Category: LifeStyle

Where is the Beef?

Where is the Beef?

A Somber Road Trip, Ruined by a Sandwich

We were driving from a funeral Service in East Texas to a graveside service two hundred miles away in West Texas. A quick pit stop to pee, gas up, and grab some food. Foolproof, right? WRONG.

The bubble gum meat struck again. You could not chew it enough to swallow it. Nobody could.Thank God we grabbed the freshly made potato Chips and a fifteen-dollar bag of pecans. Fifteen dollars! For nuts! That’s not a snack, that’s a car payment. And in retrospect, three inedible $8.99 sandwiches, some drinks, and a bag of luxury pecans is not a meal. It’s a hostage situation with a gift shop attached.

Somewhere, deep in some fluorescent-lit accounting office, there is a person, and I’d bet my last pecan this person is a vegetarian, who issued a decree: “We shall not waste ANY part of the brisket.” Not one molecule. And you can taste that corporate frugality, my friends. Oh, you can taste it.I ordered their sliced beef sandwich. Once before and was disgusted and then again today at a different location. Because I am, apparently, an optimist and a slow learner. Both times, different stores with the same rodent on the sign, into the trash it went.

This meat, and I want to be precise here, tasted like beef-flavored bubble gum. Minus the bubble. Minus the gum. Just the sad, chewy essence of an animal that died for accounting purposes. Not even a demented Rodent would touch this stuff, and demented Rodents, let me tell you, have LOW standards, they eat F*** garbage!

Now Don’t Get Me Wrong

Am I dissing the iconic rodent welcoming all??? Hell no. Credit where credit’s due. They’re good employers. Clean stores. Bathrooms so clean you could perform surgery in them, and they need to be, because that place moves crowds like a rock concert. Fair gas prices. A hundred and eighty pumps for all the geniuses who fill up, then leave their car parked at the pump while they pee, shop, and try to gnaw through a bubble gum sandwich. Move your car, you animals. The Rodent built you a whole parking lot.

The Verdict from the Graveside

Here’s the beautiful part. After the service, when everyone’s gathered and grieving and telling stories about the departed (you know how these reunions go, somber until somebody remembers the good times), you know what came up? The Rodent, yes the tree knawing dam building rodent that many have come to love and celebrate. It would seem we were not the only people on that excursion who stopped there or one of the other rodent themed stores. The whole family had the same experience. Turns out this bubble gum brisket is a nationwide operation. Every store. Same meat. It’s not a bug, it’s a feature.So here’s my humble suggestion. Get the accountant OUT of the kitchen. Or buy your meat somewhere that isn’t the Double Bubble Gum Distribution Center.

I’d have shown you photos of the meat too, but alas, it’s decomposing in a trash can somewhere between the funeral and my last bathroom stop. Which, honestly, is exactly where it belonged. So, imagine slices of cooked whale blubber covered in BBQ sauce placed between two hamburger buns. Since I am not an eskimo and have zero intereste in trying to chew that nasty stuff and afraid if I tried, I would choke, I think gas station sushi might be a better gamble, just saying.

The Sacred Art of Not Serving Garbage

Let’s get one thing straight about barbecue: it’s an art. A real, honest-to-God art. “Barbecue is an art that can’t be rushed. It’s about patience and passion” and somewhere out there a pitmaster is nodding solemnly while babysitting a smoker at three in the morning like it’s a newborn. That’s dedication. That’s love. That’s a man who understands that good meat cannot be hurried and bad meat cannot be forgiven.

Rule Number One: You Should Be Able to Chew It

Here’s the first commandment, folks. You have to be able to CHEW it. I know, revolutionary concept. Barbecue should taste like an actual human being stood there and gave a damn about how it was cooked. Not microwaved. Not scraped off some poor animal that starved to death and gave up on life. And here’s the kicker: the experts agree with me. If it’s “pull-hard chewy” it probably wasn’t cooked low and slow for long enough. That’s not my opinion, that’s science. Delicious, smoky science.

The Texas Standard

In Texas, we take pride in our barbecue. And I mean pride. We’re talking smokers that run for days, using flavored wood chips, pellets, or lump charcoal to develop that flavor, a timeless technique that delivers richly-flavored, tender results and is suited for large cuts of meat such as brisket, roasts, and ribs. That is why a sandwhich cost $8.99.

Days, people. DAYS. That’s longer than some marriages, and it produces better results than most of them too.And the cuts of meat? They should look like meat. Not whale blubber. Not something you’d find washed up on a beach with seagulls arguing over it. A brisket is a thing of beauty, a monument to patience. Treat it with respect or don’t touch it at all.

If You Can’t Hang, Grab a Spatula

So here’s my humble advice to the Rodent Icon or the barbecue-impaired. If you cannot do better, if your brisket bounces, if your ribs require a chainsaw, then step away from the smoker. Go make hamburgers. The meat’s already chewed up for you. It’s pre-defeated. Ground beef is the participation trophy of the meat world, and there is no shame in knowing your limits.Because barbecue, real barbecue, can’t be rushed, and it sure as hell can’t be faked. Get it right, or get out of the pit.

A Modest Proposal (With Teeth)

While some rodents can make a meal out of a tree, humans cannot! Call me old-fashioned, but I believe our species climbed down from the branches specifically so we would not have to gnaw our dinner into submission.

So here’s my recommendation, free of charge. Hire yourself a Texan. A real one. Someone who knows barbecue the way a preacher knows scripture. Send him in as a secret shopper, a food critic of the honorable variety, not the kind who blasts his opinions all over some public blog (ahem), but the discreet sort who quietly reports back to the people who actually care where the trouble spots are. A man of tact. A man of taste. A man who can tell the difference between brisket and a bicycle tire.

But that’s just me. A longtime barbecue connoisseur who happens to be an author with impeccable taste, and a functioning set of molars I’d very much like to keep.Best.

Is there a possible upside to living near a Data Center?

Is there a possible upside to living near a Data Center?

It turns out that I have more connections than I ever thought I did. I was complaining about the possible downsides of having a data center near me, and the responses started coming in.

Noise Pollution

Data centers require extensive cooling systems, which often produce a constant, low-frequency hum from cooling fans and HVAC equipment. This noise can disturb sleep, cause migraines, and, in extreme cases, even lead to permanent hearing loss.

Residents near data centers have described the noise as a “dull, inescapable hum” that rattles windows and disrupts daily life.

Increased Utility Costs

Data centers consume massive amounts of electricity and water. In some cases, utility companies pass the increased costs on to local residents, leading to higher energy and water bills.

For example, in areas like Maricopa County, Arizona, data centers have contributed to water scarcity, which has affected local communities.

Environmental Concerns

Data centers are significant contributors to greenhouse gas emissions because of their high energy consumption. This can worsen air quality in nearby areas.

Diesel generators used as backup power sources during outages can release harmful fumes, further degrading air quality.

Health Impacts

Residents near data centers have reported health issues such as migraines, vertigo, nausea, and panic attacks, potentially linked to noise and environmental disruptions.

Sleep disturbances caused by noise pollution can also lead to long-term health problems.

Water Strain

Data centers often require large amounts of water for cooling, which can strain local water supplies. This is particularly problematic in areas already facing water scarcity.

Privacy Concerns

The proximity of data center windows to residential properties can raise privacy issues. Residents may feel uncomfortable with the possibility of being observed from the facility.

Construction and Traffic Disruptions

The construction of data centers can lead to prolonged noise, dust, and increased traffic in the area, disrupting daily life for nearby residents.

Property Value Impacts

While some argue that data centers can increase property values through economic development, others note that the associated noise, environmental issues, and utility costs can deter potential buyers, potentially lowering property values in the immediate vicinity.

Loss of Cultural or Natural Areas

Data center construction can lead to the loss of green spaces, cultural landmarks, and other community resources, which can negatively affect the local environment and community identity.

Quality of Life Issues

Residents near data centers have reported a general decline in their quality of life because of the combination of noise, environmental disruptions, and health concerns.

So What Do We Get Out of This?

What is in it for us? So far, I don’t see the benefit.

Well, one of my connections, who knows someone recruiting employees for the construction, told me that one data center owner signed a ninety-nine-year contract that pays the water and electric bills for all residents within a five-mile radius of the plant. He told me, unequivocally, that it was fact.

Is it? Will they do that everywhere? Will other data centers step up?

Where Is the Pushback?

The residents in the area will most certainly be negatively affected by the plant’s presence. Listen, folks: they are putting these things all over the place. Why isn’t our government pushing back on them for us?

