This weekend I learned that the German chocolate cake is not German in origin, but was in fact named for an American baker, Samuel German, who came up with the recipe as a way to use the semisweet dark chocolate he had…formulated would be the correct word, not “invented,” I guess. You can’t really invent chocolate.

I learned this while baking one, for an impromptu party thrown for an ex-editor. I also learned that “impromptu” and German chocolate cake don’t really go together. It’s a recipe that, if you’re devoted to scratch baking as I am, is pretty damn complicated. But it was the birthday boy’s favorite, and so I did my duty. Then I left my phone behind, so I’m enjoying a phone-free Sunday morning, and that’s a very good thing.

But it can’t last forever. I’m heading back over to his apartment in a bit to pick it up.

Work this week will be pretty wild, as we tick down the days to the Detroit Jazz Festival, the world’s largest free jazz festival, a phrase I probably wouldn’t have added before I started working on the social-media team, but that’s social media — marketing, not necessarily journalism. However, the job puts me face-to-face with great musicians and I get to hear some wonderful music in the bargain, so it only feels like work some of the time. It’s a good gig for the semi-retired.

Which is, as usual, my way of advance-apologizing for spotty blogging until we wrap on Labor Day.

That little factoid about German chocolate cake is the sort that sometimes gets me called something like “the walking encyclopedia” when I step out of journalism circles, where everyone is a walking encyclopedia. It goes with the job. “Did you know Dolly Parton had a disco album?” I remarked in a non-journalist text string last week after she died, and it happened again. I can’t help it, as I sit in a firehose of information all day. But today I found myself looking at the fresh New York Times and Free Press on my kitchen table and said, “I’m out.” You have to unplug from time to time, or your brain explodes. (Plus I already read much of it in the last few days, where the Sunday content is trickled out over the web. When our excellent newspaper carrier retires at the end of the year, I may cut back on one or more of our newspaper subs. Or I may not. Advertising in the print editions still supports many of them. I won’t be a party to killing a legit news source, even if they employ Mitch Albom.)

That said, I found a few stories to share today before I clock out:

We all remember the OMG SATANIC CHILD ABUSE IN DAYCARE CENTERS panic of the ’90s, right? Here’s an absolutely infuriating story about a woman who was swept up in it, served YEARS in prison for a crime she never committed, was finally released, and later received a formal exoneration, which would enable her to get compensation from the state of Ohio. However:

The exoneration cleared the way for Ms. Smith to seek compensation. She fantasized about being able to help her children — to pay off her eldest’s house and car and hire a lawyer to extricate her struggling youngest from legal trouble and child support debt. Maybe there would be enough, she hoped, to fulfill her lifelong dream of visiting the Vatican.

Ohio law is intended to make compensation for exonerees straightforward and quick, especially when the local prosecutor poses no objections. Under the law, Ms. Smith would receive at least $1 million. Mr. Tomlinson told the court he believed she had been wrongfully imprisoned and deserved recompense.

But then she ran into opposition from the state attorney general, Dave Yost, who stepped in and had Mr. Tomlinson’s statements stricken from the record.

[The original prosecutor] Mr. Rosenbaum, for his part, advanced a new argument: The exoneration should not have occurred, he said, because it had cleared the way for Ms. Smith to sue him and several others involved in her prosecution.

They were joined in their opposition by Tony Cillo, a Republican who had recently defeated [the prosecutor who supported the exoneration] Mr. Tomlinson, a Democrat, in his bid for re-election. Mr. Cillo called the exoneration “one of the most flagrant frauds upon the entire state of Ohio” and a conspiracy to “acquit and pay” Ms. Smith.

Mr. Yost’s office declined to comment on pending litigation, and Mr. Cillo did not respond to requests for comment. Mr. Rosenbaum said, through his lawyer, that he had “prosecuted all his cases with the highest ethical standards, and the prosecution of Nancy Smith was no different.”

Yost, and all the rest of these terrible, terrible people, are slimy pieces of crap. A long read, but worth it.

Speaking of terrible people, Lucian Truscott’s Substack on Pete Hegseth is worth your time.

