Six months after the publicly released two previously withheld ransom notes while the family renewed its plea for anyone with information to come forward.

The Pima County Sheriff’s Department released the handwritten notes Friday, saying investigators believe the author’s distinctive language, grammar and phrasing could be recognized by someone who knows the writer. Authorities said making the documents public is an investigative strategy aimed at generating fresh leads as the high-profile kidnapping case reaches the six-month mark.

Nancy Guthrie Investigation Update: Video & Ransom Note Details 1/3 pic.twitter.com/O0HDb8asMX

— Pima County Sheriff’s Department (@PimaSheriff) July 31, 2026

Nancy Guthrie, 84, disappeared from her Arizona home on Feb. 1. According to investigators, the first note, received the following day, demanded $4 million in cryptocurrency in exchange for her safe return. A second note, sent several days later, claimed she died shortly after the abduction and had been “buried in nature.”

Authorities stressed they have not confirmed that claim and continue to investigate the case as an active kidnapping. Detectives said DNA evidence, surveillance footage and other forensic material remain under review, and more than $1 million in reward money is still being offered for information leading to a breakthrough. Investigators hope someone will recognize the writing style or other details contained in the notes and contact law enforcement.

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Marking six months since her mother’s disappearance, Savannah Guthrie shared an emotional public appeal, calling the anniversary “an agony beyond words” and urging anyone with information to help investigators. She thanked supporters who have continued searching for answers while asking the public to closely examine the newly released notes.

The sheriff’s office asked anyone with information about Nancy Guthrie’s disappearance or the ransom notes to contact investigators, saying even seemingly minor details could prove significant as the search continues.

The post Police publicly release ransom notes in Nancy Guthrie disappearance case appeared first on Salon.com.

The mind keeps a strange little pantry of its own.

It shelves a photograph you paused over, a dish you ate three summers ago, a flavor combination you praised enthusiastically in public and then apparently continued discussing with yourself in private. Later, it sends an idea forward as though it has arrived whole.

Mine was miso-butter tomato toast.

A friend had recently posted photographs from Barcelona, including several enviable angles of pan con tomate. In one, it sat on a tiny plate beside a chilled vermouth cocktail garnished with a pearl onion on a spear. In another, it occupied an outdoor café table next to an exceptionally good pair of cat-eye sunglasses. I wanted the toast, the cocktail, the sunglasses and, presumably, whatever version of myself knew how to arrange all three so casually.

I had also recently waxed poetic about compound butter during a live discussion on summer entertaining. And after several weeks of 90-degree days, I had become devoted to grating tomatoes, an activity especially suited to weather in which chewing can seem like an unreasonable demand.

The name arrived before the instructions did. I knew it would involve sourdough. I knew the bread would be toasted in the oven, where its entire surface could become evenly crisp rather than merely acquire a few handsome skillet stripes. I knew I wanted unsalted butter and mild white miso. And I knew the finished thing would require some crunch.

It had, in other words, the certainty of a craving and the vagueness of a dream.

Toast is forgiving of this kind of thinking. It is the food of pantry rummagers and refrigerator foragers, and it exists on a curious emotional spectrum. One person says, with defeat, “All I managed today was beans on toast.” Another announces, with delight, “I made these incredible marinated white beans and put them on toast.” I am firmly in the latter camp. Toast is what happens when three unrelated things in the refrigerator agree to become lunch.

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This particular toast only looked improvised. Beneath its casual, slightly rumpled appearance was a specific bit of flavor logic: salt, fat, sweetness, acidity, glutamates upon glutamates.

There is a quiet kitchen principle I return to often: What wants to hold hands?

Spend enough time cooking — or leafing through cookbooks in bed — and you notice certain ingredients keep reaching for one another. Tomato already knows butter from ghee-rich curries, grilled cheese dipped in tomato soup and Marcella Hazan’s famously spare sauce. Miso and butter are just as comfortable together, whether in mashed potatoes or chocolate-chip cookies. The combination needed little persuasion. I only had to decide what shape it would take.

I considered whipping the miso into cold butter, making a compound butter to scrape over oven-hot sourdough before adding tomato slices and crystalline hunks of salt. But I wanted the miso butter to seep into the bread, not merely sit on top of it. I considered basting the tomatoes in butter and stewing them down with miso until soft and glossy. That version sounds wonderful, but it belongs to the first day the temperature slips below 70 degrees.

This was summer. The tomato needed to remain itself.

I melted the butter and miso together until fragrant and faintly nutty, then brushed it over sourdough and baked the slices until deeply golden. I grated a ripe tomato into a bowl, an operation I find disproportionately satisfying. When the skin has collapsed into your palm like a deflated balloon, you lift the box grater and discover an almost implausible amount of ruby pulp underneath it. Apparently, when it comes to shreds and zest, I possess the object permanence of a baby. Every time, the reveal delights me.

I seasoned the tomato with salt and a little garlic powder, which supplied savory warmth without the acridity fresh garlic can bring. I spooned it over the hot toast and finished it with scallions, sesame seeds, black pepper and olive oil.

I had my notebook open beside me, ready to catalogue the toast’s faults. Recipe development has trained me to distrust a dish that works on the first try; it is like meeting someone wonderful on a first date and spending the evening scanning for red flags. I have to be missing something, right?

Perhaps it needed acid. White balsamic, maybe, or a splash of the regular kind. Then I tasted it.

I took another bite before picking up my pen.

“This is a good toast,” I wrote.

Another bite.

“I’m glad I didn’t add vinegar.”

 

 

The post The better way to make tomato toast appeared first on Salon.com.

Federal prosecutors have moved to dismiss criminal charges against former U.S. Olympian David Hearn after concluding that damage to the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool was caused by a flawed renovation rather than vandalism.

The Justice Department filed a motion Friday asking a federal judge to dismiss the felony case, acknowledging that peeling and deterioration at the recently renovated pool stemmed from “flawed installation by the contractor” and not from Hearn’s actions. The reversal follows the discovery of Interior Department records showing the project had experienced significant installation problems before Hearn was accused of damaging the site.

Hearn, a former Olympic canoeist, was charged last month after surveillance footage showed him stopping at the Reflecting Pool and touching sections of the blue liner that had begun peeling away. Prosecutors initially alleged he intentionally damaged the newly renovated surface, a felony offense carrying a potential prison sentence.

According to court filings, however, federal prosecutors later learned that contractor records documented widespread failures in the installation process. The Justice Department also said key information about the renovation problems was not provided before the indictment was returned.