Thoughts? Have you heard of this?

Frozen at Forty-Five

Frozen at Forty-Five

A drunk stranger, a thermos of coffee, and 115 miles an hour: what one second cost me.

My speedometer stopped at forty-five. Frozen there, like a clock that gave up mid-tick. The rest of the world had slowed too: glass tumbling past my face one shard at a time, the dashboard rising to meet me, the steering wheel folding into my chest. People say your life flashes before your eyes. Mine didn’t. Time simply stretched, and in that stretched second I understood I was about to die. I was wrong, but only barely, and only because I like coffee.

You’ve been in that lane. Maybe not drunk, maybe three drinks in and certain you were fine, or looking down at a text for what felt like half a second. Half a second is the whole story. That’s all the time it took to take the rest of my life apart.

That was thirty sevenyears ago. It made the front page of a small East Texas newspaper, and it earned me my fifteen minutes in the most austere way a man can get them.

Driving home tonight, I passed more than one driver weaving across lanes. Usually it’s texting or checking a missed call, and of course they’re convinced they can do it more safely than anyone else. Sometimes the weaving is simpler: they’re drunk or high. I know exactly where that road leads, because in 1992 it led straight into me.

A head-on collision at freeway speeds with an intoxicated eighty-year-old forced me to reinvent myself. I survived treatment at a small country hospital that doubled as an emergency vet clinic (joking . . . I think), and I was clearly destined for other things.

The broken bones and lacerations healed, but the scars remain just beneath the surface. Pain is a constant reminder of that day.

I still have my legs because I like coffee. Minutes before impact, I’d stopped for gas and filled a stainless steel thermos, setting it upright on the passenger seat. Cresting a hill, I found a Cadillac barreling toward me in my lane. My options were to swerve or brake. A red truck blocked the next lane, so in the split second it took to say “Oh, shit,” it was over. That fast. I’d locked the anti-lock brakes and bent the brake pedal. He never touched his.

The combined collision speed was 115 miles an hour. How they calculated that, I have no idea; my speedometer was frozen at forty-five.

That split second is etched into my brain, a permanent reminder of what happens when idiots drink and drive. Time fascinates me now, because I believe it isn’t linear but relative. During impact, the world became a high-speed film: glass tumbling frame by frame, left to right; the dash rising to meet me; the steering wheel crushing my face and chest. What I remember isn’t a bang. It was a long tearing, metal giving up all at once, and then the smell: gasoline, hot coolant, and my own blood. The thermos launched to the floor and wedged between the firewall and my seat frame. Full of liquid, its hydraulic resistance stopped the dash from severing my legs and likely kept the steering column from piercing my heart.

The other driver was pinned under his dash. He left in the first ambulance with a single cut on his forehead and was released that day. He wasn’t even wearing a seatbelt. I never learned what became of him. Since we shared the same insurer, I was “lucky” to be compensated. The claims adjuster was nasty on the phone. They wouldn’t replace my six-month-old truck, and they didn’t care that I was upside down on the loan. I understand adjusters work for the company, but I was surely not in “good hands.” If you’re lucky, insurance is money pissed away on something you’ll never need. Either way, they do whatever they can to avoid paying. Worth knowing: you get two years to file every claim. What surfaced in me after those two years was a diagnosis football players collect from the punishment of the game. I’m certain the insurers know that timeline as well as the doctors do. Two years, then it’s “piss off.” Some injuries take years to declare themselves, growing new bone that either steals your range of motion or hands you pain you never escape, until death.

As I said, my trip to the hospital began only after they’d removed the man responsible.

My vision faded as the pain in my chest intensified. Certain I was going to die, I made my peace with God, and strangely, I didn’t mind. There was a peace in it, as if the answer were finally at hand. God had other plans. Waiting for the end, I managed to unbuckle my seatbelt, but the pain remained.

With what vision I had left, I watched them pull the other driver onto a stretcher. A man came to my window. Talking hurt, and breath was scarce, so my answers were short. My face had met the steering wheel (or the wheel had met my face), so speaking clearly wasn’t an option anyway. Blood was leaving my body through every orifice, visible and not.

The engine and tires of my truck had come to rest beneath my seat. I heard the Jaws of Life popping the metal as they cut the door away, then sliced through what remained of my seatbelt. My vision was nearly gone, but I could still hear the equipment and the voices. People talk about the white light; mine faded from white sparkles to a blank white screen. “It’s a miracle he’s alive,” one responder said. They fitted a collar and pulled me out.

I wanted to say something, anything, to prove I was still a person and not a body they were working on. Nothing came out. My hands wouldn’t close. Somewhere behind the ringing a woman was crying, and I couldn’t tell whether it was for me or for him.

Once they laid me down, my sight returned. I saw the emergency vehicles and the wrecker driver gathering my belongings, scattered across the freeway. Steam rose from under my seat, where the engine now sat. The truck bed was warped and twisted by the force of the crash.

In the ambulance, the medic warned me the 18-gauge needle for the sugar water would hurt. Compared to everything else, it was a mosquito bite.

At the hospital, they were already working on the man who’d hit me, separated from me only by a curtain. He was old, drunk, and on medication. His wife had recently bought him this big old Cadillac after he’d totaled his last car, so he’d be protected if he crashed again. He bragged that she’d been right, since here he was.

Listening to him praise his classic Cadillac, what was left of my blood boiled. Bad enough they’d taken him first; now I had to share a room with him.

Then it was my turn to be treated like meat.

As they cut my clothes off, there was no shortage of spectators: doctors, nurses, a physician assistant (young, attractive, long curly brown hair), and a burly old cop who’d clearly never missed a meal.

The accident report was read aloud to everyone, including the note that my seatbelt was unbuckled. I tried to explain that I’d taken it off, but the cop was more interested in fault and writing a ticket than in me. He looked down as if to say, Sure, we’ve heard that one before. Arrogant son of a bitch. If he couldn’t read the evidence, he was a moron.

Then they cut off my shirt and revealed a wide purple stripe across my chest and belly, the mark of the belt. The cop put his ticket book away. I don’t mean to sound churlish; I count many police as friends. But thinking about him still makes me angry.

The doctor arrived in a black silk sports jacket with a yellow logo, on call from some sporting event and clearly unhappy about it. His bedside manner left much to be desired. There were two hospitals in town, one for the poor and one for people with means. I had insurance and means, and they’d brought me to the one in need of everything.

After examining my naked body in front of the crowd, the “doctor” flipped me over and stuffed a finger up my rear as the last insult. Broken bones, crushed chest, shattered face and legs, and without so much as an X-ray, he finished his exam like I was a slab of meat, scribbled orders, and left. A sonogram showed my heart was bruised. Then came X-ray, near the morgue. I could smell the dead, or maybe that was me.

Water-stained ceiling tiles told the story of the building’s finances. The X-ray machine wouldn’t stay put; its old, loose joints let the head slide every time she stepped back to trigger it. We shot several images before she finished. God knows how much extra radiation that museum piece gave me.

Back in the ER, the man’s wife arrived. “They said I was in the wrong lane,” he told her.

He got three stitches and was soon released. Before leaving, his wife came to me. I was covered head to toe in my own blood, my beard caked with it. She rubbed my forehead and apologized: “I knew better than to get him another car.” Then she added, “I’m not supposed to tell you this, but we have good insurance.”

Even in my state, I was too polite to tell her what she could do with her good insurance. First I had to survive the day, the night, and another day before I could think about any of that.

After hours in the ER, I was moved to the ICU. If you’ve never been hospitalized (and I hadn’t), it’s not an experience I’d recommend.

Because of the bruised heart and they didn’t know what drugs I was on, they decided I couldn’t have pain medication. A dentist checked the teeth that had gone through my face and stitched me up from the inside out, no anesthetic. Next came the doctor who set my broken nose, a man who reminded me of the professor from Back to the Future. He pressed with his thumb, couldn’t get it straight, then jammed enormous forceps up my nose and forced it into place. The pain was unbelievable, ending only with the final crunch of bone.

The monitor echoed the throbbing in my body. As long as it beeped, I knew I was alive.

The PA kept pressing me to admit what I was taking. “C’mon, we know you’re on something. We need to know.” “Really, I don’t do that. Never have.” She tried again and again; my answer never changed. I may be the only person on this planet who’s never touched the stuff, but I haven’t. “If we know what your on we can give you pain meds.” True story, they were bribing me with pain relief.

