Citizen Writers Fighting Censorship by Helping Americans Understand Issues Affecting the Republic.
I’m in a hotel lobby. It’s breakfast. We are waiting in line for our gruel. Guests congregate around the coffee urn like puppies at the teat until they drain the urn and leave nothing but dregs for us tired, huddled masses.
There were tattoos on his forearms. Not the new kind of fancy tats, multi-colored and expensive. These were a few grades below battleship tattoos. Crudely done. Almost like the inkwork inmates give themselves with guitar wire and BIC pens.
I was blue. I had just watched the news. Wars were raging. Bombs were dropping. People dying. All God’s children were bickering over the price of rice in China in the rain.
“My son, Jason, is getting married on Friday, and I am responsible for his wedding toast. I’d like some wisdom to pass on, the only problem is, I don’t have any.”
Sometimes, as a writer you will find yourself as a guest on TV shows promoting stuff. You’ll be seated on a television set that is an exact duplication of a family room. Except, of course, this family room has nuclear studio lights that cause third-degree sunburns.
As my oldest grandchildren enter adulthood, I talk to them as best I can about what matters in life. As I write this, I realize I need to say more, clearly, directly, and more often. Because, living at the short end of the candle I believe my rear view vision is 20/20.
I’ve chased you all over the US. I visited your grave in the Washington National Cathedral, I got chills there, too. I performed in a historic theater where you once lectured. Chills. I drove past the house where you died in Connecticut. Chills.
Recently, I heard the news that Iran may try to destroy California with its Shahed drones. I had to laugh at that. Aren’t the Iranians aware that Supreme Leader Gavin Newsom and his gang of socialist Democrats have already done that?
Dear Young Writers, You know who you are. You’re reading this on your phone, computer, tablet, or maybe a soggy newspaper you found in a gutter.
An annual ritual on the mighty St. Lawrence River, on the Canadian border, where I live between New York and Ontario, is waiting for the ice to “go out”. Sometimes it goes out on its own, often times it gets helped by massive quantities of diesel fuel combusted through a Canadian icebreaker.
This week the headlines were pretty dim. Fighting in Iran, surging oil prices, and just when you think current events couldn’t get any worse, it’s time for the Oscars.
There was a time in America when you could punch your Army captain, skip town, grow a beard, head west, and become “Samuel Whitaker, cattleman and church deacon.” Today? You can’t change your Instagram handle without a two-factor authentication code, three archived screenshots, and your ex forwarding it to your employer.
As a kid, I remember going to the beach. I remember walking the shore, wearing my little swimsuit. I remember the glorious and inimitable joy of having sand in my crack. My biggest objective, of course, was finding seashells. All children care deeply about shells. This is the main reason you visit the beach as a kid. It’s about looking for shells.
These phrases are the verbal equivalent of pulling the fire alarm in an argument. Once someone says them, anyone who disagrees immediately looks like a monster. After all, who wants to be the guy standing up and saying, “Actually, I prefer freedom even if it’s risky”? That’s not exactly a great campaign slogan. But history shows that these exact phrases — the language of safety, fairness, and collective good — are often the first step in breaking down systems built on individual responsibility and replacing them with systems built on control.
Dogs know stuff. Yes, I know they’re just animals. I know their brains are only about the size of tangerines. But I’m telling you.
The Girl Scouts were setting up a folding table by the doors of the hardware store.
“Omigod,” I said to the cashier. “It’s March.”
The cashier looked at me flatly.
“Debit or credit?” she said.
“This is March,” I pointed out again. “Don’t you know what this means?“
A little girl. I see her in hotel lobby. She is maybe 10 years old. She has her luggage with her. Her gait is severely uneven and labored. She is having a difficult time traversing the lobby.
In Atlas Shrugged, the government doesn’t seize Rearden Metal with bayonets. It does something far more modern. It surrounds it with emergency language, regulatory edicts, patriotic necessity, and administrative suffocation until saying “no” becomes illegal in everything but name. The state never shouts, “We are stealing this.” It simply declares the product too important to be privately controlled.
God love him, the plumber did not look happy. Namely, because our house is 100 years old. Meaning, five generations of people have been bathing in this house. The drain pipes have been whisking away one century’s worth of funk water.
Patton’s most famous line, delivered to the Third Army in 1944, captured his philosophy better than any manual ever written: “No bastard ever won a war by dying for his country. He won it by making the other poor dumb bastard die for his country.” That was not just colorful language. It was a direct rejection of the romantic nonsense that had gotten an entire generation slaughtered in World War I. Patton had seen that war. He had been wounded in it. He understood that modern industrial warfare was not a stage for heroic poetry. It was a contest of logistics, speed, firepower, and will. His job was not to produce martyrs. His job was to produce victory.