Fresh Air - A War Reporter Reckons With A Deadly Cancer Diagnosis

Episode Date: March 5, 2024

As a war correspondent, Rod Nordland faced death many times over. But in 2019, Nordland confronted a different type of danger when he was diagnosed with glioblastoma, the most lethal form of brain tumor. "I had to face the reality that my death was within a fairly short timespan, highly probable," he says. "I think it made me a better person." His new memoir is Waiting for the Monsoon. Also, Maureen Corrigan reviews Sloane Crosley's new memoir Grief Is For People.And David Bianculli reviews Jon Stewart's return to The Daily Show, and the new season of John Oliver's Last Week Tonight.Learn more about sponsor message choices: podcastchoices.com/adchoicesNPR Privacy Policy

This is Fresh Air. I'm Terry Gross. If there was ever a life designed to teach one how to face death, mine was it. My guest Rod Nordlund wrote that while facing death from a glioblastoma, the most lethal cancerous brain tumor. It's incurable. The median life expectancy is 15 months. Only 6% of people survive 5 years. He's now at 4 and a half years plus. Even if you go into remission, the cancer is likely to recur. Nordland was used to facing

mortality from his many years as a war correspondent for the New York Times, Newsweek, and the Philadelphia Inquirer. Wars and conflicts in Bosnia, Somalia, Kosovo, Iraq, Yemen, Afghanistan, Lebanon, Congo, Cambodia. He was there. In his new memoir, Waiting for the Monsoon, he writes about his life as a war correspondent and as a cancer patient, and how both extremes affected his relationships and family life. The title is a reference to his first seizure when he was in India, filling in for the New York Times' New Delhi bureau chief. That seizure led to his diagnosis in 2019. He's already defied the odds of survival, but he writes, I have no idea if when you are

reading this, you will be able to Google my obituary or sign up to see me at your local bookstore. He spoke to me last week from his home in New York. Rod Nordlund, welcome to Fresh Air. We spoke years ago. Welcome back. Yeah, thank you, Terry. You know, when your memoir ends, you're in pretty good shape. You've had many clear brain scans with no sign of return or spread of the tumor. What's the status now? Well, yeah, there has been some spread of the tumor. It's pretty minor so far. I'm on a new treatment regimen that we devised with the help of doctors all over the country, trying to find a new way of approaching this terrible

disease. So the most recent news is that my recent recurrence has receded and the tumor has gotten much smaller and so it's kind of good news. It still remains incurable, but that doesn't mean it can't be treated. And there are people who had GVM and survived decades with it. I hope to be one of them. So what kind of treatment are you on now? Are you doing chemo? I'm doing a low dose of chemo and I'm also wearing a device on my head called an Optune. It's a series of ceramic arrays that are kind of glued to my head after I shave it bald. And then they emit electronic beams that are thought to fight tumors. Do you feel those beams at all? Do you feel zapped? No, but the arrays on my head do get warm sometimes, and I feel that. But that's normal, and I can't feel the beams that are actually treating the tumor.

What parts of your body and what parts of your cognitive abilities have been affected by both the tumor and by the treatment of the tumor? Well, the treatment of the tumor has been far more devastating to me than the tumor itself. I've had, you know, many rounds of chemo and radiation. I think the radiation especially has led to some cognitive deficits, like my short-term memory is really compromised. And that's a normal outcome of chemo even, and radio even more so. But the treatments I'm getting now are all pretty low impact and hopefully won't have any adverse consequences, except they're a little annoying. The tumor treating arrays I have to wear on my head, you know, it means my hair grows very fast, so every three days or so I have to shave my head bald and then reapply the arrays.