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The Reflecting Pool renovation became a high-profile project after the Trump administration ordered a makeover ahead of the America 250 celebrations. Soon after reopening, however, visitors documented algae blooms, bubbling surfaces and peeling liner, prompting questions about the quality of the work.

Hearn has maintained that he merely touched material that was already separating from the surface and did not cause any damage. His attorneys have called on the government to apologize, arguing he was wrongfully prosecuted based on incomplete information.

Hours after the charges were dropped, Trump disputed the Justice Department’s conclusion in a Truth Social post, writing that “vandals” were responsible for the damage and criticizing prosecutors for abandoning the case. Federal prosecutors, however, cited newly obtained Interior Department records and additional evidence in concluding the damage was caused by problems with the Reflecting Pool’s installation rather than Hearn’s actions.

The post DOJ reverses charges in Reflecting Pool vandalism case appeared first on Salon.com.

The trouble with Diarra Brickland is she can’t let things go.

“Diarra From Detroit” presents this as the schoolteacher-turned-detective’s greatest asset and her biggest flaw. If it weren’t for her stubborn insistence on finding out why a great guy, Chris (Shannon Wallace), ghosted her after an incredible first date, she might be happier. Then again, nobody would have noticed that Chris had been kidnapped.

But Diarra’s tendency to fixate on small details and slights eventually cracked the case. They also brought to light a broader conspiracy, starting with the twist that this wasn’t Chris’ first kidnapping.

As Season 2 begins, Chris and Diarra have settled into coupledom, which is precisely what Diarra thought she wanted, but nothing like she pictured it would be. Chris is a mess. Diarra would love to dump him, but her nearest and dearest friends Aja (DomiNque Perry) and Tea (Bryan Terrell Clark) warn her that would damage her reputation. The single bright spot and mixed blessing to come out of all this is that her neighbors see Diarra as the go-to person for fixing lost causes and finding lost people. Hence her latest caper, which begins with a mission to track down a vintage desk and turns on a dime into a heist tied to a cache of gold.

But wait, as our hard-boiled citizen investigator is fond of saying. I should go back. You see, these latest episodes of “Diarra From Detroit,” created by its star, Diarra Kilpatrick, have been cooking for more than two years. Three, if you count the series’ debut at the 2023 Tribeca Festival before its 2024 premiere on BET+. From there, it sat in limbo until Paramount renewed it in 2025.

But limbo is better than canceled, which is more likely to happen if the proposed merger between Paramount Skydance and Warner Bros. Discovery goes through.

 

 

Like Diarra and Chris’ relationship status, the case of Paramount’s proposed marriage to Warner Bros. is complicated. Hollywood all but accepted that the merger was a done deal until mid-July, when a dozen state attorneys general and along with the Writers Guild of America West and East  filed a lawsuit to stop the merger and California U.S. District Judge Araceli Martínez-Olguín issued a restraining order to temporarily halt the proceedings. (Salon’s unionized employees are represented by the WGA East.) 

On July 24, Paramount’s legal team agreed to postpone the merger pending the outcome of the states’ antitrust case. That could potentially delay the transaction for more than a year, since the opposing sides can’t agree on when they want the trial to begin. The states would prefer a 2027 start while Paramount wants to kick it off this fall. If the AGs win, Paramount’s inevitable appeal could keep the $110 billion deal backburnered well into late 2027.

The states argue that this merger would leave consumers paying more for less diverse news and entertainment options if finalized. 

What this means is that as tough as it already was for a TV series created by a Black woman to be picked up by a major platform, it could be nearly impossible in a universe in which Paramount has swallowed HBO, CNN and other prime Warner Bros. channels. Even in a scenario where BET+ still existed — it officially shut down on July 22 — making original stories like “Diarra” requires resources and a level of corporate will that a megacorporation’s smaller brands don’t tend to be afforded. In a contracted media landscape with fewer places to pitch, its odds of landing in front of audiences on a major platform decline even further. And they weren’t all that high to begin with.

Meanwhile, Paramount is urging us to pay no attention to the Ellisons behind the curtain. “This merger is lawful, pro-competitive, and will benefit consumers, creators, workers, and the entertainment industry,” a Paramount spokesperson said in a statement.

Many maintain the opposite is true, especially with regard to inclusive content. Included in that crowd are scholars working with the University of California San Diego’s Media and Consolidation Research Organization (MACRO) Lab.

“All four categories of diversity—ownership, representation, viewpoint, and outlet—are threatened by this merger, reducing the forms of diversity the public depends upon in cinemas, over the airwaves, and across online platforms,” they warn in a recently published paper. Previous findings by the University of Southern California’s Annenberg Inclusion Initiative back this conclusion.

Among those paying attention to The Mystery of the Media Merger, the survival of TV’s Diarra Bricklands is not the top concern. All eyes are on CNN, as Sharon Waxman, the founder and editor-in-chief of The Wrap, explained in a recent New York Times column.

If what’s happening to CBS News under editor-in-chief Bari Weiss is a sign of things to come, that’s another assault on our already besieged democracy. A greater one, even, since CNN is a global news brand.

Consider that only days ago, “60 Minutes” announced that former New York Times Opinion columnist Ross Douthat is joining its ranks. Douthat, if you’ve forgotten, is the guy who proposed in a 2018 column that the solution to placating incel violence may be between the legs of hypothetical charitable women who feel sorry for them. Or sexbots.

Corporate media traded insightful journalism for ragebait like this years ago, which is what makes figures like Diarra Brickland and her creator ever more valuable. They’re Black women excelling in roles not often associated with (or awarded to) people of color.

And to specifically bring it back to Douthat’s dubious query, Diarra — either of them — is precisely the kind of woman who puts the lie to fantasies about female submissiveness. Season 2 starts with her realizing she’s probably better off free of her mystery prize.

But for now, Chris and Diarra are in counseling. Part of their unofficial relationship homework involves field missions that spark heated conversations about masculine insecurity and Diarra’s conflicted desires about motherhood.

One topic she’s absolutely clear about, however, is being in control of every aspect of her life — including but not limited to Chris’ access to the part of her body she describes as “the Cadillac of the human anatomy: Gorgeous interior, impeccable design, not to mention the portal for all of humanity.”

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Writing like this ensures that “Diarra From Detroit” remains nimble from start to finish of each episode. That alone isn’t why this show and others like it need to be championed and protected. Television history is littered with the bodies of terrific shows denied more than a few seasons, or even a full order of one.

