Blame it on Rio

I doomscroll. 

There, I admitted it. And honestly, it feels good to get it off my chest. I’m not proud of it—I know it rots my brain faster than RFK Jr.’s brain worm. It keeps me from doing things that are actually productive, like reading a book or even enjoying a quiet moment of reflection. But when my brain is too fried to string two thoughts together, and my energy has dipped to drooling levels, doomscrolling requires the fewest neurons and only exercises one muscle: my index finger. 

And since this is now a confessional, I’ll admit one of my favorite things to doomscroll: MAGA Karens and Kens losing their minds over things most people with a shred of civility would simply let it roll off their backs like morals at a Jeffrey Epstein party. 

Defining the Species
Before going further, let’s define a “Karen” or “Ken.” According to Urban Dictionary: 
*A middle-aged man or woman, typically white, who makes other people’s problems their inconvenience, even though they aren’t remotely affected.* 

Examples: 
– Karen sues the city council after it installs a stop sign that blocks her sunlight for two minutes a day. The sign was put up because a schoolboy was killed by a speeding driver. 
– Ken refuses to wear a mask for a five-minute grocery run during a pandemic, harasses the workers, demands the manager, and threatens to sue. 
– Karen complains that her favorite parking spot was replaced by a wheelchair ramp, parks there anyway, and films a vlog about it. 

If you think any of these Karens or Kens are on the side of righteousness, now’s a good time to stop reading and resume doomscrolling. 

A Banner Week for MAGA Karens and Kens
This week has been particularly horrifying—and entertaining—for doomscrolling MAGA Karens and Kens. 

First up: Tori Branum, a MAGA congressional candidate, decided to report workers at a Hyundai battery factory to ICE simply because they were Korean. She had no idea whether they were in the U.S. legally or whether they were specialists brought in for their skills. She just didn’t like that they weren’t white. The fallout? Eight thousand jobs lost, an international incident, and Korean companies now rethinking future U.S. investment. 

Then there’s Rep. Nancy Mace, who went full Karen by blaming Democrats for the horrific murder of Charlie Kirk. She said: 
> “This is what the Left has done to brainwash people who are already mentally ill, already mentally fragile… This is about fighting for what’s right. I mean, all he did, all he used, were his words, and he was murdered for his words.” 

When asked whether Republicans, by the same logic, bore responsibility for the murder of two Democratic lawmakers in Minnesota, she snapped: 
> “Are you kidding me? We don’t know what condition Charlie Kirk is in right now… Some raging, leftist lunatic put a bullet through his neck… And you want to talk about Republicans right now? No.” 

I’ll grant her some grace—it was the heat of the moment. Still, refusing to accept any responsibility while casting all the blame elsewhere is peak Karen/Ken. Worse, her comments made me think: had she herself ever said anything incendiary that might encourage her own “mentally fragile” supporters to commit violence against Democrats or progressives? 

Turns out, yes. Among her quotes: 
– “Democrats were completely unhinged.” 
– “Looks like Charleston County libraries are more interested in grooming kids than educating them.” 
– “This is about grooming kids and transitioning them when they’re young prepubescent kids.” 
– “You people on the Left are absolutely f—ing crazy. So I went off…” 
– “Some books in libraries are child porn.” 

And here’s the kicker: she was wrong about Kirk’s killer. Tyler James Robinson’s family described themselves as “100% MAGA.” Robinson had no party affiliation. His hatred of Kirk stemmed from believing Kirk spread hate and fascism. In other words, the very kind of disinformation Mace traffics in fueled the mentality behind Kirk’s murderer. 

A Personal Reminder
I grew up during a violent era in American politics. Before I turned ten, John F. Kennedy, Robert F. Kennedy, Martin Luther King Jr., Malcolm X, and Medgar Evers had all been assassinated. For a child, it was terrifying—and it remains a brutal reminder that political violence has no place in a democracy. 

The Fuse of Intolerance
Whether MAGA Karen/Ken culture contributes to violence is for you to decide. But intolerance itself is an incendiary device waiting to go off. 

You see it all the time: 
– People insisting our culture be ruled by *their* religion, contrary to both the Constitution and basic humanity. 
– Folks believing someone else’s gender identity or sexual orientation is their business, though it has no effect on them. 
– Individuals convinced DEI is an affront, instead of a way to give long-marginalized people a fair shot—when in fact a representative society uses all its talent to the fullest. 

I could go on. But when you’re intolerant of others and believe your way is the *only* way, you’re not only betraying democratic principles—you’re lighting a fuse on a bomb. 

Which means doomscrolling these days isn’t just a guilty pleasure. It might actually live up to it’s name.

That morning, twenty-four years ago, began like so many others for me. I rose early, completed my morning ablutions, walked the dog, and was in a cab heading to my office at The Sporting News before 7 a.m.

You could not help but notice it was an extraordinarily beautiful day. The heat and humidity of summer had given way to clear blue skies and crisp, fall-like weather. The kind of day my mother used to describe as “positively Swiss.” It was so beautiful that I hesitated before entering my building, wanting to savor it before putting my nose to the grindstone.