And I have to make sure that the Optune machine is close to me. So it often means having somebody else carry it for me if I move around or put it in a backpack or in the back of my wheelchair. So that's a bit annoying and certainly restricts my movement a lot. Do you need a wheelchair now? Yes and no. I mean, I do use a wheelchair when I go out to appointments, to doctor's appointments, just for safety's sake. Because while I can walk with a cane, sometimes without a cane, I'm very prone to falls and tripping because I have no sensation on my left side. Tumor is on the right, so when the doctor cut the tumor out, he also cut some nerves that provided sensation to my left side. So I have no sensation on my left, which causes a lot of mobility problems. It gives me what they call poor proprioception which is a fancy word meaning

your brain's knowledge of where your body is in space and if your brain doesn't know where your body parts are you're obviously very prone to falls which in my case a bad fall that hit my head could be fatal. The neurologist who is your brain surgeon told you that this tumor would kill you and that you needed to come to terms with that and that you needed to be honest with your loved ones about it. You were reasonably confident that you'd be among the 6% of people who survive more than five years.

Why were you so optimistic, and are you still? I mean, I tend to see worst-case scenarios, so I'd love to hear how you managed to see best-case scenario. Well, I've always been an optimist and a very upbeat person. So I think that has been, doctors have even said it to me, it's my greatest strength in fighting this disease. There have been studies done of patients with terminal diseases and in which they asked the people they thought they would survive and those that said they thought they would survive even though they had a diagnosis that medically had doomed them had better outcomes than people that just said, oh, well, and sat back and let it do its

thing. So that gives me a lot of hope. You are confident in war zones that you aren't going to get killed, even though you knew fellow journalists who'd been killed. You had some very bad close calls with death yourself. So what made you think that you were going to survive? I never understand this about war correspondents that I think you have to believe that you're being careful enough that you can survive, but it's a war and anything can happen. So what made you confident that you would survive some of the evidence to the contrary? Because I am the most careful person around, and no matter what conflict I was covering, I was always very conscious of putting safety of myself and the people that worked with me, putting that first.

I like to say that I preach the virtues of cowardice when covering wars. I never go to the front line. I think the front line in a conflict where there's a lot of explosions and high-speed projectiles flying around, I think that's a very dangerous place. And you have to be either an idiot or completely deluded to go, say, to the headquarters or to the nearest hospital and talk to witness and survivors. And I've always made that my mantra, kind of. You faced down death several times in war zones. Tell us about one of the close calls. And I know you have several to choose from. You know, when I began working as a war correspondent, I was still 20-something, and still, in many ways, an adolescent. And I think, like a lot of young people,

I really didn't believe in my own mortality. And I think that's true of a lot of people that do that kind of work, because otherwise, who would do it? I mean, who would jump out of an airplane into a parachute if they didn't have some belief in their own immortality. So I lost that arrogance very profoundly when I was on a front line against my own rules in Cambodia on the outskirts of a refugee camp, where there was a nasty little internecine war going on between factions that ran the camp, and it lived off of the proceeds of the food and and supplies they could steal. So those creeps were, you know, in constant conflict with themselves. And I found myself on the front line with a couple of them. I was standing shoulder to shoulder with one of these militiamen, and there were bullets whizzing over our heads.

That expression, by the way, is quite accurate. That's what it sounds like, something whizzing over your head. And we just stood there like idiots, and one of those bullets hit the guy next to me and blew his brains out, quite literally. His comrades then, you know, I had a rental car, and they ordered me to put him in the car and take him to the hospital. I mean, he was clearly brain dead. He was convulsing and bleeding kind of all over the Avis upholstery. Avis rental car.

Yeah. As we used to say, what's the best all-train vehicle to use in a war zone? Answer, a rental car. Right. Okay, so you just told us about when you were a young war correspondent and the person next to you had his brains blown out, and then you were forced to take him to a hospital, even though you were sure he was dead. And I think there was a gun to your head while you were doing this. And you certainly

continued to be a war correspondent for many years after that. That was an early warning that, you know, you would be surrounded by the threat of death. Why did you keep doing it? Why did you keep staying in war zones after that? I started doing it really differently. That taught me that I was, in fact, mortal, which is an important lesson that all young men should learn as soon as possible. After that, I never went to front lines anymore, especially with irregulars. And I stayed as far away from them as I could.

