Here’s what’s making us happy this week.

Hello, weekenders. It’s been a minute. We’ve been holding our joy a bit too close to the vest over here at the Hub, with editorial apologies. But the good Fridays are back!

Molly Odintz, our resident curious George, enjoyed a post-Valentine’s Day omakase. Avoiding the day-of holiday crowds is a highly recommended life hack, resulting in “22 courses of the best sushi” our CrimeReads editor has ever had.

Molly also made friends on this dining experience. To the kind fellow fan of Ice Planet Barbarians seated catty corner, a question: have you followed Molly’s suggestion and read the Robert Jackson Bennett Leviathan novels yet? Do sound off below, if you hear this.

Speaking of books, our main hangs: Drew Broussard attended the American Booksellers Association’s Winter Institute last week and had a wonderful time seeing booksellers from across the country. The fellowship got our podcasts editor “really excited about the year to come at my own shop.” (Rough Draft, in Kingston.)

And James Folta has tunes. Though thanks are in order to friend and neighbor Chris for the recommendation.

This staffer has been turned on to Teo Wise, a whimsical Italian singer-songwriter. Specifically the album “Fermo O Sparo,” which Folta describes thus: “garage rock spaghetti Western tunes by a lo-fi, funny, surf-rock dude from Leipzig. It’s a freaky Schengen Area miracle, pure sprezzatura, baby.”

The convinced are directed to start with “Confusionale.” Or the more low key “M’ama non M’ama.” But all are encouraged to dabble. Says James: “Plus I can’t stop quoting the little phrases from around Wise’s Bandcamp: ‘Mangia Spaghetti rockin the world!’ and ‘Ciaoe no hard feelings’? Come on, instant classics.” Sì, signore.

I, Brittany Allen, have been on a very specific pop history kick, abetted by rereading two essay collections. Gary Indiana’s Fire Season, and Greg Tate’s Flyboy in the Buttermilk.

Both late critics deserve their plinths. We’re talking pages on pages of incisive pyrotechnics. So few writers match style and moral clarity. And given our political moment, there’s something useful about revisiting the rage occasioned by Clinton, Reagan, and Bush.

But this read of Flyboy, I was most stuck on the elegant elegizing. The way Tate, a commensurate fan, can geek out about Miles Davis while noting his abundant personal failings with the other paw gives lie to that old chestnut that we can simply love or hate monstrous people. I’m so excited for the forthcoming reissue of this collection. Everyone’s getting it for Christmas, be warned.

Wishing you a weekend of surprising strangers, bits of wit, and off-peak dining experiences.

Hold your joy close, but don’t forget to share it.