The Freep ran a weird story on Sunday, noting that the many protests against the Trump regime in Detroit last year were overwhelmingly white. No argument here; I was at most of them, and they were indeed on the pale side. But I noticed the writer using a particular usage that’s become common in recent years:

I first noticed this in Ta-Nehisi Coates’ “Between the World and Me,” bodies used as a synonym for people. It struck me then, and it still does. Coates is a skilled writer, and his usage suggested a world where black people aren’t seen as fully human, just bodies, flesh in human form but a color others won’t acknowledge as their equals, which was exactly the point of his book. But the widespread imitation of it just seems trendy, like describing everything as iconic.

And this is the sort of woolgathering that goes on during a winter storm. Gazing out the window at the all-day snowfall, trying not to return, yet again, to the news from Minneapolis, about which I have nothing to say that hasn’t been said already.

And it’s still snowing. Not the fatfluffyflakes of some storms, but a fine, dry powder that just keeps coming and coming. It takes a long time to pile up, but at the end we’re probably looking at five inches. Nothing compared to what Ohio is getting, but enough to cancel a lot of events and make an all-day stay-home the wisest course of action.

At one point, bored, I checked to see how far out you could pull a Google map and still see highway conditions. Pretty far:

You can almost see the path of the storm reflected there. Then I pulled out farther to check to see if Google was still a bunch of lickspittles, and yeah, they are:

More bloggage:

An occasional commenter here, Nancy Friedman, works in business naming, mostly — maybe entirely — in the San Francisco area. She has a Substack, and a very amusing take on an overused word many tech bros are hot to include in their startup’s handle: Praxis. One even wants to found a new city — in Greenland, natch — and call it that. Writes Nancy:

Dryden Brown, who is 29, would appear to be very interesting himself, but he doesn’t have his own Wikipedia page. Here’s how the Wiki entry for “Praxis (proposed city)” introduces him:

Dryden Brown was raised in Santa Barbara, California and was homeschooled in order to pursue competitive surfing. He stated that as a high schooler, he studied Ayn Rand and Austrian economists, and when he applied for college, he limited his applications to Harvard University, Stanford University, the University of Oxford, and the University of Cambridge. He was rejected by them all and he attended New York University before dropping out.

A 2023 story in Mother Jones provided a few more biographical details: Brown’s father “worked in private equity and owned a seven-bedroom, 6,200-square-foot home that recently sold for more than $6.5 million.”

Yes, I felt that familiar full-body twitching at the mention of Ayn Rand, the “Objectivist” author of the bad novels Atlas Shrugged and The Fountainhead. They’re frequently the only novels that “libertarian utopians” boast of having read.

And, as surely as “utopia” follows “libertarian,” PRAXIS is the name they default to for their endeavors.

I’ll remind you that this “charter cities” scam is what’s behind the revival of the stupid Belle Isle scheme that I wrote about recently.

Finally, a gift link to a NYT magazine story about year one in Kash Patel’s FBI. It’s enraging.

Still snowing. Let’s get through the next week, shall we?

The severe cold front headed this way has been heralded and warned about for days now, but it still hasn’t arrived. Overnight, we’re told. Definitely Friday. I got out my flannel-lined pants and longjanes, put them on, and feel right toasty, but it’s still a mere 21 degrees, and I’m indoors. Wore the Parka of Tribulation out for errands today, and it’s stiffly occupying a dining-room chair, so I guess, all in all, I’m Ready.

This is normal, despite what the weather terrorists are telling us. But that’t the thing about weather in general — three mild winters erases all memory of bad ones forever. The AM radio idiots report wind chills, which are pretty sketchy to begin with, as though they are the actual temperatures. It’ll be 20 below tomorrow, the dumbest one reported when I was out and about. Well, yeah. If you’re walking around naked.

Alan will set the faucets to drip overnight. Unless the power or furnace goes out, we’ll be fine.

