Esoteric Meandering Shouting Into the Void

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Hopefully, this is the last time I write about Charlie Kirk, because frankly, the man was a self-inflicted wound on American politics even when he was alive. But here we are, wading into the swamp of irony that his death has created. What fascinates me isn’t so much the tragedy itself—because no one in their right mind celebrates violence—but the way his supporters and the Republican establishment are about to contort themselves into rhetorical yoga poses to explain away the uncomfortable truth: his killer wasn’t some foreign “other,” wasn’t a Democrat, wasn’t Antifa, wasn’t a migrant caravan member, and wasn’t some imaginary shadow government operative. No, the shooter has been identified as the very thing Kirk and his movement spent years glorifying: a white, Mormon, Christian, Republican, Trump-supporting member of their own ideological cult.

Now, the problem for the GOP spin machine is obvious. Their entire political strategy depends on fearmongering about outsiders. They thrive on the narrative that danger always comes from “out there”—from immigrants, from urban crime, from Democrats supposedly grooming your children. If that scaffolding collapses, they’re left staring at a much harder truth: the rot is internal. The monster isn’t at the gate. It’s sitting comfortably in the pew, voting Republican, listening to the same podcasts, and parroting the same talking points. But acknowledging that? That’s poison to their brand.

So what happens now? You can already see the test balloons going up. They’ll try the lone wolf excuse, the old “mentally ill individual” dodge, as if political radicalization and violent rhetoric had nothing to do with it. They’ll paint the shooter as some rare anomaly, when in reality, this is the logical endpoint of a culture marinated in paranoia, rage, and the belief that violence is a form of patriotism. What’s more ironic is that Kirk himself fed into this toxic environment. He wasn’t shy about framing politics as a battle of survival, where compromise was weakness and empathy was treason.

But his death now forces his allies to reckon with the monster they’ve nurtured. The killer was not someone they can easily “otherize.” You can’t send ICE after him. You can’t claim it was an Islamist terrorist. You can’t point to a “woke” liberal arts college and say, “See, this is what happens.” The killer was one of their own. He belonged to the tribe. He would’ve fit in at a Turning Point USA conference without raising eyebrows. That fact alone should send chills through the GOP establishment.

Yet, I don’t expect self-reflection. What I expect is spin. They’ll bend reality until it breaks, because the alternative—admitting that the violence is homegrown and rooted in their own movement—would require honesty they don’t possess. They’ll gaslight their base into believing something else, anything else, because to tell the truth would be to admit that the problem isn’t “out there,” it’s in here.

So yes, hopefully this is the last time I write about Charlie Kirk. But his death, more than his life, exposes the hypocrisy at the core of the modern Republican project. They created a movement obsessed with enemies. Now they must grapple with the fact that one of those enemies came from within their own ranks.

Washington DC

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

So here we are: Charlie Kirk, freshly elevated into martyrdom status, and the right wing is treating his assassination as if the heavens cracked open and dropped a halo onto his head. Forget the years of ranting, sneering, and mocking empathy—suddenly Kirk is Schleicher 2.0, a noble patriot struck down by the forces of darkness. The only thing missing is Wagner blaring in the background and torchlight parades. But give it time. They’ll get there.

The parallels to Kurt von Schleicher are almost too on the nose. Schleicher, a man who once occupied the highest seat of power in Weimar Germany, was gunned down in his own home when Hitler decided “thanks for your service, now please die.” It was tidy, efficient, and historically convenient. His death cleared the path for the Reich to become not a democracy wobbling toward the abyss, but a dictatorship in full sprint. And now Kirk, whose greatest accomplishments include telling teenagers that empathy is weakness and that mass shootings are the price of liberty, is transformed in death into a kind of political fuel. His rhetoric was toxic when he was alive, but now it’s going to be canonized as scripture.

Cue the crocodile tears from the same movement that has consistently rolled its eyes at “thoughts and prayers” fatigue, mocked victims of school shootings, and insisted that nothing can ever be done about gun violence because, gosh darn it, the Founders gave us muskets. But suddenly, with Kirk lying cold, now violence matters. Now flags must be lowered, voices must tremble with grief, and the entire machinery of outrage must roar into motion. This isn’t hypocrisy, they’ll insist. No, no—it’s patriotism. After all, Kirk wasn’t just anyone. He was their anyone.