At 8:15, I was convinced the most exceptional thing that would happen that day was that my assistant had actually arrived on time and kindly brought me my second cup of coffee. I thought it was going to be a good day—even when I heard an airplane flying low and fast over our heads. I casually remarked to her that the FAA didn’t take kindly to aircraft flying so low over the city.

That plane turned out to be the first, lined up with the neighboring Empire State Building, flying down Fifth Avenue at five hundred miles per hour. We learned the truth when someone came running into my office shouting that the Towers were on fire. We ran to the southern windows of our 27th-floor office. From there, we watched in horror the moments that changed us forever.

We saw the second plane hit, erupting in a burst of orange flame. We watched the first tower crumble and fall. And then the second. We had no way of knowing, or comprehending, what had just happened:

• 246 people who had boarded their flights minutes before had cruelly died when their planes were turned into missiles.
• 2,606 people innocently working at their desks lost their lives in clouds of flame and dust.
• 343 firefighters ran into the Towers and never emerged.
• 60 police officers disappeared into the buildings, never to be seen again.
• 8 paramedics went to save lives and lost theirs instead.

I had no way of knowing that my childhood friend and neighbor, Todd Rancke—the first boy I met when I moved to Summit—was among the victims.

After making sure my staff had a plan to get home, and my address in case they couldn’t, I began my walk back. I remember seeing dust-covered people, heads down, no doubt in shock, mechanically moving uptown.

On Madison Avenue, cars were lined up bumper to bumper, yet there were no horns, no impatience—just the tramp of feet as pedestrians made their way home.

Crossing the park, I saw groups of people huddled around boom boxes listening to grim news broadcasts. Overhead, unbelievably, fighter jets patrolled the skies. Warplanes. Over my city. At the Imagine mosaic, someone had already laid flowers. I thought of Lennon’s lyrics:

Imagine there’s no countries
It isn’t hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace…

Never had those words felt so far away.

I withdrew money from an ATM, knowing cash could come in handy in a disaster. I shopped at an empty Fairway, worried food supplies might run out. Then I went home, turned on CNN, and waited for the displaced and the dispossessed to arrive. They came. They went. Together, we watched endless loops of the Towers crumbling.

I remember the frustration of trying to reach my parents. The collapse of the towers had destroyed a major AT&T switching station, and cell lines were jammed. Only my BlackBerry worked. Hours later, when I finally got through, I will never forget the relief of being able to tell them I loved them.

The next morning, I rose early and went for a long run as I was training for the Chicago Marathon, just weeks away. Running south along the West Side Greenway, I could see smoke rising from the pile and the nearly mile-long line of ambulances waiting to help those who would never need help again. I felt I had to do something.

After finishing my run, I went to the American Red Cross HQ near my home and waited sixteen hours to give blood we hoped would be needed. When I emerged, the wind had shifted. The smell from Ground Zero now engulfed the city. It was unlike anything I had ever encountered—the smell of death, fire, and concrete dust. I wondered if this was the smell of hell.

That night, I didn’t lie awake thinking about lessons. I was simply grateful that most of those I loved were safe. But in the twenty-four years since, I have thought a lot about that day and what it taught me.

Some lessons were immediate:

• Be grateful for everything. Every day is precious. Savor it.
• Open your heart wider. Love more. Accept others for their gifts.
• Prepare for the worst, hope for the best. And if the worst comes, still look for the best in people—even if they haven’t earned that trust.
• My family—my wife, sister, brother, brother-in-law, nieces, and nephews—are my most precious gifts. I do what I can every day to make sure they know they are cherished.

But the most important lessons of that day seem to have faded. This is especially true in these MAGA days.

I think about how together we felt as a country in the days that followed 9/11, and how good it felt when everyone had each other’s back. Donald Trump did not bring us together; he divided us. He and his political allies chose to fracture rather than include. And to be blunt, I have grown intolerant of their nonsense.

To them I say: September 11 should have taught you that we are all in this together.

That you need to look out for your family, friends, and neighbors. And that means being woke when woke simply means treating people as they wish to be treated. Pronouns, sexual orientation, religion—these are personal and private choices that do not affect you, and no one should feel “less than” for being who they are.

When someone is homeless or mentally ill—or both—they should not be arrested or vilified. We have an obligation to help them up. Capitalism is as broken as communism if it creates a permanent underclass that cannot afford housing or food because wages have not kept up with costs.

Facts are facts. Cut the crap. Vaccines save lives. Get vaccinated. If you choose not to be vaccinated, you are choosing to separate yourself from the group—the society—that depends on one another to protect the vulnerable: the elderly, the immunocompromised. Being part of society comes with obligations as well as benefits. If you refuse the obligations, you are not entitled to the benefits.

If that day taught us anything, it is this: we do not get to choose the moments that define us, but we do get to choose how we show up for each other. Honor the dead by choosing well.

Every family has one.

That uncle, aunt, cousin, or distant relation who shows up at family gatherings and immediately creates a scene by expressing an opinion that alienates almost everyone else. You know the type. The person who walks into the kitchen and, if they see a male relative cooking, asks to see his estrogen patch. Or who insists the moon landing was faked, the earth is flat, cranberry sauce is a government tracking device, and pumpkin spice lattes are a communist conspiracy designed to decimate American agriculture.