Finally, Dolly’s death got me thinking about Whitney Houston, for some reason. “I Will Always Love You,” a sweet song about leaving behind a lover (or maybe Porter Wagoner — accounts vary), is one thing in her voice, and quite another in Whitney’s, whose every recording carries the subtext of look what a belter I am. Not only that, she ushered in an age of belters that we’re still living through. Some years back, on a long drive, I cued up a Spotify playlist of various versions of “Lush Life,” a sad song about drinking yourself to death over a broken heart. The more recent the recording, the more likely it is to be belted by a singer who seems not to have actually read the lyrics. What do you think about this? Discuss.

I’ll be here this week, unless I’m not. Carry on.

All the days can’t suck, I told myself this morning, having accepted my morning mood (groggy, lousy) as payment for the joy of having last night’s dinner outdoors, on a restaurant patio on a glorious day, with two of my former colleagues from Bridge. Two of us were fired by the same asshole, so we had that to laugh about. There was a lot of laughing. I didn’t get home until close to 10, which meant I didn’t get to sleep until about 11, and Wednesday is my 4:20 a.m. alarm. Which explains the mood. But! It’s the last 4:20 alarm until September! So it’s not so bad.

Then I caught up on the comments and learned 4dbirds’ terrible news. Her name is Barbara. Barbara, I am so, so sorry. I’ll leave it at that, because there’s really nothing you can say after someone loses a child, other than that.

The drive to the restaurant last night sucked. It was in Plymouth, out in the exurbs, which meant I was facing construction and a blazing sun RIGHT IN MY EYES THE WHOLE WAY, aggravated by listening to a podcast recommended by someone in the comments a few days ago, the New Yorker Radio Hour interview with Dana White, president of the UFC. Dana is a good friend of the president, and assures us that he’s not a racist, not even a little. What about that video depicting the Obamas as apes, David Remnick pressed, gently. The Sgt. Schultz defense: “I don’t know about that,” etc. I laid this item on the table as I waited for my cocktail, and my former editor explained how this is exactly how good Germans were during the Holocaust. Yes, this is small talk with journalists, which is one reason I love my colleagues so.

Another reason I love them: Staff meetings like the one at CBS News about “60 Minutes” earlier this week, the one that led to Scott Pelley’s firing. I had to take Wendy to the vet yesterday, and briefly heard Mitch Albom kinda-sorta defending it, although it was hard to tell because as usual, he was playing the part of the Sensible Moderate, and also the Upholder of Decency and Good Manners. I gather Mitch found Pelley’s comments during the meeting very rude, as well as the secret recording of said meeting, and I rolled my eyes so hard I had to pull over until they rolled back and I could see through them again. How does the meme go? Tell me you’ve never been in a newsroom meeting without telling me you’ve never been in a newsroom meeting. They often go the way it did at CBS, or used to, before everyone was taught to keep their heads down, their tails tucked, and their mouths shut. People yell(ed) at their bosses in newsrooms, and that is a very good thing. A wise former editor explained it pithily: You can’t expect journalists to ask tough questions of public officials and other sources, without expecting them to ask a few of you, too.

OK, then. Just a few notes I’ve been collecting this week:

The new name for the fiasco formerly known as the Great American State Fair: Notapalooza. Har.

Zohran Mamdani continues to demonstrate fearsome political skills. Recall that the last time the president of the United States was surrounded by children, he tried to explain why Iran can’t have a nuclear weapon:

Today, I signed an Executive Order temporarily repealing bedtimes in the City of New York so that kids of all ages can watch our team in the NBA Finals.

As Mayor, you’re forced to make many difficult decisions. This was not one of them.

Go Knicks.

[image or embed]

— Mayor Zohran Kwame Mamdani (@mayor.nyc.gov) June 1, 2026 at 3:39 PM

In case you were wondering whether Bill Pulte is qualified to be Director of National Intelligence, let me assure you from his native state: No. He is not.