Citizen detectives like Diarra Brickland, who arranges her messy life around ensuring that the people and prizes typically overlooked or quietly erased by the mainstream keep being seen, are even less common. The continued existence of shows like “Diarra From Detroit” — shows by female, non-white creators about a place and people rarely depicted in the fullness of their humanity on television — is a miracle under normal circumstances. With that in mind, both the show and the merger are cases worth tracking right now and in the months to come, as if the quality of our lives depends on it.

New episodes of “Diarra From Detroit” stream Wednesdays through Sept. 9 on Paramount +.

The post “Diarra From Detroit” shows what a media merger could cost TV appeared first on Salon.com.

Six years ago, Match.com released an ad in which the devil met his true love: 2020. The couple spent their courtship sharing fun Covid-era activities, like stealing toilet paper, enjoying empty cinemas and stadiums, and taking selfies in front of dumpster fires, all to the tune of Taylor Swift’s “Love Story.” In a memorable tagline, Satan said, “I just don’t want this year to end.” Released in December, only weeks after the presidential election between Donald Trump and Joe Biden, it reflected the national mood perfectly: horror at what we’d all been through, and vast relief that it was almost over.

Sadly, it seems we are destined to live in that damned year until the end of our days. 

The year ended on a high note. Biden was elected president, the new Covid-19 vaccines were about to become available and we felt we could look forward to a day in the not-so-distant future when going to the grocery store didn’t come with a potential death sentence. Many people were back at work in one way or another, and the government had managed to get the American people through the crisis without suffering economic ruin. But it soon became clear Trump was unable to admit he had lost his reelection bid, and by January he and his army of surrogates and influencers had worked his MAGA followers into such a frenzy that they stormed the Capitol to stop certification of the election results. 

At the same time, the MAGA faithful at home, which had, with the president’s help, pushed snake oil cures and conspiracy theories about the virus for months, were unwilling to move on from their various obsessions. They were set to turn the anti-vaccine movement into a juggernaut that would be ready to take on the entire American public health system and challenge medical science in general. The “do-your-own-research” crowd had felt their power, and they liked it. 

Still, most of the country eventually moved on. Things had changed in some ways. Working from home is now a regular feature of the work world, Zoom calls are an everyday thing, and digital learning and telehealth have become mainstream. 

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Imagine my surprise, then, to awaken on Wednesday to a Senate hearing featuring Dr. Anthony Fauci in which he was being asked about hydroxychloroquine and Ivermectin. I had to check to make sure I wasn’t accidentally watching a documentary about the pandemic. But no: Rand Paul, Kentucky’s GOP senator had decided to scrape off the scab yet again by calling Fauci to face a grilling by Republicans on the Senate Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs Committee. Fauci looked the same. Paul looked the same. The daft conspiracy theories sounded the same. It was as if the last six years never happened. Déjà vu all over again. 

Before leaving office, Biden preemptively pardoned Fauci — and for good reason. The doctor had become the whipping boy of the MAGA right, commonly accused of personally creating Covid-19 (in cahoots with Chinese communists, naturally) and then making a vaccine that they insist killed more people than the virus. It’s all nonsense, of course. There are still debates about the origins of the virus, but the idea that Fauci created or enabled it in some way is ridiculous. The hearing, ostensibly called to get to the bottom of all this, is actually just the latest step in Rand Paul’s petty vendetta against Fauci that began when they sparred in a series of confrontations during the crisis. 

Despite being a doctor, Paul has always had, shall we say, an eccentric view of medical science, and he could never get the better of Fauci in their meetings. But the senator wanted the last word, and he got it. Ignoring Biden’s pardon, Paul threatened Fauci with perjury if he “lied” during this latest hearing, a charge he claimed would not be covered by the pardon. In fact, the whole hearing was obviously a perjury trap. 

Paul had released Fauci’s 1,000-page private pandemic diaries — helpfully provided to him by Health and Human Services Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr. — which had been stored on government servers. The senator knew there would likely be inconsistencies between Fauci’s memory and what he wrote at the time. Fauci’s attorney wisely told him to assert his Fifth Amendment rights, which he did. Paul threw that attorney out of the hearing for attempting to explain why. 

The senator’s Republican colleagues piled on in their questioning of Fauci. Ohio’s Bernie Moreno was especially grotesque, bellowing “Who the f**k do you think you were?” at the 85-year-old scientist. Even Trump was less harsh in his commentary about the hearing, merely saying that he stopped listening to Fauci after a while. 

But the hearing wasn’t the only recent time warp. Trump has spent the last six years attempting to rewrite the 2020 election, and apparently it’s not enough that he made one of the greatest political comebacks in history. He needs to erase the fact that he ever lost in the first place, so he has deployed the intelligence community to find proof that he didn’t. and decided to give a primetime presidential address on July 16 to reveal the findings. 

To no one’s surprise, it was a dud. The information he presented was mostly old news, and he failed to provide any proof that domestic or foreign actors had any impact on the election that year — because they didn’t. Even his MAGA media ecosystem was left unimpressed.

But Trump remains undaunted. He’s been willing to completely blow up the legislative session going into November’s midterms unless he gets his way with the SAVE America Act, legislation designed to suppress the vote, which Senate Republicans have so far refused to pass. (It will suppress their own voters too.) 

For Trump and Republicans, the worst year in living memory will never end, and it’s easy to see why. Like the devil in that famous ad, it’s their idea of a good time.

The post Anthony Fauci’s Senate hearing proves we’re still living in 2020 appeared first on Salon.com.

In a private ceremony on Sept. 17, Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth stood at a podium inside the National Archives building in Washington, D.C., and praised a Florida nonprofit for what he called a singular achievement in American education. The attendees were celebrating the Foundation for Liberty and American Greatness, which announced that it had reached 2 million children with civics education since its founding in 2016.

“I hope you understand how important this is,” Hegseth told the room. “What we pour into the next generation will determine whether we keep our republic or not.”

FLAG’s founder, Nick Adams, had spent nearly a decade building toward this moment. An Australian-born conservative commentator and MAGA influencer, Adams had created the nonprofit, raised $7.7 million for it over 10 years, and garnered repeated praise from President Donald Trump. In March, Trump appointed Adams as the special presidential envoy for American tourism, exceptionalism and values — a position created for him after his nomination as ambassador to Malaysia stalled the previous year.

But a review of FLAG’s finances, donor operations and online donation network reveals a less celebratory picture. There is little evidence that the nonprofit has provided the civics education it claims. And Adams and his nonprofit have engaged in a pattern of questionable financial arrangements, including paying Adams and his mother more than half its recent annual revenue, while raising much of its money through a sweepstakes operation that has promised donors a chance to win $1,000,000 — a prize FLAG’s records show no evidence of ever paying.

