Citizen Writers Fighting Censorship by Helping Americans Understand Issues Affecting the Republic.
Sean Dietrich 
A little breakfast joint. Birmingham, Alabama. The birth pangs of summer are in the air. Alabama feels like a Monet. Trees are pregnant with blossoms. Birds are everywhere.
On my way into the restaurant, I see a man seated on the sidewalk, weeping. A young woman sits beside him, rubbing his shoulders. I’m wondering what’s wrong. I’m probably staring, even. Which isn’t polite, but I can’t help it.
It’s weird. Standing on this stage. In this arena. I’m looking at a thousand faces. Many of them are about to be college graduates. And they’re all looking back at me so hopefully, so full of wonder, so wide-eyed and eager, as if to say, “I hope this idiot’s speech isn’t too long.”
The New York Times recently published an article stating that librarians are facing a “crisis of violence and abuse.” So I just thought you’d like to meet your local librarian.
The bag of vegetables magically appeared on our front porch along with beer. I looked around for angels and wisemen.
Then I turned to my wife, saying, “Ray, is this heaven?”
She looked at me flatly. “Who’s Ray?”
You have to worry about this woman.
Dear little girl, you are not ugly. I say this because currently, over 78 percent of American young girls think they are ugly. Over 78 percent of girls hate their physical appearance. Seventy-eight percent despise their own self-image. Seventy-eight percent are disgusted with themselves.
Dear kid,
I know this is a hard day for you. It’s hard because everyone in the known solar system is throwing a party for their dad, and you’re not.
The call came late afternoon.
“May I speak to Sean?” said the child’s voice.
Speaking, I said.
“Is this a bad time, Mister Sean?”
I’m thrilled to announce that we are going to get fat. Namely, because my wife has been making bread.
Not just bread. Bread-bread. The real kind. The illicit kind of bread. The kind of bread that tempts you in vivid daydreams and lurid fantasies. The kind of bread you want to sign a prenuptial agreement with.
A middle-aged guy sat at the piano. The middle-aged guy plays by ear. He can’t read music because as a kid he was too obsessed with girls to practice “Hot Cross Buns” under the weight of Mrs. Downing’s glaringly sinister eyes.
The young Walmart cashier looked at me from across her counter. She had just finished ringing up my underpants when she recited my total from the register screen.
I reached into my pocket to pay.
Today is National Eat Your Vegetables Day. Frankly I didn’t know there was such a day. And I don’t know why it exists. Or who invented it.
College is hard work. Not just mentally, but physically. Frank has six classes today. Thus, Frank is compelled to carry a heavy pile of physical textbooks FOR EACH CLASS. A stack of hardbound paper literature roughly equalling the same weight as the Jefferson Memorial.
I’m pleased to report that, as far as we know, I’m not dead. I make this statement because a lot of messages have been arriving in my inbox asking questions like:
“Why hasn’t Sean been writing lately?” And, “Where is the daily column?” And, “Is Sean dead? Did he get hit by a Mack truck? Where the [bleepity bleep] is he!!!?”
Birmingham. I met the old woman for coffee. She was small and slight, with a mane of white. She spoke with a thick Latin accent.
“I have a story for you,” she said.
Bryan was walking the Arkansas highway shoulder with only the moon to guide him. Backpack slung over his shoulder. Blisteringly cold.
Newspapers have a smell. If you’re lucky enough to find a physical newspaper in our digital world, you’ll notice the smell first. Fresh newsprint paper. SoySeal ink. Still warm. It’s a unique scent.
She works hard. Too hard. And when she’s not cooking in the kitchen of the medical rehab, delivering trays to patients, she’s a full-time single mother.
The emailer was irate. “When are you finally going to address the lies being told RIGHT NOW to the American people?” the emailer wrote. “You are A COWARD!”
Sean Dietrich answers reader questions as only he can, with wit, wisdom and whimsey.
Someone emailed me and said I was an idiot. Which is true, but not for the reasons they cited.