Finally, dunno if this is paywalled or not, but Roy Edroso, who’s been covering conservative “culture” for years, did a really nice piece on that topic, earlier this week. If it is paywalled, let me assure you that Roy’s Substack is one that is absolutely worth your money:

But when the conversation turns to the arts, something to which the word “culture” more properly applies, conservatives get extra weird. Because, while their target audience may be unfamiliar with the people and trends conservatives like to slander, and thus may be easily convinced to suspect them, everybody likes to see a show or hear some tunes.

And conservatives don’t know what to do about that, especially now that casual sexism, racism, and other retrograde attitudes are less prevalent in pop culture than once they were. That’s why they’re always yelling that fun stuff is woke — Star Wars, Andor, that Odyssey movie where for some perverse reason they let a black lady play the most beautiful woman in the world. Occasionally they try to grab a toehold on entertainment things that seem “conservative” to them — like that weird delusion they recently developed that only the Right had the capacity to appreciate Sydney Sweeney’s tits.

But it always comes off creepy and sad. You might convince some people at least that trans kids on sports teams or bike lanes or vaccination drives or no-fault divorce are attacks on their way of life; but when you tell them the same is true of the movies they watch and the songs they dance to and the stories they read, voluntarily and with pleasure, your chances of success are exceedingly low. It’s like telling them it’s un-American to eat ice cream or take a bath.

OK, that’s it for me today. Gonna try to improve my mood, maybe with a bike ride to the library.

We had one of those super-intense spring thunderstorms Monday evening. One minute I was talking to a friend in his back yard, the next I was thinking I probably didn’t need sunglasses anymore, the next a cloudburst with serious straight-line winds was upon us. It didn’t last long, but managed to take a bite out of my friend’s neighbor’s tree. Split it down the middle. As I left he was dragging the branches to the curb.

“I’m sorry this happened to you,” I called out the car window as I backed out.

“So am I,” replied.

Then it was home to scan the outfits at the Met Gala. My interest in fashion is pretty much entirely as a spectator these days, although I appreciate an opportunity to get a little dressed up. And I’m of two minds on the Met Gala, the fundraiser for the Costume Institute at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, held the first Monday in May. It is considered the absolute peak of the season for fashion, even more so than the Oscars. After this, Hollywood stars, models and other professional pretty people are free to dial back the Ozempic and fuck off to Greece until the Emmys in September.

And it’s a night for fashion, pure fashion, all stops out. Avant garde? Oh yes, this is the night for it. And in recent years, it seemed there was no limit to how far people were willing to go to dress to the annual theme — this year, it’s “Costume Art.” And here’s where the two-minds thing comes in. One mind says sure, why not, fly your freak flag, choose something outrageous, bold, creative. And the other says, don’t be ridiculous. The line between outrageous/bold/creative and ridiculous is almost invisible. The other thing the other hand says is, keep in mind while this is fashion, it’s still clothing, and clothing has to work with the human body, not against it. You should be able to walk in it, and maybe even sit down. If your whole ensemble is suitable for only one pose, you’ve crossed the line. This, for instance, was unquestionably on-theme, but thoroughly ridiculous:

That’s Heidi Klum, by the way, who throws a Halloween party every year where she does stuff like this, but appears to like it too much.

Mr. and Mrs. Jeff Bezos paid $10 million to be official co-sponsors of the event. Here’s what Mrs. B wore:

Supposedly she’s playing off John Singer Sargent’s “Portrait of Madame X,” The dress is pulling across her midsection, her boobs look like they’re struggling to escape and she had to be helped up the steps because it was so tight around her legs, but sure, Madame X, who was also said to be a relentless social climber. Where’d you get it, Macy’s?

Ultimately, I agree with Tom and Lorenzo in Cosmo, about this particular dress they observed:

As the wife of one of the richest men in the world, an over-the-top display might have invited blowback. Still, the whole look is a little basic, too tight, and doesn’t really fit either the art or the high fashion vibe of the evening. She looks like she’s at some high-roller gambling event.

Or Mar-a-lago, I’d add.