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Adams moved to the United States from Australia in 2012 and has since become an outspoken champion of the American political and economic system. Now 41, he has built a following as a conservative commentator and self-described “alpha male” influencer, making frequent media appearances and amassing roughly 2.1 million followers on Facebook and 640,000 followers on X on his personal pages. Adams authored books including “Retaking America: Crushing Political Correctness” and “Trump and Churchill: Defenders of Western Civilization.” 

In 2016, Adams founded FLAG, registering it as a nonprofit with the mission to bring high-quality civics education to K-12 students across America. FLAG has produced civics materials like the Student’s Constitution, the Student’s Declaration of Independence and the Student’s Federalist Papers — kid-friendly editions of the country’s founding documents. By 2023, FLAG was reporting annual revenue of nearly $1.5 million, consisting of donations and merchandise sales. “Thanks to the support of 40,000+ grassroots patriots,” the organization’s website states, “over 1 million FLAG resources have been distributed in classrooms all across America.”

To give FLAG credibility in conservative circles, Adams assembled an advisory council of movement leaders including Hegseth, then a Fox News host; the late Charlie Kirk, founder of Turning Point USA; the late Edwin J. Feulner, founder of the Heritage Foundation; and Dennis Prager, the conservative radio host and co-founder of PragerU, a nonprofit that produces conservative educational materials. (The council has since been replaced with a board of directors.) 

Adams did not respond to a detailed list of questions about FLAG’s financial practices, sweepstakes operation and educational programming. A Pentagon spokesperson declined to respond to questions but reiterated Hegseth’s support for FLAG.

Civics education has become a rallying cause across the Make America Great Again movement, whose slogan invokes a return to a specific vision of the country’s founding principles. PragerU is an approved curriculum provider in at least eight states. Turning Point USA pursued a similar goal through Turning Point Academy, a network of private schools. Along with those organizations, FLAG is now part of the America 250 Civics Education Coalition, a partnership of the U.S. Department of Education formed with over 40 conservative groups.

Trump’s return to office has been a boon for Adams. The president has called Adams one of his favorite authors, and a foreword in Adams’ 2024 book, “Alpha Kings,” credited to Trump calls Adams someone whose “work ethic equals his moral responsibility and faith in God.” Although Trump wasn’t able to attend FLAG’s 2023 annual gala, he sent a video praising the nonprofit and Adams, telling attendees that “tens of thousands of teachers are being trained and hundreds of thousands of parents and grandparents are now standing up for our kids.”

“It takes Nick from Australia to come and teach us about American greatness and to help us fight for our country,” Trump added. “He’s an American now, and we’re very lucky to have him.”

The White House press office declined to comment.

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FLAG’s website invites teachers to request free classroom presentations, delivered by “certified FLAG Ambassadors,” including Adams himself, alongside guest speakers described as entrepreneurs, business leaders and immigrants. In 2016 and early 2017, FLAG regularly posted photos documenting visits to schools. After that period, however, ProPublica could not find similar documentation of FLAG representatives visiting schools. 

Since 2016, as FLAG’s annual revenues grew from $68,000 to $1.1 million in 2024, there is almost no indication in the organization’s annual federal tax filings that it was spending money on its stated mission. No line item in FLAG’s federal tax filing identifies a payment to a school, a teacher or an educational distributor. Only two lines, in a 2017 federal filing, indicate $26,925 for “Student’s Constitutions, Printing” and $5,670 for “Book Donations, Shipping & Supplies.” In the last six years, while FLAG operated under Adams, the only documented instance of FLAG activity that appears to fit the definition of “educational” is a 2020 video showing Adams speaking at what is described as a teachers’ conference. 

But the nonprofit has been lucrative for the Adams family. In 2024, Adams, who was born Nicholas Adamopoulos, and his mother, Angelika Adamopoulos, collected a combined $587,279 in compensation and benefits from FLAG — 53% of the organization’s revenue that year, according to the nonprofit’s federal filing. 

Adamopoulos was paid $201,861, including benefits, as FLAG’s secretary. In the same filing, FLAG answered no when asked by the IRS whether any officer or director shared a family relationship with another director or officer. Adamopoulos did not respond to requests for comment.

Experts were troubled that the organization spent so much on Adams and his mother. “The amount being paid, both in absolute dollar terms and as a percentage of the organization’s revenues and expenses, is very high,” said Lloyd Mayer, a nonprofit law professor at Notre Dame Law School and a leading authority on tax-exempt organizations.

Mayer said Adams’ salary increases since FLAG’s founding are more of “a yellow flag,” than a clear violation. For FLAG’s first three years, Adams received no salary. He first took compensation in 2019 of just $20,400. Then his annual pay rose steadily to reach $411,209, or about 30% of the group’s total revenue, in 2023. Adamopoulos was the first employee outside of Adams to be paid a significant salary, in 2024. No other employee was paid more than $5,000 from 2016 to 2024, according to FLAG’s federal filings, obtained through ProPublica’s Nonprofit Explorer.

The legal test, Mayer said, is whether the board was clear that it was making up for early years of low or no pay: “Were they explicit in saying, ‘We’re not just paying you for this year; we’re paying you for your past service, which you were not fairly compensated for’?”

The IRS asks nonprofits whether their executive compensation was reviewed by independent people and if they used comparisons to other similar organizations — a standard safeguard against self-dealing. In all filings from 2017 to 2024, FLAG answered no to both questions.

Philip Hackney, a nonprofit law professor at the University of Pittsburgh and former IRS official, said the absence of an independent review creates its own legal exposure. “Technically, that can be an excess benefit transaction on its own,” Hackney said, referring to the IRS category that triggers taxes on compensation paid to nonprofit insiders above fair market value.

FLAG claims that 66% of revenue goes toward program service expenses, according to a separate financial report filed with the Department of Agriculture and Consumer Services in Florida, where the organization is now based. But the salaries of Adams and his mother, social media spending and travel expenses account for $755,541, or 86%, of the $878,208 allocated to program services. 

Mayer said the classification is not automatically improper under federal law. “Education as a charitable purpose is a very broad category,” he said. “Spending money on staff, online communications and even fundraising appeals that have informational content can all be considered programmatic.” 

“What [the IRS is] looking for is not inflated spending,” Mayer said. “They’re looking for disguised personal spending.”

