In 1963 I lusted after comic books.

Not liked.

Not enjoyed.

Not collected.

Lusted.

The distinction matters.

People enjoy a cup of coffee. They enjoy a sunny afternoon. They enjoy a comfortable chair.

Nobody enjoyed comic books the way I experienced them.

Comic books occupied the same territory as desire.

The same territory as hunger.

The same territory as religious longing.

A ten-cent comic book was not ten cents.

A ten-cent comic book was access.

Access to another world.

Access to another self.

There is a particular kind of grief that does not fit neatly into the categories.

No one died yesterday.

No catastrophe appeared on the evening news.

There is no funeral.

No casserole arrives at the door.

And yet something feels gone.

Folks describe it in odd ways.

The neighborhood doesn't feel the same.

The profession doesn't feel the same.

The country doesn't feel the same.

Dating doesn't feel the same.

Marriage doesn't feel the same.

The future doesn't feel the same.

The feeling is difficult to name because the object of grief is often invisible. What has disappeared is not necessarily a person. It is a world.

A set of assumptions.

A map of reality.

A future we quietly expected to inhabit.

This may be one reason the enduring appeal of Supergirl feels increasingly relevant.

For all the capes and cosmic battles, Supergirl is not fundamentally a story about superpowers.

It is a story about surviving the destruction of a world and waking up somewhere that no longer follows the rules you were taught.

In that sense, she may be one of popular culture's most compelling trauma icons.

Not because she suffers.

Many heroes suffer.

Because she remembers.

A strange thing happened when we built the most powerful attention-capturing machines in human history.

We rediscovered the family dinner.

Not because dinner changed.

Because attention changed.

For thousands of years, human beings developed rituals that directed attention toward what mattered most.

Meals. Holidays. Birthdays. Weddings. Sabbaths. Bedtime stories. Seasonal celebrations. Shared traditions.

These practices were so common that they became nearly invisible.

Then, within a single generation, we built an economy designed to redirect attention somewhere else.

The result was not merely distraction.

It was a crisis of continuity.

There is a peculiar superstition circulating among modern adults.

The superstition is not that human beings are good.

The superstition is that human beings are terrible.

Mention marriage and someone will tell you about divorce.

Mention religion and someone will tell you about hypocrisy.

Mention politics and someone will tell you about corruption.

Mention social media and someone will tell you about narcissists.

Mention trust and someone will look at you as if you have just proposed investing your retirement savings in a pyramid scheme operated by ferrets.

The hopeful person is considered naïve.

The trusting person is considered gullible.

The cynic, meanwhile, is treated like the adult in the room.

Suspicion has become a form of sophistication.

Pessimism has become a personality.

And distrust increasingly passes for wisdom.

A fascinating new study suggests we may be getting the math wrong.

Long before artificial intelligence arrived, America had already developed a habit.

We started describing human beings the way accountants describe office furniture.

Workers became labor costs.

Patients became utilization rates.

Students became performance metrics.

Citizens became demographics.

Customers became eyeballs.

Somewhere along the way, the language of management escaped the conference room and began colonizing everything else.

This happens so gradually that nobody notices.

One day you wake up and discover that an entire society has become remarkably skilled at calculating what human beings cost.

Less attention is devoted to calculating what human beings are worth.

Artificial intelligence did not create this habit.

Artificial intelligence merely wandered into a culture that was already halfway there.

That observation sits beneath a recent economic idea known as the AI Layoff Trap.

Every civilization eventually develops a fantasy about its own childhood.

Rome had one.

Britain had one.

America's fantasy childhood is the 1950s.

A decade so beloved that millions of Americans who never lived through it spend their evenings trying to move back there emotionally.

The remarkable thing is that almost nobody actually wants the 1950s.

They want the feeling they imagine the 1950s produced.

Those are very different things.

You see it everywhere now.

"I want the 1950s back."

It appears in comment sections. Political speeches. Parenting discussions. Podcasts. Social media debates. Family gatherings. Sometimes all before breakfast.

The phrase is remarkably popular for something almost nobody actually means.

Because nobody wants the actual 1950s back.

Most people remember Archie Bell & the Drells for one thing.

A groove.

A dance.

A few minutes of irresistible joy from 1968.

What most people do not remember is that Tighten Up begins with instructions.

Actual instructions.

Archie Bell introduces himself, introduces Houston, Texas, informs us that he and his friends can dance as well as they sing, and then proceeds to tell America exactly what to do.

"Now tighten up on it..."

And America, apparently thinking this sounded reasonable, did.

The song became a number-one hit.

Millions danced.

Nobody seemed especially troubled by the fact that they were enthusiastically participating in a cultural phenomenon built around compliance.

Most partners do not wake up one morning and decide to stop loving each other.

That is the comforting myth.

The dramatic myth.

The movie version.

The affair.

The betrayal.

The screaming match.

The slammed door.

Real life is usually quieter.

A husband is lying in bed beside his wife.

He is laughing.

Not with her.

At something on his phone.

The most powerful rival to your marriage may not be another person.

It may be a machine.

Not because the machine is lovable.

Not because the machine is attractive.

But because the machine is very, very good at capturing attention.

And attention has quietly become the most valuable emotional currency in modern relationships.

A fascinating 2026 study published in the Journal of Personality found that anxiously attached partners experienced higher depressed mood, lower self-esteem, more resentment, and greater urges to retaliate when they felt ignored by a romantic partner using a smartphone—a behavior researchers call phubbing (phone + snubbing).

Surprisingly, relationship satisfaction itself remained largely unchanged. 

At first glance, this appears to be a study about phones.

It isn't.

It is a study about what happens when the human attachment system collides with the attention economy.

There was a period in American life when casual sex carried a certain cinematic glamour.

City lights.
Cocktails.
Taxi rides.
Rumpled sheets.
Texts sent at 1:12 a.m. containing phrases like:
“You up?”
followed shortly afterward by:
“This is probably a bad idea,”
which historically has functioned less as a warning than as an accelerant.

Modern dating culture became organized around managed impulsivity.

Alcohol lowered inhibition.
Apps increased access.
Urban anonymity reduced consequences.
Therapy culture reframed experimentation as self-discovery.
And loneliness quietly flooded the entire system with urgency.

Then something strange began happening.

There is a peculiar sentence appearing all over Reddit lately:

“We’re doing everything right and it still feels impossible.”

That sentence matters.

Because it captures something larger than financial stress.

It captures the collapse of a cultural promise.

For decades, Americans were sold a particular emotional narrative about adulthood:
study hard,
work hard,
find love,
build a life,
buy a house,
raise children,
be tired sometimes but fundamentally stable.

Increasingly, modern couples experience something very different.

They experience adulthood as continuous economic vigilance.

There is a particular kind of exhaustion emerging inside modern marriage that older relationship language does not fully capture. It is not exactly resentment.

Not exactly burnout. Not exactly emotional labor, though it overlaps with all three.

It is the sensation of becoming the life partner who must permanently remember reality for everyone else.

The pediatric appointment.
The gluten-free snack requirement.
The teacher email.
The birthday gift.
The soccer registration deadline.
The dog medication.
The emotional temperature of the house.
The location of the extra batteries.
The family calendar.

in other words, the invisible architecture of ordinary life.