The other thing the AM radio idiots were talking about today was the 4D chess their brilliant leader played to get a deal on Greenland, when it seems to me he got what we could have had all along if we’d just acted like a normal country and not a speeding truck driven by a drunk. But that’s why they’re idiots.

Now we await the next insane twist in the news. My decluttering project continues. Found this in a case of cassette tapes, which I no longer have the means to play:

Yes, it’s one of Jeff Borden’s hand-crafted mixtapes from the legendary series of Halloween parties he and two other guys hosted in the ’80s. It’s labeled “Hostbusters #2.” I don’t know if that means it’s the second tape of the evening, or the second party in the series. I just punched “Earl Klugh” in the search engine here and got no hits, so I will tell this story that I suspect I’ve shared before, but oh well:

Borden paid a near-scientific level of attention to his mixtapes. (Note the two colors of ink in the track listing.) Like Rob in “High Fidelity,” he gave great thought to how each one should kick off, rise in excitement, offer occasional breaks, etc. Given that these parties went for hours, it required multiple tapes, and each one needed to be considered as part of the arc. One year, a guy who came as someone’s plus-one approached him with a tape of his own, an album by the jazz guitarist Earl Klugh.

“Can you play this?” the guy asked.

Borden put him off, explaining the energy of the party was driven by the music, etc., and he didn’t think it would really work with the vibe. The guy persisted, and Borden finally said, “Let me think of a spot to fit it in,” and they both wandered off. Midnight came and went, and suddenly it was 3 a.m. and the place was still rockin’. Shit, thought Borden. I’m going to be here past sunrise if I can’t get this wrapped soon. He wasn’t the type to turn the lights on and start kicking people out — too rude. But then he spotted the guy with the Earl Klugh tape. “Let’s put on Earl,” he suggested.

The party emptied out in 15 minutes.

I should make a Spotify playlist of these tracks. Something to do when I’m confined to quarters this weekend. Stay warm, everybody.

I saw this video at least four times yesterday, on social media. Maybe you did, too. It’s very cute: A fox plays in the snow. It bounds in a snowbank, slides amusingly across a frozen creek, buries its head in another snowbank, pops out, bounds down to another snowbank.

I watched it with a cold eye. It is almost certainly AI.

What do I base this on? First of all, foxes are pretty wary, and likely wouldn’t cavort so close to a person holding a phone. OK, so maybe the animal is domesticated somehow, accustomed to humans. Then why, when it pops out of the snow, does it have not a flake of snow on its head? Why is the camera so steady? Why is it too good to be true? Why is the creator’s page full of supercute-but-unlikely animal videos, scenes of kittens cuddling with tigers, cats nursing baby rabbits or a horse dropping to its belly so that a little girl can pet its nose?

Why aren’t people more skeptical? A local politician has been posting videos of “ICE agents” being kicked out of restaurants by a scolding woman with a Spanish accent. Fakes, every one. He doesn’t seem to care. It’s like when Facebook was new, and you’d point out that the “totally true” story someone just put up is an old urban legend, never happened, and they’d say, essentially, who cares? It’s a good story, don’t take things so seriously.

Come back to me when the video is so good you can’t really tell if this is THE pee tape, or not. When there are riots between ethnic groups sparked by videos of things that never happened. We are sleepwalking off a cliff with this technology and no one seems to care.

The other day I had a conversation with a media professional who seemed amazed that I don’t use ChatGPT or any other AI tool. I’ve mentioned before that Google now reports results in AI summaries, but I don’t go out and ask Gemini or Grok or any other tool to summarize my email. I don’t tell the chirpy assistants to help me polish a paragraph. Talk about putting yourself out of business. I guess we just have to learn how to write the correct prompts.

And I was going to go on about this, but whenever I hear Alan mutter “Jesus Christ” I know it’s bad, and whaddaya know, it is:

The Trump administration has acknowledged for the first time in a court filing that members of the U.S. DOGE Service accessed and shared sensitive Social Security data without the awareness of agency officials.