In Australia, Adams was accused of spending taxpayer dollars on personal expenses. In 2006, when Adams was 22 years old, he served as a councillor in Ashfield, Australia. He was formally condemned by fellow councillors for running up thousands of dollars in phone calls and taxi charges for personal use while claiming them as council expenses. He repaid the charges after a formal investigation, according to a 2006 article in the Inner-West Weekly, an Australian newspaper.

FLAG’s online store sells Adams’ personal books — including “Alpha Kings” and “From Mar-a-Lago to Mars,” several marketed as signed copies for as much as $40 — alongside its own educational materials. One of Adams’ personal books, “Trump and Churchill,” is on the front page of FLAG’s online store, accompanied with language that says, “Proceeds from all sales go directly to promoting our mission and providing students and teachers with high-quality educational resources.” It is the only book with language that distinguishes which purchases fund FLAG’s mission or pay Adams directly.

In September, FLAG posted a photo from a conservative women’s convention showing Adams standing behind a table stacked with copies of his personal books displayed alongside FLAG-branded resources with the organization’s banner behind him. Adams’ books have also been advertised for sale on FLAG’s Facebook page, with links going directly to Adams’ personal website for the books rather than FLAG’s shopify page.

“He’s free to market his books,” Mayer said, “but if he has a charity do it, that means it’s not really a charity anymore, in that respect. It’s not about public benefit — the private benefit to him overrides the public benefit.”

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In addition to the disclosure discrepancies, FLAG appears to have violated rules for conducting sweepstakes. Nearly all of FLAG’s revenue originates from individual donors, and most of that money is raised through a direct-mail sweepstakes operation that offers the chance to win prizes, in one case $1,000,000.

For years, FLAG has run a direct-mail sweepstakes campaign under names like “Payout Decision” and “Winner Search Swps.” Sweepstakes are regulated primarily at the state level, and organizations that run them are often required to register and report to state officials. Not every state requires this, but Florida, where FLAG is registered as a charity, does. FLAG does not disclose a sweepstakes program in its federal filings, and ProPublica could not locate any official sweepstakes registration for the organization in any state.

Nine years of FLAG’s federal filings contain no transaction consistent with a $1,000,000 payment. Hackney said any such payout would be expected to appear on the organization’s tax filings. “It should be an amount paid out at some point, and that would show up in a 990,” he said, referencing the name of the tax return filed by nonprofits, which is public. At its financial peak in 2023, FLAG held roughly $512,000 in total assets — about half the value of the prize it has offered to donors.

Mayer said the absence of a documented prize payment raises further legal questions. “If the promise is that someone will win $1,000,000 and no one ever does, that’s fraud,” he said. “That’s lying to induce people to support you.”

Internal records from a mailing list exchange database, which details how often and for what purpose organizations use mailing lists of potential donors, shows a shift in FLAG’s emphasis. Notes in FLAG’s record state that as of July 2020, FLAG was “not mailing much” through conventional fundraising channels and was “focusing on the sweeps side.”

In April 2024, someone filed a Better Business Bureau complaint against FLAG, alleging that its sweepstakes drawing deadlines had been repeatedly postponed — along with those of more than a dozen other charities the complainant said used the same practice. In a follow-up filing, the complainant cited FLAG’s timeline: a drawing originally set to run from January 2022 through December 2024 that had, by then, been pushed to run from December 2023 through January 2025. 

“I just want them to pay me back my hard earned money,” the complainant wrote, “since I am a retired senior citizen who happened to love this country.”

FLAG told the BBB on May 6, 2024, that it had responded to the complainant.

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FLAG marks its 10th anniversary on Wednesday, and is throwing itself a gala with tickets for the occasion priced at $1,000; $5,000; and $10,000. Adams is still listed on the website as FLAG’s founder but ceded the role of CEO in March to Cooper Rodenburg, a recent graduate of Stetson University, around the time he accepted his State Department role to promote tourism to the United States. 

Reached by phone, Rodenburg requested that questions be sent by email but did not respond to them.

Rodenburg has since increased FLAG’s public activity, launching a TikTok account and a Substack newsletter, meeting with educational representatives and speaking to groups like the Shelby County Republican Women’s Club in Tennessee. A Substack post in April described FLAG, represented by Rodenburg and Adamopoulos, delivering founding documents to schools in Mississippi. This was one of the only specific program activities the organization has documented in recent years. 

The post Meet the MAGA Influencer using a children’s civics education charity to line his pockets appeared first on Salon.com.

In the Season 3 finale of Bravo‘s “The Valley,” succinctly titled “The Valley of the Damned,” Danny Booko — who does voice work for movies and video games when not reigning as secret-glugger #1 in this Vanderpump-adjacent reality show — takes his maddening schtick one silly voice too far, introducing “Count Bookula.”

While attending a vampire-themed party at castmate Brittany Cartwright’s house, Booko goes to work on making damn sure he ends the season in the cringiest way possible — having spent the previous episodes speaking down to his wife, Nia Sanchez, making women on the show uncomfortable and frat-boy screaming ‘Let’s Go,’ constantly — adapting a pickle-tongued “Bookula” voice upon entry and not dropping it until he gets too drunk to bother and, later, has a plastic cup bonked off his head by Janet Caperna. (And here I will go on record to say: TEAM JANET!)

Roughly 15 years or so, I twice attended an immersive fright house called “Blackout” in New York that was really nothing more than a cheaper way to have a date with a dominatrix. During these occasions, myself and other paying attendees entered a pitch-black warehouse, one by one, and were made to do such things as dance with short naked men, spit in strangers’ hands so another person could slurp it up and be chased until our only option was to fall over the back of a couch. These experiences came to mind while hearing Danny take on a yet-to-be-previously attempted vampire voice as he dodged dirty looks and jettisoned drinkware. 

Danny, my love (said in Nia voice), you sucked the most this season, and that’s for sure.

The post In “The Valley” finale, Count Bookula drains our patience appeared first on Salon.com.

My first reaction to the trailer for “Children of Blood and Bone,” Paramount’s lush adaptation of Tomi Adeyemi’s bestselling 2018 young adult novel, was that I buzzed with excitement. My second reaction? Why must good things come at a cost?

Adeyemi’s novels, inspired by West African mythology, follow the adventures of Zélie, played by Thuso Mbedu, on her quest to restore magic to the kingdom of Orïsha. “Children of Blood and Bone” reteams Mbedu with “The Woman King” co-stars Lashana Lynch and Viola Davis, and also features Cynthia Erivo, Regina King, Amandla Stenberg and Idris Elba.

Adeyemi co-wrote the script with director Gina Prince-Bythewood  and shared in an Instagram reel posted on Wednesday that she worked on the film “to make it a little better for us to be alive.” She also described the experience as “the worst thing I have ever had to live through.”