“We don’t know what you’re on, so we can’t give you pain medicine,” she said. What was I supposed to do, lie so they’d treat my pain? I am not making this shit up, it happened. Whoever this Andy person was, they were protecting him.

After the worst week of my life, the toxicology report came back: low potassium. “What are you doing to make your potassium low?” asked the doctor with the bad bedside manner. “Um . . . I don’t salt my food. I had the flue a few weeks ago…???” I never got so much as an aspirin.

The days and nights blurred. I couldn’t sleep. My nose, packed with cotton, throbbed for days. With broken ribs, even breathing hurt.

Every few hours someone jabbed me repeatedly for blood; whoever they were, they were bad at it. Still on saline, urinating was the only activity I could manage, and lifting the sheet was nearly impossible. More than once I needed help. Humbling doesn’t cover it.

By the third day, glass from the crash was still embedded in my hands, arm, and face. My beard remained a solid chunk of dried blood, and not one person offered to clean me up.They had extracted some of the glass but much like a splinter in your foot, the glass in my body was a constant reminder that I was still alive.

For entertainment, I discovered I could control my heartbeat through biofeedback, slowing it to an eerie crawl or speeding it up. I was wired to telemetry so someone, somewhere, could watch my rhythm; a camera on the ceiling watched too. One night I wanted a nurse and couldn’t get one, so I pulled off the leads. The monitor went silent, and nobody came for nearly fifteen minutes. If this was the ICU, I shuddered to imagine a regular room.

The next day I asked to be transferred to Houston. I knew Dr. DeBakey and many other quality doctors personally; he’d once told me to call, if I ever needed him. If something was wrong with my heart, I wanted him and his team, not these people.

Instead, they moved me to a private room in the hospital’s “best” wing, built with someone’s donation. There, with my family’s help, I got myself into the shower and stayed until every trace of dried blood was gone from my hair and skin. Then I dug my own tweezers out of my luggage and pulled the glass from my body myself.

Before releasing me, the doctor with the crappy attitude was noticeably kinder. Maybe he’d finally accepted I wasn’t on anything, or realized the wreck wasn’t my fault, or maybe he’d just gotten lucky the night before. Either way, I was glad to leave. Holding a pillow to my chest, an old friend drove me home, where I lost months of work, and eventually had to leave the job I loved, no longer able to do it.

I never did get Dr. DeBakey and his team. I’d spent years caring for the physicians of the Texas Medical Center, only to end up in a small East Texas hospital that was a joke by any standard.

Months of lost pay later, I got a call from MADD, Mothers Against Drunk Driving. I could barely afford it, but I sent them money anyway.

Thirty-seven years to date, I’m still teased about my driving. I’m defensive; I leave plenty of room, and I preach to anyone who’ll listen, watch the traffic at least fifteen cars ahead, and leave enough space to see it. People say I drive like a slow grandpa. “Slow” means the speed limit, give or take a mile or two for terrain.

Driving a big truck full of airbags is only part of my strategy. When I see people fiddling with phones behind the wheel, part of me wants to scream. And the cops? They’ve got radios, phones, laptops, and a dozen other distractions, right through school zones. Folks, they’re no different from you. Watch them drift as they mess with their gadgets. I’ve seen it, and I cringe.

Keep your distance: from big trucks, from cheerleader types who think a selfie in a school zone is smart. They do it, and it’s all over Facebook. Just the other day, a young woman picked up her child and tore out of the school at 40-plus in a 20 zone, texting as she passed me. “Where’s a cop when you need one?” I said, and right on cue, a motorcycle officer pulled onto her bumper. She drove a long way, still texting, before she noticed him. That ticket had to be pricey.

I wish I could say this was fiction. It isn’t. It happened. Some memories have surely faded, but most remain, including the pain. For thirty-seven years I’ve lived in unrelenting pain. I take nothing for it. I manage with exercise as best I can, because no medication would leave me mentally sharp. With opioids and such they work, then you need more, and more, and more, and soon enough you have all kinds of other problems like you can’t poop! No thank you. You would be shocked to learn how many people die on the toilet because they have a heart attack trying to poop.

I don’t know what became of the man who hit me. I finally read the police report in 2016 and learned the only charge against him was driving left of center. He and the cop who worked the scene went to the same church.

The cop came in, prayed with Andy, then crossed to my side of the curtain and watched them cut my clothes off. He had his ticket book open when someone told him my seatbelt hadn’t been on. I’d taken it off to see whether that would ease the pain. It didn’t; my sternum was cracked in two.  When he saw the long purple bruise the belt had left, his face turned to disgust. He’d wanted to ticket me, to make me the villain instead of his church buddy Andy. On his way out, he told the attending to test my blood for anything and everything known to man. Some East Texas cops and sheriffs really do suck.

I do know that when you share an insurer, you lose. He’s surely gone by now, but there are plenty to take his place. There were no smartphones then; now everyone has one. Weed is legal in some states, and I fear those drivers will be impaired too. Even where it’s illegal, I’d bet one in three drivers is under some influence.

He got three stitches. I got thirty-seven years of pain, PTSD, and counting.

That’s the part I need you to sit with. The man who hit me felt almost nothing. He went home that afternoon, praised his Cadillac, and let his wife apologize on his behalf. The cost didn’t land on him. It landed on a stranger cresting a hill with a thermos on the seat beside him, and it has stayed with that stranger every day since.

So if you’ve ever done the arithmetic in a parking lot, counting drinks against miles and telling yourself you’re fine, understand what you’re actually wagering. Not your license. Not your record. Someone else’s life, spent on your behalf, without anyone asking them.

My speedometer stopped at forty-five. I’ve spent every year since trying to keep yours from doing the same. Hand someone else your keys. Take the defensive driving course. It’s the cheapest insurance you’ll ever buy

I’ve written a memoir. You can get your copy here. This story is in it in full, along with many others. the cover art is different with more stories than this version but the link will get you there.

Best,

© All Rights Reserved 2026

911 and the Corrected City

911 and the Corrected City

The Day Everything Changed: How 9/11’s Shadow Still Follows Us 25 Years Later

I still remember exactly where I was.Sitting at a traffic light, engine idling, phone pressed to my ear. I was mid-conversation with our New York office when something on the other end shifted. A pause. An apology. Then that familiar click as I was placed on hold.But instead of the usual generic elevator music, the line piped in a live feed from a New York radio station. And in that surreal moment, trapped between a red light and a phone call that would never resume the same way, I heard the news that would carve itself into the memory of a generation.

The towers were falling.

Six Weeks That Rewrote America

Just six weeks later, the Patriot Act arrived like an uninvited houseguest who never left. Signed, sealed, and delivered, it quietly stripped away layers of privacy we didn’t even realize we had. Suddenly, virtual strip searches at airports became the new normal. We shuffled through security lines in our socks, arms raised, being scanned by machines that saw everything.We told ourselves it was temporary. Necessary. A brief inconvenience for the greater good.Twenty-five years later, almost to the day, the Patriot Act is still very much alive.

The Surveillance Web We Live In Now

Today, the conversation has evolved, but the trajectory hasn’t changed. Now we’re hearing about Flock Cameras, automated license plate readers stitching together a dragnet that tracks your movements even when you’re just taking a peaceful walk through the park. Many of these units come equipped with microphones. For our safety, of course.Seriously, do they expect anyone to believe that anymore?And Flock is just the beginning. Consider the surveillance apparatus we’ve voluntarily installed in our own homes:

  • Alexa devices perched on kitchen counters, always listening for their wake word (and who knows what else)
  • Smart TVs watching us watch them
  • Ring doorbells creating neighborhood-wide camera networks
  • Security cameras we bought, installed, and connected to the cloud with our own two hands

But all of that? It pales in comparison to the Swiss Army knife of surveillance technology sitting in your pocket right now.You can’t sit in a coffee shop, dine at a fancy restaurant, or have a private conversation anywhere without your smartphone perched on the table, listening, recording, cataloging. Not just your words. Everyone’s words. Every conversation in earshot becomes potential data.We didn’t drift into this world. We sprinted toward it, credit cards in hand.

The Novel That Waited 25 Years

In the aftermath of 9/11 and the passage of the Patriot Act, I did what writers do when the world feels off its axis. I wrote about it. I penned a novel called The Corrected City, a story shaped by the anxieties of a nation that had just traded pieces of itself for the illusion of safety.Then life happened. The manuscript got shelved. Files moved from one computer to the next, then to storage drives, then to forgotten corners of hard drives destined for the recycling bin.Recently, while sorting through old computer parts before finally letting them go, I stumbled across it. There it was, that story, patiently waiting through a quarter-century of exactly the kind of world it had warned about.I dusted it off. Polished it up. And today, I’m thrilled to announce that The Corrected City is now available on Amazon.Even better, I’ve enrolled it in KDP Select, which means if you’re a Kindle Unlimited subscriber, you can read it absolutely free.