There were other times when you faced the possibility of death. You were in a Holiday Inn in Sarajevo during the conflict there, and you were staying on what was called Sniper's Row in the Holiday Inn because there was so much sniper fire there, firing at everybody. And you were told you had someone bang on your door and say, get out of the room and into the hallway right now because they're coming down the street with mortars. And sure enough, as soon as you got into the hallway, your room was mortared and you probably would have died there. Your bed was basically exploded when you got back in. Yeah, the whole room was rubble and shards of shells. Yeah, that was another warning. And another time was when you were scheduled to

be executed with several other journalists the next day, and a delegation from the International Red Cross happened to come by and rescue you. So, I mean, you had a lot of brushes with death. What are some of the differences in terms of your emotional state and your understanding of death between facing the possibility of it, doing your job in war zones as a correspondent, as a foreign correspondent, and facing it because of your brain cancer? Well, there are a lot of similarities. One of the most important things I learned as a war correspondent was that the first thing you had to be sure to do was to stay calm and not lose control of your emotions

and just stay calm no matter what. And I think that's been a really good lesson for dealing with cancer, a very deadly form. Has your acceptance of mortality changed? Like when you were in conflict zones, did you accept the fact that you thought you wouldn't die? You thought you wouldn't be killed, but did you accept the fact that you might be? Did you reconcile with the possibility of death? And now as a cancer patient, even though you've survived longer than the odds would have given you, this is a deadly form of cancer. And even if you go into a remission, it's likely to come back. So what's your level of acceptance of mortality now? And again, how does that compare to what it was in war zones? Well, I think in war zones, it was much more of a coin toss.

And I think I became very good at playing the odds and weighing the risks and moderating them by the way I approach my work. But with glioblastoma, there's no coin toss. You know, it's incurable, it's terminal, and it can be treated, but it can't be cured. And I've had some good treatment, but the treatment's also been sometimes really difficult and devastating. So, I mean, I had to face reality that my death was, within a fairly short time span, highly probable. That had never been the case before.

And I think it made me a better person for that. In what way? Well, because it made me look back on my life and things that had happened in my life and think about what was most important. And it also made me want to, instead of being angry at my kids for siding with their mother against me in our divorce, instead of being angry at them, I was accepting. And just, you know, they also came to my bedside, and I felt a lot of love from them, which was very heartening. When you're a journalist, you have license to ask anything that you wouldn't normally ask people. And the way you describe it, that's also true for you with the brain cancer, because you feel like having a terminal illness allows you to

ask things that you normally wouldn't ask about the meaning of life or about death. Do you see a similarity between those two licenses as a journalist and somebody with a terminal illness? Yeah, and I played that for all it was worth. I asked everybody I met what the meaning of life was. I even asked Alexa, who had a pathetic answer. I'm sure she had the best answer. What was the answer? The answer was to quote Eleanor Roosevelt, that the purpose of life is to live life to the fullest and to enjoy everything about it.

That's somewhat of a lame answer. But at one time, I asked that question of a nurse, and she turned it around on me and said, what do you think the meaning of life is? So I said, well, I'm sorry, I'm going to have to punt on that. But I think the meaning of life is, as Raymond Carver said, to feel yourself beloved on this earth. And that was my answer then, and it's my answer in the book, too. Let me reintroduce you. If you're just joining us, my guest is Rod Nordlund,

a longtime war correspondent for The New York Times, Newsweek, and The Philadelphia Inquirer. Since 2019, he's had the most lethal form of brain cancer, a glioblastoma. His new memoir is called Waiting for the Monsoon. We'll be right back after a short break. I'm Terry Gross, and this is Fresh Air. Hi there, it's Tanya Mosley, here to share more about my new series of Fresh Air Plus bonus episodes. I love when he casts his mom in movies. It feels so authentic. I know. You know, she was also in the film Goodfellas, which I also love.

