Monthly Archives: July 2025

The Grift, Now Official


Da Nang They didn’t just lose their spine — they sold it for ratings.

There was a time when journalism fancied itself the last line of defense against tyranny. Woodward and Bernstein hunted down a president and helped crack the spine of corruption. Cronkite looked into the camera and told us plainly when a war was lost. Murrow took on McCarthy and won.

But in the Trump era, the fourth estate has all but surrendered, a husk of its former self, afraid to print the truth and terrified to be sued into oblivion.

Meanwhile, Trump’s latest “mega bill” (and I’ll be damned if I’m going to call it beautiful) was heralded by the same media that once declared themselves guardians of democracy. Reporters spoke breathlessly of intra-party disputes, as if Republicans might miraculously grow a conscience and abandon their standard-bearer.

They never do, and they never will. The bill sailed through, and the nation learned nothing except that journalism today is more eager to spin palace intrigue than tell the simple, devastating truth.

What’s perhaps most troubling is that the media insists on pretending there’s still a functioning democracy here. There isn’t. We are living under a single ruling class that performs democracy like dinner theater.

The Republican Party has transformed into a single-minded organism, acting only in service to Trump, while Democrats play a polite parlor game of appeals and procedural scolding. The courts? His. The legislature? His. The streets? Bristling with supporters ready to “defend” him against any consequence.

Trump’s country. Let’s say it clearly: America belongs to him now, seized not only through political maneuvering but through a potent cocktail of white grievance, evangelical fervor, and ceaseless media amplification.

Trump has rebranded victimhood into power and sold a large portion of the nation on the idea that any loss is simply proof of conspiracy. Every time a court rules against him — if it dares to — outlets spin it as a grand blow to authoritarianism.

Meanwhile, they ignore that his Supreme Court majority can undo almost anything, that state legislatures are gerrymandered into submission, and that millions of Americans are pre-programmed to see every indictment as martyrdom.

A rebellious press once believed its job was to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable. Now, it flatters the powerful and confuses access with integrity. Our newspapers read like marketing copy for strongmen; our television networks posture as watchdogs while cashing checks from pharmaceutical giants and defense contractors.

Journalism doesn’t need new guidelines or town hall panels. It needs rebellion. It needs to grow a backbone again, to stop fetishizing both-sides-ism and name the threat directly: America is in thrall to a man who scorns law and reason, and it will take a defiant press to pry the country back.

Until that happens, we remain a nation of cowardly editors and spineless anchors, narrating the slow collapse as if it were just another season finale. And we, the public, are left to sift through the ashes of a profession that once promised to hold the powerful to account — and meant it.

A big, beautiful con.

The Cliche Machine


They ask the impossible, and we pretend there’s an answer.

I was watching soccer this week when I came to this epiphany, right in the middle of a dim-witted sideline interview. The player had barely caught his breath before a reporter stepped in, microphone poised to spoil the moment.

“How did you find the confidence to take that last shot?”

“How did you dig deep and find the heart to push through?”

“Where did you find the inner strength to keep going?”

These aren’t real questions. They’re abstract riddles in the costume of journalism, designed more to kill air than to enlighten. We’ve accepted them as part of the postgame ritual, but the moment you really listen, you realize they’re impossible to answer.

An athlete doesn’t pause mid-run to ponder the depths of his confidence or deliver a TED Talk on resilience. He moves because movement is his only language. He runs because stopping isn’t an option.

Yet the microphone always appears, begging for a magic formula: “What was going through your head?” As if the player had time to draft a sonnet while hurdling defenders. The honest answer — nothing — sounds too plain, too true for broadcast TV.

These questions echo across every sport like a chant. You could shuffle them up and fling them at a hockey goalie, a sprinter, or a tennis player, and no one would blink. The rookie on the bench? “What gave you the mental toughness to stay ready?” The pitcher who just threw a shutout? “Where did you find the inner fire tonight?”

We crave the myth of the warrior poet. We want to believe these athletes dwell in a realm of unearthly focus, conjuring ancient spirits of grit. We ask them to explain it so we can taste a piece of that magic.

But sport lives in the present tense. The greats don’t think; they vanish into the act itself. The zone is an empty room, not a confessional booth.

Maybe we ask these questions because we’re afraid of silence. We can’t bear to let a moment breathe. We can’t let the stadium roar or the hush after a missed shot hang in the air. Instead, we force players to stitch together a story on the spot, to speak for a feeling that refuses to be pinned down.

And in doing so, we flatten them into cliché machines. The defender who made a season-saving tackle? Maybe he’s just relieved it’s over and wants to call his mom. The striker who scored in extra time? Maybe he just wants a burrito and a nap.

Imagine simpler, more human questions: “What’s the first thing you want to do now?” Or even better — “How did that happen?” and then shut up. Let them decide if they want to say more.

We keep begging for an explanation of courage when the answer already ran past us in cleats, dripping sweat. They live it. We watch it.

And that should be answer enough.