And here’s where the sarcasm practically writes itself. The right, which has long insisted that “bodies in the street” are the acceptable price of freedom, is shocked—shocked!—to find that the bill finally landed at their own table. Who could have guessed that the culture of armed paranoia, endless demonization of enemies, and fetishization of violence might, just possibly, boomerang back? But don’t expect any self-reflection. Just as Schleicher’s death was rewritten as necessary proof of Nazi strength, Kirk’s assassination will be spun as a holy tragedy that proves the left wants to destroy America. He’ll be remembered not as the man who preached callousness, but as a symbol of purity whose blood cries out for vengeance.

And vengeance is the real prize here. Fascism loves martyrs the way fire loves oxygen. Hitler needed Schleicher’s death to seal his legend; today’s would-be authoritarians need Kirk’s corpse to supercharge their movement. He is more valuable to them dead than alive, because in death he can’t contradict the myth they’re writing. He can’t tweet something embarrassing, he can’t contradict the narrative, he can’t remind anyone that he was, at the end of the day, just another grifter in a tailored suit. No—now he’s eternal.

So congratulations, America. You’ve managed to find your Schleicher, your myth-making moment. The right will build him a shrine of rhetoric, demand unquestioning loyalty in his memory, and accuse anyone who dares roll their eyes of sacrilege. History, as always, doesn’t just rhyme—it mocks.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

For millions upon millions of years, this planet has turned on its axis, circled its star, shifted its continents, and birthed life forms beyond our imagination. The Earth has known fire and ice, has weathered asteroid strikes, mass extinctions, and the slow grinding of glaciers. Dinosaurs once thundered across its plains, then vanished, leaving only bones and echoes. Giant ferns rose and fell, seas receded and returned, mountain ranges grew and eroded, and through it all, the Earth remained. It was never delicate, never fragile, despite how often we describe it that way. The planet does not need us—it never has. Long before humanity, it thrived, and long after we are gone, it will adapt, evolve, and continue in ways we cannot fathom.

And yet, here we are, one curious species among millions, a genetic accident—or miracle, depending on your lens—that stumbled into consciousness. Somewhere in our evolutionary past, a spark lit. We became aware not only of our surroundings but of ourselves. We could reflect, imagine, plan, and invent. This gift—or curse—set us apart. Unlike the other animals, we did not simply live within nature’s cycles; we sought to bend them, reshape them, control them. Fire was harnessed, tools were sharpened, stories were told. Civilization arose from this restless mind that could not be satisfied with mere survival.

But there’s a catch. Consciousness brought not only creativity but destruction. The same hand that painted on cave walls eventually built bombs capable of erasing cities. The same ingenuity that made medicine also engineered poisons. Our minds, capable of love and empathy, are equally capable of cruelty and indifference. From the moment we stood upright and gazed across the horizon, we were walking toward destiny—though that destiny has always been a double-edged sword.

Some would argue it is triumph: humanity, the thinking animal, has built civilizations, mapped the stars, split the atom, and unlocked the code of life itself. Others would say it is tragedy: the same species now warms its planet, strips its forests, poisons its waters, and builds machines of annihilation. Every step forward seems to carry with it the seed of collapse. We invent agriculture, then create famine. We discover fossil fuels, then choke the skies. We devise weapons for defense, then use them for slaughter. If it is destiny we walk toward, perhaps it is not progress but a slow, deliberate march to self-destruction.

And yet, it is not the Earth that trembles. We imagine that our downfall would drag the world with us, but the planet does not depend on us. If the oceans rise and drown our cities, Earth will still roll on. If the forests burn and the skies darken, new ecosystems will grow in time. If nuclear fire scorches the surface, life—of some form—will claw its way back, as it always has. Humanity may be a flicker, brilliant but brief, in the vast history of this planet.

Perhaps that is our lesson: we are temporary. The Earth is not. Our consciousness, our genius, our hubris—these are unique, but not eternal. Whether by mistake or triumph, we became a species that could think about its own end. And in doing so, perhaps we have always been walking, knowingly or not, toward it.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Oh, the theater of selective mourning. Republicans, masters of performative patriotism, have once again reminded us that grief is not universal—it’s transactional. When lawmakers in Minnesota were brutally murdered, the MAGA megaphones didn’t so much as whisper. No flags lowered, no moments of silence, no performative Bible verses hastily tweeted. Just crickets. Apparently, their lives didn’t count. Wrong party, wrong narrative, wrong “team.”