The admission comes months after a whistleblower raised concerns that members of DOGE — the government cost-cutting operation founded by Elon Musk — had obtained one of the government’s most protected databases, risking the security of hundreds of millions of Americans’ private Social Security information. The agency had previously denied the whistleblower’s allegations.

But the Justice Department submitted a court filing Friday in an ongoing case saying that the Social Security Administration had discovered a secret agreement between a DOGE employee and an unidentified political advocacy group. The agreement called for sharing Social Security data with the aim of overturning election results in certain states, according to the filing.

Gift link. This country is so broken. See you later this week.

I remember during the financial crisis, reading truly stomach-churning headlines, then glancing out the window and wondering why there weren’t people running down the streets clutching 10-pound bags of rice to their chests. It was such a disconnect between Life as Reported on the News and Life as it Happens Close Up. While I’m certain there were anguished conversations happening in homes over collapsing home values and disappearing jobs and cratered stock portfolios, by and large life looked normal from the outside.

Some people were not surprised by this. My last editor’s parents were both Holocaust survivors. His mother, a teenager at the time, was pressed into factory work for the collapsing Nazi regime. She told him that she and her fellow workers joked and laughed all the time, because what else could they do? In Auschwitz. So I get it, but there’s something about a weekend that we just endured that feels like 10-pound bags of rice clutched to the chest would be a totally normal thing to do.

We are…about to invade Greenland? Sending troops to Minnesota? About to see the Department of Justice investigate the widow of Renee Good, just as soon as they find the toadies willing to do it? And yet, I spent the weekend socializing, exercising, shopping and eating hamburgers. Well, just one hamburger. And I didn’t buy much, but it was nice to get out of the house and walk around a mall, like it was the ’80s again.

Then I come home, read the news and learn that this dork is nominated to be our ambassador to Iceland. I love Iceland. I could live there, easily. It’s so beautiful it almost hurts to look out a window. I’m sure this chucklefuck will have the Icelanders hating us soon enough, like the rest of the world.

However, there was comic relief. In the wake of the shameful gift of Maria Corina Machado’s Nobel medal to Tubby, there appears to be a grassroots effort for people to send their own awards to the White House. Gene Weingarten offered his Pulitzer Prize. If I hadn’t tossed all our journalism awards a few years back, I’d be happy to send the miniature bust of Mark Twain that Alan won for something, I think in an AP contest. For once, the AI creations are really funny:

But still, it’s an unsettling time. How weird that as I got in the car to go get that hamburger, this was on the radio. What a great song. All they have is Lee Greenwood. We have Gil Scott-Heron.

I don’t have much to report. But a new week lies ahead. Let’s white-knuckle through it.

I’m not the first, the tenth, or even the thousandth person to observe that one of the most dispiriting and shocking things about the Trump era is not the fascism, it’s the complicity. Big law, big business, higher ed — all have bent the knee. The most powerful institutions in the country squatted and peed like frightened puppies when Trump raged at them. As Ta-Nehisi Coates said not long ago, of Harvard and Columbia, “Y’all are sitting on $40 billion? And you can’t oppose this man? Either you’re cowards or you’re with him. And if you’re with him, you never believed in the things you were talking about to begin with.”

So when someone doesn’t? It’s pretty great.

Chuck Redd, the jazz drummer/vibes player who refused to play his annual Christmas Eve jam at the Kennedy Center? Hero. Bela Fleck, banjo player? Did the same thing, also a hero. And now comes the union auto worker who heckled Tubby as he toured a Ford plant in Dearborn. He’s been suspended, but my guess is, he’ll be back on the job soon. And he, too, is a hero.

We all know why Trump keeps the ass-lickers around him. Because they let him do whatever he wants, and because they spend every moment in his presence telling him how great he is. There’s a reason the Roman emperors had a slave whispering in their ear during their triumphs, telling them the mob is fickle and they are but men made of flesh and blood like everybody else. Blessed be the truth-tellers, for they will come out of this era with their dignity intact.

