This week, I finally saw My Dinner with Andre. It'd been sitting on my watchlist for years, collecting dust as I could never find it, until the combination of the Criterion Channel and my appalling privilege in a global pandemic gave me time at last to sit and watch.

I can't stop looking in the mirror. No longer can I stand my phone, so I've returned to the original screen. I watch my arms grow thinner, my eyes sink deeper, my bones reveal their contours like roots pushing up on the sidewalk.

Haven't felt this alien since middle school—I ask permission to go outside, walk the halls half-asleep and wonder what it could feel like to be held. Months into quarantine, I see now I'm guilty of taking touch for granted. The line between forgetting and never knowing is thin as worn chiffon.

Short issue this week, I have 198 unread emails and still have to pick an outfit for cocktails tonight with a little owl named Blathers. Here's an update on my favorite songs of 2020 that haven't made Earwyrms yet.

Fiona Apple only releases one album a decade, and she just delivered a new one last night. Fetch the Bolt Cutters completely derailed any plans I had for this issue.

One hundred Earwyrms! Can you believe it? One hundred weeks of passing off the same seven Frank Ocean songs as a new playlist. For #100, I couldn't resist going back through my favorite issues and compiling them here—most of my 30 million subscribers missed the early ones. Here are my worst quotes:

Today, I am pleased to deliver our second annual dispatch of the softest music I know. Here you'll find a soundtrack for warm baths, for jigsaw puzzles, for balconies, for open windows, for big headphones to drown out your roommates.

I am going to melt into my walls. I can feel them sucking me in, Jumanji-style, dissolving me like white flour in an arid breeze. When it's safe to come out and I don't show up, they'll find a greasy silhouette, tombstone-shaped, just above my bed.

The real reason I had no time to write was I got so sucked in to making the damn playlist. It had to be longer this time, both because I had so much material (it was the year of my musical awakening) and because we could all use a longer escape.

Spring break is dead; long live spring break. With no more travel and everyone indoors, I've made a playlist for us to have spring break at home. Wishing the best to all and everyone we know. Stay safe and stay sane!

Noise has always been electric. Before we held the sky's secret power, we considered thunderheads in the distance. Jellyfish clouds teetered thousands of feet above town-less prairie. Lightning sprang down in yellow bullets, so close we could play cat’s cradle with the trails.

This Valentine's Day, Hulu released a new TV version of High Fidelity. I told myself I wouldn't watch it. Its existence felt like a trick, its timing too convenient. It only took me two nights to cave. I set down the movie to watch the whole thing twice; some will disagree, but I think it's fantastic.

You get to visit the Georgia Aquarium for free on your birthday, so I went yesterday. It was fitting, as one of the first Pisces; I felt like I should climb into the tank myself. The ocean has always been a haven for the cold and lumpy and weird.

Valentine's Day exists to jump-start the economy during the late-winter doldrums. As with most things American, the point is to get you to buy shit. Love is the most abundant resource in the world; naturally, someone found a way to exploit it.

1990 was the year that the Pale Blue Dot photo was beamed back to Earth by Voyager 1—as it left the Solar System, Carl Sagan told NASA to have the craft turn its camera around and take one last photo of the Earth against the black canvas of space. In the shot, our planet is barely bigger than a pixel.

In 1980, a Japanese manufacturer of electronic instruments launched its first line of drum machines. Instead of pre-recorded samples, this machine made its own sounds—particularly, a booming bass drum that sounded like Flubber hitting a trampoline.

Ten years is as far as you can stretch in time while still holding your sense of self. Walk back through each week, however, and it's exhausting to see just how far time's canyon will reach. The decade is the standard unit of change.

In 1960, America was adjusting to being the empire. Our version of love was designed to support structures of power, and myths of supremacy reigned. Threatened by a liberated woman, male culture doubled down and curdled into the mess it is today.

One (inconvenient) symptom is that I can't listen to music anymore. I can no longer take the emotional stimuli. As a music writer, it's distressing; as a lover of irony, it rules. I'm like a sober bartender, but less respectable and more bemusing.

One of the most frequent questions I get is about how I’ve been able to pick up temporary work throughout my travels without falling afoul of the law.