But now, with Charlie Kirk’s death, suddenly America must stop, weep, and genuflect. Flags are lowered, outrage is dialed up to eleven, and the GOP faithful are on the internet pounding their keyboards in righteous fury. “We must take action!” they scream. Action against whom? Oh, that’s easy: anyone who looks different, thinks differently, or dares to vote for a Democrat. Because in their world, mourning is never about the dead—it’s about finding a new excuse to target the living.

The hypocrisy here is not just obvious—it’s blinding. These are the very same people who dismissed mass shootings as the “cost of freedom.” They’re the ones who scoffed at grief from Sandy Hook, who rolled their eyes when parents begged for reform after Uvalde, who called Las Vegas just another tragedy on the endless ticker of American carnage. And let’s not forget Charlie Kirk himself, who loudly and proudly declared that empathy for victims of gun violence was weakness. Weakness! Something not to be honored, not to be recognized. But now? Now that he’s the one in the casket, suddenly compassion is mandatory.

Republicans want a national display of reverence for a man who mocked the very idea of mourning. The irony is staggering. They ignored the blood in Minnesota, dismissed the slaughter of children in schools, and shrugged off families torn apart in churches, grocery stores, and malls. But Charlie Kirk? For him, the flags must come down, and anyone who doesn’t bow low enough risks being labeled an enemy of the state.

So here we are, watching a party demand empathy for someone who preached against it, insist on reverence for someone who scorned it, and weaponize his death to fuel the same culture wars he profited from in life. It’s not mourning—it’s branding. It’s not grief—it’s strategy. And the only thing more predictable than their hypocrisy is the speed with which they’ll turn this into a license to hate even harder.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Gun violence in America has long been a wound that never quite heals, a constant reopening of trauma that we are asked to accept as the “price of freedom.” The irony, of course, is that the same people who have consistently waved off school shootings, grocery store massacres, church slaughters, and concerts turned into war zones as “tragic but inevitable,” are suddenly clutching their pearls now that one of their own, Charlie Kirk, has become the latest victim. For years, Kirk has said out loud what many on the far-right believe but dance around: that bodies in the streets are an acceptable cost of our Second Amendment. That freedom, they insist, requires blood. But when it is their blood, suddenly the narrative changes.

No one—left, right, or anywhere in between—wants to see gun violence unfold. Nobody truly wants to walk into a public space and wonder if it will be their last time breathing fresh air. That’s not freedom; that’s fear disguised as liberty. But America has been conditioned to normalize this cycle. A mass shooting happens. We argue for a few days. Politicians pick teams. Then we move on until the next round of lives are stolen. The cycle repeats itself endlessly. When it’s kids in Uvalde or Sandy Hook, Republicans say, “Don’t politicize it.” When it’s families at a Walmart in El Paso, the response is: “A good guy with a gun could have stopped this.” But now that it’s one of their cultural warriors, suddenly the tragedy deserves special reverence.

The hypocrisy is glaring. Republicans didn’t pause for a national moment of silence when Minnesota legislators were murdered in their own homes. They didn’t demand that America honor these public servants who were killed by the very violence Republicans so often excuse. They shrugged. They moved on. But now, with Charlie Kirk, they are framing him as a fallen soldier in the war for freedom, a martyr for the Second Amendment. It’s not about stopping gun violence—it’s about keeping score in the blood sport of American politics.

This team-sport approach to mass death has to stop. Gun violence should not be a partisan issue. The dead are not Democrats or Republicans. They are mothers, fathers, children, neighbors, and colleagues. Every time the story breaks, there are empty chairs at dinner tables and birthdays that will never be celebrated. Yet we act as though some lives deserve more outrage than others based solely on political affiliation. That rot in our national conscience is almost as dangerous as the guns themselves.

The saddest truth is that daily school shootings barely register anymore. Headlines about a teenager opening fire on classmates are now background noise. A massacre in a workplace barely trends for 24 hours. But when a conservative commentator is harmed, the story suddenly becomes symbolic, a rallying cry. If that doesn’t expose how broken our moral compass is, what will?

Gun violence is not a team sport. It should never be about “our side” or “their side.” It is a crisis of humanity, a crisis of policy, and a crisis of leadership. It must end—and not after the next tragedy or the next headline, but now. Because every day we delay, more bodies in the streets are treated as acceptable. And no human life should ever be reduced to a political talking point.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Every generation seems to carry a date burned into its memory, a day so dark that it shapes how people remember the world before and after. For the Greatest Generation, it was December 7, 1941—the attack on Pearl Harbor, a sudden explosion of violence that dragged the United States fully into World War II. For Millennials, it was September 11, 2001—a morning when ordinary life was shattered as planes became weapons and the skyline of New York burned before the eyes of a horrified nation. For today’s younger Americans, January 6, 2021, may stand as that date—the day democracy itself was attacked from within, when the peaceful transfer of power nearly collapsed under a mob’s rage. These days are remembered because they rewrote history in ways no one could ignore. They were, in the truest sense, defining tragedies.