They have an opinion about everything, backed only by “facts” picked up from Fox News, Joe Rogan’s podcast, and however Alex Jones is pushing out conspiracies these days. Every encounter leaves you wondering what meds they’re on and hoping they won’t be invited to the next reunion. But somehow, they always are.

I am ashamed to admit that I have one too. We call him Uncle Trump. And I wouldn’t bring him up, except I was guilted into visiting him last week. My cousin called and said, “None of the siblings will go, and you know how cranky he gets if people don’t visit and tell him how wonderful he is. Please.” So I took one for the team. I needed the mitzvah points.

I found him sitting on the porch of his “home.” He was wearing a bright red hat that read in capital white letters: I AM RIGHT ABOUT EVERYTHING, and a t-shirt stretched to its structural limits: Most Honest Man Alive. In front of him were the remains of his lunch—two Big Macs, two Filet-O-Fish sandwiches, and a Diet Coke.

“Uncle Trump,” I said, “that’s quite the lunch. I thought you had started a new health regime?”

“This is healthy! I didn’t have a shake or fries.”

“But didn’t Dr. Kennedy tell you to eat more organic food and less fast food?”

He gave me a look. “First of all, he’s not a doctor. Doctors only tell you things you don’t want to hear because they have”—he raised his fingers in air quotes—“‘the facts.’ I like advice from people who think outside the box and give me explanations that make sense to me. Plus, he has the same tanning coach I do. Second, fast food is good for you. It’s always prepared the same way, tastes the same everywhere, and no one can slip poison into it. Just think how many lives fast food has saved from poisoning.”

“And who am I to argue with the man who is right about everything,” I said.

“Exactly.”

“But doesn’t that diet make you gain weight? That’s a couple thousand calories, and you don’t exercise.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I weigh the same as I did in college. Two hundred and ten pounds. Kennedy told me so yesterday.”

I could have told him I also weigh 210 but with a waist eight inches smaller and six inches shorter. But since he’s “right about everything,” I tried a different tack.

“And what do you do for exercise?”

“I golf every day.”

“But you drive a cart.”

“Yes, and you have no idea how hard that is…”

I did. It isn’t. But why argue with the man who never lies?

So I switched subjects. “When are you going to get the new COVID vaccine?”

“You know I invented it.”

“I do. You remind us all the time. So are you going to get it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Kennedy says it doesn’t work.”

“But didn’t it save millions of lives during the pandemic?”

“Kennedy says that’s a hoax by researchers who only care about facts, not conjecture. And I believe that.”

“I’m confused. Didn’t you just take credit for inventing it?”

“Yes. I should get a prize.”

“Then why not get the vaccine?”

“Because we get too many shots.”

“But haven’t they saved hundreds of millions of lives, trillions in medical costs, and prevented countless illnesses?”

Uncle Trump looked at me as if I were being difficult. “What’s your point?”

I took a breath. “Don’t you think getting advice from Kennedy is a bad idea? Wouldn’t it be better to listen to someone who actually went to medical school or is at least a trained scientist?”

He shrugged. “I like contrary opinions.”

“Yeah, but Kennedy used heroin as a study aid, had a worm in his brain, and lets his grandchildren swim in polluted creeks. Don’t you think there are more qualified, less compromised people for contrary opinions?”

“But he laughs at my jokes. And when I offer an opinion, he always agrees with me.”

“Oh.” Since this was going nowhere, I asked, “How’s your friend Jeffrey?”

“You didn’t hear? They threw him out of the home! Said he was diddling the candy stripers.”

“Didn’t you hang out with him all the time? Whenever I visited, you two were thick as thieves. You didn’t know?”

He winked. “Of course not.”

“How could you not?”

“Well, I mean, I knew he liked young girls. Who doesn’t? But not that young.”

“What’s ‘that young’?”

“You know… young young.”

At this point, I’d had enough of Uncle Trump. “I have to go. I left Rosie the Wonderdog in the car, and she gets antsy if I’m away too long.”

He shot me a horrified look and whispered urgently, “You shouldn’t have done that. Don’t you know this place is crawling with Haitian immigrants? They steal pets and eat them. Kennedy told me.”

“Oy,” I thought. Out loud, I just said, “Guess I’d better run then.”

One of the most amazing discoveries while packing up our mother’s home was a stash of letters I had sent her from Camp Skoglund when I was ten. My favorite find was a letter I wrote on the one day I didn’t receive one from her. In it, I accused her of breaking her promise to write me every day. Reading it now laid me out. Why, for God’s sake, had my mother kept that ungrateful little missive for fifty years?

Ironically, finding it made me want to write her a letter to tell her what I had uncovered in her attic. You see, my mother taught all of us the art of the note. She never insisted that we put pen to paper (remember when people used pens?), but instead led by example. When she went on vacation, she sent us postcards that were clever and witty. When we were away at college or gone for any length of time, she sent us letters.

I remember when I was living in England with my buddy Rich. A note arrived from her describing an August day in New Jersey, which she called “positively Swiss” because the summer heat had finally broken. Rich and I were so charmed by that phrase that we talked about it even decades later.