A Small Favor

If you pick it up, read it, and find it worthwhile, please leave a review. In an age where algorithms decide what stories rise to the surface, reader reviews are the single most powerful boost an independent author can get.Grab your copy. Settle in. And maybe, just maybe, turn your phone face-down on the table while you read.Thanks for coming along on this journey with me.

Get your copy here.

Nobody remembers the first camera.


Twenty years after the Year of Fires, the city is safe. Assault is down eighty percent. Nobody has been murdered in eleven years. The screens say good morning by name, the clinics answer in minutes, and the past is kept tidy by people like Mara Venn, who has spent eleven years at the Ministry of Public Memory correcting the record so that no citizen ever has to live inside a contradiction.
Then a corrupted file comes across her desk, and she is very good at her job, and she restores it.


What surfaces is four minutes of footage the official history cannot survive, a wind reading nobody bothered to falsify, twenty-seven names missing from a memorial roll, and a photographer in a government coat who tipped his head to the right exactly the way her sister does.


She can prove it. She cannot prove it to anybody who would still be alive afterward, starting with her sister, who reads the names of the dead on air to four hundred thousand people and believes every word.


A near-future thriller about surveillance that arrives as kindness, history that is corrected rather than censored, and the quiet, decades-long work of putting the truth somewhere it can be found.

Effective Ways to Help the Homeless Without Enabling

Effective Ways to Help the Homeless Without Enabling

This post is different.

I usually write to help you build something, fix something, or figure something out. I might write to market my latest novel but not today.

Today I want to sit with you in one of the most uncomfortable questions I’ve ever wrestled with.

What do we do with the broken people we pass every day?

The ones on the corners.

The ones in the doorways.

The ones with the cardboard signs and the hollow eyes.

The ones who, if we are honest with ourselves, may have played a role in ending up right where they are.

Do we say it out loud?

Do we admit that some of this suffering was self-inflicted? Or is that too cruel, too cold, too close to the kind of judgment we were taught never to speak?

And if it is true. . . then what?

I’ve lost count.I truly have.

Over a career that carried me across this country and into the belly of nearly every major city you can name, I’ve been approached, followed, cornered, pleaded with, cursed at, and quietly broken by the homeless.

Not once. Not twice. Countless times.

In the big cities, they are treated like litter, something the wind might carry away if we all just look somewhere else long enough. But they don’t blow away. They are still there in the morning. Still there at night. Still there the next time you visit, sometimes on the same corner, sometimes gone in a way that makes you wonder if they made it through the winter at all.

I’ve walked through underground parking garages where footsteps echo a little too loudly and shadows move a little too quickly.

I’ve navigated tunnels and back alleys where the request for “just a dollar, man” came with an edge sharp enough to make my pulse quicken.

Not everyone out there is dangerous. Not everyone is dishonest. But some are, and pretending otherwise doesn’t help anyone.

I knew a man who panhandled by day, rolling up to intersections on a scooter with a cardboard sign and a practiced expression of despair. By night? He drove home to an affluent neighborhood most working families couldn’t afford.

He was stealing, not with a weapon, but with a story. Stealing from the retiree who rolled down her window. Stealing from the single mom who felt guilty eating fast food in front of him. Stealing from the very people who could barely afford to give.

And then there are the others. The ones you can’t forget no matter how hard you try.

The ones with no teeth. The ones whose skin has been chewed raw by whatever chemical is running through their veins. The ones whose eyes don’t quite focus on you anymore, whose voices have been sandpapered down to a rasp by endless smoking, whose bodies have become hollow shells of the sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, mothers, and fathers they used to be.

The drugs took the person and left the outline behind.And it only gets worse.

The brain demands more. The dose climbs. The desperation deepens. What started as a craving becomes a cage, and the person inside is running out of room.

I’ve buried friends and family over this. Good people. People I laughed with, worked with, believed in. People who are not coming back.

And I would be lying if I said that doesn’t sit heavy on me every time I see someone on a corner who looks like they’re heading the same direction.

That’s where the trouble begins for people like us. Because we’re fixers. We see a problem and we want to solve it. We see suffering and we want to end it. We see someone drowning and every instinct in us screams do something.

But you can’t just walk up to a stranger consumed by addiction and say, “Please stop.” You can’t buy them out of it. You can’t love them out of it. You can’t lecture them out of it.So what can we do?

If they need a meal, do we buy them one?

If they need a coat, do we hand it over?

If they need a car, do we go out and get them one?

Would that fix it?

Would that be the answer we’ve been searching for?

Or is that just another version of tossing money into a bucket with no bottom?

These are the questions that haunt anyone who has ever really looked a homeless person in the eyes and seen a human being staring back. And they deserve better answers than the easy ones we’ve been giving ourselves.

Let’s talk about what really helps, and what only feels like it does.

The Right Way to Help the Homeless: Compassion Without Enabling

Most of us have been there.You pull up to a red light and see someone holding a cardboard sign. You walk past someone sleeping in a doorway. You recognize the same person outside the gas station, the grocery store, the freeway ramp. Maybe they ask for money. Maybe they look sick, exhausted, intoxicated, angry, ashamed, or completely detached from the world around them.And if you have a conscience, it bothers you.So we reach for the easiest answer: a few dollars, a sandwich, a bottle of water, a quick “God bless,” and then we move on. Sometimes that small act is sincere kindness. But many people quietly wonder: Am I actually helping, or am I just trying to feel better for a moment?That is an uncomfortable question, but it is the right one.

Homelessness Is Not One Simple Problem

It is tempting to explain homelessness with one answer.Some say it is all about poverty. Others say it is all addiction. Others blame mental illness, broken families, bad choices, domestic abuse, the economy, unaffordable housing, or failed government systems.The truth is this: homelessness is usually a collision of several problems at once.A person may have grown up in trauma, developed an addiction, lost a job, burned family bridges, suffered mental illness, gone to jail, lost custody of children, or been unable to afford rent after one medical emergency. Sometimes they are victims. Sometimes they have made destructive choices. Often, both are true.That is what makes the issue so difficult.We can acknowledge suffering without pretending every story is simple. We can have compassion without abandoning common sense. We can recognize addiction and mental illness without treating people as less than human.

The Problem With “Just Giving Money”

When we see someone panhandling, giving money feels like the most direct form of help. It is fast. It is personal. It feels generous.But cash is not always help.Sometimes it buys food. Sometimes it buys a bus ticket. Sometimes it helps someone survive another day. But sometimes it feeds the very addiction that is destroying that person’s body, mind, relationships, and future.The painful truth is that many people living on the street are struggling with substance abuse. Not all, but many. Alcohol, fentanyl, meth, heroin, and other drugs are common realities in street homelessness. Addiction changes the brain. It changes priorities. It can make survival revolve around the next drink, pill, pipe, or needle.So when we hand someone cash, we often do not know what we are funding.That does not mean every homeless person is an addict. It does not mean every request is dishonest. But it does mean that good intentions are not the same as good outcomes.If our goal is truly to help, we have to be willing to ask whether our help is useful … or merely easy.

Addiction, Excuses, and Responsibility

Many people on the street have heartbreaking stories. Abuse. Neglect. Betrayal. Trauma. Abandonment. Loss. And many of those stories are true.But trauma does not erase responsibility.A terrible childhood may explain how someone began drinking or using drugs. An abusive relationship may explain how someone lost stability. Mental illness may explain why someone cannot hold a job or maintain housing.But explanation is not the same as solution.At some point, healing requires honesty. It requires treatment. It requires structure. It requires accountability. And for many people caught in addiction, it requires more than a few dollars from strangers.

Real help does not simply soothe pain for one more night. Real help points toward recovery.

The “Rock Bottom” Question

Many people believe addicts must “hit rock bottom” before they will accept help. There is some truth in the idea that people often do not change until the pain of staying the same becomes greater than the fear of change.But there is also a danger in this thinking.For people addicted to fentanyl, alcohol, meth, or other destructive substances, rock bottom may be death. It may be brain damage, overdose, violence, organ failure, losing a limb, or disappearing completely from anyone who ever loved them.So while consequences matter, we should be careful about wishing for “rock bottom.”