What else, today? Oh, how about a progress report from the yard? Three views

Three views, from roughly the first of March, April and May. It’s been a chilly spring, o it’s a bit behind its usual glory. But you can see why we long for this season so much, at this latitude. It was a long, cold winter. They all are, but this one in particular.

I had a period of social-media idling Thursday, waiting for something I needed to post. You go deep enough into Facebook, sooner or later you’ll turn up a pathetic newspaper slapping a pathetic magazine’s even more pathetic story up, then trying to draw eyeballs with a pathetic promo. For this one, the headline:

1975 Soft Rock Hit, One of the Saddest Songs of the ‘70s, Started With a Dream

I will save you a click: It was “Wildfire,” the ludicrously sappy song by Michael Martin Murphey (three names, to distinguish him from all the other Michael Murpheys out there), lampooned by every humorist fond of low-hanging fruit. You know the one:

Written about the ghosts of a woman and her horse, “Wildfire” is often recalled as one of the saddest songs of the ‘70s more than 50 years later.

It was pounded into our brains with a mallet, back in the day when pop radio contained everything from the Allman Brothers to, well, this crap. I can recall parties where someone would start howling SHE RAN CALLING WIIIILLLDFIRE, but as a joke, not a singalong. I think Dave Barry snatched that apple off the tree when he pointed out only one of the ludicrous lyrical howlers:

Oh, they say she died one winter
When there came a killing frost

A killing frost is dangerous to plants, not people, assuming you have the brains and wherewithal to take shelter.

Next lines:

And the pony she named Wildfire
Busted down his stall
In a blizzard, she was lost

Sa…Wildfire broke out of his stable and ran wildly — wildfirely — into the storm? And she took off after him? Maybe this chick is better off dead.

Then I made the mistake of reading the comments, expecting to find my people there. I did…not. I found a score or more of women who are still brought to tears by the tragic story of this stupid goddamn horse, or “get chills” at the hootowl outside MMM’s window for six nights in a row.

I raised my head and concluded: All these women were Trump voters.

Left Facebook for The Detroit News, and was at least entertained to learn that a meth lab was discovered in a Michigan State University building. A classroom building, not a dorm:

MSU police said Wednesday a 31-year-old man was arraigned on felony charges related to operating and maintaining a meth lab and destruction of property.

In a statement, MSU police said they responded to reports of property damage inside Wells Hall on Sunday, April 26, and found Xin Tong with multiple substances that can be purchased legally, including sodium hydroxide pellets, hydrochloric acid, methanol, isopropyl alcohol, acetone and butane, according to a release from the MSU Department of Police and Public Safety. He was charged with trespassing in 54B District Court for an offense listed on Sunday, although MSU police did not mention trespassing in their statement.

… The release does not specify if Tong has any affiliation with the university.

We just concluded a rewatch of “Breaking Bad,” so this was quite top of mind.

I know I spend a lot of time here whining about the weather, but it’s 49 degrees where I sit today, on the last day of April, and I am absolutely NOT happy about it. I hope it’s better where you are. Happy weekend.

It’s been about five years since I debuted my theories about hobo tropes in pop music in this space. Dare I quote myself? I dare:

I was born in the late ‘50s, at which point the Depression was still fresh enough in the popular imagination that many of its tropes were fairly widespread. (I should say here that this post is not about the stock market or economic collapse. It’s about pop music.) Among them was the hobo — the man who rambled from town to town, riding the rails, carrying his belongings in a bandanna on a stick. While they were seen as down on their luck, often drunk, just as often they were portrayed as free spirits that society never got its claws into. …All of which is the long way around to notice that every so often a song will pop up in an oldies mix to remind me of how hard this archetype was sold, especially with regards to women.