Writing was imprinted onto our DNA. My brother David has published nine books and was the editor of Foreign Policy for years. My sister, whose cookbook The Secret Life of Chocolate Chip Cookies is now available for preorder and will be released on September 16 (our mother’s 96th birthday), teaches journalism to college students. Then there’s me—the black sheep—with just one novel and a blog to my name.

Still, I did follow her example. I wrote to her whenever I traveled (and with nearly 3.5 million American Airlines miles under my belt, that was often). Sometimes I sent postcards, though I never managed to make them as witty as hers. Occasionally I wrote longer letters, as when I was in Paris, alone at the Café de Flore, imagining what it must have been like for the Lost Generation she so admired. Later in her life, I sent her a daily email to let her know what I was up to or to share something that had caught my fancy.

I miss her. She has been gone nearly five and a half years, and I still sometimes pick up the phone to call her (she’s still on my favorites list) or start an email to her. Especially these days. She hated Donald Trump the way evangelical Christians hate Satan—and for the very same reason. She was convinced he was the devil incarnate. In her later years, she would sit watching MSNBC and curse at him with words that seemed to defy her Ferragamo loafers, “never leave the house without lipstick,” grandmother-of-four image.

This morning, as I walked through our neighborhood in Barra da Tijuca, admiring the newly bloomed orchids (Mom loved gardening), I began to wonder what note I might send her now, along with pictures of those opulent flowers:

—

Dear Mom,

It is a positively Swiss day here in Rio. The sun is shining, the temperatures are in the low 70s, and purple, white, and pink orchids are emerging from their long winter’s nap. Outside our home, a tree is giving birth to jackfruit. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to watermelon-sized fruit growing on a tree. It feels as though we’ve landed on another planet.

Last night we went to a reception for Elaine’s grandniece, celebrating her graduation from medical school. The ceremony was a curious blend of pep rally (students had cheering sections with balloons, banners, and chants), religious ritual (each graduate was blessed as they received their diplomas), and academia—complete with long-winded speeches about the future. To be fair, perhaps the speeches were less boring for those who understood Portuguese.

My favorite part of the evening was talking with the grandfather of the new doctor. He’s a Harvard-educated, reformed lawyer who spent his career in banking. You’d appreciate this: the first words I said to him were, “I’m so sorry for our President.” He laughed and immediately accepted me as a kindred spirit.

I told him I admired Brazil’s judicial system, especially the foresight of creating a separate court solely dedicated to electoral matters. Elections are the bedrock of democracy, and making sure they don’t get bogged down in an overburdened legal system allows for swift resolutions. If the U.S. had such a system—and had convicted Trump for interfering with the election, as Brazil may soon do with Bolsonaro for insurrection—we might not be in our current pickle.

He agreed, though sadly, saying it pained him to see the world’s greatest democracy sink so low, led by a man who makes policy decisions based on personal slights and greed. I told him I admired how Lula has handled Trump’s bullying, especially when he said: “No gringo is going to give me orders… Trump is not the emperor of the world.”

I asked him, as a former banker, how the tariffs might affect Brazil’s economy. He assured me Brazil would weather them easily. The government has already pledged to buy up excess honey and distribute it to schoolchildren. Beef producers have shifted focus domestically, lowering prices for citizens in this land of enthusiastic carnivores. And China is buying all the soy that once went to the U.S. (“Soy what?” I quipped, and he laughed.)

“What about coffee?” I asked. He smiled proudly: “The world loves Brazilian coffee. If we don’t sell it to the U.S., someone else will. The only thing a tariff on coffee will do is make Americans’ trips to Starbucks a wallet-breaker.”

Mom, that conversation reminded me why I love Brazil. Brazilians love the United States. They love us gringos. They want to be friends and they want to be friendly. But if we refuse to treat them with respect, they will be sad—then they’ll move on and find others who will.

Love you to the moon…
pdr

PRESS RELEASE

FOR IMMEDIATE DISTRIBUTION

The Starbucks Revolution: Coffee Cargo Dumped in Santos Harbor in Protest of Global Tariffs and Corporate Overreach

SANTOS, BRAZIL – [Today’s Date] – In a stunt equal parts historic homage and caffeinated mischief, a group of Brazilian citizens staged what they are calling the “Starbucks Revolution” by sneaking onto a cargo vessel docked in Santos harbor late last night. The activists, dressed in costumes meant to resemble Indigenous Brazilians, tossed dozens of sacks of premium Arabica coffee beans—destined for Starbucks stores across the United States—directly into the waters of the Atlantic.

The group’s action, which they described as “performance protest with a splash of saltwater,” was deliberately modeled after the infamous Boston Tea Party of 1773, where American colonists protested high tea tariffs by dumping East India Company cargo into Boston Harbor.

“This is our Boston moment—only stronger, hotter, and with better crema,” said one masked participant, his face partially obscured by feathers and faded carnival paint. “If the American patriots could stand up to King George over tea, Brazilians can certainly stand up to exploitative coffee tariffs and Starbucks’ empire-building.”