Unlike, say, Tim Cook.

Meanwhile, I texted a friend in Minneapolis and asked if things are as bad there as they seem. His reply:

Yes. I have a little Catholic school on the next block. Now a lot of Latino kids. Families line up to pick them up in the afternoon. There haven’t been any cars for days. (His son’s) friend got arrested at a protest. ICE detains you and holds you for 10-12 hours then kicks you out. No paperwork. No charges. (Son) works at a restaurant doing double shifts because ICE is patrolling around the homes of Hispanic coworkers. Can’t drive down the street without them on patrol. A woman yesterday was trying to get to a doctor appt. ICE broke her window, cut her seatbelt and dragged her out of her car. Last night Hannity ran a video of it as an example of anti ICE protesters trying to hit agents.

I’ll leave you with that.

Today — Sunday — feels like it’s going to be a good one. I started it with a bowl of whole-grain, steel-cut oatmeal, just to, y’know, piss off Croaky.

Also, I’m going to swim in 90 minutes and need the carbs.

One of my Facebook group check-ins is with Belle Isle Photography, a group for guess-what. It’s overfull of the bald eagles that have been nesting there for a while, but every so often you get a banger like this, by Terry McNamara:

Notice where the predators started the feast: In the back, where the flava lives.

In keeping with Det. Dale Cooper’s advice in “Twin Peaks,” one way I’m trying to cope with winter this year is giving myself a little treat once in a while, and on Saturday we took a drive up to the Anchor Bay region of the Lake St. Clair flats, and crossed the water on the car ferry to Harsen’s Island, a popular spot for summer cottages less than an hour’s drive away. Even allowing for it being midwinter here, I wasn’t impressed. As I’ve said before, Lake St. Clair makes more sense as a river delta than a lake, and the area around it is naturally quite swampy. (One street in Grosse Pointe is called Grand Marais, i.e. large swamp.) So the areas that don’t have cottages on them are mainly taken over by phragmites, a.k.a. the common reed. Acres and acres of them, so driving around and through the island mainly looks like this:

Every spring, a column of smoke visible for miles rises in the northeast, as the annual Burning of the Phragmites takes place on Harsen’s and adjacent Walpole Island.

Then we jaunted up to Marine City, and had a nice fishy lunch at a seafood place on the river. Perch for me, walleye for Alan. Then it started to snow, so home we headed.

I know, I know — I should have been at a demonstration opposing ICE, but I just couldn’t. Tubby is coming to town on Tuesday, to address the Economic Club, and I’ll go to that one. I should make a sign: EVERYBODY IS LAUGHING AT YOU. Maybe. There’s time.

I can’t even offer any bloggage today, because I feel like I’ve reached my limit of bad news for a while, and I have to turn away from the despair, if only for a while. I’m cleaning closets today. I last went through the one I’m neck-deep in now maybe…four years ago. And I’m finding all the stuff I couldn’t part with then, and am equally loathe to part with now. The English Struwwelpeter? Can’t let that go, even if it is preserved in Project Gutenberg. The subtitle is “merry stories and funny pictures,” and everything you need to know about Germans is contained in the fact they consider a virtual horror movie of terrible things happening to children merry and funny. Here’s a short one, to give you an idea:

One day Mamma said “Conrad dear,
I must go out and leave you here.
But mind now, Conrad, what I say,
Don’t suck your thumb while I’m away.
The great tall tailor always comes
To little boys who suck their thumbs;
And ere they dream what he’s about,
He takes his great sharp scissors out,
And cuts their thumbs clean off—and then,
You know, they never grow again.”

Mamma had scarcely turned her back,
The thumb was in, Alack! Alack!

The door flew open, in he ran,
The great, long, red-legged scissor-man.
Oh! children, see! the tailor’s come
And caught out little Suck-a-Thumb.
Snip! Snap! Snip! the scissors go;
And Conrad cries out “Oh! Oh! Oh!”
Snip! Snap! Snip! They go so fast,
That both his thumbs are off at last.