I need to get that screenplay, by the way. I don't have that one. For the next few weeks leading up to the Academy Awards, I'll be talking about all of my favorite movies with my colleague Anne-Marie Baldonado. If you want to hear what movies I love and which screenplays I actually own and use as creative direction, sign up for Fresh Air Plus at plus.npr.org. The first part of your book is about your childhood and teen years. Your father physically abused you, your siblings, and your mother. He used his belt on the family, but he also used his fists on your mother. Did you grow up with a constant sense of fear when your father was around?

Yes, yes, I was terrified of him. And my siblings, maybe a bit less so because they were much younger. And as much of a monster as he was, he didn't beat toddlers, but the older children. There were six of us. And those of us who were old enough were beaten regularly for the most trivial of infractions. Your mother told you not to tell anyone. What was she afraid of? She was understandably afraid that the authorities would step in and take us away from her and my father and put us in a foster home or something or separate us or institutionalize us. So she was really worried about that, and we had lots of talks about it.

One school nurse took me into her office when she found me crying in the hallway and made me take my shirt off and saw all the welts on my shoulders and back and asked me what they were from. And I said, oh, just fights with other kids, which was a complete lie. I'm sure she didn't believe it. You and your siblings and your mother got away from your father because your mother finally called the police. And they were initially very dismissive.

There was no law against a husband beating a wife in California at that time. But finally, another officer took sympathy. I think probably anywhere in America. Anywhere in America. Yeah, yeah. But another officer took sympathy and found an excuse to lock up your father. You later learned about your father's criminal record and his imprisonment. He was a predatory pedophile of girls and boys.

How did you find out? Somebody sent me a clipping from a newspaper in Idaho about my father's arrest on pedophile charges. And because my kids had so many cousins, and it was in an age when they were all discovering social media, we knew that it would only be a matter of time until one of the cousins shared this with all of the cousins, which is exactly what happened. And the result was that my brothers and I decided

that we would rather break the news, especially to our children and spouses, than have them find out from the cousin network. Because as everybody knows, the children of abusers tend to become abusers. I don't think that happened in my family just because our mother was such a good mother and protected us so much from the abuse. But nonetheless, it was a big concern. So we had a lot of really hard conversations that the grandfather they never knew was a vicious,

predatory pedophile. You finally realized you had PTSD from years in war zones, but also from your childhood trauma with your father beating you and your mother. How did you come to understand that not only did you have PTSD, but you had it from two different parts of your life, two different circumstances? Well, what happened was I was assigned to do a story for Newsweek in Iraq. And the military had started sending in what they called combat stress teams to look for PTSD in soldiers and catch it early and get them help. So they had a screening test and the nurse who was in charge, a military nurse, just said to me and the photographer, why don't you guys take this screening test? So we did and we both tested like moderate to severe PTSD. So the military had a protocol, which we later adopted at Newsweek

and I think some other news organizations. And the protocol was that if you scored fairly high on their PTSD screening test, you had to submit yourself to counseling with somebody trained in counseling trauma. So I did that, and then for two weeks. And finally, the therapist said, I can't help you anymore. Your trauma is not from war. It has nothing to do with war. It's from your childhood.