History Repeats Itself (With a Dark Roast)

The activists, numbering roughly two dozen, claimed that their protest is aimed at drawing attention to tariff structures, trade inequalities, and the stranglehold multinational corporations hold over Brazilian coffee growers. The protestors issued a collective statement that read:

“For centuries, Brazil’s farmers have supplied the world with coffee, yet global profits funnel to boardrooms in Seattle, not the fields of Minas Gerais or Espírito Santo. We throw these beans into the sea not out of disrespect to our labor, but to honor it. Let the U.S. taste a harbor brew for once.”

Observers on the docks reported the scene as “half carnival, half chaos.” One dockworker noted that the costumes resembled “a mix between school pageant, Carnival rejects, and something from a bad tourism poster,” but conceded that the group’s energy was undeniable.

Starbucks Responds (Sort of)

While Starbucks headquarters in Seattle has not yet issued a formal comment, an anonymous regional executive suggested off the record: “Frankly, we’ve dealt with oat milk shortages, pumpkin spice hysteria, and frappuccino blenders on strike. A little maritime cosplay protest isn’t going to derail our Q3.”

Still, analysts noted that the cost of lost cargo could amount to hundreds of thousands of dollars, given that the vessel was reportedly carrying premium-grade coffee earmarked for U.S. holiday promotions. “That’s a lot of Gingerbread Lattes floating around the Atlantic right now,” one industry insider quipped.

Echoes of Lula and Trump

The group also tied their protest to broader political themes, quoting Brazilian President Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva, who earlier this year criticized former U.S. President Donald Trump for attempting to meddle in Brazilian legal affairs.

“President Lula reminded the world that Trump once tried to stick his orange fingers into Brazil’s judiciary and political system,” said another protester, adjusting a papier-mâché jaguar mask. “If Americans once dumped tea to resist an English king, Brazilians can dump coffee to resist political interference and economic domination from across the equator.”

Their statement drew laughs from onlookers but also sparked serious commentary among local journalists, who pointed out the irony of invoking American revolutionary imagery against American corporations.

A Brewing Movement?

Whether this “Starbucks Revolution” is a one-off prank or the start of a broader movement remains unclear. The group hinted at future actions, suggesting they may stage “latte blockades” in front of shopping malls or “macchiato marches” through São Paulo’s Avenida Paulista.

Local police, meanwhile, expressed mild exasperation. “It’s technically theft and destruction of cargo,” said one officer. “But on the other hand, it’s the most educational reenactment of U.S. history we’ve seen in Santos.” Authorities confirmed that while a few activists were detained, no serious charges have yet been filed.

The Snark Factor

Critics of the protest were quick to point out the contradictions. “Dressing up as Indigenous Brazilians to make a point about coffee tariffs? That’s cultural cosplay at best, appropriation at worst,” said a São Paulo academic. “But then again, Americans in Boston dressed as Mohawk Indians while protesting British tea. If anything, the Brazilians are just following the script.”

Meanwhile, Twitter (or X, depending on one’s loyalty to Elon Musk) lit up with hashtags like #StarbucksRevolution, #BostonBrew2.0, and #HarborLatte. One user posted: “Finally, a protest I can support AND make into an Instagram Reel. Dunk the beans!”

Closing Thoughts

Though it remains to be seen whether the Starbucks Revolution will alter trade policies, rattle Starbucks’ balance sheets, or simply amuse bored grad students writing theses on protest symbolism, the event has already carved its place in the annals of quirky political theater.

As one protester shouted while tossing the final burlap sack into the ocean:

“In 1773, they had tea. In 2025, we have coffee. The revolution will be roasted, not televised.”

“Don’t believe everything you read, and only half of what you see.”

Contact:
The Starbucks Revolution Collective (unofficial, unverified, and currently offline due to poor Wi-Fi in harbor warehouses)
Email: 8647@protonmail.com; forobolsonaro@protonmail.com
Instagram: @StarbucksRevolution

It is 3:14 in the morning. 
I know this because I just broke one of my cardinal rules for getting a good night’s sleep and looked at my phone. My excuse is that I haven’t been able to fall back asleep for a while, and I needed to know just how long. Which, of course, was probably a mistake in and of itself. 

I don’t want to be up at this hour. I’d much prefer to be sleeping as soundly as Rosie, who—having commandeered three-quarters of my queen mattress—is gently snoring and snuffling beside me. But despite using all the tricks in my arsenal to fall back asleep—including but not limited to taking two Advil, drinking a glass of warm milk, and listening to an audiobook I’ve already heard to block my inner voice—I’ve been unable to re-enter the land of nod. 

As you can probably guess, being up at this hour, unable to fall back asleep, is not unfamiliar territory for me. The gods of circadian rhythm have blessed me with the gift of waking in the middle of the night to solve all of the world’s problems and ponder the imponderable. And in this day and age, it’s a target-rich environment. 

Kennedy just canceled over $500 million in mRNA vaccine research, citing the claim that it has been ineffective in fighting mutating respiratory viruses. This is patently untrue. Without the mRNA vaccine, 3.2 million more people would have died, and 18.5 million would have been hospitalized. This is not only junk science based on anti-vaccine falderal—it’s economic idiocy (do the math: the average hospital stay for a COVID patient was $30,000)—and it leaves us vastly underprepared for whatever pandemic comes next. 