A better goal is this:Let people face reality without helping them destroy themselves.That means we should not enable addiction. But it also means we should not become cold, cruel, or indifferent. The challenge is to practice compassion with boundaries.

Compassion With Boundaries

Compassion does not mean giving people whatever they ask for.

If someone asks for money, you are allowed to say no. You can say it kindly. You do not owe an explanation, and you do not need to argue.

You might say:“I’m sorry, I don’t give cash, but I can offer you food or water.”Or:“I can’t help with money, but I can point you toward a shelter or outreach service.”Or simply:“I hope you get help. Take care of yourself.”Boundaries are not cruelty. Boundaries are often the difference between helping and enabling.

Better Ways to Help in the Moment

If you regularly encounter homeless people or panhandlers and want to help without handing out cash, there are practical alternatives.Consider keeping small care items in your car or bag:

  • Bottled water
  • Protein bars or easy-to-eat snacks
  • Socks
  • Hand warmers in cold weather
  • Hygiene wipes
  • Toothbrush and toothpaste
  • Travel-size deodorant
  • Feminine hygiene products
  • A printed list of local shelters, food banks, detox centers, and crisis lines

These things may not solve homelessness, but they can meet a real need without fueling addiction.Food is not always accepted. Water may be refused. Hygiene kits may be ignored. That can be frustrating. But remember: your job is not to control the outcome. Your job is to offer help wisely.

The Best Help Usually Comes Through People Equipped to Help

Most of us are not trained social workers, addiction counselors, mental health professionals, or crisis responders. We are ordinary people trying to respond to a very complex problem.That is why one of the best things we can do is support organizations that are actually equipped for this work.Look for groups that provide:

  • Addiction treatment
  • Detox services
  • Mental health care
  • Transitional housing
  • Job training
  • Case management
  • Domestic violence support
  • Veterans services
  • Food and shelter
  • Long-term recovery programs

Donating to effective local organizations may feel less personal than handing cash to someone on a corner, but it is often far more helpful.A dollar given to a person may disappear in minutes. A dollar given to the right organization can become part of a system that offers food, counseling, treatment, housing, and accountability.

Housing Matters… But Housing Alone Is Not Always Enough

There is strong evidence that stable housing can dramatically improve outcomes for people experiencing homelessness. It is hard to get sober, take medication, apply for jobs, attend appointments, or rebuild a life while sleeping under a bridge.But housing alone does not fix everything.Someone deep in addiction or untreated mental illness may need intensive support. They may need detox. They may need medication. They may need supervision, counseling, community, and consequences. They may need people who will not abandon them … but also will not lie to them.The most effective help often combines housing, treatment, accountability, and human connection.

Do Not Dehumanize the Person in Front of You

It is easy to become hardened when you see the same people panhandling every day. It is easy to notice the missing teeth, the raspy voice, the open sores, the erratic behavior, the signs of addiction, and think, “They did this to themselves.”Sometimes, yes, choices played a role.But every person on the street was once a child. Someone once held them. Someone once hoped for them. Many were wounded long before they became visibly broken.That does not mean we excuse everything. It means we refuse to let frustration turn into contempt.A person can be responsible for their choices and still be worthy of dignity.

That balance matters.

What Not to Do

If you want to help wisely, avoid these common mistakes:

  • Do not give cash just to relieve your guilt.
  • Do not assume every homeless person is lazy.
  • Do not assume every homeless person is an addict.
  • Do not lecture someone on the street.
  • Do not put yourself in unsafe situations.
  • Do not make promises you cannot keep.
  • Do not confuse pity with real help.
  • Do not enable behavior that is clearly destructive.

Good intentions can still cause harm when they are not paired with wisdom.

What You Can Do Instead

Here is a better approach:

  1. Treat the person with basic respect.
    Make eye contact if it feels safe. Speak like they are human.
  2. Set clear boundaries.
    You can be kind and still say no to cash.
  3. Offer practical items.
    Food, water, socks, hygiene supplies, or resource cards are often better than money.
  4. Support local organizations.
    Give to shelters, recovery programs, outreach teams, and ministries with proven work.
  5. Know your local resources.
    Save phone numbers for crisis lines, shelters, detox centers, and outreach services.
  6. Call for help when needed.
    If someone appears unconscious, overdosing, freezing, injured, or in danger, call emergency services.
  7. Advocate for real solutions.
    Support policies and programs that combine housing, treatment, mental health care, and accountability.

The Hard Truth About Helping

Helping the homeless is not as simple as being generous. Sometimes generosity is easy. Wisdom is harder.It may feel kind to give someone exactly what they ask for. But if what they ask for helps keep them trapped, then we have to rethink our approach.The goal is not to punish people for being homeless. The goal is not to ignore suffering. The goal is not to look away.The goal is to help in a way that points toward life.That means compassion, but not enabling. Boundaries, but not cruelty. Honesty, but not contempt. Assistance, but not blind guilt.

A Better Kind of Compassion

The next time you see someone panhandling, pause before you reach for cash.Ask yourself:Am I helping this person move toward stability, treatment, safety, or recovery? Or am I simply trying to feel less uncomfortable?

That question changes everything.Because the homeless person on the corner does not need our guilt. They do not need our judgment either.They need something much harder to give:truthful compassion.The kind that sees their humanity, recognizes their pain, refuses to enable their destruction, and supports real paths toward recovery.That may not be the easiest answer.But it is probably the more loving one.

A family member begging for a fix asked me, If you’re a Christian how can you refuse to give me money?

Well…What do you think? Guilted by a family member through my faith….?

Throughout Scripture, God consistently identifies Himself as a defender of the poor, the widow, the orphan, and the stranger.

Proverbs 19:17 says, “Whoever is generous to the poor lends to the Lord, and he will repay him for his deed.

“Psalm 82:3 commands, “Give justice to the weak and the fatherless; maintain the right of the afflicted and the destitute.

“Deuteronomy 15:11 reminds us, “There will never cease to be poor in the land. Therefore I command you, ‘You shall open wide your hand to your brother, to the needy and to the poor, in your land.'”The message is clear. God sees the poor. God cares about the poor. And He calls His people to do the same.

How do we juxtapose that with what I have laid out above?

The Bible speaks plainly about the destructive nature of substance abuse. It does not use the modern word addiction, but it describes the reality vividly.

Proverbs 23:29-32 paints a haunting picture: “Who has woe? Who has sorrow? Who has strife? Who has complaining? Who has wounds without cause? Who has redness of eyes? Those who tarry long over wine. . . . In the end it bites like a serpent and stings like an adder.”

1 Corinthians 6:12 offers this wisdom: “‘All things are lawful for me,’ but not all things are helpful. ‘All things are lawful for me,’ but I will not be dominated by anything.“Addiction is domination. It is bondage. Scripture takes it seriously, not with shame, but with sober honesty. And it points to freedom, not endless enabling, as the true goal.

This one I have used a few times…

Ephesians 4:15 calls believers to speak “the truth in love.”

Proverbs 27:6 says, “Faithful are the wounds of a friend; profuse are the kisses of an enemy.”

Sometimes the most loving thing is not what feels good in the moment. Sometimes love says no.

Sometimes love sets boundaries.

Sometimes love lets natural consequences do the work that comfort cannot.

But love never turns cold.

Love never becomes contempt.

Love never gives up on the dignity of another human being.

The foundation of everything the Bible says on this subject is this. Every person, no matter how broken, no matter how addicted, no matter how ragged, no matter how frustrating, bears the image of God.

Genesis 1:27 says, “So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him.”

Proverbs 14:31 takes it further: “Whoever oppresses a poor man insults his Maker, but he who is generous to the needy honors him.”That is why we cannot look away. That is why we cannot dehumanize the person on the corner. That is why “they did this to themselves” is never the final word on a human soul.Even a person destroyed by addiction is still image-bearing. Still valuable. Still loved by God. Still worth praying for. Still worth hoping for.

And this is what makes it hard to simply toss money at the problem or the person.

So what does the Bible say about helping the homeless?

It says to care.

It says to give.

It says to see them as human.

It says to remember that our treatment of the least of these is our treatment of Christ Himself.

But it also says to be wise.

To not enable destruction.

To distinguish between genuine need and manipulation.

To love enough to tell the truth.

To work through community rather than guilt.

To point people toward real freedom rather than temporary relief.

And above all, it says that no one is beyond redemption.

That is the biblical balance.

Compassion without enabling.

Generosity without foolishness.

Truth without cruelty.

Hope without naivety.