Mamma comes home: there Conrad stands,
And looks quite sad, and shows his hands;
“Ah!” said Mamma, “I knew he’d come
To naughty little Suck-a-Thumb.”

Imagine what they did for masturbators.

There’s also a volume of my late great-aunt’s teaching material, poems she would read to her students. The ink is so faded it’s barely readable, but it’s part of our family’s history and I will lug it through the next few years.

Back to it. Happy week ahead, all.

For years, gun nuts — er, enthusiasts — have told us they need all the weapons they own because an out-of-control tyrannical government might need to be put down, so the people could take it back.

Well. Here we are. And to judge from MAGA, they’re all perfectly happy to live in a police state.

Where are the people who spoke out so passionately against jackbooted thugs? Now they tell you to DO AS THE OFFICER SAYS, IMMEDIATELY, if you don’t want to get shot in the head. I ask you.

At least the so-called MSM has found a little bit of spirit. Both the NYT and WP have published detailed video analyses that clearly show the administration and its toadies are lying about what happened in Minneapolis Wednesday morning. And the Star-Tribune, the local paper, published the name of the gunman. Jonathan Ross.

Michelle Goldberg, in the NYT:

Keith Ellison, Minnesota’s attorney general, told me that since ICE ramped up its operations in Minneapolis, it’s felt “like we are being inundated with a hostile paramilitary group that is mistreating, insulting, terrorizing our neighbors.” And the residents of Minneapolis have responded: “People have got their whistles, and they’ve got their little alert system to tell people ICE is in the neighborhood. They’ve been protesting. They’ve been out there trying to protect their neighbors.”

Many of these people probably believed that even in Trump’s America, citizens still have inviolable liberties that allow them to stand up to the jacked-up irregulars who’ve descended on their communities. The civil rights of immigrants have been profoundly curtailed; even green card holders are on notice that this government may detain and deport them simply for protesting. But Americans — particularly, let’s be honest, white Americans — might have thought themselves immune from ICE abuses.

The killing of Renee Nicole Good, a mother of three and widow of a military veteran, tests that assumption. ICE, said Ellison, is all but telling people, “‘You want to defend your neighbors, you’re going to do it at the risk of your own life.’ I think that’s the unmistakable message. Just looking at the tape, they could have said, ‘You get out of here,’ right? And then she gets out of there. They didn’t want her to get out of there. They wanted to either drag her out of that car or do what they did. And it was all about teaching lessons.”

Yep. Oh well. More will be revealed.

But while we’re on the subject of Things That Are Infuriating, why is Elon Musk not chased through the streets by a raging mob? He should be:

Grok, the chatbot run by the social media platform X (formerly known as Twitter) is generating nonconsensual pornographic images of women with their clothes removed and wearing bikinis with swastikas on them.

This follows a recent wave of criticism directed against X for Grok’s weak moderation policies, which allow users to ask Grok to “strip” clothes from pictures of women, including minors.

Users of X can reply to a picture of someone, tag Grok, and write “put a swastika bikini on her” or a similar prompt. Grok will then reply with an image of that person wearing no clothes other than a swastika bikini.

Multiple accounts by women who’ve suffered this indicate that Grok, the chatbot, says “I’m sorry this happened to you without your consent” and then…does nothing. This is my shocked face: 🙄

Finally, Eric Zorn wrote a lovely tribute to his father, who died earlier this week:

My world is smaller and sadder than it was a week ago, but larger and more joyous for having had him as a father.

I have also heard from scores of readers of the Picayune Sentinel empathically relating to my loss and welcoming me “to the club that no one wants to join.”

Nearly all my friends are already in that club, having experienced the loss of at least one parent, if not a sibling, spouse or child. I’m conscious of wanting to share my experience here without suggesting that mine is in any way sadder or more deserving of attention than the experiences most of you have had and hopefully all of you will.