The Justice Department, whose charter is to act independently and follow the law—not the direction of the chief executive (see Saturday Night Massacre)—has begun criminal investigations against Letitia James and Adam Schiff, whose only “crime” is pursuing Donald Trump for his criminal behavior. Think about it: the Justice Department is being run by a convicted felon. 

Speaking of the Justice Department, Pam Bondi’s office just dropped charges against Carolina Amesty, who had been accused of embezzling $122,000 in COVID relief funds. She just “happens” to be a Republican represented by Pam Bondi’s brother. Clearly, nothing to see here. 

The Trump administration continues to glorify white supremacy and Christian nationalism. This week alone, they ordered two Confederate monuments reinstalled in Washington, D.C., one of which depicts enslaved people in subordinate roles. Trump went on air live and said of immigrants, “These people do it naturally. They don’t get a bad back, because if they did get a back, they die.” And we learned that the supremely unqualified Secretary of Defense, Pete Hegseth, belongs to a Christian nationalist church that—along with calling for the formation of a “Christian Nation”—is advocating for the repeal of the 19th Amendment because women are not “smart enough” to make decisions in government. 

ICE continues to raid, arrest, incarcerate, and in some cases cause the deaths of innocent people—often while covering up identities and operating without body cams—so that their abuses can be swept under the rug. In other words, a government agency acting lawlessly without consequence. 

This is only part of my sleep-denying death spiral of thoughts, keeping me from the rest I so desperately need—the rest that might help me cope with the ongoing shitshow Trump and his MAGA followers have unleashed on our country. 

Lying here in the dark, with Rosie gently snoring next to me, what I really wish is that my dad was still around to talk to about all this. It may seem ridiculous for a man my age to wish he could talk to his dad, but Pops and I had traveled the world together. I had cared for him when he could no longer care for himself, and in the end, we were more than father and son—we were friends. 

He was also a teacher whose life experiences had given him a unique perspective on the world. He had spent his childhood in Vienna amidst the rise of Nazism and endured the humiliation of that evil regime. He and his family managed to escape to the USA just after the war began. Eventually, he became an officer in the U.S. Army that liberated Europe and went on to a distinguished career in science and academia. Throughout it all, despite being a realist, he was an optimist. 

I finally fall asleep thinking about how I could use a dose of his optimism now. 

I dream that I am in Fahrafeld, the town in Lower Austria where my grandparents sent my father to spend summers with his grandmother to keep him out of mischief in Vienna. It is a place my father and I visited on one of our trips together—where many of his dreams were formed, and where he felt loved and safe. I am standing on a bridge over the river Triesting, gazing out over a field in full bloom with yellow dandelions. A concrete walking path runs along the river, and I know that if I take that path, it will eventually lead me to why I am here. 

I find my father sitting on a wooden bench under a small copse of trees at the edge of the river. This is the dad of my youth: crew-cut crowned, tall, and wearing Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses. He seems content watching the narrow, fast-moving, stone-littered river flow. This is what I wished for. But I know, as dreams go, my time here is limited, so I try to think of what I want to ask him in the short time we have together. 

When I eventually sit down next to him, he looks over at me and smiles. It makes me feel seen and loved in a way few things do. 
“Hi, Pops,” I say. 
He nods in acknowledgement. 

“Did you ever forgive them?” I ask. 
“Whom?” 
“Those people who turned Austria into a fascist dictatorship. The ones who tormented you because you were Jewish. The ones who stood idly by as your parents were forced into humiliating tasks. The ones who didn’t lift a hand when they sent our relatives to the camps and their deaths.” 

Taking off his sunglasses, he gives me his most professorial look and asks, “Why do you ask?” 

“Because I see the country we love—the country you fought for—being turned into a fascist state. Where justice takes a back seat to retribution and cronyism. Where facts are replaced with whatever lies sell a policy. Where scientific research is being run by snake-oil salesmen. Where the truth is plain to see, but 88% of Republicans still think that Donald Trump is doing a good job.” 

He smiles in that way I know so well—the one he uses when he’s about to share a truth that’s difficult to accept. 
“Why do you think you should forgive them?” he asks. 

“Because I’m so angry. They let this happen, and they can’t even see the truth despite it slapping them in the face. If I don’t find a way past their deliberate blindness—their endorsement of everything we were taught America was not—I’ll lose my ability to be civil.” 

He laughs. “Civility is often overrated.” 
Seeing I’m unsatisfied, he adds, “The country will either course-correct or not. People will either see why what they’re doing is wrong or they won’t. You can do your best to convince them, but they need to get there on their own.” 

“And?” I press. 
“It does no good to forgive people who haven’t asked to be forgiven.” 

I know he’s right, but I don’t like the answer. “So what should I do instead?” I challenge. 
He shares a wry smile. “Never forget.” 

I wake to Rosie giving me a facial—she needs to go out, and I need to get up. Perhaps today I’ll make it through one news cycle without being upset. Perhaps today something will happen to make the 88% of Republicans who still support the poser in the White House wake up. 

But regardless, I know one thing: I will not forget.

Excerpt from the Diary of an NIH Staff Member
September 26, 2025

I should’ve known from how my day started that it was going to be one of those “grit your teeth, keep your head down, and hope you survive without going postal” kind of days.

