Citizen Writers Fighting Censorship by Helping Americans Understand Issues Affecting the Republic.
There is hope for women’s sports—at last. The IOC just announced a new policy that excludes transgender men (biological males) from the female category at the Olympic Games.
There’s a quiet absurdity baked into modern America, and like most absurdities, we’ve lived with it so long we stopped questioning it. Every day, the federal government spends billions protecting people who fly occasionally—while leaving tens of millions of children sitting in classrooms with wildly inconsistent security. Let that sink in. We’ve normalized a system where you can’t bring a bottle of water through an airport without federal scrutiny, but your kid can walk into a school where security depends entirely on the zip code.
I like you. I like everything about you. I like your smile. Your teeth, no matter how crooked. Your physical shape, no matter which shape that is.
The Transportation Security Administration was born in the immediate aftermath of the September 11 attacks—a moment of national trauma where speed mattered more than strategy, and action mattered more than accuracy. That’s understandable. What’s not understandable is why we’re still running the same playbook a quarter century later like nothing has changed.
We walked into a packed Waffle House. All booths taken. Two cooks and two waitresses running offense. “Let’s sit at the bar,” said Morgan.
The year was 1939. The month was September. Only days after World War II broke out. The woman was so moved to tears when she read the headlines of war in the papers. Her first thought was, “Another war?”
With everything going on in the world, with all the wars, international conflicts, and high-stakes political maneuvers, I’m sure you’re all anxious to hear about what’s going on with the problem of legalized raccoon ownership in Tennessee.
I have a thing for Norman Rockwell. When I was a kid, I collected Rockwell memorabilia in the form of calendars, picture books, and posters. I clipped illustrations from books and plastered them upon my bedroom walls.
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.