The songs I cited in support of my argument were Glen Campbell’s “Gentle on My Mind” and Brook Benton’s “Rainy Night in Georgia.” To a lesser extent, the Allman Brothers’ “Ramblin’ Man” and Roger Miller’s “King of the Road.” And this week I listened to another oldie, and realized there’s another one out there, the Marshall Tucker Band’s “Heard it in a Love Song.” To wit:

I’m the kind of man who likes to get away
Like to start dreaming about tomorrow, today
Never said that I love you, even though it’s so
Where’s that duffle bag of mine? It’s time to go

…I’m gonna be leaving at the break of dawn
Wish you could come, but I don’t need no woman tagging along
Always something greener on the other side of that hill
I was born a wrangler and a rounder, and I guess I always will

As we used to say in the features department, three makes a trend. I am now ready to write my masters thesis, “Hobo Tropes in Pop Music and Their Role in Early Third-Wave Feminism.”

Hobos. You never hear about them much anymore. Someone presents with no fixed address and no desire for one, and we think: Fentanyl. Untreated mental illness. Trafficking. Addiction. Supportive housing. SERIAL KILLER. And yet, when I was a kid, the raggedy man who picks up cigar butts to grab a few more puffs out of them (Roger Miller: I smoke old stogies I have found / Short, but not too big around) was almost a comic figure. Kids dressed as hobos for Halloween, with fake dirt rubbed into their cheeks and that aforementioned bandanna on a stick. They must have been commonplace, although I can’t remember ever seeing one, except maybe loitering around an SRO in Columbus way, way back in the day.

Times change.

How was everyone’s weekend? Mine has been amazingly unproductive, and that is fine. Blew most of Saturday on an extended lunch with friends, with drinks, that concluded close to sundown. As we left our last stop, TWO different and unrelated parties of barflies hailed us to praise our jukebox choices. What can I say? Sometimes barroom golf TVs just need a Fleetwood Mac soundtrack.

Today? I’m a teensy bit hungover, and should at least sweep and dust at some point, which I probably should do now. Let’s have a good week, shall we?

Man, am I growing weary of idiots.

Which ones? Let’s start with the pretty people behind “Ballerina Farm,” i.e. the stage set for Hannah and Daniel Neeleman, who have made a career out of, first, being trust funders (him) and later, online influencers, a combination that should make everyone with three working brain cells reel in terror. Why are they idiots? Well…

According to a new report from KPCW, shortly after the Neelemans opened their farm stand, the farm’s raw milk failed two safety tests. KPCW reviewed records from the Utah Department of Agriculture and Food and found that samples tested in May and June had high levels of coliform, the family of bacteria that includes E. coli.

Yes, the Neelemans, Bobby Brainworm and the co-editor of The Detroit News editorial page are all on the raw-milk bandwagon. And now the Neelemans have discovered what everyone who deals with dairy cows in any capacity learns within 24 hours of putting one in your pasture or barn: They are literal shit machines, and it gets on everything.

We’re all shit machines, of course. But I think it was Jim Harrison who quipped that cattle are a machine that turns grass into shit, and a lot of it. Raw-milk aficionados like to talk about how clean and well-cared-for the cows that produce their raw milk are, but I’ve never seen one that doesn’t produce pounds and pounds of poop, around the clock. What’s more, it’s wet and splattery. About the only good thing you can say about cow shit is that it doesn’t smell bad. But I’ve spent time in lots of barns, and the only one I’ve seen that was surprisingly clean was Select Sires, an outfit in Plain City, Ohio, where bovine sires live out their days being jacked off by people for the purpose of selling their semen. Honestly, the place was immaculate. I imagine they have staff who do nothing but wait for a tail to lift, then dash over with a shovel to catch it as it comes out.

Simply washing an udder before milking is not enough to combat a typical dairy barn’s germ array.

Get this quote, from Mr. Ballerina:

“Producing raw milk takes careful planning from a facility and infrastructure standpoint,” Daniel Neeleman said in a statement to The Cut. “Unfortunately, we learned this after the fact.”

You’d think someone intending to go into selling dairy products would learn it before the fact, but when you’ve got 10 million followers, and they hang on your every post, why bother?

So that’s idiot batch #1. Here’s #2:

From her roughly $50,000 annual salary as a data processor in San Diego, (Kiely) Reedy, 34, spends at least $200 to $300 a week on food delivery. Ordering in has eaten away at her savings, she said, and led her to socialize less. She tips generously, but worries that the delivery drivers are poorly paid.

