Esoteric Meandering Shouting Into the Void

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

It’s becoming impossible to pretend that Donald—our sundowning, grievance-powered, Florida-retired-but-still-somehow-president emeritus of chaos—is aging with anything resembling grace. We keep hoping, in some delusional national fantasy, that he might mellow into a folksy elder statesman, telling long meandering stories about golf carts and overcooked steak. Instead, he’s morphing into the exact same person he’s always been: a man marinated for decades in entitlement, bigotry, and the kind of tantrum energy normally reserved for toddlers denied a second juice box.

Reporters get called stupid. Governors get slapped with outdated and offensive insults that should’ve died somewhere around the time rotary phones did. And we all know—we all know—that just beneath the thin eggshell of his self-control lies an entire subterranean warehouse of racist, sexist, homophobic, and just plain vile vocabulary he’s itching to unleash. If his mental dams ever crack, it won’t be a leak; it’ll be a Category 5 sewage spill.

One shudders to imagine what he’s rehearsing in the privacy of his brain—what he wants to call Barack Obama, or Jasmine Crockett, or Pete Buttigieg, or Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez. You can practically hear the gears grinding as he searches for the one slur he thinks will “own the libs,” unable to say the quiet part out loud only because his handlers are still quick enough to yank the mic.

And so here we sit. Watching this slow-motion demolition derby of ego, insecurity, and declining impulse control play out in real time. Observing a man who never learned to be decent become even less so. Witnessing a public meltdown that would be sad if it weren’t also dangerous—and exhausting—and utterly on brand.

It’s not a presidency anymore; it’s a live-streamed, unending shit show. And the worst part? None of us are surprised.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

December—the twelfth and final month of the year, the grand finale, the big wrap-up, the universally accepted “we’re almost done, thank god” on the calendar. And yet, for anyone with even the faintest memory of a prefixes worksheet, the name sits there like a math error no one bothered to correct. Deca means ten. Ten! As in not twelve. As in “someone in ancient Rome needed a calculator.”

But no, the Romans were very proud of their numbering system, which—fun fact—did not include zero. This might explain a lot.

Originally, December actually was the tenth month, back in the days of the old Roman calendar, a cute little 10-month setup that ran from March to December. January and February didn’t exist yet, presumably because winter was an unpleasant inconvenience the Romans preferred to pretend wasn’t real—sort of like how modern people treat their inboxes.

Then someone finally realized, “Hey, the seasons aren’t lining up with the calendar,” and after a few too many political ego trips, calendar reforms, and probably a lot of wine, the Romans added January and February to the front of the year. A logical move—except they left the names of the other months exactly as they were. Because why fix the thing that’s obviously broken when you can just shrug historically and walk away?

Thus, December—“the tenth month”—became the twelfth month and just kept the name, as if no one would notice. And apparently, no one did. For centuries. Millennia, even. Now we all casually accept a calendar system where the months named Seven, Eight, Nine, and Ten are… months nine, ten, eleven, and twelve. It’s the chronological equivalent of labeling your kitchen drawers “Forks,” “Spoons,” “Knives,” and “Random Batteries & Scissors,” only to discover that none of the forks are actually where they’re supposed to be.

But in the end, this is humanity: we cling to tradition even when it makes no sense, we keep names long after they’ve stopped being accurate, and we nod politely at a calendar that insults our basic math skills.

Happy December—the month that reminds us, every year, that numbers are mostly a suggestion.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

 Here is the million-dollar—sorry, billion-dollar—question: Will things magically snap back to normal the moment Donald J. Trump vacates the Oval Office? The same Oval Office that, thanks to his innovative interpretation of the Constitution, now doubles as a revenue center for the Trump Organization. The man practically treated the Emoluments Clause like a gym membership: something you technically pay attention to, but mostly ignore unless someone calls you out.

For years, Trump and the GOP have run a master class in “Norms Are Optional 101.” Remember when presidents used to worry about the appearance of impropriety? How quaint! Now the standard appears to be: “If you can fit it on a financial disclosure form—or avoid the form entirely—it’s totally fine.” So naturally, we must ask: What happens next?

Imagine, if you will, a hypothetical President Mark Cuban. A billionaire, flashy, loud, unfiltered—basically Trump but with… math skills. Now picture him announcing from the White House briefing room:

“Great news! I’m buying a downtown D.C. hotel for the low, low price of $750 million—totally unrelated to the fact that I’m the president. Also, I now own the Washington Wizards. Go Mavs-Wiz synergy!”

