Phone Withdrawals
My first week owning a dumb phone has been, well, dumb. In fact, it’s been so uneventful, I’m not totally sure what to do with myself.
Citizen Writers Fighting Censorship by Helping Americans Understand Issues Affecting the Republic.
My first week owning a dumb phone has been, well, dumb. In fact, it’s been so uneventful, I’m not totally sure what to do with myself.
It happened in Washington, the Evergreen State. It was late. There was a woman about to kill herself. She was young. Standing on the ledge of an overpass. Holding a stuffed animal. Hair blowing in all directions. She was really going to do it.
Joann’s bankruptcy is both a casualty of a cultural shortcoming and a contributing cause of that shortcoming’s growth. It is a vicious circle.
A little boy walked into the little church, unannounced. It was a weekday. A country church. Clapboards. Tin roof. The kind of church that—until a few years ago—only had window-unit A/C.
From standing for the National Anthem to pledging allegiance to the flag, national rituals shape our identity, unity, and shared vision. But what happens when these traditions fade? Fragmentation, division, and a loss of purpose.
“A lot of people might think the world is falling apart,” he wrote to me. “But they’re wrong. I’ve been on the other side. There’s lots of good people out there.”
“The President requests the pleasure of your company at a reception in honor of NATIONAL BLACK HISTORY MONTH to be held at The White House on Thursday, February 20,2025 at two-thirty o’clock.
My phone finally arrives in the mail. It’s small. Ugly. It’s “dumb.” And it looks like it was invented during the Herbert Hoover administration.
The great George Washington was born in Westmoreland County, Virginia on February 22, 1732, and served about seventeen years as a delegate in the Virginia colony’s House of Burgesses. He is remembered for many other things as well. The Father of his Country was known as a successful merchant, farmer, and horticulturalist, a prominent frontier …
Bryan was walking the Arkansas highway shoulder with only the moon to guide him. Backpack slung over his shoulder. Blisteringly cold.
Lancaster, Pennsylvania. The windchill is negative four and I can no longer feel my unmentionables. I’m about to play my fiddle and tell funny stories to a room of people at the community center.
I have no children. The closest I ever came to having a child was when my wife got me a goldfish for Christmas. His name was Gary.
It’s a mess, that’s what it is. When you land in Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta Third World International Airport, you’re walking into a battle zone.
I like Pennsylvania. They’re nice here. They say “yous” and “yinz” and “soda pop.” They have Appalachian manners, a steelman’s work ethic, and potholes big enough to swallow Peterbilts.
Here is how the typical morning of a columnist goes. You sit down at the computer. And before you write, you begin by asking yourself the age-old question, “Why should anyone care what I have to say?”
How did I get here? What career path led me to this moment? Why am I onstage, before several hundred, shaking my fundaments?
I miss glass bottles. I come from a generation of glass. And therein lies a fundamental difference between my generation and the current one.
The math teacher and I went for a five-hour walk through town while wearing huge backpacks and yet we are not Marines. We are just middle-aged married people.
I bought a flip phone. One without a camera or a touchscreen. Without AI, facial recognition, video chatting, GPS, or the ability to flush my toilet from the other room. It’s a “stupid” phone. A device with the same level of intelligence as a member of Congress.