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“Even though it feels awful to share this, it’s better to share it and have it known and understood before I see a bunch of you for this new book,” Adeyemi said, referring to her upcoming tour for “The Siren,” which releases in September. “I never want to hear about this project again.”

When authors divorce themselves from film versions of their work, it’s usually a matter of creative disagreement. But Adeyemi describes suffering somatic pain and panic attacks, alleging she is still being antagonized behind the scenes.

To echo what former Washington Post columnist Karen Attiah said in a Substack post, an “Odyssey”-obsessed moment rife with cultural erasure demands to be countered by popular culture built on the civilizational myths, heroes and heroines of the Black diaspora. “Children of Blood and Bone” is one way of doing that. How unnerving that its creation scarred its creator.

“Children of Blood and Bone” debuts in theaters on Jan. 15, 2027.

The post The painful cost of bringing “Children of Blood and Bone” to screen appeared first on Salon.com.

Are you having sex? Do you want to be? 

These days, there are a million different possible answers to either question. Our culture has confused sex — a relatively uncomplicated, biological thing — with desire, which is an entirely different, much more complex can of worms just waiting to be opened. While the two frequently meet one another on the bed, on the floor or in a back alleyway behind that dive bar on Cherry Street after a few well-tequilas, both of these things are their own animals. It’s act versus thought, performance versus feeling. And yet, sex and desire have become irrevocably intertwined in our modern age, like two sweaty bodies, tangled together, realizing halfway through the deed that they don’t actually have as much in common as they initially thought.

In his first feature film in 12 years, “I Want Your Sex,” veteran counterculture director and perennial cool guy Gregg Araki is looking to have some fun in the technicolor midpoint where sex and desire meet. Sex has played a major role throughout Araki’s filmography, but never in quite such explicit terms as this. His characters — impulsive adolescents and young adults, slicing through their disaffection with sharp bursts of hormonal momentum — typically experience sex as a product of their furious youth. In their eyes, it’s an act of heady rebellion, more in line with the drugs and crime that permeate these underground, nihilistic worlds than it is with true romantic intimacy. So for Araki to dispose of all that to home in on sex itself, rather than building his characters and their worlds around it, there must be a good reason. 

In short: There are plenty. The ’90s-era nihilism that threaded so many of Araki’s films has taken a hard slant toward technological despondency. Many young people act as though life begins and ends with the digital ecosystem. And even if that fact might make you depressed, scrolling will deplete one’s cynicism until it’s replaced by another attention-grabbing post. The simple fact of the matter is that, with so much time spent solitary and online, there’s less time for sex — or even the possibility of it. 

And yet, sex (or at least the implication of it) is everywhere. OnlyFans is its own viable economy, with some users raking in millions per year from people who want to live the fantasy through a screen. Manufactured eroticism not only pays the bills but stops the scroll. And, of course, there’s the fact that anyone in the world can access hundreds of terabytes of porn in two measly seconds. It used to be that, if you wanted sex, you had to be forward about it, seek it out to some degree. Now, the proliferation of sex and sexuality has resulted in an ironic prudishness among digital natives, who, as a result of growing up with sex quite literally in the palm of their hands, abstain from intercourse and all the lessons and joy it has to offer. And it’s that reserve that Araki aims at with “I Want Your Sex.” 

Yet, for a film with such a bold, George Michael-ripping title, “I Want Your Sex” is curiously unerotic. The characters have sex, sure, but their coitus is so instantly excessive it veers on silly. But that’s also the kind of frisky fun Araki wants his viewers to remember, the outrageous sexual dynamics that are the byproduct of our wildest adventures — exploits that don’t always begin with carnal intentions. By steeping his film in modern hypersexuality, Araki fashions a humorous how-to guide on finding real, memorable sexual connection in a world where everything is designed to be sexy, but isn’t actually stimulating.

And if anyone knows stimulating, it’s hotshot mixed media artist Erika Tracy (Olivia Wilde, in her second hoot-and-holler role this summer), who’s made a name for herself in the Los Angeles art scene with a dedication to provocation. Her work is suggestive and boundary-pushing, and she’s exactly the kind of person that neurotic Gen Z art scene sycophant Elliot (Cooper Hoffman) would love to work for. After a chemistry-rich interview in her office, Erika hires Elliot on the spot — strange, considering his complete lack of experience and the spate of promising applicants that preceded him in the interview process. But Elliot doesn’t question it. Only later, when he’s tasked with chewing gum to stick onto the outline of a massive portrait of a vulva, does he learn that Erika has a habit of sleeping with her interns.

This piece of gossip soon begins to cloud Elliot’s life and better judgement. His girlfriend, the uptight med student Minerva (Charli xcx, speaking in an accent no one’s ever heard before, with a name no one’s had in 60 years — brilliant), is as cold in the bedroom as she is in the operating room. But Elliot also has no idea how to verbalize his desires. He’s of a generation that overthinks and underperforms. That is, until a wide-ranging chat with Erika in her home results in a proposition: Erika would like to enter into a consensual, primarily physical boss-employee relationship with her inferior, and use their inverse power dynamic to rock Elliot’s world: leashes, S&M, dildos, spanking, the works. But Erika calls the shots. If she says it’s over, it’s over. And there’s nothing like a suspicious, sudden disappearance to pull the plug on a burgeoning sexual connection.

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Araki’s screenplay, written alongside his “Now Apocalypse” series co-writer Karley Sciortino, hops back and forth between the time before Erika’s vanishing and immediately after. Her disappearance is mystifying and arousing — for both Elliot and the police. Elliot is abruptly without his sensual supervisor, and his loss is seismic. Left to his own devices with a new sexual skillset, yet still pining for his boss, Elliot is unsure of how to move forward. And it’s this impasse where Araki fleshes out his clever, if not entirely unique, ideas about the innate limits of the libido.

For as much handwringing as there has been about Gen Z’s attitudes toward sex — and whether they’re having it at all, which is debatable — Araki is careful not to indict the youth. He is, after all, famously still babyfaced at 66, a physical spriteliness mirrored in his bright visual aesthetics and effervescent directorial tone. Araki is very much in touch with what young people enjoy and how they operate. He simply wants more for them. Youth is wasted on the young, after all, and Araki’s mission with “I Want Your Sex” is to make it patently clear that the clock will continue to tick whether they choose to get physical or not. So why not give it a try?

