single night.

That’s what we do in our family. We don’t watch TV during dinner, we don’t look at our phones during dinner, we don’t have separate dinners for mom and dad. We all sit down together every night.

The freedom of obligation

It’s not always easy. It’s hard with little kids. Every parent knows that. The messes, the cajoling, trying to teach manners while eating at the same time. Often, it’s not exactly a relaxing vibe.

It would be so much easier to throw something together for the kids, sit them at the table, then go in the other room and scroll the timeline on my phone. It would be so much easier to not block off that time every night. I would have more freedom if we didn’t eat dinner together. But I would be missing something important. I would be missing dinner together.

Our culture is what we do. Eating dinner together is a part of our culture. Eating dinner every night with no other distractions is good. Even when it’s bad, it’s good.

It’s not about grand meals or perfectly prepared dishes. It’s about something deeper. Eating dinner together is about coming back together at the end of the day, sitting around the table, and looking at each other in the eye — remembering that we are a family, thanking God for the food in front of us and also for those around us.

That’s what eating dinner as a family is about.

It's not just nostalgia: The '90s really were better

Nineties nostalgia is big these days.

Some are into the music. Distorted guitars and drum sets. Something more human than samples and synths.

People dressed better in the '90s. Even considering grunge culture, people dressed better. There were no Crocs in 1994.

Some are into the clothes. Old Polo Ralph Lauren on one hand and grungy baggy jeans on another. From time to time, I see young people crossing the street, and those memories of the JNCO years come rushing back.

Reflections of an unrepentant nostalgist

I’ve been an unrepentant '90s nostalgist for quite some time now. My argument on behalf of the '90s predates Zoomer nostalgia. It’s interesting to witness the rise of '90s nostalgia among young people. It feels like watching others catch up to what I already knew. It’s a rare case of feeling culturally vindicated.

What is happening? People never like what I like.

Of course, it will be short-lived. Trends go as quickly as they come. People are fickle. That’s OK, it’s just the nature of things. But the rise of '90s nostalgia isn’t just irrational sentimentalism.

Nineties nostalgia makes sense. The '90s were indeed better.

Better problems

There are always detractors. There are those who respond, “The '90s weren’t that great, you know. It wasn’t all perfect. It wasn’t utopia or anything.” That’s true, it wasn’t utopia. There is no utopia. No one is saying it was utopia. The straw man argument can be dismissed.

Yes, there were problems in the '90s. Urban crime, for one. There was a darkness to the grunge scene. Cubicle culture was as stultifying as ever.

There was an ennui looming somewhere underneath everything in the wake of the Soviet Union collapsing. With our enemy on the other side of the world vanquished, where did that leave us? Who were we without a formidable enemy? The end of history was here.

Yes, these were problems in the '90s. But here's the crucial point: None of those problems came close to what we're dealing with today.

Is the darkness of grunge really worse than the absolute nihilism we see among our young people today? No. There was, actually, some kind of vital rage to grunge. Brain-rot culture of 2025 is some kind of unholy combination of "Idiocracy" and "Brave New World."

Same for office malaise. Yes, more of us may work from home, but those homes are often as sterile as the buildings they replaced. Slack email jobs for people with no kids, two cats, and Netflix every night. Don’t forget DoorDash, vasectomies at 26, and sleep health. Grim.

Bad to worse

Our society today is far more anti-social than the society of the '90s. People are lonelier. More people avoid marriage or even dating. There are fewer children being born.

There are more suicides. More overdoses. More sexual dysfunction. More mental illness. More prescription drugs. The culture is more disgusting. The music is less human. The clothing is more dehumanizing.

Yes, there were problems in the '90s, but the problems are worse today.

Lament of a '90s kid

I remember; I was around in the '90s. I wasn’t an adult, I was a kid. And, of course, children never know what is really going on, but I do remember what life was like.

I know that there was not one bit of gender destruction going on in school. I know that not a single person in my entire childhood claimed to be a boy when she was actually a girl. I know that no one in 6th grade had unfiltered access to anything resembling the psychotic internet of 2025.

I know that almost no one was on antidepressants in high school. I know what it was like, and it wasn’t like today. I know that with my children, I have to look out for everything my parents had to look out for, plus a bunch of other stuff.

People dressed better in the '90s. Even considering grunge culture, people dressed better. There were no Crocs in 1994.

People didn’t wear pajama pants everywhere. In high school, pajama day was some weird one-off during spirit week. The lowest of the low was ripped jeans and T-shirts. Girls wore makeup more. Guys shaved more.

There was a general thrust of society that led to girls wanting to look pretty and guys wanting to look handsome. There were more songs about love. The movies were, largely, about adults and life, not super heroes and other banalities. All of this is historical fact.

Kids today

Nineties nostalgia, for those of us who were alive then, is a little less interesting than '90s nostalgia found among the Zoomers. For us olds, it’s real in a way it just isn't for the Zoomers.

They are longing for a world they never knew. They are imagining a place they have only seen in photos and videos. And it’s the aesthetic of those photos and videos they love.

Handheld-recorder aesthetic with date and tracking problems is a vibe. It’s not Super 8 midcentury. It’s Sony camcorder 1997. Something — anything! — less sterile than a straight iPhone photo. That’s the meaning of that aesthetic memory.