It is a harder path than simply handing over a dollar and driving away. But it is the path Scripture calls us to walk.

And if we walk it well, we may find that we are not just helping the homeless.We are being changed ourselves.

Have a Blessed Day!

Why The Hook?

Why The Hook?

One of the things I notice most often in young or new writers is that they’ll come up with an idea that has real promise, but they never bait the hook. What exactly do I mean by that? They introduce a concept, a character, or a world that could genuinely captivate a reader, yet they fail to give the audience a compelling reason to turn to page two. The idea sits on the page like an empty fishing line dropped into the water, waiting for a bite that will never come.That’s where the literary hook enters the picture.

What Is a Literary Hook?

A literary hook is the opening element of a piece of writing, typically the first sentence, paragraph, or scene, designed to immediately capture the reader’s attention and compel them to keep reading. Think of it as bait on a fishing line: its sole job is to catch the reader before they can drift away to something else.Hooks work by creating one or more of the following effects:

  • Curiosity: a question the reader needs answered
  • Tension: a sense that something is wrong or about to go wrong
  • Emotional resonance: an immediate feeling the reader relates to
  • Disorientation: a strange or surprising image that demands explanation
  • Voice: a narrator so distinctive you have to hear more

Why Hooks Matter (Especially Across Genres)

For a psychological thriller, the hook does double duty. It must unsettle while intriguing. Readers of the genre expect to feel a shiver by the end of page one. For science fiction, the hook often carries the added burden of world building. You need to introduce something strange without confusing your reader out of the story.And for satire? The hook needs to make readers laugh or nod knowingly before they’ve finished their coffee.

Types of Literary Hooks with Examples

1. The Startling StatementA bold claim that stops the reader cold.

“It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.” (George Orwell, 1984)

That extra hour on the clock signals immediately that this world is not ours. It’s a perfect example for science fiction writers.2. The Provocative QuestionPoses a puzzle the reader must resolve.

“Where’s Papa going with that ax?” (E. B. White, Charlotte’s Web)

Nine words, and you cannot stop reading. This technique translates beautifully to thrillers.3. The Character in CrisisDrops readers into the middle of trouble.

“The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed.” (Stephen King, The Dark Tower)

Instant conflict, instant momentum.4. The Confession or Intimate VoiceCreates immediate intimacy with the narrator.

“I am an invisible man.” (Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man)

A first-person hook that promises psychological depth. It’s ideal inspiration for thriller writers.5. The Setting as MoodEstablishes atmosphere so strongly it becomes a character.

“124 was spiteful. Full of a baby’s venom.” (Toni Morrison, Beloved)

A house is spiteful? A baby has venom? You need answers.6. The Philosophical OpenerA universal truth, or a subversion of one, that makes readers think.

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.” (Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice)

A well-crafted philosophical hook can carry irony and edge. George Carlin himself opened many bits with a mock-serious “truism” before dismantling it entirely.7. The In Medias ResBeginning in the middle of the action.

“They shoot the white girl first.” (Toni Morrison, Paradise)

Six words. Full stop. You’re already committed.

Crafting Your Own Hook: A Quick Checklist

When writing your opening line, ask yourself these questions:

  • Does it raise a question the reader must answer?
  • Does it establish voice, tone, or genre expectations?
  • Is every word doing work? (Cut anything that isn’t.)
  • Would you keep reading?

Every promising idea deserves a properly baited hook. Don’t let your best concept sit unread because the opening failed to invite anyone in. Give your reader a reason, right there in that first line, to commit to the journey you’ve built for them.As Carlin might put it: don’t just start your story. Ambush your reader.

In my book “Are You a Witch?” the hook is in the title. And also the first line on the first page… The last person brave enough to sit beside Sarah Beaumont on the bus was in third grade, right before Maisie Fontenot’s friendship bracelet turned black and crumbled to ash in her hand.

What Doesn’t Trend 

What Doesn’t Trend 

4:51 a.m.

The Butterfly effect in real life…

Maya scrolled through her feed at 4:51 a.m., unable to sleep. The blue light painted her face as video after video played automatically, each one louder than the last.A woman screaming at a barista over a mislabeled cup. 2.3 million views.A man filming himself berating an elderly cashier for moving too slowly. Trending.Two teenagers laughing as they knocked groceries out of a stranger’s hands. Shared 400,000 times.The comments section was a colosseum. People cheering. People imitating. People filming their own versions, hungrier and crueler, each one trying to outdo the last. A girl in Ohio recreated the grocery prank. A boy in Manchester filmed himself yelling at a waiter. In Seoul, a man livestreamed himself humiliating a delivery driver.One wingbeat. Then a thousand. Then a hurricane.Maya set her phone down. Her chest felt hollow, like she’d been breathing in smoke all night without realizing it.

The next morning, she walked into the corner café near her apartment. The barista, a young woman with tired eyes and a name tag that read Priya, braced herself when Maya approached the counter, shoulders drawn up like she was expecting a blow.Maya noticed.”Your earrings are beautiful,” Maya said quietly. “And thank you. For being here this early. I don’t know how you do it.”Priya blinked. Her shoulders lowered by a fraction of an inch, but it was a fraction that mattered.”That’s . . . that’s really kind of you to say.”Maya paid for her coffee. Then she paused. “And whoever’s next in line, I’ve got theirs too.”

Behind Maya stood a man named David, who hadn’t slept in three days. His mother was in the hospital. He’d been running on fumes and bitter thoughts, and he’d been rehearsing, all morning, the sharp things he wanted to say to the world.When Priya told him his coffee was already paid for, something in his chest cracked open. Not broken, but opened. Like a window in a stuffy room.He tipped twenty dollars he couldn’t really afford. Priya cried a little in the back room during her break.David drove to the hospital. In the elevator, he held the door for a nurse carrying too many files. She smiled at him, a real smile, and later that day, she was gentler with a patient who had been difficult all week. That patient, feeling seen for the first time in days, called his estranged daughter that evening.They talked for two hours.

None of this trended. None of this was filmed. There was no hashtag for the daughter who heard her father say I’m sorry for the first time in her life. No viral clip of Priya humming while she wiped down the counter. No algorithm boosted the moment David sat beside his mother’s bed and whispered, “Someone was kind to me today, Mom. A stranger. Can you believe that?”The butterfly’s wings beat silently.But they beat.

Somewhere, a storm of cruelty was building: loud, fast, addictive, easy. It would rage across screens and inboxes and comment sections. It would feel, to anyone watching, like the whole world.And somewhere else, quieter, slower, harder to see, another current was moving. A woman complimenting a stranger’s earrings at dawn. A tip left in a jar. A door held open. A father saying I’m sorry. A daughter saying I forgive you.Both were spreading. Both were real.The only question, the only question that has ever mattered, is which set of wings you will be.

The world you scroll through tomorrow is being built by what you do in the next five minutes.Choose your wings carefully. They’re bigger than you think. 🦋

Have a Wonderful Monday!

And here is the shameless plug for a book with a twist, a vampire and magic...

“The painting hung like a secret in the museum’s quiet corridors. It wasn’t supposed to matter. Until it did.”

Peter Thomas didn’t sign up for this. A young art student working nights as a museum guard, he only wanted to get closer to the masterpieces he loved. But when he stumbles upon a haunting portrait of a woman trapped in a gilded frame, his life begins to unravel. The painting isn’t just art—it’s alive. And it’s hungry. As Peter is drawn deeper into the museum’s shadowy mysteries, he uncovers the story of Vanessa, the king’s daughter cursed to an eternity behind the canvas, and the vampire who’s spent centuries trying to save her. But breaking the spell comes with a cost: someone has to take her place. And under the glow of a blood moon on Halloween night, Peter realizes that someone might be him. Trapped between a love story centuries in the making and the monstrous truth of Vanessa’s curse, Peter must choose: his life, or hers. Perfect for fans of Crimson Peak, The Picture of Dorian Gray, and gothic tales of love, sacrifice, and haunting beauty, The Girl in the Gilded Frame will pull you into a story you’ll never forget. How far would you go to save someone who’s already stolen your heart?

Investing in Our Youth: A Call for Change

Investing in Our Youth: A Call for Change

I have been giving a lot of thought to the recent criminal trials in this country. Consider the Charlie Kirk trial, in which the defendant sits laughing in court with his lawyers, or the case of the child who killed another child at a track meet. Then I see the news, where we are trying to fix the world’s problems, and I note that we have brought in twenty million people from third-world countries who were unvetted. Something needs to be done, but what?

