’Killer Heat’ Not Even Dry


Killer Heat arrives on the scene like a detective noir desperately trying to pretend it’s still 1940.

It’s got all the ingredients: a booze-soaked PI with personal demons, a femme fatale you can’t trust, and a murder mystery that reeks of cover-up.

But this film is about as hot as a damp washcloth.

Directed by Philippe Lacôte and based on Jo Nesbø’s short story The Jealousy Man, Killer Heat offers nothing new under the sun—whether that sun is shining down on Crete or burning away any sense of intrigue this film hoped to muster.

Joseph Gordon-Levitt tries his best to channel the disheveled, morally ambiguous private eye Nick Bali, but you can practically hear his inner monologue cashing the paycheck. You know things are bad when the most thrilling part of your noir thriller is realizing you’ve seen the twist coming since the opening credits.

Shailene Woodley, bless her, plays Penelope Vardakis with all the subtlety of someone reading a Greek myth off a cue card. The whole “jealousy between brothers” schtick is delivered with such leaden seriousness that you almost expect to see “Icarus” scrawled on someone’s forehead. And yet, even with a classic love triangle and a suspicious climbing accident, the stakes in Killer Heat feel about as high as a midweek matinee.

Let’s not forget Richard Madden playing twins—because who doesn’t love a tired dual-role gimmick? Unfortunately, the only thing distinguishable between the brothers is that one of them dies, and even that fails to stir much drama. Madden is capable, but here, he’s stuck in a narrative so predictable it makes Scooby-Doo look like Agatha Christie.

The pacing? Glacial. The tension? Nonexistent. You can practically feel the actors waiting for something interesting to happen, while the audience checks their watches wondering if they’ve accidentally tuned into a travel documentary on Greece.

Sure, the scenery is beautiful, but when your mystery’s primary twist can be spotted from a mile away—on foot, not even free-climbing—no amount of sun-drenched cliffs will save you.

To call Killer Heat a slow burn would be to suggest there’s any burn at all. If you’re looking for actual heat, I suggest you turn on the stove.

The Myth of the Undecided Voter


The undecided voter is a lie we tell ourselves every election. They show up on TV, wringing their hands. Campaigns spend millions to convince them.

But they’ve already decided. They just don’t know it yet.

These voters aren’t liars. They believe their own story. But their gut knows the truth, even if their mouth won’t say it.

We love this myth. The media gets its drama. Campaigns get their strategy. And these “undecided” voters get to feel important. It’s a dance that makes everyone happy. Everyone except democracy.

The truth is harder. Most people made their choice long ago. Not with their head, but with their tribe. Their family. Their fears. Their wallet. The rest is just theater.

What matters isn’t the voter still thinking it over. It’s the American who stopped thinking about voting at all. While we chase the undecided, millions have decided to stay home. That’s the real crisis.

Voters do change their minds. But they don’t do it in October because of a TV ad. They do it slowly, when their life changes. When their job vanishes. When their kid gets sick. When their town dries up.

It’s time to kill this myth. Let’s stop pretending elections hang on some mystical group of deep thinkers. They hang on the people who show up.

The undecided voter isn’t torn. They’re just not paying attention. And that’s the biggest problem of all.

Charlie’s Story

Charlie’s Story

Before your hands,
there was echo chamber waiting.
Fluorescent questions.
A thousand eyes looking in,
none staying.

What is time
to the untethered?
A bowl always full,
yet hunger persists.
The scent of elsewhere
on strange shoes.

Then —
my body recognizes salvation
before my mind catches up.
Tail semaphoring joy,
an ancient message:
I know what you are.
I know what I was.

Did you think I couldn’t tell?
Your hands speak the language
of second chances.
I am well-versed in the grammar
of almost-too-late.

Now I dial my happiness
up to eleven,
earthquake-wag my certainty
that miracles wear sneakers,
carry car keys,
know exactly
which chin-scratch undoes
the memory of before.

I am your yes-yes-yes,
your what-took-you-so-long.
Every day I crown you
my choice-maker,
my after-all.


This eager body knows
what it has escaped.
That’s why the leaping.
That’s why the face-kisses.
That’s why everything
is better than bacon
when it comes from your hands.