As usual, I began with a stop at Starbucks in our building for a Venti coffee of the day and a large orange juice. Say what you will about coffee’s health benefits—or vitamin C’s—but for me, nothing beats that combined rush of caffeine and citrus to kick-start the morning. Elaine, my favorite barista, hands me my order and says, “That’ll be $10.56.”

“Pardon me, Elaine, but wasn’t it just $6.50 yesterday?” I ask.

“Yeah, sorry. Starbucks had to raise prices on coffee and OJ. Something to do with those Brazil tariffs. Apparently, we get a lot from Brazil. Who knew?”

I’m thinking, I guess it’s office coffee for me for a while, but I half-smile and say, “Oh, that Don.” Elaine glances around, smirks, and replies, “Oh, that Don.”

Back in my office, I’m deep in numbers, trying to estimate how many people will get sick and die this flu season thanks to the new vaccine restrictions Secretary Kennedy and his board have imposed. A knock on my door interrupts me. Barbara from accounting steps in.

“Got a minute?” she asks.

“Sure, come in. What’s up?”

She sits, smooths her modest skirt, makes deliberate eye contact, and says earnestly, “Daniel, can I share with you my deep and personal relationship with Jesus Christ?”

Even a few months ago, the idea of a coworker evangelizing at the office would’ve been unthinkable. But ever since our fearless leader’s Office of Personnel Management issued the “Protecting Religious Expression in the Federal Workplace” memo, it’s become all too common.

As Barbara drones on about how she’s not pressuring me (sure…), and wondering whether I’m curious about why so many are drawn to His message, I’m tallying how many “conversion knocks” I’ve had since the memo dropped. Last week alone, I heard from Mormons, Seventh-day Adventists, Baptists—and on Thursday, while walking past the Laura Loomer Conference Room, a group of Chabad-Lubavitch Jews asked if I was Jewish. When I said yes, they pulled me into their makeshift “Mitzvah Tank” and started wrapping Tefillin before I could escape.

For those of us with little or no religious affiliation, these last weeks have been torture. I’ve always believed that the framers of the Constitution wisely kept religion and government apart because mixing the two marginalizes, divides, and creates animosity—none of which belong in an office, let alone a government one.

When Barbara finally pauses for breath, I politely tell her I appreciate her stopping by and will think about what she’s said—but I need to get back to work. As I usher her out, I mutter involuntarily, “Oh, that Don.” Barbara, not quite out of earshot, says, “Excuse me?” “Nothing,” I reply. “Thanks for stopping by.”

I’ve barely sat down when my phone rings—it’s my boss. I hesitate. Generously speaking, we don’t communicate well. I’ve got a biology degree from Harvard, an MD, and a Master of Public Health from Duke. He’s a political appointee with an undergrad from Liberty University in Christian rhetoric who rose to fame selling “Bible-based” health supplements. We rarely see eye-to-eye. But he’s still my boss, so I answer.

“All department heads,” he says, “need to be in the Alfred E. Neuman Auditorium at 3 p.m. for a major announcement from Secretary Kennedy.” I cringe. This can’t be good. Still, like a dutiful civil servant, I promise to attend.

When the Secretary takes the stage, he’s met with thunderous applause from his appointees and tepid claps from those of us who do the actual work. He announces the creation of a new committee, “HOLY” (Healing Outcomes & Long-Term Yields), to study the effectiveness of faith-based healing and recommend which practices should be covered by insurance and Medicare. Wild applause erupts from political hires; stunned silence from us lifers.

He introduces Joel Osteen as chair. Osteen strides onstage, oozing unction, and declares he’s confident “Jesus will show us the way to heal America.” To prove it, he brings out Pastor Fangels—a committee member—who demonstrates the healing power of the Lord using live rattlesnakes.

When the meeting finally ends, I skip the office and head straight to my car. In the parking lot, my friend and med school classmate, Izzy Sharp, is climbing into his green Prius. We exchange looks, shake our heads. “Oh, that Don,” I say. Izzy laughs the kind of laugh people do to avoid crying.

Driving home, I automatically tune my satellite radio to NPR (Channel 122), hoping All Things Considered will soothe the scream building inside me. It doesn’t. I’d forgotten that the President canceled NPR funding by executive order. Silence fills the car.

At home, my Bohemian Shepherd, Czechers, greets me with his helicopter tail, big brown eyes, and a grin splitting his face, tongue flopping raspberry pink. “Oh, that Don,” I tell him. He barks in agreement.

Friday used to be burger night, comfort food to end the week. But with Brazilian beef tariffs at 76%, ground beef costs have exploded. Comfort’s too pricey. Instead, I make pasta with cherry tomato sauce—cheap and simple—while watching the news. Bad strategy.

The headline: Ghislaine Maxwell has been moved to a special lockup at Trump National Golf Course outside D.C. in preparation for her immunized testimony before the House Oversight Committee. Sources say Trump has already signed the pardon.

Today’s jobs report shows the economy lost 25,000 jobs, unemployment rose above 5% for the first time since 2015, and the President fired the Commissioner of Labor Statistics—declaring he’ll handle the numbers himself.

I switch off the TV when Pam Bondi announces she’s seeking indictments against Barack and Michelle Obama for being responsible.

Dinners ruined.