Walk through any high-crime neighborhood and you’ll find the same story repeated. A boy grows up with no father, a stressed or absent mother, a school that’s given up on him, and a street corner that hasn’t. The gang doesn’t recruit him with force. It recruits him with belonging, protection, status, and money — the very things every human being needs and that we failed to give him. Researchers point to the same root causes again and again: poverty, social isolation, discrimination, limited educational opportunity, and low parental monitoring.

These aren’t mysteries. They are the predictable results of communities we chose not to invest in.Here is the hard truth about how we’ve responded: we spend a fortune on the back end — after the damage is done. Locking up a young person can cost well over a hundred thousand dollars a year, often producing worse outcomes than community programs at a fraction of the price. We are paying premium rates for failure. As one blunt observer put it, there is no purely legal solution to gang violence — the only way to end it is to disincentivize the gang money and offer something better.

So let’s offer something better. And let’s pay for it by looking honestly at where our dollars already go.

The argument writes itself. We send billions overseas to prop up other nations’ security and development. Meanwhile, our own veterans sleep in doorways, our own addicts wait six months for a treatment bed, and our own kids are left with idle summers that gangs are happy to fill. As Americans debating this very question.

Op-Ed: Bring the Money Home — Rebuild Our Kids, Redeem Our Lost

We keep exporting stability to the world while our own communities burn. It’s time to invest in our people first.

Every year, America sends tens of billions of dollars overseas — to shore up foreign governments, fund distant development projects, and manage crises on other continents. Meanwhile, a fourteen-year-old three miles from my house is being recruited into a gang because it’s the only place offering him belonging, protection, and a paycheck. We have our priorities exactly backward.This isn’t a call to abandon the world. It’s a call to finally do right by our own — the wayward kids drifting toward crime, and the adults our system already lost decades ago. The money exists. It’s just pointed in the wrong direction.

The Failure We’re Paying Premium Prices For

Here’s the uncomfortable math. We spend roughly $80 billion a year incarcerating people, and a single juvenile detention bed can run $100,000 to $200,000 annually — often producing worse outcomes than community programs costing a fraction as much. We are paying luxury prices for failure.And it is failure. Research consistently shows the roots of gang membership are predictable: poverty, social isolation, discrimination, drug use, limited educational opportunities, and low parental monitoring.

And this figure does not include those with LEARING CENTERS scamming those who see a problem and toss tax dollars at it with zero audits or accountability.

We know the warning signs. We watch kids fall through the cracks in slow motion. Then we act shocked and reach for handcuffs.Even ordinary Americans see the connection. As one online commenter bluntly put it, we could fund real solutions “if we didn’t send all of our money to Ukraine and Israel and Palestine” — money that could instead go toward “better funding of education and funding of mental health programs” and “tackling the root cause(s) of why people join gangs in the first place.” 

.

Why Gangs Win — and How We Beat Them

Gangs don’t recruit through force. They recruit by offering what we’ve stopped providing: family, status, protection, and money. The evidence is clear that there is no purely legal solution to gang violence — you can’t arrest your way out of it. As even blunt online debates concede, “the only way to end gang violence is to disincentivize gang money.”

That means offering something better. It works when we try. Structured activities and sports “keep children out of trouble and also give them something to work for,” though they require “extra resources and teachers willing to coach/mentor teams.”

It means encouraging kids to create positive goals — helping them build “realistic and attainable personal, educational, and career goals outside of gang involvement.”

And it starts at home: experts across law enforcement, schools, and community groups agree that educating and equipping parents with real skills “is necessary and critical if the growth of gangs is to be curbed.” 

The framework already exists. Federal research distinguishes between prevention programs that “target youth at risk of gang involvement” and intervention programs that “provide sanctions and services” to pull kids already involved back out. We know what to build. We just refuse to fund it at scale.

The Group Everyone Forgets: The Lost Adults

Here’s what most policy debates skip entirely. The at-risk kid of today is almost always the child of the lost adult of yesterday — the one who never got the mentor, the trade, or the second chance twenty years ago, and who now cycles through prison, addiction, and unemployment. You cannot save the child while ignoring the broken adult raising him. Fix both, or fix neither.So a domestic-first agenda must do two things at once:

  • For the lost adults: fair-chance hiring, trade certification in fields that can’t be outsourced — welding, HVAC, trucking, electrical — and addiction and mental-health treatment available now, not after a six-month waitlist.
  • For the kids: full after-school and summer programming in every high-poverty zip code, family support, and credible-messenger mentors.

And here is the beautiful symmetry: the redeemed adult becomes the mentor for the next kid. The man who did his time, got clean, and rebuilt his life is the single most credible voice a drifting teenager will ever hear. He isn’t a lecture — he’s living proof. Foreign aid builds roads in other countries. This builds people in ours, and each rebuilt person rebuilds the next.

Answering the Critics — and Winning

Defenders of foreign spending will say aid is a small slice of the budget that buys strategic stability. Fine. Then find the money in the other 99 percent — the point stands that prevention at home is starved relative to its proven return. This was never about isolationism. It’s about a simple principle: put our own house in order first, and lead the world by example rather than by check.Public safety and human redemption aren’t opposing goals. Policymakers should prioritize public safety by curbing gang activity and restoring order to communities — for the sake of families “still living in fear” — precisely by investing in the opportunity that makes gangs obsolete.

The Bottom Line

We have the resources. We have the research. We have millions of Americans — kids and adults alike — waiting for someone to bet on them instead of writing them off. Bring the money home. Rebuild the kids. Redeem the lost. And watch the redeemed turn around and save the next generation.That’s not charity. That’s the smartest investment this country could possibly make.

Comment below if you have thoughts on this.

Follow the Money

Follow the Money

The 1970s Gas Crisis: Causes and Consequences

April 18, 1977

“The Oil Supply will be gone by 1981…Those are just the facts.” Carter

This address came four years after the Arab oil embargo of 1973, when energy prices had soared and the impacts were still reverberating through the American economy. Carter’s speech became known as part of his broader energy policy initiative, reflecting the genuine anxiety about resource depletion that characterized the late 1970s. It is worth noting that while Carter’s warnings about oil running out by the early 1980s did not materialize as predicted, his speech captured the very real energy concerns of that era and the need for conservation and policy changes. The gas lines of the 1970s were caused by a combination of geopolitical tensions and domestic policy decisions that created both real shortages and panic-driven demand.

The OPEC Oil Embargo

The primary trigger was OPEC’s aggressive action in response to Middle East conflicts. In October 1973, the Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries raised the price of crude oil by 70 percent, and Arab oil-producing nations implemented an embargo against the United States. This embargo was a direct response to American support during the Yom Kippur War and severely disrupted oil supplies to the nation.

Or…was it a way to drive the price of oil up?

America’s Oil Dependency

The crisis was exacerbated by America’s growing reliance on foreign oil, particularly from the Middle East. The United States had become increasingly dependent on imported petroleum, making the nation vulnerable to supply disruptions orchestrated by OPEC nations.

Why, one might ask, were we so dependent on their oil? Democratic administrations throughout history have been guilty of making domestic exploration and drilling for oil difficult and expensive, hobbling companies from using our resources and reducing leverage over the Middle East. Now that might speak to dark money being used to win elections but…that is speculation on my part.

The real question is, who are these politicians working for? To me, and anyone with a brain…the highest bidder.

Domestic Policy Mistakes

Ironically, government price controls made the shortage worse. The United States attempted to curb high gas prices and inflation through price ceilings in the 1970s. However, these controls backfired; they led to reduced supply from producers and increased demand from consumers, creating artificial scarcity and the infamous long lines at gas stations.

Why… Because the profit margins from oil companies were declining and they dont really care about the effects on you and I. IMO

The Result

The combination of the Arab oil embargo, OPEC’s price increases, America’s foreign oil dependency, and misguided price control policies created a perfect storm that left Americans facing gas rationing, mile-long lines, and widespread frustration.

Oil supplies did not run out by 1981 or in the years that followed.

Here is what actually happened:In fact, the price of Brent crude during his speech was around $8.50 a barrel, compared to today’s $76.01.

If you read between the lines, those gas lines and the energy shortage most probably had a lot more to do with oil companies’ greed for more profit and a lot less to do with instability in the Middle East.

History is rife with false flags and what I call “Chicken Little politics.” Oh look, the sky is falling; we need to take away your muscle cars and trucks and put you in battery-operated tin cans with little computers monitoring your every move.

What is going on?

