“My daddy served in the Army, where he lost his right eye
But he flew a flag out in our yard ‘till the day that he died”
Toby Keith’s daddy isn’t the only one. I’m idling on a sun-baked Oregon interstate just south of Portland, surrounded by lifted trucks carrying on the Keith tradition. The light summer breeze makes the countless flags dance in the shimmering heat. Trump 2020. Blue Lives Matter. American. Punisher. Gadsden. Confederate.
A Veteran Reflects on 20 Wasted Years
By the time you read this, the Taliban may already be in Kabul. If not now, then soon.
Nixon wanted — and got — his decent interval between the United States pullout of Vietnam and the inevitable North Vietnamese takeover. Afghanistan’s interval was never going to be decent, but I confess I expected an interval. We’re scrambling to leave in time, we’re racing for the helicopters as the Taliban burns through Afghanistan like a forest fire.
I remember Afghanistan well. I deployed there twice — once in 2008, and again in 2009–2010. It…
One never wants to see the words “mass crematorium” in headlines, and yet here we are.
If the COVID numbers currently coming out of India were accurate, it would be terrifying. We’re looking at one of the worst upswings in cases in any country so far. People dying outside of hospitals. Mass crematoriums to deal with the dead. That shit we were worried about in America last April? If the numbers were accurate, we could say that shit is coming true in India right now.
The numbers are not accurate. The numbers are way, way worse. We don’t even know…
Imagine the sheer animal pleasure of calling Mitch McConnell a dumb son-of-a-bitch in front of a large audience of Republican donors wealthy beyond avarice.
This may be the first time I’ve ever actually envied Donald J Trump. I didn’t know I wanted to call the Senate minority leader a “stone-cold loser” in front of some of the most powerful people on the planet, but holy shit, name your price. I’m in.
This might be my fetish.
Mitch McConnell, by the way, is the dumb son-of-a-bitch who said he’d endorse Trump in 2024 if nominated and called big businesses standing in…
By Laura Jedeed and M.C. Hawthorne
Remember when Trump’s refusal to concede was funny?
It wasn’t that long ago. Triumphant celebrations of a return to normalcy echoed through social media and across brunch tables everywhere. The fundamental absurdity of Trump’s election fraud claims seemed tailor-made to the specifically-liberal brand of snark that delights in tittering at the asinine impotence of their enemies over a mimosa or three. It looked good there for a minute, didn’t it? Not the bang of an authoritarian second-term hellscape but the whimper of a press conference in the parking lot of Four Seasons Landscaping.
I know more about JD than I ever wanted to.
I know he worked construction. Lives in Vancouver, Washington. I know what his wife looks like angry and what she looks like crying. I know what his breath smells like and what his eyes look like when he decides you’re less than human. I know what his back looks like when you follow him out of a screaming mob.
I didn’t want to know these things, but I do.
On November 14th, I flew to Washington DC to cover the Million MAGA March as a freelance journalist. I spent the…
“I don’t know why I feel I’ve got to tell you this.”
Like most Portland protesters, she’s young and fully committed to fixing the broken world we’ve handed her. Brave enough to take to the streets despite the brutality of Portland Police and federal agents alike. She’s been protesting from the start.
Let’s call her W.
It is early August and I am not doing well. Four hours of sleep is a luxury I barely remember. It’s not nightmares exactly, just a failure to fall asleep and waking up wide-eyed three hours later. Benadryl isn’t working anymore and I’m reluctant…
This article first appeared in It’s Going Down
In the beginning, we were many. We were thousands. Exploding into the street after watching a video of horror both strange and all-too-familiar: a video of a nine-minute murder, of a killer indifferent to the pleas of the bound man he choked and crushed to death. Broad daylight, on film, unprosecuted. Another police murder. Another black person dead.
As the video circulated, things began to shatter. Hearts. Trust. Restraint. Patience.
This is the script for my YouTube video of the same name. Although this was written to be heard, not read, I know some people would rather read than watch a video, so here you go.
I hate breaking things. I have always hated breaking things. As a child, I never tore open presents: I carefully undid the tape and saved the paper in a box. I never stomped on a sand castle, I never understood the people who did. I refused to break piñatas at parties, and nothing has changed: I currently have, in my possession, a piñata…
Who is Jordan Peterson?
Until June 25th, when I attended a live Peterson talk in Portland, Oregon alongside 2,500 screaming fans, I had never heard or read anything the professor has produced. I have not seen his YouTube lectures. I have not read either of his books.
I’d seen social media conversations, of course, and I’d read articles. A great deal of ink has been spilled on the subject of Jordan Peterson since his book crashed the Amazon’s bestsellers list party.