By hopefully, I mean that death will come to your family in the appropriate order — parents preceding their children in death, the elder preceding the younger. And not too soon.

Amen.

Now the weekend is nearly here. I’m planning an outing, destination unknown. Hope yours is great.

A friend sent along a weird story from my alma mater the other day. (Not the usual alma mater, which no longer exists, but my first alma mater, the Columbus Dispatch.) It’s about the spread of evangelical Christianity among the Ohio State football team. The top:

Like the Great Awakenings of years gone by, a religious revival is emanating from Ohio State’s campus.

The mouthpieces of revival aren’t buttoned-up pastors yelling about fire and brimstone. And they aren’t speaking under tents or at church pulpits.

They are Ohio State football players. Often, their platform is on the field and on social media. And it stays the same, even when they falter on the field, as they did in the College Football Playoff. Their message?

“JESUS WON.”

Ai-yi-yi. This is not a sports story. It’s not even really a religion story, or rather, it’s a religion story with quotes like this:

“It was the most surreal feeling. The second I hit the water and came back up, I felt weightless. Like the feeling of all the burdens on me that felt like they were physically weighing me down were taken away in that just outward profession of my faith,” he said.

And this:

“What has taken place in my life and the lives of other people on this team — and I know I’m here to talk about football — but it’s a true testament of the Lord that I serve.”

Is this journalism or a tent revival? I was encouraged to check out the byline’s short bio on the website, and learned the writer’s beat: “Kindness/Religion Reporter.” What’s more, “She is currently supported by the Center for HumanKindness at The Columbus Foundation.” Say what?

(I should mention, these fellowship-funded reporting jobs are pretty common, usually so that a small-but-poor news outlet can have a reporter with a dedicated beat like criminal justice, the environment, health care, etc. But I’ve never heard of one dedicated to…kindness.)

But to be sure, the Center for HumanKindness, one word, exists. Mission statement:

The Center for HumanKindness is on a mission to inspire acts of kindness and strengthen social connections in our community. Every kind act—big or small, seen or unseen—makes a positive difference for individuals and the broader community.

As nasty as I can be, I am often a very kind person. Please, thank you, big tipper, give a sandwich to the hobo, help a stranger who slips on the ice, all that. But my nasty side says I am sick of Be Kind bumper stickers, the dumb Day of Kindness social-media static, all of it. In Nance’s world, the Center for HumanKindness would be called the Don’t Be An Asshole Center.

Because all this Be Kind propaganda comes at a time when we are being absolutely manhandled by people for whom “unkind” is the mildest possible description. This doesn’t feel like a time to respond with kindness, but rather, with a right cross to the nose, a kick to the ribs and a HOW DO YOU FEEL NOOOOOW, STEPHEN MILLER. At some point, “be kind” starts to feel like wallpaper, like peace signs in the ’60s.

Oh well. At least the day got off to a good start:

That’s for Bob (not Greene), a swimmer who appreciates a fresh workout. And the country playlist was perfect for this morning. One of the second-hour guys ambled out from the locker room and said, “So this is why Charlie was singing ‘Jambalaya’ in the shower.”

Time to clean a bathroom and feel productive. My closet-cleaning is way behind schedule.

One goes to bed on a quiet-ish Friday night, one wakes up on Saturday morning to discover that even though we are observing Dry January, somehow overnight, we acquired Venezuela. Like we’d drunk-ordered it from a catalog.

What was worse was running my usual Saturday errands, turning on WDET where they were carrying the presser live, and hearing the commander-in-chief rambling on about crime in Washington. Seriously, he sounded way more senile than Biden ever did. Then the baton was passed to Pete Hegseth, and he went on in the same vein, heaping hosannas on Tubby and boasting about the “lethality” of our military. He loves that word, lethality. I reflected that I’m often contemptuous of these people, often exasperated, often angry, but on Saturday? I was fearful. For all of us.