So you need to get help with what you experienced in your childhood. So I did later on get anger management counseling. I've always had a problem with anger. I think that's something my father bequeathed me. I mean, I never attacked women or children, but I think I grew up in an environment that was compulsively violent, and I guess that made me that way a little bit. It certainly made me an angry person. So I think I've come to terms with that and moderated it a lot, especially in light of the glioblastoma. You met your partner, your current partner, in 2016. She's a poet and a human rights activist. You had planned a life

together. And then, you know, about three years after you became a couple, your relationship was tested because of the brain cancer diagnosis, you know, and it's a form of brain cancer that's lethal. And she has been with you the whole time, overseeing your health care, making all the arrangements that need to be made when someone is seriously ill. You had planned— She's been amazing, yeah. She sounds amazing in the memoir, I have to say. And you were so upbeat about what you expected your outcome to be. You expected to be one of the survivors,

one of the small percentage of survivors. But you were given the advice to grieve, for you and Leela to grieve, not necessarily to grieve for imminent death, but to grieve for the kind of life you had planned that you could no longer have. Because what you can do now has been compromised, places you can go to or travel to. So tell me about what it means to have grieved for the life that you can no longer have and to do that together. I think it made us even closer than we were already. Was there a process or were there things that you talked about that were helpful? Yeah, I think there's things we decided to do together. There are books that we read that we both found very moving,

books on dying and death and on facing death, especially a book called The Five Invitations by an American Buddhist monk, Frank Ostoweski, his name I usually mangle. ran a hospice, a Zen Buddhist hospice in San Francisco at the height of the AIDS epidemic. The hospice was for people dying of HIV and for homeless people, people who had no one to care for them or be with them. And he writes so movingly about how these people faced the awful ordeal of dying. And it's really inspiring. I recommend it to anybody who's got a friend with a serious illness. It really changed our lives.

We read the book out loud to each other for days on end sometimes. How are you mentally preparing yourself for death? Because you know that this is a terminal illness, and you never go into total remission. This is a cancer that recurs even if you're in remission. So far, you've really beat the odds. But you know, somewhere along the line, it's inevitable. I mean, it's inevitable one way or another, but it's inevitable sooner.

There's more of a deadline. So how are you mentally preparing yourself for that? I think, you know, by repairing my relationships more than anything else and working hard on those, both my relationships with my friends and with my family, and especially with my partner. Well, Rod Nordlund, thank you so much for talking with us. And, you know, I wish you more life. Thanks. I plan to have some. Rod Nordlund is a former foreign correspondent who covered conflicts and wars for the New York Times, Newsweek, and the Philadelphia Inquirer. His new memoir is

called Waiting for the Monsoon. After we take a short break, Maureen Corrigan will review Sloane Crossley's new memoir about grief, This is Fresh Air. Slo Crosley is celebrated for her novels, Cult Classic and The Clasp, and her three essay collections, all distinguished by sharp social observations and wit. Her latest book, Grief is for People, is an idiosyncratic memoir of loss. Book critic Maureen Corrigan has a review. The subject of Sloane Crosley's book is as traditional as it gets. It's an elegy to her friend, former boss, and mentor, Russell Perrault. Until his death in 2019, Perrault was the head of publicity at Vintage Books, an esteemed publishing imprint. He hired Crosley when she was 25. As Crosley depicts him, Perrault was part Sheridan Whiteside, the tetchy critic character from The Man Who Came to Dinner,

and part Auntie Mame. He was the kind of boss who'd cheerfully tell a job seeker that he would reject her because you're not fun. But he was also a practical jokester and generous host of getaway weekends for the entire office at his Connecticut farm. Quickly, Crosley and Perot bonded, becoming for decades the kind of friends slash family slash whatever for which we don't have an adequate word in English. Crosley herself struggles throughout the book to nail their relationship, which she says is both over and ill defined. We are not husband and wife.

We tend to think the other is exaggerating when we gripe about our families, as neither of us has been forced to spend holidays with these people. I am not his person. He has a person. And yet, every man I have ever dated has felt the presence of a second father, and Russell's partner has felt the presence of a daughter. In July of 2019, Perrault and Crosley had dinner in New York at a restaurant near her apartment. They discussed a plan where he would sleep at her apartment and take care of Crosley's cat while she went off to a literary festival. Three nights later, Perrault killed himself at the Connecticut house he shared with his partner. Did you know, people asked Crosley, seeking,

as she recognizes, to manage chaos, to usher in a sense of coherence, to use me to inoculate themselves. No, she didn't know. I said that grief is for people takes the form of a traditional elegy, but there's nothing traditional or twice cooked about Crosley's voice, her arresting observations on being engulfed by grief. Here's a passage where Crosley, who's keeping a kind of vigil outside the restaurant where she and Perrault had their last dinner, talks about the free-floating social category of being a bereaved friend. To mourn the death of a friend is to feel as if you're walking around with a vase, knowing you have to set it down, but nowhere is obvious. Others will assure you that there's no right way to do this. Put it anywhere.