Would the GOP shrug because the precedent is set? Would they wave a tiny Constitution in surrender and say, “Well, Trump did it, so what are we supposed to do—hold Cuban to a higher ethical standard?”

Of course not.

They would explode so violently on cable news that the ambient temperature of the planet would rise three degrees. Overnight, they’d rediscover the sacred Emoluments Clause—dust it off, polish it, illuminate it with heavenly choirs. Suddenly, permitting presidents to enrich themselves would become the Greatest Threat to the Republic Since King George. Congressman after congressman would line up to declare:

“This is grossly unconstitutional! Outrageous! Impeachable! Possibly witchcraft!”

Impeachment articles would be written before Cuban finished his announcement. And the same politicians who shrugged at a president charging the Secret Service full luxury rates to stay at his own golf resorts would demand Cuban’s presidency be scrubbed, bleached, and burned from the historical record. “For the good of the nation,” they’d say, while clutching pocket Constitutions they hadn’t seen since 2016.

Because here’s the secret: norms aren’t destroyed forever—they’re destroyed selectively. They can be trampled by one guy and then instantly resurrected the moment they become politically convenient.

So will things change after Trump leaves office? Absolutely. They’ll snap back into place with cartoonish speed—

—but only if it’s someone other than Trump trying to run the presidential gift shop as a private business venture.

Until then, the Emoluments Clause remains less of a constitutional principle and more of a choose-your-own-adventure suggestion.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Donald Trump—America’s reigning Master of Delusion, self-certified Emperor of Everything, and part-time interior designer for the Versailles Cosplay Society—has once again stepped forward to assure his loyal disciples that he is deeply, profoundly, cosmically concerned about affordability. Yes, affordability. For you. For America. For the little people he wouldn’t share a golf cart with unless they were carrying his Diet Coke.

And what better way to show your commitment to affordability than by using donor funds—you know, money people thought they were giving to “save democracy” or “stop the deep state” or whatever this week’s merch slogan is—to build yourself a golden ballroom that would make King Midas say, “Tone it down, Don.”

But wait—don’t worry, he’s not stopping there. The Oval Office, a room historically defined by dignity, restraint, and solemnity, is now apparently being transformed into a Versailles theme room, complete with enough gold (real or spray-painted; does it matter?) to blind an unsuspecting tourist wandering in thinking they were at the White House and not an all-inclusive resort for narcissism.

Because nothing screams “I care about affordability” quite like decking out the nation’s most important office to look like a set rejected from Beauty and the Beast for being too aesthetically aggressive.

And then—oh, then—comes the pièce de résistance: the Affordability Award. Yes, the one he just created. The one that, shockingly, ranks affordability as the number one priority of his self-declared authoritarian to-do list. Never mind that the award appears to have been invented sometime between his morning rage-tweet and his afternoon spray tan. Never mind that it’s less an award and more a participation trophy he’s giving himself for pretending to care.

No, what matters is that The Great Affordability Defender is here, standing valiantly atop a pile of gold-leaf furniture and unfulfilled promises, declaring that he alone can fix it.

The minions swoon. The crowd cheers. The ballroom glitters. And affordability? Well, it’ll get handled right after the chandeliers are hung, the gold trim is polished, and the invoices are quietly forwarded to “donors” who thought they were funding a movement, not a monarchy-in-training.

But that, of course, is the magic of Trumpian reality: as long as he says he cares about affordability, then obviously he does. And if anyone disagrees, well—they must just be jealous that they weren’t invited to the golden ballroom of democracy, where affordability is treasured almost as much as a gilded toilet seat.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Donald Trump has always had a type. Some people like tall partners, some like funny ones, and Trump—well, Trump likes strongmen. Give him a uniform, a shiny sash, and the faint whiff of human-rights violations, and he swoons like a teenager at a boy-band concert. So it should surprise absolutely no one that he’s suddenly found himself with a full-blown geopolitical crush on Venezuela.

In the latest chapter of “Donald Does Diplomacy (Poorly),” Trump has apparently decided to unilaterally declare Venezuelan airspace a no-fly zone, despite the tiny logistical hiccup that he is not—nor has he ever been—the president of Venezuela. But since when has the lack of jurisdiction stopped him? If anything, it probably adds to the thrill. Forbidden fruit and all that.

And while the U.S. Navy deals with sketchy boats off Venezuela’s coast—because, yes, drug trafficking is a real thing—Trump’s over here fantasizing that he’s the sheriff of the Caribbean, slapping “NO FLYING IN MY SKY” signs on countries he doesn’t govern, like a Homeowners Association president gone rogue.