Because Cuba is next, I fear.

I really don’t have anything to say about this, because it would come out in all caps and no one wants that. We are a nation led by idiots, fools, toadies and [insert a few more insulting words here]. And honestly, what’s the point? We all know where we stand, and that the only power we have is to work and vote against it. So let’s do it.

As for the others, as Hegseth likes to say, they have fucked around, and they will find out.

How was your weekend? I spent Sunday getting Christmas out of the house, and as always, it feels like I have another room in my house now. Time to settle into 2026 and make a difference.

And this update:

It didn’t take long, did it?

The other day I scrolled past this video on some social network. It’s from the NYPost, and if you don’t have the interest in clicking, it depicts Mr. and Mrs. Jeff Bezos partying in St. Barth’s. The cutline describes them as being at “celebrity hotspot” Nikki Beach, and sure enough, you can see them sitting in a booth as a howling DJ narrates a birthday parade of the usual crap — sparklers in a big bottle of something, presumably champagne, someone carrying a sign, etc. Mrs. B stands up on her seat and shakes her hips. Mr. B smiles broadly. What a good time they seem to be having.

The Bezoses were not alone in the Caribbean. There are apps that show the position of every vessel with a transponder, and apparently a bunch of billionaires and their yachts were spending New Year’s in St. Barth’s. So the Bezos were with their people. People who understand them, people who know their struggles, people who get them, because they’re the same.

And they spend their time at clubs where they stick sparklers into bottles of champagne. Honestly, I’d drown myself. Just go right over the rail into the warm Caribbean, hope an outgoing tide would carry me away.

I had my club years, don’t get me wrong. I remember yelling over the music, dancing, having fun. But — and this is key — it was over by my…27th birthday. I wasn’t 61 (as Bezos, aka Baldilocks, is) or 56 (as Lauren Sanchez, aka Beelzeboobs, is). Those two nicknames, which are perfect, are not mine, but I found them online and will use them forevermore.

Anyway, this observation dovetailed with something I read about the various photos included in the Epstein photo dump. Such ghastly rooms, where so much terrible stuff happened. No warmth, just weirdness. All that money and they can’t even hire an interior decorator?

How have we spent the last 50 years venerating the rich when they live like this? I ask you.

Onward. I swear, I keep clicking Unsubscribe on Semafor emails, but for some reason I keep getting it. In a recent issue, asking “what media leaders got wrong in 2025,” I read this, by Ryan Broderick:

This might be slightly premature to say, but I think the death of Charlie Kirk — and Trump World’s subsequent forced national observance of grief — is having the opposite effect of what I initially thought. If you had asked me in September what would happen, I would have said that Kirk’s murder was the American Reichstag fire, the moment the Trump administration and its great and powerful cyber army would finally conquer the information landscape and complete their authoritarian crackdown on free speech.

And a bit of that happened, sure, there was harassment, and doxxing, and people lost their jobs for insensitive posts about Kirk. But it didn’t last. Only a few months later, there is no bigger joke on the internet than Charlie Kirk. Every feed is full of Kirkified slop and AI brainrot mercilessly making fun of MAGA’s martyred influencer. The tail of history is long and these things always evolve, but, as it stands currently, Kirk is the Harambe of the 2020s and MAGA has never felt more cringe, old, and worst of all, boring.

Ain’t that the truth. And you know why? The widow Kirk. Everybody grieves differently, but when you’re taking the stage maybe a month after the assassination of your husband, wearing skin-tight leather pants, enough makeup to shame Tammy Faye and with pyrotechnics announcing your entrance, even true believers are going to be put off and perhaps ask, “Who are these freaks?”

Finally, in the ritual of closing the 2025 planners and starting the 2026 versions, I found the list of books I read last year. Nineteen, well under my goal of 25, but much of my fall was spent reading for the writing class I took, so: oh well.

That’s what fresh slates are for. Full speed ahead, and have a good weekend.