But you know better. You know that if you put your grief in a place that's too prominent or too hidden, you will take it back when no one's looking. This is why I spend my nights looking into the restaurant. I fantasize about keeping Russell in front of me for a little longer. Each time the restaurant closes, each time he drops me off at my door, each time he walks off into the dark, and then he's gone, and I am still holding this vase. As it proceeds, Grief is for People becomes not only Crosley's elegy to Perrault, but also an elegy to the woman that for many years Crosley thought she was in New York,

someone in the know, secure, connected. Exactly one month before Perrault's suicide, Crosley's apartment is broken into and all her jewelry stolen, including two pieces from her awful grandmother, an amber amulet the size of an apricot, and a green cocktail ring, a dome with tears of tourmaline. Think kryptonite, Crosley advises. Think dish soap. In a way that makes bleak emotional sense, Crosley conflates these two ruptures in what was her life, and then later in the book adds a third that occurs in the spring of 2020, namely the pandemic's obliteration of normalcy in New York. Eventually, Crosley tells us, I will look back on the burglary and see it for what it is, a dark gift of delineation. I know when my first bomb went off. Not everyone gets to know. Throughout, Crosley cites Joan Didion, whose two personal books on grief, The Year of Magical Thinking and Blue Nights,

she obviously sees as a touchstone for her own. To me, Grief is for People is every bit their equal in eloquence, intensity, and toughness. Maureen Corrigan is a professor of literature at Georgetown University. She reviewed Grief is a professor of literature at Georgetown University. She reviewed Grief is for People by Sloane Crossley. After we take a short break, David Bianculli will review John Stewart's return to The Daily Show and the new season of John Oliver's Last Week Tonight. This is Fresh Air. John Oliver returned in February for a new season of his HBO series Last Week Tonight. Also last month, John Stewart, who used to be Oliver's boss and mentor when both worked on Comedy Central's The Daily Show, returned to host The Daily Show on Mondays.

Both comedians have already drawn attention to themselves with their newest efforts, including the attention of our TV critic, David Bianculli, who has this review. Welcome to The Daily Show. My name is John Stewart. Now, where was I? I'm excited to be back. I'm very excited. I'm very excited John Stewart is back, too. And the same goes for John Oliver, who worked with Stewart as one of the brilliantly funny Daily Show correspondents before leaving to start his own late-night current events comedy show on HBO. Jon Stewart hosted Comedy Central's Daily Show from 1999 to 2015, stepping down before the 2016 presidential election that saw Donald Trump defeat Hillary Clinton. John Oliver left The Daily Show even before that in 2013.

But by the next year, he was hosting his own weekly HBO program, Last Week Tonight with John Oliver. Oliver returned last month to start his 11th season and Stewart returned to his Daily Show homef on Mondays the same month. Both of them are doing weekly shows now, which allows for a more thoughtful and focused approach. And as far as I'm concerned, they're both unmissable television. John Oliver marked his return by doing a deep dive on the Supreme Court, especially about the potential

for money and other perks to influence specific justices. Honing in on Clarence Thomas, Oliver recounted his litany of free trips, his enthusiasm for his luxury motor coach, and his on-the-record complaints that his job paid too little and demanded too much. But then John Oliver offered Thomas something he said the HBO lawyers had assured him was legal. Oliver would give Thomas a top-of-the-line motor coach worth 2.4 million dollars and more if Thomas would do one simple thing in return. Carlos Thomas is arguably the most consequential justice on the court right now. And he's never really seemed to like the job. He said it's not worth doing for the grief. So what if he could keep the luxury perks that he clearly enjoys without having to endure all of that grief?