The big question, of course, is: why Venezuela? Why not fixate on literally any of the other countries he misunderstands?

Let’s explore some theories:

Theory 1: Oil, Glorious Oil

Trump loves oil the way toddlers love glitter—obsessively, carelessly, and without regard for the cleanup. Venezuela has a lot of it. Trump likes having things. Two plus two equals “I hereby annex this nation for totally legitimate freedom-spreading reasons.”

Theory 2: Dictator Solidarity

There’s also the Maduro factor. Trump has a documented soft spot for leaders whose idea of governance involves repression, state media, and long speeches praising themselves—so basically guys who remind him of himself, but with better military uniforms.

Maybe he sees Maduro as a kindred spirit. Maybe he thinks they could share fashion tips. Maybe he’s hoping for a dictator buddy-comedy deal on Netflix. Who knows?

Theory 3: He Just Wants to Declare Something

A no-fly zone. A war. A national emergency. A new flavor of Diet Coke. Trump is happiest when he’s declaring things. The content doesn’t matter. The point is the performance.

Declaring a no-fly zone over Venezuela gives him that nice warm authoritarian glow—like a weighted blanket, but full of constitutional violations.

Theory 4: The World’s Pettiest Real-Estate Deal

Trump has never met land he didn’t immediately imagine himself owning. Maybe he’s eyeing Venezuela the way a cartoon villain eyes a mountain shaped like a skull.

“He’s gonna put his name on the oil fields!” you can practically hear someone cry.

Yes. Yes, he probably would.

In the end, Trump’s Venezuela fixation isn’t about foreign policy or national security or even logic—God forbid. It’s about fantasy. The fantasy that he can bark orders at any country on Earth. The fantasy that he can crown himself Emperor of the Western Hemisphere. The fantasy that he can collect dictatorships like Pokémon.

And really, what’s more Trumpian than that?

If nothing else, it’s comforting to remember: the man can declare all the no-fly zones he wants. Venezuela will continue flying, and Trump will continue stamping his foot on a globe that doesn’t listen to him—just like everyone else.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

We’ve now entered that magical time of year when the air fills with twinkling lights, peppermint-flavored everything, and the annual Festival of Public Greeting Anxiety. Some brave souls say “Happy Holidays,” others belt out a hearty “Merry Christmas,” and then there’s my personal favorite: the silent, side-eyed go screw yourself stare people deploy when they’ve decided that any deviation from their preferred seasonal salutation is an existential threat to civilization.

It’s always fascinating to watch certain folks get performatively secular or hyper-religious depending on who’s standing in front of them at Target. December contains a whole constellation of holidays—Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Yule, Solstice, Las Posadas, New Year’s, and that sacred American tradition of panicking about shipping deadlines. Yet somehow, only the supreme jackasses among us insist that the only acceptable greeting—the only one—is “Merry Christmas.”

This is, of course, the same crowd that has spent years insisting there’s a “war on Christmas.” A war that, as far as anyone can tell, has never had a single casualty, battle, or even a mildly disorganized skirmish outside a Starbucks. And then there was the pièce de résistance: the moment in his first term when Donald Trump proudly proclaimed that he had single-handedly rescued Christmas. From what, exactly? Unclear. Possibly from red coffee cups. Possibly from reality.

But the truth is simple: there was never a war on Christmas. No one banned it, burned it, or hid it under a tarp in a government warehouse. The holiday is doing just fine—and would continue to do just fine—without any political savior swooping in with a golden eagle podium and a self-congratulatory flourish. Claiming otherwise is, unsurprisingly, complete and total bullshit.

So as we wade into December, maybe the real spirit of the season is this: say whatever greeting you want, accept whatever greeting you get, and don’t let anyone convince you that acknowledging more than one holiday is some radical assault on tradition. After all, goodwill toward all is supposed to be part of the package—no matter how loudly some people insist it only comes in one brand.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

The Season of Mandatory Niceness (Also Known as Black Friday Through Christmas)

Thanksgiving is officially done. The leftovers are crammed into the fridge like guilty secrets, and the last of the pumpkin pie has been scraped up by someone who swore they were “done eating” two hours earlier. Which means only one thing: Black Friday is upon us—the sacred national ritual where millions of people who were just giving thanks for what they already have stampede into retail stores to violently acquire things they absolutely do not need.

