The House Speaker Mike Johnson, who I am convinced came to life after being a character on the Simpsons, is in trouble. His problem is he may allow a vote on aid for Ukraine. You might think that the point to the House of Representatives is to vote on stuff, but for many Representatives, apparently not. Why would you oppose voting on an issue? One reason is that you expect your position will lose, and you want to thwart the will of the majority. Another reason to oppose a vote is that you do not want to take an authoritative stance on an issue. If there is no vote, I may avoid criticism. In other words, cowardice. We may call ourselves a democracy or a republic, but those reasons for preventing a vote indicate we are neither. Furthermore, how in democratic or republican theory, does one person control whether the House votes or not?

I go to the theater for the play, but I experience more than that. For example, I recently saw a matinee at the Belasco Theatre. It is on a block with several other theaters. The street was crowded with people waiting to get into various shows, including many school children and easily spottable tourists and suburbanites, as well as Broadway denizens. I absorbed the air of excitement and expectation. New York’s vibrancy was also palpable from a conversation I had at the intermission. Before the play started, I heard the woman next to me say that she had been a law librarian. When the break came, I asked her about that. I learned that she and her husband were from the San Franciso Bay area and were soaking up New York City for a couple weeks. They were going to shows—they highly recommended Merrily We Roll Along—and galleries and museums. They had been impressed by the Harlem Renaissance exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum but not so much by the Biennial at the Whitney. (I generally agreed with them about the museum exhibits.) They told me about an installation in the Soho district I was not aware of. And then I thought about all the baseless claims about how bad and scary New York is. My afternoon on Broadway told me otherwise.

I was seated on a round, backless stool at a long lunch counter. The diners were engaged with their phones or the menus, not with each other. As I ate my unusual sandwich—corned beef with chopped chicken liver on rye—I glanced to my right. A young woman who had not yet ordered sat there. Tears soundlessly streamed down her cheeks. I looked away. As I got close to finishing my lunch, I looked over again. She was no longer crying. Should I have said something to her?

If Trump, as he suggested, would have immigration only from “nice” countries, would that include Russia?

I left the Metropolitan Museum after viewing its Literary Poster exhibit. I wandered down Fifth Avenue, and I saw that the street was closed. I asked a police officer at a barricade what the event was. He replied, “The Greek Independence Day parade.” “Who knew?” I said. He told me that I was in luck and could see it because it was about to appear, and it was short. I walked a few blocks south and coming north were people in uniform carrying a blue and white flag, another flag saying, “Correction Officers Hellenic Association,” and a third flag bearing “1895.” Soon came similar contingents from the police and fire departments. I spotted a couple standing on a bench waving smaller versions of the blue and white flag. I asked them, “From whom did Greece get its independence?” The man answered, “The Ottoman Empire.” Showing off what I thought was my new knowledge, I said, “1895?” “No. 1821.” The man paused and then continued, “But maybe 1895 by Greek time.” I responded, “That’s not true. The service is fine in Greek restaurants.” He smilingly said, “That’s because we Greeks love our food.”