Energy Market Responses

The warnings, while alarming, actually spurred several practical developments:

  • Increased domestic oil exploration and production: Companies invested heavily in new drilling.
  • Conservation efforts: Americans did reduce consumption through more efficient vehicles and home heating practices.
  • Alternative energy research: Solar, wind, and other renewable programs received more attention and funding.

Long-term Effects

  • Oil prices eventually stabilized and declined in the 1980s as new supplies came online.
  • The “peak oil” crisis narrative faded as new extraction technologies emerged.
  • Consumer behavior shifted toward fuel efficiency, which had lasting impacts on the auto industry.

The Broader Impact

Carter’s warnings, while not accurate in their timeline, did create psychological effects: some beneficial (energy consciousness, efficiency standards) and some problematic (public anxiety, distrust in government predictions).

The historical lesson is that doomsday predictions about resource depletion, while sometimes motivating positive changes, often fail to account for human innovation, market adaptation, and technological advancement.

Do you remember how the public mood shifted once 1981 passed and oil was still available?

Again, it is the sky is falling.

We learned nothing.

For the last several years, Gore has been making bank flying around the world in his private jet, selling the same Chicken Little philosophy about climate change.

The result is that most of us who remember these things do not trust the government, and we vote.

What we do know is that the earth is not replenishing fossil fuel as fast as we are using it.

Is it morally right to “nudge” people with Doomsday fabricated science?

If we assume that oil, gas, and so on is finite (and they use petrochemicals in a lot of things, not just your gas tank), what other choices do we have, and should we not have started around 1981?

We did, kind of.

Gas mileage increased from a few miles to the gallon to forty or more in some cases.

I traded my Good Times Van, with all the luxury of a mobile living room, when gas spiked to $1.32 a gallon for a Ford Escort station wagon that got 22 miles per gallon versus the 13 in the van. I still miss the van.

The world was being nudged into giving up comfort and “real cars” for plastic, transverse-mounted engines (cheaper), and fuel-injected, computer-controlled, emission-controlled cars that required more expensive gas to save the planet and conserve energy. That change also made almost impossible for the owner to work on thier own car thus becoming a slave to outragious repair bills for a $12 part.

As the demand for gas declined, the prices went up to compensate the oil companies.

Who got screwed?

We were nudged into giving up our land yachts for cars that, if you got into an accident, the likelihood of a fatality was much higher.

The insurance industry, catching the brunt of this, sent their folks from Avenue K over to Congress to rewrite the laws to make seat belt use, airbags, and other safety devices mandatory. More of our freedoms removed for the bottom line of the insurance industry. Fewer fatalities, lower insurance payouts, and we are all footing the bill for the profit of insurance companies and oil companies.

Cars went from a few thousand dollars to an incredible amount. A standard F-150 in 1981 was less than $6,000. Today, prices range from $47,000 to $65,000.

The point of this blog post is this: you can bet that whatever the media is telling you regarding cause and effect almost certainly has nothing to do with reality and more to do with big business manipulating the puppets in Washington to do their bidding.

If your emotions are tweaked, you are most likely being manipualted.

It only takes knowing history and turning off the mainstream media to understand why the world is so messed up.

In a future blog post, we will evaluate the need for energy that is renewable but not necessarily destructive to our way of life or to the property values of those who have left the city to live in the country. Rural areas, it seems, are under assault from “heat islands” created by solar farms and data centers. Will these heat islands have any effects on the way we live? Film at eleven.

Your thoughts? Comment below.

When Field Day Falls Flat: A Veteran Ham’s Lament

When Field Day Falls Flat: A Veteran Ham’s Lament

Every summer, on the fourth full weekend of June, amateur radio operators across North America haul out their gear, string up wire antennas in trees, fire up generators, and take to the airwaves for one of the hobby’s signature events: ARRL Field Day. This year, having relatively recently relocated to East Texas, I made a special effort to track down my local club and introduce myself. My motives were simple. First, I wanted to support the local club. Second, I wanted to see how active and engaged they were in showcasing our great hobby to the public.What I found left me, frankly, disappointed. In all my years in this hobby—and I’ve been licensed since 1973—I have never seen such a lackadaisical display in my life.

What Field Day Is Supposed to Be

For the uninitiated, let me back up and explain what Field Day actually is, because understanding its purpose makes my disappointment a little clearer.Field Day is sponsored annually by the American Radio Relay League (ARRL), the national association for amateur radio in the United States. It began in 1933 and has grown into the single most popular on-air activity in all of amateur radio, drawing more than 30,000 participants each year across the U.S. and Canada.At its heart, Field Day is part emergency-preparedness exercise, part contest, and part public demonstration. The core idea is to practice operating under field conditions—away from the comfort of a home station, often running on emergency or alternative power such as generators, batteries, or solar. The skills exercised are precisely the ones that matter when hurricanes, tornadoes, ice storms, or other disasters knock out conventional communications. Amateur radio operators have a long and proud history of providing emergency communication when nothing else is working, and Field Day is where we sharpen that edge.But Field Day is also about the public. The ARRL explicitly encourages clubs to invite the community, elected officials, and the press to come see what amateur radio can do. There’s even a Get-On-The-Air (GOTA) station specifically designed so that newcomers, visitors, and lapsed hams can sit down, key the microphone, and make a contact under the guidance of a control operator. It is, in the truest sense, an open house for a hobby that depends on bringing in new blood.

What I Found Instead

So what did I find when I rolled up to my local Field Day site? A small parking lot with maybe a half-dozen cars and two—count them, two—air-conditioned trailers. Under a shade tree sat exactly one person, watching over a few folding tables loaded with old CB radios and antiquated equipment from a bygone era.It seemed the event had been repurposed as a swap meet. Meanwhile, the folks who owned those trailers were, as best I could tell, playing radio in air-conditioned comfort with absolutely no public access. They were, in effect, portable shacks—closed off, insular, and inviting nobody in.I won’t name the club they represented, and that’s rather the whole point: I had no idea who they were beyond “some hams,” and judging by the swap-table merchandise, more than a few ex-CBers.

How It Used to Be Done

Contrast this with Field Day as I’ve known it for the better part of five decades. In years past, there was a real rhythm to the weekend. On Friday night we’d gather as a club to erect antennas—dipoles, verticals, beams hoisted on push-up masts—working together, swapping stories, and getting the site ready.From the start time on Saturday afternoon until the quitting time on Sunday, every contact we made went into the log. And critically, visitors were welcomed. We’d encourage them to listen for a bit to the rhythm of the bands, then hand them the microphone to make a contact of their own. That little taste was often enough to whet someone’s appetite—to either upgrade their existing license or to start the process of getting licensed and joining the organization.What I witnessed this year was, quite simply, not that.

The Real Takeaway: Be an Elmer

Here’s the lesson I keep coming back to. In ham radio tradition, an “Elmer” is a mentor—an experienced operator who takes a newcomer under their wing and shows them the ropes. The term has been part of our culture for generations, and it points to the single most important survival mechanism this hobby has.It is clearly up to those of us who know what this event is supposed to be to get involved in our local clubs and Elmer them. We need to gently nudge them in the right direction, remind them that Field Day is not a private swap meet in the air conditioning, but a showcase, an invitation, and a recruiting opportunity. If we don’t, this wonderful hobby may well go the way of the telegraph: a quaint relic remembered fondly but practiced by almost no one.I’m not writing this to scold anyone. I’m writing it as a wake-up call to myself as much as anyone else. The seasoned operators among us carry both the knowledge and the responsibility.

Want to learn more? Visit the ARRL Field Day page at arrl.org/field-day, or search for an upcoming licensing class and Field Day event near you. If you’re a licensed operator, consider being someone’s Elmer this year.

About The Image: Echoes of Tomorrow is a sci fi novel I wrote with Ham Radio as a plot device.

What if the future could speak to you… and what if it had already begun to scream?They said the signal was just noise. Background static. The random hiss of a universe winding down.They were wrong. Buried in the cosmic murmur was a voice—faint, deliberate, and unmistakably human. A voice that hadn’t been spoken yet. A warning sent backward across the silence, carried on frequencies no one was supposed to be listening to. But someone was. In Echoes of Tomorrow, the line between memory and prophecy dissolves. Every choice leaves a trace. Every trace leaves an echo. And somewhere out in the dark between the stars, those echoes are folding back on themselves, reaching for the one person who can still hear them before it’s too late.The past is fixed. The future is listening. And tomorrow has already started sending messages home. Some echoes don’t fade. They wait.