Black Friday used to be the Super Bowl for retailers. It was their shining moment—their day of joy, their profit-fueled Christmas morning. But now? Now it’s a grim parade of exhausted workers, unhinged bargain hunters, and corporate emails screaming “EXTENDED! FINAL! LAST CHANCE! BUY NOW YOU UNGRATEFUL WRETCH!” until mid-December. It’s like the holiday season looked at consumerism and said, “Yes, but make it feral.”

And here we are entering what I affectionately call Lent for Assholes—that magical four-week period where everyone pretends to be a decent human being, mainly because society tells them they’re supposed to. Suddenly the folks who spend the other eleven months cutting people off in traffic and berating baristas for incorrect foam texture are out here holding doors, adopting smiles that crack like dry paint, and tossing spare change into charity buckets so loudly you’d think they were ringing a dinner bell.

Then there’s the Bible-toting crowd—the ones who proudly carry a copy of scripture as pristine and untouched as the day they lifted it from Grandma’s end table. They would never dream of opening it (too many words, not enough memes), but by golly, they will weaponize its moral authority for exactly four weeks. ’Tis the season, after all, to be kind. Or at least to look like it. Or at least to look like you think other people think you’re trying.

For one month, the world collectively agrees to stop being a dick. Not permanently—let’s not get wild. Just long enough to grab some peppermint lattes, post a few self-congratulatory “blessed” photos, and pretend that all the performative niceties somehow counterbalance the dumpster fire of the entire preceding year.

And then—miraculously, predictably—come December 26th, the spell breaks. The halo slides off. The same people who were “so grateful and full of love” go back to honking at pedestrians like they’re playing Whac-A-Mole with their car.

So yes, Thanksgiving is over. Black Friday is here. And welcome, one and all, to the holiest time of the year: Lent for Assholes, where kindness is compulsory, generosity is seasonal, and humanity manages—however briefly—to rise a few inches above its default setting of “mildly feral.”

Enjoy it while it lasts. The timer’s already ticking.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Is anyone—anyone at all—surprised that the nation’s most prolific draft dodger, the guy who bravely battled bone spurs while other men battled, you know, actual wars, has once again found himself pointing the trembling finger of “treason” at someone who actually served? I mean, let’s take inventory here. We’re talking about a man who once declared that John McCain, a man who endured years of torture in a POW camp, “wasn’t a hero because he got captured.” A statement so grotesque that even the ghosts of basic decency rolled their eyes. And now this same patriotism cosplayer—with a sidekick reserve captain who must’ve lost the plot somewhere between OCS and reality—has the audacity to accuse Mark Kelly of treason.

Mark Kelly.

Retired Navy captain.

Combat pilot.

Astronaut.

Actual American hero.

Married to an actual American hero.

A man whose résumé is so stacked with service it should make any normal person with a conscience feel humbled—yet somehow, somehow, it triggers the rage of people who think saying “support the troops” is exactly the same thing as actually doing it.

And what’s Kelly’s crime? What high betrayal of the republic did he commit? Did he sell nuclear secrets? Stage a coup? Launch a rocket labeled “Democracy” directly into Mar-a-Lago? No. He participated in a public service announcement reminding U.S. service members of something so basic it’s literally printed in the UCMJ:

You do not follow unlawful orders.

This is not radical. This is not insurgent. This is not “stab-in-the-back” mythology. This is Rule Number Freaking One in a functioning chain of command.

But apparently, we now live in an era where reminding people of the law is treasonous, while demanding absolute obedience to the whims of a man who thinks the nuclear triad is a 1950s doo-wop group is considered patriotism.

The math ain’t mathing.

It’s almost poetic—if poetry were written by a drunk bald eagle holding a crayon. We have a man who dodged Vietnam like it was an unpaid tab, a man who views the military as a personal cosplay squad, a man who treats loyalty as a one-way street paved with gold toilet fixtures—accusing Mark Kelly of being anti-American. You’d laugh if it weren’t aggressively stupid.

And the reserve captain in question? Oh, he’s just the cherry on top of the irony sundae. Standing there saluting like a bobblehead on a bumpy dashboard, desperately auditioning for a future cabinet spot in the Department of Yes Sir Whatever You Say Sir.

Meanwhile, anyone with a passing knowledge of military ethics—or a functioning prefrontal cortex—knows that refusing unlawful orders is not treason. It’s the safeguard that prevents authoritarian meltdown. It’s how the military stays a professional force instead of someone’s private goon squad.

But sure. Let’s ignore the heroic astronaut with decades of honorable service and instead believe the guy whose closest brush with combat was getting into a verbal firefight with a bald eagle during a photo op.