But what about the tragedies that don’t make it into the permanent national memory? The ones that don’t get carved into history books or repeated in annual memorial ceremonies? In the last two decades, our country has been scarred by another kind of violence—school shootings, mass killings, and random acts of terror in our own neighborhoods. Yet unlike Pearl Harbor or 9/11, the dates blur together. No one outside of Newtown, Connecticut may pause on December 14, the day of the Sandy Hook Elementary School massacre. Few people recall the precise day in April 1999 when Columbine High School erupted in bloodshed, even though it was supposed to be unthinkable then. The Las Vegas shooting in October 2017—the deadliest mass shooting in modern American history—claimed 60 lives and injured hundreds, but even that horrific moment slips further from our collective memory with every passing year.

Why do some tragedies define us, while others fade into the background noise of a country that has almost learned to expect them? Perhaps it is because Pearl Harbor, 9/11, and January 6 felt like attacks on the nation itself—acts of war, terrorism, or insurrection that demanded a response. But what does it say about us that when the violence comes from within, when it is inflicted on children in classrooms or music fans at a concert, we allow the dates to be forgotten? Maybe it is too painful to look at squarely. Maybe forgetting is easier than acknowledging that we live in a society where mass shootings happen so frequently that none of us can keep track anymore.

That truth is a tragedy in itself. We should not live in a country where children practice active shooter drills like fire drills. We should not shrug at the news of another shooting, chalk it up to the cost of “freedom,” and move on by the next news cycle. If Pearl Harbor demanded we enter a world war, and 9/11 demanded we reshape global security, then surely the countless school shootings and mass killings demand something too. They demand change—not just in laws, but in values, in what we are willing to accept as normal.

Every generation will have its defining day, but we should not allow those days to pile up endlessly, each one marked by grief and violence. The dates we forget are just as telling as the ones we remember. It is time to make sure the lesson of all of them is not that we can endure tragedy, but that we can prevent it.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

So now we’ve seen it—the actual drawing in Epstein’s 50th birthday card. A grotesque little sketch that looks exactly like the kind of thing Donald J. Trump, self-appointed “artist” of reality, would scratch out with a Sharpie between cheeseburgers and creepy locker room talk. And, of course, the signature—his infamous tachycardic EKG scrawl that screams “unstable vital signs” more than “former President.” It’s all there: the pervy doodle, the jagged signature, the stink of narcissism. But what’s even more damning than the card itself? The shrieking denials coming from Trump and his designated parrots.

Trump could have taken the sane, if revolting, route and said: “Yeah, I drew it. I’m a gross motherfucker with the artistic talent of a deranged middle-schooler.” But no. Instead, he and his press secretaries put on their best “Who, me?” faces and start bellowing like televangelists swearing they don’t know what hush money is. And in their over-the-top performance, they practically scream guilt louder than any Sharpie stroke ever could.

This is a familiar playbook. Trump denies things nobody else would bother denying. He denied knowing Epstein “that well,” even though there are photos, quotes, and entire parties tying them together. He denied the Access Hollywood tape—until he admitted it—then denied it again, like a man suffering from selective amnesia caused by ego. He denied losing the 2020 election while America watched the loss in real time. And now he’s denying his own artwork, which might be the most laughable denial of all, since his handwriting is practically a biometric identifier at this point.

The drawing itself is gross, yes. But the desperate theater of denial is worse. Because here’s the truth: if you weren’t guilty, if you didn’t do it, you’d laugh. You’d shrug. You’d dismiss it. Instead, Trump reacts like a toddler caught with his hand in the cookie jar, insisting the crumbs on his face are “fake crumbs” planted by the deep state. His press secretaries repeat the script like malfunctioning robots—“Not him, fake, not true, witch hunt”—as if reciting it often enough will rewire our brains.

And the irony is delicious. By denying so hysterically, they’ve turned a nasty little doodle into a confession written in all caps. It’s almost Shakespearean: the denial is the admission. The harder they scream “not guilty,” the guiltier they look. Trump’s entire career is built on this paradox—deny reality, and hope people believe the lie long enough to forget the truth. But when the evidence is a literal drawing in your own demented hand, the lie only makes the truth louder.