It’s been a bad day, a bad year, and the future’s no bed of roses. I wonder if Doctors Without Borders is hiring.

Imagine, if you will, that the citizens of the United States suffer a collective psychosis and manage to elect as President a well-known con man and real estate developer from New York City. I know that’s hard to imagine—but work with me.

Anyway, one afternoon he’s flying over New York Harbor, past the Statue of Liberty—because Stephen Miller thought it would make a great photo op—when inspiration strikes. When he gets back to the Oval Office, he demands that Russ Vought, his Director of the Office of Management and Budget, come see him.

When Vought arrives, the President asks, “How much does the Statue of Liberty cost the American taxpayer every year?”

Vought replies, “I don’t know, sir. Give me a moment to consult my staff.” After a flurry of phone calls and a series of ‘uh-huhs,’ he responds: “Supreme Leader—I mean, Mr. President—the cost of maintaining and staffing Lady Liberty is modest, only about $11 million a year. But that doesn’t tell the whole story. There’s a backlog of repairs and infrastructure upgrades that will cost us $289 million.”

The Supreme Leader—I mean, the President—pauses as if deep in thought and inquires, “Russ, what do you think we’d get if we decided to sell the island? I mean, that’s prime New York City real estate. We could—well, the people who bought the island could—call it Trump’s Golden Torch Towers. It would be magnificent. Everyone would love it.”

Vought, inspired by the Leader’s brilliant business mind, whips out his calculator and says, “Oh sir, how brilliant! Let’s see—average luxury towers go for about $1,600 per square foot, and we could probably build around 700,000 square feet of apartment space. And for shits and giggles, throw on a 20% premium because of the iconic location… Wowzer, sir—we could sell it for $1.5 billion easily and save taxpayers $11 million a year. Not to mention the additional $289 million in deferred maintenance we’d avoid. Sir, this is literally gold. The American people would be delighted to get rid of this burden and make money to boot. I’m sure Elon Musk and Jeff Bezos would be the first to place orders.”

The Supreme Leader—I mean, the President—smiled a self-satisfied grin, confident in his own brilliance, and immediately began typing a Truth Social post:

**“Folks, from today onward, Liberty Island will now be known as Trump’s Golden Towers. A gated high-rise condo community. It’s going to be gorgeous. Absolutely beautiful. People used to come there for the Statue of Liberty, but it’s outdated… now they’ll come for the views from the penthouse. And let me tell you—the views? Tremendous. The best in the world. You’re looking at Manhattan, you’re looking at freedom, you’re looking at success.

People will call it the Miracle on the Harbor. Some will say it’s the 8th Wonder of the World. I’m not saying that—but people are. Very smart people.

Bottom line? Perfect project. Perfect location. Perfect everything. We brought jobs, we brought beauty, and we brought class. And most importantly—we made Liberty great again.”**

And just like that, Lady Liberty was homeless.

I know. Unimaginable. (But so much is these days.)

The truth is, the U.S. is facing a historic surge in homelessness. Roughly 0.23% of our population is unhoused. The primary causes? Affordability and economic pressures. A person working a minimum wage job can no longer afford an apartment. Using New York City as an example, the average apartment outside Manhattan is roughly $3,000 a month, while a full-time minimum wage job pays $2,970 a month. In other words, they’re underwater—and that’s before food, transportation, or healthcare.

I could spend a great deal of time analyzing why housing has become so expensive. But the list is long: corporate collusion in rental markets, Airbnb squeezing out long-term housing, minimum wages not keeping up with inflation. It’s more productive to simply state: we have a problem, and we need to solve it.

The Supreme Leader—I mean, the President—could have included provisions to relieve this crisis in the Big Beautiful Bill, but he didn’t. Instead, he guaranteed it would get worse. The bill codifies opportunity zones, which are a boon to wealthy developers—not low-income renters. It calls for deep cuts to Medicaid and SNAP, meaning people will have even less money to pay rent.

What the Big Beautiful Bill did do was provide huge tax breaks for the rich, including allowing full deductions on the purchase price of new and used jets—eliminating approximately $6 billion in annual taxes from the federal coffers. Those savings could have purchased 120,000 single-wide trailers, virtually eliminating unsheltered families across the U.S.

The Congressional Joint Committee on Taxation estimated that the bill eliminated $94 billion in taxes for those earning over $1 million annually. That sum would have housed every homeless person in America—with money left over to fund mental health and addiction treatment.

But that’s not what the Supreme Leader—I mean, the President—did. Instead, he signed an executive order titled Ending Crime and Disorder on American Streets, which, in essence, criminalizes homelessness and mental illness.

Instead of embracing Lady Liberty’s credo:

Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

Trump, the Republican Party, and the MAGA base have turned off the lamp by the golden door. They’ve said, in no uncertain terms: “Fuck the poor. To hell with the mentally ill. We celebrate the wealth and their golden jets.”

And so, the con man got his photo op, the billionaire class got their tax breaks, and Lady Liberty got evicted. The golden door was replaced with golden penthouses, the lamp swapped for luxury lighting, and the only huddled masses left were the valet staff. America, once the beacon of refuge, now sells naming rights to its ideals.

Liberty didn’t just get priced out—she got listed on Zillow.

God help us all