Araki posits that it’s fear holding people back; not just the fear of rejection, but a broader fear of the unknown. As much as I hate to parrot the sentiments of irritable older people who grumble about every kid getting a participation trophy, it is true that we live in a world that caters to our fragile egos. Every possible result for any conceivable situation is spelled out for us via a few quick internet searches. In a time when explainers and how-to guides exist for everything, influencers tell you how to dress and what to buy, and making a phone call has become a Herculean task for many, the margin for error has grown so slim it’s invisible. That also means the potential for surprise has dwindled, too. Humans have adopted an aversion to the casual risks that used to be a part of everyday life. Hazarding heartbreak and embarrassment is too dangerous. But the alternative, as Araki suggests, is an utterly boring existence, where, either way, you’ll always wonder “what if?”

But just depicting the pleasures of sex wouldn’t be enough to quell all that fear. Members of Gen Z might just fast forward through those scenes anyway, given that they want to see less sex onscreen as it is. Though Erika and Elliot’s intercourse is raucous and sultry, it’s their unpredictable relationship outside of the bedroom that keeps their fire — and the film’s madcap pacing — fueled. Elliot runs around LA doing Erika’s menial tasks until he drops everything at her beck and call. He upends his relationship with Minerva and screws up his best friendship with his roommate, Apple (Chase Sui Wonders). And he demolishes his own ego by throwing himself into something wild and capricious headfirst. He’s chasing the spark and expanding his horizons in the process. Great sex is no longer the goal, but rather a nice bonus.

To some, it may feel like Araki is flattening complex social mores and misunderstanding the anxieties behind this era of semi-celibacy. And at times, “I Want Your Sex” does sorely miss the sharp, scrappy bite of Araki’s early films, which had far more to say than his one-track-minded latest. But there’s an amiable flair to the way Araki conveys an old adage in a new way. It’s not the destination; it’s the journey — and if anyone knows this, it’s someone whose youth was spent pursuing sex, art and feeling at risk of mistake and failure. Sex is great, but what we remember most is what led up to it. We recall the excitement of shared energy, the potency of possibility, the spark so palpable it culminated in something intimate and naked. That’s the kind of animal electricity that points us toward our purest selves. When we fear the act of sex, we don’t experience the desire that leads up to it. And when we don’t have desire, we don’t truly live.

The post “I Want Your Sex” is deliberately unsexy appeared first on Salon.com.

I walked up to the wizard and asked him, “What do they call you?” He clearly got the reference.

“Some would call me Tim.” he said with a smile.

I turned around to see a man dressed as a World War II aviator. “Hey, Amelia Earhart, how you doing?” I asked.

That “Caddyshack” reference  got a laugh. I hope I made that joke my own.

I certainly wasn’t in Washington, D.C., anymore, Toto. No, I had abandoned the freakshow capital of the world and was in the exhibit hall at the San Diego Convention Center, watching thousands of people walk by dressed as their favorite character from comics, sci-fi, fantasy or video games. One guy I noticed looked like Alex Jones as an Ewok. I turned to my left and saw another guy who looked like Stephen Miller dressed as Lord Voldemort. To my right was a woman who looked like Karoline Leavitt dressed as Dolores Umbridge. Behind her? A guy who looked like Tom Homan dressed as the Kingpin.

It was certainly more enjoyable than seeing the real people in D.C. Hey, if you can’t enjoy yourself at Comic Con, the most famous fan convention in several worlds (if the fans are to be believed), then your ability to have fun is even below that of the religious zealots spouting biblical quotes who  gather on the streets outside the convention center every year to protest the event, while becoming part of it. Who looked sillier, the guy wearing a crown of thorns or the guy dressed as the Green Lantern? Actually, I still think that was Pete Hegseth — no matter what he’s wearing.

As a political reporter, I came away from Comic Con with one overriding impression: If world politics were more like the comic book world, reality would be a safer, saner and healthier place. Who wouldn’t enjoy watching world leaders cosplaying their favorite sci-fi or fantasy characters at U.N. meetings, peace-treaty negotiations and other staged events? True peace in the Middle East could one day come with the headline; “Batman and the Joker have signed a historic agreement in Beirut. Details at 11.”

Comedian Bill Hicks famously once said that he not only supported the legalization of marijuana but thought its use should be mandatory. “Shut up and smoke this. It’s the law,” he said, imagining a peaceful world where people stopped taking life “too seriously.” Walking around Comic Con, I couldn’t help thinking that dressing up in gaudy costumes wouldn’t be a bad idea either. Doing both? Well, that’s up to you.

If you think that’s an absurd idea, I will say that it’s less absurd than what we see in the White House every day, and it would be a lot more enjoyable. Donald Trump has long since lost his appeal, whatever that was. He offers never-ending reruns of the same speech, and at this point it fails to entertain, enlighten or move anyone. How many more times do we have to hear about how “hot” the country is, how only losers support wind power, how 2% of the people commit 90% of crimes, or how prescription medication is now 600 percent cheaper? 

Trump is dull and lackluster. He looks somnambulant. He is about as entertaining as a stale powdered donut and even less nutritious.

In a Comic Con panel discussion with a “Superman historian” — a man who has relentlessly tracked down every salient fact about Superman co-creators Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster — I learned that the two comic book innovators met in their Cleveland high school in the late 1920s and first proposed Superman as a newspaper comic strip in 1933, during the Great Depression. One was a ladies’ man and one was a partier. They sold the rights to their creation to DC Comics and much controversy ensued. Siegel apparently wrote letters putting “curses” on people and telling the world he got screwed. Shuster was once found on a park bench and thought to be a vagrant. He told the police he was the original Superman artist, and to prove it he drew the Man of Steel convincingly enough to stay out of jail.

I loved these stories, but the most fascinating thing I learned that night was that I knew far more about the creation of the comic strip that became a billion-dollar empire after listening to a single historian for one hour than I know right now about the Iran war or the condition of Mitch McConnell, the senior U.S. senator from Kentucky, whom I have covered since the 1980s and who disappeared on June 14 into the back of a D.C. ambulance and hasn’t been seen in public since.

Future historians may make their living trying to figure out what happened to McConnell — hell, that story might become a comic book, though not one as popular as Superman. But right now, McConnell and Trump are at the heart of the loathsome divisiveness that defines American politics, makes it so disreputable and nowhere near as much fun as Comic Con.

“United we stand. Divided we fall.” Believe it or not, that’s the state motto of Kentucky. No one in politics today seems to care about our divided nature. They seem to nurture it.

Comic Con, on the other hand, was the embodiment of the Kentucky motto.