What this card really shows us is the core of Trumpism: exploitation, vulgarity, and the inability to ever, under any circumstances, own up to a damn thing. Honesty doesn’t exist in his universe—only bluster, denial, and projection. He’d rather look like a fool shrieking “fake!” than a man who admits to being a creep. And so, in trying to cover his ass, he exposes it fully, neon lights and all.

So yes, the drawing is revolting. But the denial? That’s the smoking gun. That’s Trump in his purest form: a guilty man screaming innocence so loudly that no one can hear anything else.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Honestly, I can’t believe more people aren’t catching on. We’ve got a guy sitting in the Oval Office who has turned the presidency into a glorified merch stand, and somehow folks are treating him like George Washington reincarnated. The White House, once a symbol of democracy, is now basically a gift shop. You half-expect to walk in and see racks of “Make America Great Again” golf towels next to the Lincoln Bedroom. Forget the Library of Congress—what this man really wants is the Catalog of Trump.

And people are still buying it! Literally. Trump Won flags, Trump 2024 hats, Trump wine, Trump steaks, Trump golden sneakers—if you can slap his name on it, he’ll sell it. I wouldn’t be surprised if they start offering “Trump Holy Water” bottled from the White House plumbing, only $49.99 a pop. It’s not politics; it’s a traveling circus where the price of admission is blind loyalty and your credit card number.

What blows my mind is that people still walk around with those flags, like carrying an off-brand superhero cape somehow proves patriotism. You’ve got caravans of trucks waving “TRUMP” in letters bigger than the American flag itself, and no one stops to think: huh, maybe this isn’t about the country at all. Nope—it’s about worshiping at the altar of Trump, where every prayer comes with a matching coffee mug.

Meanwhile, the guy himself is laughing all the way to the bank. He doesn’t care about infrastructure, healthcare, education, or any of that boring stuff. He cares about moving units. You’re not citizens to him—you’re customers. Repeat customers, at that, because nothing keeps the cult fire burning like a fresh shipment of poorly stitched hats made overseas. And every purchase is a tithe in the Church of Trump, where the hymns are angry rally chants and the communion wafer is a $35 T-shirt.

And let’s not even pretend this is subtle. This isn’t some clever backroom deal. This is a full-blown, neon-lit, cash-register-ringing grift. He’s managed to turn democracy into QVC, and people are still eating it up like it’s Sunday brunch. Imagine Teddy Roosevelt selling teddy bears from the Resolute Desk. Or Lincoln hawking stovepipe hats on a street corner. But with Trump? Totally normal. Just another day of “governance.”

So no, he’s not some divine patriot sent to rescue America. He’s a walking billboard, a human infomercial, a guy who has convinced half the country that buying his merch is the same as saving the nation. And the wild part? They believe it. They wave their flags, they empty their wallets, and they bow down not to a president, but to the ultimate grifter-in-chief.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

The long, hot days of summer are behind us, and with the arrival of crisp mornings, colorful leaves, and pumpkin-flavored everything, one thing is certain: football is back. In America, fall and football go hand in hand, almost like Thanksgiving and turkey. The moment the calendar flips to September, stadium lights flicker on, parking lots fill with tailgaters, and living rooms everywhere transform into shrines of team loyalty.

College towns erupt with marching bands and rivalries that run deeper than family feuds, while professional stadiums roar with tens of thousands of fans, each convinced their team is finally destined for glory this year. Whether you follow the NFL, college ball, or even just your local high school team, the game’s return marks a seasonal reset—a cultural ritual we anticipate as much as the changing weather.

Football isn’t just about the sport itself. It’s about the shared experience. Friends gather around televisions, families plan their weekends around kickoff times, and entire communities rally behind their teams. Tailgates, fantasy leagues, heated debates over coaching decisions—all of these make football season less of a pastime and more of a national obsession.

The drama is part of the appeal: the underdog upsets, the last-second field goals, the heartbreaking injuries, and the moments of pure athletic brilliance. In a way, football season gives us a story that unfolds week by week, with millions of Americans tuned in to watch the highs and lows together.

So as the leaves fall and the air cools, football takes center stage once again. Whether your team is rebuilding or chasing a championship, the return of the season gives us a reason to cheer, to argue, and to hope. After all, it’s fall—and in America, that means football.