Is anyone surprised? Really?

Because at this point, the only shocking thing would be if he didn’t accuse someone better, braver, and more accomplished than him of treason.

And given the entire population of the United States fits that description…

Well. Buckle up. There’s going to be a lot more “treason” where that came from.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

The Lines We Stand In

Human beings like to believe we are endlessly diverse, infinitely complicated, too unique to be placed into boxes or categories. Yet, whenever life presents a situation that requires action—real, inconvenient, possibly uncomfortable action—we tend to sort ourselves with remarkable predictability. It’s as if the world draws invisible lines on the ground, and without even realizing it, most of us walk to the same familiar places: the observers, the critics, the gossipers, the avoiders… and finally, the very small line of people who actually step forward to help.

When something happens—a crisis, an injustice, a person simply struggling—there are always more people willing to talk about it than to do something for it. Gossip is safe; helping is not. Commentary costs nothing; compassion demands time, effort, vulnerability. So across history and across cultures, the pattern repeats: the longest line is always the line of those who stand back with folded arms, ready with opinions but not with hands.

Then there’s the middle group—the ones who refuse to engage in gossip or criticism but still don’t step in. They are not harmful, but they are also not helpful. They float in a kind of neutral space, perhaps wishing someone would intervene, but convincing themselves it should be someone “more qualified” or “more involved.” They aren’t villains, just human. They don’t want to make things worse, but they also don’t want to assume responsibility. Their line is quieter, but it’s still far longer than the one that actually makes change.

And then—there’s the smallest line of all.

The helpers. The upstanders. The people who break from the crowd, who are willing to risk being uncomfortable, judged, or inconvenienced. These are the ones who wade into the messy middle, who understand instinctively that the world only changes when somebody chooses to do something rather than merely narrate it. They are rare not because humans lack goodness, but because goodness takes effort, and effort takes courage.

Unfortunately, this is not a modern phenomenon. This is who we’ve been for as long as we’ve been human. Ancient stories, religious texts, historical accounts—they all describe the same dynamic: the many who watch and comment, and the few who step in. We’ve built civilizations, technologies, and systems of staggering complexity, yet our social instincts are still shockingly primitive. When faced with a situation that demands action, we still gravitate toward our ancient roles.

But acknowledging this isn’t hopeless—it’s honest. And honesty is the first step toward change. Because the truth is, every person has the ability to choose a different line. To notice when they’re drifting toward the comfortable majority and instead steer themselves toward the smaller crowd, the harder choice, the place where help is actually needed.

The world has always been this way, yes—but that doesn’t mean it always has to be.

In the end, progress has never been driven by the many who talked; it has always been pushed forward by the few who acted. And perhaps recognizing that is how we encourage more people to cross that invisible divide and stand where they’re needed most.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

The story of the first Thanksgiving is often told like a warm, soft-focus commercial: noble Pilgrims, helpful Wampanoag, long tables groaning under the weight of roasted fowl and whatever passed for carbs in 1621. It’s a cozy scene—so cozy, in fact, that it politely ignores one inconvenient detail: it makes absolutely no sense.

Let’s be honest. If you’ve spent months clawing survival out of the unforgiving New England dirt, buried half your companions, and are staring down another winter that promises the charm of Maine but with none of the L.L. Bean catalogs, the last thing you should do is throw a multiday blowout feast. But that’s exactly what happened. They gathered up the harvest—a modest one, mind you—and instead of rationing it with the disciplined paranoia that cold climates demand, they decided, “You know what? Let’s invite guests. Lots of them. And let’s eat like we’re not about to freeze solid by January.”

Brilliant.

It’s almost touching in its optimism. Or delusion. Or maybe it’s the first example of Americans committing to a tradition simply because it looked good in the moment, practicality be damned. After all, winter starvation was practically a seasonal hobby in those parts. Nothing says “we’re totally going to survive this” like blowing through your hard-won food right as the days get shorter and your vegetables begin contemplating their own mortality.

And yet, maybe that’s the real heart of the story. Not peace, not unity, not even the shared meal—just the audacity of human beings choosing celebration over common sense. A moment of joy in a landscape that promised anything but. A collective, historic shrug of “Eh, we’ll figure it out.”

So perhaps the first Thanksgiving wasn’t a brilliant plan. It wasn’t strategic. It certainly wasn’t logical. But it was defiantly, irrationally human. And given what the next few centuries had in store, a little reckless optimism might have been the wisest thing they did after all.