“I feel reliant upon it,” she said, “but guilt for using it.”

Food delivery, which skyrocketed during the pandemic as a practical necessity, has become even more entrenched in the years since as a convenience, an everyday alternative to cooking or eating out. DoorDash is now a verb. And the new delivery economy is transforming the way Americans live — reshaping budgets, mealtimes and social habits.

Fifty thousand dollars isn’t a very big salary, especially in San Diego, but Reedy estimates she spends close to a grand a month on takeout? And not fancy takeout, either, but stuff like spaghetti with marinara sauce, a meal she could easily make at home with two pots, running water and the initiative to go to a grocery and buy a pound of pasta and a jar of Prego.

I shared this with some friends on a text chain earlier this week. Said one: “I hate everyone in this story.”

We don’t eat out much, but among my rituals on a self-care Saturday is to take myself out to breakfast at a Detroit Coney Island, all alone, and spend the 40 minutes or so letting someone else cook my eggs and pour my coffee while I read the news. I’m often astonished by the pile of styrofoam go-boxes on the counter, awaiting some delivery person’s pickup. Diner food has a shelf life maybe 40 seconds longer than fast food; imagine ordering McDonald’s or an omelet and then waiting 20 or 30 minutes past plating to actually eat it. We visited Toronto a few years ago, and starting around noon the bike lanes would be full of brown men pedaling away with giant cooler-boxes worn backpack-style. I thought then, and I think now: Thank you, mom, for teaching me how to make a sandwich.

I know, I know — that’s the privilege talking, and I don’t understand how hard people have to work now, and how cooking is a luxury now, and I get it. But if you’re impacting your own savings to afford mediocre delivery chow, I recommend you consider another line of work.

Maybe open a dairy farm, and sell raw milk.

Happy Wednesday, and a reminder that one member of the entrepreneurial class who gave us all of the above, influencing and social media and the gig economy, among other terrors, is today in the process of driving the Washington Post into a ditch. Move fast, break things, etc.

Because January has 1,297 days, and it’s been quite cold for 1,295 of them, I’ve been watching a fair amount of TV. Like “Industry,” a series about high-risk finance-world hijinx set in London, because I’m an HBO snob. I have to read the recaps and Reddit groups to understand exactly what happened in the episodes I just watched. It makes me feel smarter and dirtier (there’s a lot of sex), which is sort of the signature feeling of being an HBO subscriber.

I similarly enjoy feeling dumb and kind of baffled, so I’m also watching “Heated Rivalry,” which is gay romance porn. Seriously. It’s about two hockey players who land as top-ranked rookies in the not-NHL (because the real one would never allow its intellectual property to be depicted in such a scandalous way), almost immediately hook up, and continue being rivals and secret lovers for the course of a decade.

When I say it’s porn I am not exaggerating. Not hard-core — we never see a unit except for a very brief glance on a phone screen — but there’s no doubt what is happening, which is to say we see bobbing heads, pelvic thrusts into other pelvises with heads thrown back so there’s no doubt someone is hitting the target, and lots of dirty talk.

I started watching it not because I’m into gay porn, but because it was an immediate, surprise hit for HBO, who picked it up from some Canadian network I’ve never heard of. And the people making it a hit aren’t gay men (although I’m sure they’re watching), but women. Who knew?

The first episode did little for me, but I gave it a second chance, and now I have to see it to the end. One player is Canadian and the other Russian, and they kinda leave me cold, because half their dialogue is them calling one another assholes and boring, right before they smash their bodies together and get with the fellatio. I’m more interested in the B-plot couple, another hockey stud and the smoothie barista he falls for, whose arc and dialogue is right out of the Hallmark Channel, but at least seem to actually like one another. I watched the penultimate episode last night and will tee up the finale tonight. Alan’s not into it, but he’s not objecting, either.