Were the '90s the greatest decade? No. Of course not. There is no greatest decade. Some argue that history has a fixed trajectory and that every decade is worse than the previous one. It’s a compelling argument. I can’t say it’s entirely wrong, though spending too much time thinking about that might lead to depression.

So close, so far

But why the nostalgia for the '90s and not the '80s? Or the '70s? Or the '50s? Or the '20s?

Because the '90s were the end and the closest we can get. The final sputters of the 1900s. The end of the other world. Yes, there have been many ends, but the '90s were really the final gasp. The last chopper out of Vietnam. That flip from 1999 to 2000 was the final nail in the coffin.

The '90s feel like an alternative reality. It was modern then. Looking back on 1994 isn’t like looking back at 1924. 1924 feels ancient. We can’t really wrap our heads around living then. But 1994 is near us.

The cars, the houses, the technology, the medical advancement, the people, the language, the way of life. It all feels very familiar. It really feels like yesterday, even for the Zoomers who weren’t there. It feels like we can almost reach out and grab it. It feels like we can almost get there from here.

It feels like today, but better.

My first sign of spring? A peach-colored OCBD

Even for those who profess no particular interest in clothing, its practical value is relatively uncontroversial. It covers our bodies, ensuring we aren’t completely naked, standing embarrassed in the middle of the road. It keeps us warm, preventing us from dying in the middle of a snowbank in January.

And most people will concede that clothing reflects our culture and history. No, there isn’t much history in the pair of sweatpants, but there is in the Oxford shirt or the necktie.

A peach OCBD is one of the most peculiar shirts. It is, indeed, very close to pink. But it isn’t pink. It just isn’t at all.

But clothing has another function that is worth considering: helping us reflect the season. Clothes help us feel time.

I know that sounds strange, esoteric, or overblown, but it isn’t.

Christmas in July?

Think about red and green. What comes to mind when you think about those distinct colors together? Is it the Fourth of July? Is it the beach? Is it St. Patrick's Day? No, of course not. You think of Christmas. Red and green make you think of falling snow and Christmas trees.

Would you feel comfortable wearing this combination in any other month? Probably not. But in December it feels just right. It elevates the season. These two wintery colors help you feel time in an acute way. With red and green in December, you embody the season in sartorial form.

Spring incarnate

We experience the same thing in spring, too. It’s not red and green, trees and snow, of course. It’s pastels. It’s light greens and violets. It’s peaches, sunny yellows, and the lightest blues imaginable on poplin button-downs. It’s these colors that feel like spring incarnate.

They are the colors of the blooming flowers and waking world. They remind us of new life. They are the colors of the living earth brought forward by the blessed sun. These colors are colors for finally coming outside and breathing easy without chattering teeth for the first time in half a year.

A light green OCBD. Can this be worn in October? No. It’s way too fresh for the rotting leaves and darkening days. What about violet? Can it be worn in November? No. Never. Purple is a year-round color, that’s true. A deep purple is regal and works quite well in the darkness of winter. It's practically like a royal navy. But a violet OCBD? That effervescent shade that reminds us of a young tulip growing from the ground? No.

Peach power

Peach? Isn’t that like red or pink? Can’t that be worn year-round? Again, no. It cannot. A peach OCBD is one of the most peculiar shirts. It is, indeed, very close to pink. But it isn’t pink. It just isn’t at all. It is peach and nothing else. And peach just cannot be worn when it’s cold. Can you imagine a peach sitting in the snow? No. You can’t imagine a peach OCBD under a red and black Mackinaw jacket, either. It’s wrong.

These things are so delicate and nuanced. I realize that for the uninitiated, this can sound too detailed or blown out of proportion. But once you think for just a few minutes about these shades and their intimate relationship with time and season, you realize that they can only be — truly be — in spring.

Yes, they can be worn in summer too, but it is spring when they come rushing out of our closets for the first time. It is spring when we realize just what they mean.

Feeling time

Is this just about color and shade? Is this just aesthetics without any other meaning? Is there a bigger takeaway? Of course there is. Aesthetics, when properly understood, always hold something deeper.

What does it mean to feel the season? How do we feel time? Has our modern world lessened our perception of time and season? These days we have incredible climate control. AC and heat keep our houses at the perfect temperature all year long.

This, while deeply appreciated, has eroded some feeling of time and season. Reliable heat has lessened the need for the wool sweater or tweed sport coat. Wonderful AC has lessened the need for madras or linen.

As we have moved away from an agrarian society and toward a world where we can get any fruit we want from anywhere in the world any day of the week no matter the season, we have also moved away from the land and feeling time in the land.

Unless we are farmers, we no longer feel the harvest seasons in the same way. We no longer realize — deeply realize — that food doesn’t grow all year. Modern society, for better or worse, has led to us feeling the seasons (and time) less than our ancestors did.

Intimate knowledge

Clothes are wonderful because they allow us a return to time. They give us the chance to reflect, embody, and feel time in an intimate way. Clothes are, after all, one of the most intimate items we own. They are on our bodies, against our skin. To be able to feel time and season in such an intimate way is a gift in our era of disorienting time suspension.

Spring is about new life. Thawing after the cold. Sun after the snow. Lightness after darkness. We shouldn’t resist that. It’s our gift after surviving winter. We should wear peach, violet, and light green. We should embrace spring and all its meaning. When we embrace this sunny joy in our clothing, it radiates out into other aspects of our lives as well.

Spring is about joy, so let us feel joy.