Well, I think there might actually be a way to do that because, Justice Thomas, we have a special offer for you tonight. We are prepared to offer you $1 million a year for the rest of your life if you simply agree to leave the Supreme Court immediately and never come back. It is that simple. Just sign this contract, resign, and the money is all yours. This is not a joke. If you watch our show, you know jokes aren't really our thing.

This is real. On the most recent show, Sunday Night, Oliver repeated his offer. He's done outrageous, unforgettable things like this for years, and he and his staff have racked up many, many Emmys in the process. Jon Stewart used to rack up those same Emmys. And on Stewart's very first show back, he caused a stir when he addressed, head-on, the age of this year's presumptive presidential candidates. One thing we know for certain is this.

We have two candidates who are chronologically outside the norm of anyone who has run for the presidency in this country, in the history of this country. They are the oldest people ever to run for president, breaking by only four years the record that they set. That piece infuriated a lot of people on both sides. The next week, Stewart took dead aim at an old nemesis, Tucker Carlson, whom Stewart had famously eviscerated during a guest appearance on Carlson's Crossfire on CNN in 2004. That was 20 years ago.

But the way Stewart replayed bits of Carlson's recent puff piece report from Moscow and his interview with Putin was just as deadly, just as funny, and just as noteworthy. Professor, tell me, what is step one in delivering world-class fealty to power? Here's why we're doing it. First, because it's our job. We're in journalism. Lie about what your job is. We're in journalism. Our duty is to inform people.

Lie about what your duty is. Then, last week, Stewart opened the show by noting how much flack he'd gotten on social media and from critics for his first two programs. This is number three. The third episode. This is my third episode. The first two, very controversial. A lot of discourse around it. A lot of carping back and forth. A lot of anger. A lot of commentary. Tonight, I'm done with it. The part of that show that got me, though, was the ending, when Jon Stewart took a moment of personal privilege

to note the passing of his family dog, Dipper. The three-legged rescue pit bull was one of the original dogs to roam the offices of The Daily Show when Stewart ran things there, and Stewart broke down when talking about him. Dipper passed away yesterday. He was ready. He was tired. But I wasn't. And the family, we were all together. Thank goodness we were all with him. But boy, my wish for you is one day you find that dog, that one dog, that just is the best. John Stewart and John Oliver, they're just the best too.

They're the best at what they do. And with their different styles, they serve in these truly turbulent times as both comic relief and voices of outrage. David Bianculli is a professor of television studies at Rowan University. Last Week Tonight with John Oliver is on Sunday nights on HBO, and Jon Stewart is back on The Daily Show Monday nights through the 2024 election. Tomorrow on Fresh Air, we'll talk about Joe Biden's final campaign. Our guest will be the New Yorker's Evan Osnos. Osnos recently interviewed Biden for his article about Biden's accomplishments and failures as president, his current face-off with Trump, and the fears of many voters that Biden is too old for the job. Osmos wrote a book about Biden in 2020. I hope you'll join us. To keep up with what's on the show and get highlights of our interviews, follow us on Instagram at NPR Fresh

Air. Fresh Air's executive producer is Danny Miller. Our senior producer today is Sam Brigger. Our technical director and engineer is Audrey Bentham. Our interviews and reviews are produced and edited by Amy Salet, Phyllis Myers, Lauren Krenzel, Heidi Saman, Anne-Marie Boldenato, Teresa Madden, Daya Chaloner, Seth Kelly, and Susan Yakundi. Our digital media producer is Molly Seavey-Nesper. Roberta Shorrock directs the show Our co-host is Tanya Mosley I'm Terry Gross