I do enjoy seeing the parallel world of the not-NHL, which is called MLH in the show. There’s the Boston Raiders and the Montreal Metros, which the two leads play for, and the New York Admirals, the B-plot guy’s team. The championship they play for is just “the Cup,” no Stanley involved. (As a prop, it’s kind of underwhelming, and looks like a bowling trophy, but the hoisting it overhead and kissing it part is dead-on.) The smoothie barista’s store is called Straw & Berry, and the sign is so obviously composited into the shots it’s kind of funny. At least the Olympics are called the Olympics, and the 2014 games happen in Sochi. I guess they don’t worry about the Olympic committee, or the Russians suing.

Why are straight women so into gay romance? Beats me. I read a little here and there. Someone mentions there’s a lot of consent, and it never feels tacked on, but rather hot and human: Can I do this? Would you like that? Etc. Some enjoy a show where no women suffer at all. The power dynamic is never mismatched; Shane and Ilya are both having great careers, and win and lose roughly in proportion to one another. You do kinda wonder how the New York B-plot hunk is drawn to this smoothie guy, but smoothie guy is in grad school and extremely cute. Everybody has a sensational ass. It’s not a mystery.

Also, watching guys get it on means I don’t have to think about the president or any of his gang of thugs for the running time. Is that so wrong? I don’t think so.

What are you watching?

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.

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.

I woke up super-groggy today, not uncommon when the alarm goes off at 5 a.m. I didn’t have enough time before my workout class to hit Starbucks for a cappuccino with an extra shot, but I did have time to hit the McDonald’s drive-through. Small black coffee, please. It was 5:45 a.m.

Pulled around to the window, where I was asked for 96 cents. “Really?” I said. “That seems low. I’m sure it’s more than that.”

“Well, with the senior discount, that’s what it is,” the window lady said, prompting me to ask how she knew I was a senior, goddamnit. (I didn’t say the goddamnit.) “Do you have cameras back there at the menu board?”

“This early, small black coffee? I just figured,” she said, handing me back a nickel. So really, 95 cents.

This is my life now, I guess. Little encounters with McDonald’s employees.

The class was good, but insanely hot and muggy. The weather is supposed to break tomorrow. And this is the rest of my life, I guess: McDonald’s and the weather.

This blog, too. A story hooked me the other day with its headline.

The Website at the End of the Internet: Reddit is one of the last thriving islands of the old web. Can it survive AI?

The question remains to be answered. Also:

The World Wide Web from which Reddit grew, and for which Huffman expresses so much reverence, has been going through something akin to ecological collapse after being poisoned, then abandoned, by advertisers that have little use for independent websites anymore. At the same time, the rise of generative AI suggests a lot of people are just as happy — if not happier — getting life advice, news, and conversation from a robot that has read a bunch of sub-Reddits as they are chatting with internet strangers themselves.

It gets way more into the weeds of Reddit and the internet than I’m interested in, but the bottom line is the same thing you’ve no doubt read elsewhere, because it’s an old story: Humans are a disappearing feature of the internet, steadily being replaced by bots and AI garbage yammering at one another. If you spend any time at all online, you’ve surely noticed it. If you’ve been online as long as some of us have, well, you really know. It’s easy to remember the early years of everyone being connected; oh, you like this obscure artist or singer/songwriter or movie or hobby TOO? Let’s be friends! Send me an email! I’ll write you back!

No more.

On the other hand, I have become oddly fixated with some Reddit groups — or subreddits, I guess. The amount of time people have to waste online talking about the stupidest shit imaginable is almost awe-inspiring.

Anyway, here you are: Human-powered blather since 2001. Fool that I am.

I would generally have a little more bloggage for you, but the news these days has been so depressing, I feel a little overmatched by it. You know, of course, that Ghislaine Maxwell is cruising toward a commutation or pardon, right? Emil Bove, lying thug, cruising toward a late-term Trump appointment to SCOTUS. Israel is run by thugs, and also liars. Even the coming of pleasant weather will be prefaced by a storm. Earthquake in Russia, tsunamis in the Pacific — it’s just not a good-news kinda week.

But there’s this: David Von Drehle is quitting the WashPost. Here’s his last column. It’s short, elegant and good.

That’s what I got.