The panels featured lengthy, often in-depth discussions. Sometimes they featured celebrities recounting past glories or promoting their newest releases. Only one panel I encountered, featuring action star Alan Ritchson of “Reacher,” ventured directly into politics. Ritchson said that Trump was “raping the world” and that he chose to speak out  because “I want to live a life that feels meaningful.”

It appears Trump was not pleased. White House spokesperson Davis Ingle told the Daily Beast, “Alan Ritchson is a talentless hack who clearly suffers from a severe and incurable disease known as Trump Derangement Syndrome that has completely rotted his peanut-sized brain.”

Keep it classy, Trump people. 

Inside the exhibit hall I ran into actor Sam J. Jones, the former football player who played Flash Gordon back in 1980. Younger fans may remember him playing himself in “Ted,” conducting the wedding ceremony and doing the “Flash” jump at the end of the movie. He was signing autographs and handing out football cards showing him, as Flash Gordon, wearing legendary quarterback Johnny Unitas’ old number 19.

“I recognize you,” he told me.

I said I recognized him too. We talked a bit about politics and he offered this observation: “I’ve worked a lot of these Comic Cons. These are the best people you’ll ever meet. They’re genuine and they are here to enjoy themselves. The world needs more of that.”

All day on Saturday I walked through a world I rarely get to visit and didn’t know I wanted to. From the panels to the exhibit hall, I was floored by the number of artists, the collectibles and the displays. It was like a theme park. Outside in the streets, the cosplayers enjoyed mugging for the cameras or taking selfies and laughing at themselves and others while interacting with their favorite celebrities.

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As I walked out of a restaurant, I passed a guy who had the most authentic Deadpool costume I’d ever seen. He was prancing about and really getting into it. Hey, I’m sorry for elbowing you, Ryan Reynolds. I didn’t know it was you. But you did step on my arthritic foot.

As Saturday afternoon turned into Saturday night, I felt like I was detoxing from the Friday night debacle back in D.C. — the rescheduled White House correspondents’ dinner. Late on Friday, my phone started buzzing with alarms from the speech. I feared the worst. But if anything, it was worse. The president was on stage, trolling reporters, insulting his own speechwriters and questioning why he was even there.

For an hour, Trump meandered through a variety of subjects in a freak-show  appearance, always landing with an insult aimed at the press. He stood in front of a backdrop celebrating free speech, something no one in his administration actually celebrates. Hegseth has tried to kick reporters out of the Pentagon. Trump has subpoenaed reporters, ejected them from the White House press (or tried to), and never mentions us without saying “fake news.”

“This is so toxic. I’m leaving,” a friend of mine texted me from the event. “I didn’t even want to go.” Well, I didn’t either. But unlike my friend, I don’t have a boss who insisted that I do so.

Instead, I was in San Diego at an event that was nothing like anything in politics. I’ve been to a dozen of those dinners. None were nearly as much fun as Comic Con. And that’s coming from a guy who never read comic books as a kid. The closest I got was Mad Magazine. Oh, yeah: I think I saw a guy who looked like Kevin Hassett dressed as Alfred E. Neuman. “What? Me Worry?”

I’m genuinely sick and tired of today’s politics, and I know I’m not alone. I can only take so much of Trump’s nonsense and divisiveness. “I hate some people,” he said on stage Friday night. My friend called it “toxic,” but I would call it corrosive. It destroys the ties that bind and encourages anger and petulance. It is a modern plague on humanity.

Instead of suffering through that, I watched people of every imaginable race, creed, sexual orientation and color enjoying life. Some of them were dressed as aliens. Some of them might have been aliens. Nobody cared. Nobody judged. 

Saturday night ended with some friends at a barbecue place across from the convention center, a spot  made famous by the movie “Top Gun.”

The weather was amenable and the company was great. I listened as people sitting at a nearby table spoke about who made “the best Batman” with all the fervor and passion I hear from those involved in politics in D.C., but none of the vitriol. After a while they laughed, changed the subject and found something they could agree upon. Their biggest area of agreement was that Ewoks were horrible, just an effort “to give the kids something,” and that while “Stargate” was a terrific movie, “Stargate SG1” was an even better series. 

Other stuff that Comic Con people seemed to agree upon, in no particular order: Grogu is cool, “Rogue One” is the best Star Wars movie and “The Wrath of Khan” is quintessential “Star Trek.” Furthermore, if anyone asks you the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow, the proper answer is “African or European?”

I looked up from my table, and thought I saw a guy who looked like Hegseth dressed as the surgeon general of Beverly Hills from “Escape from L.A.” kissing his husband, who looked like Josh Hawley dressed up as Mr. Poopybutthole from “Rick and Morty.”

I hadn’t even been drinking but, boy, I felt buzzed.

If only we could all get along like that.

The post What Comic Con cosplay taught me about America’s divided politics appeared first on Salon.com.

Todd Blanche, President Donald Trump’s nominee to be attorney general, promises Americans that he has no intention of going forward with a $1.8 billion slush fund designed to funnel money out of the Treasury and into the pockets of right-wing attorneys. The outcry that followed the Justice Department’s May 19 announcement of the fund, which would pay the legal bills of political allies charged with crimes ranging from fraud to storming the Capitol on Jan. 6, was deafening. In addition to blowback from many congressional Republicans, a federal judge halted the administration’s disbursement of the money, which was created as part of Trump’s agreement with the federal government stemming from his lawsuit  for the leak of his tax returns. Blanche, in his role as acting attorney general, claimed the administration would voluntarily walk away from using the money.

Now, months later, he has resolutely avoided putting this promise in writing, and his failure to formally give up the slush fund is putting at risk his Senate confirmation to permanently head the Justice Department.

The reason behind Blanche’s refusal is obvious: He and Trump want to keep the option to re-open the fund at a later date, along with the ability to write fat checks, paid for with taxpayer money, to the lawyers working on behalf of unsavory right-wing figures.

Blanche knows that world quite well; he has become personally wealthy doing exactly this kind of work. Before taking his job at the Justice Department, first as Pam Bondi’s deputy attorney general, and then as her replacement, Blanche was making millions representing Trump in everything from a civil rape case to criminal fraud. Blanche also knows how such funds pay for that type of work. According to ABC News, between March 2023 and December 2024, his law firm was paid almost $10 million, not by Trump personally, but by a political action committee that was supposed to be funding Republican campaigns. 

Blanche’s nomination is imperiled by his refusal to let go of the chance to flood the coffers of right-wing lawyers defending shady characters like his former client and current boss. Thursday’s vote to approve his nomination by the Senate Judiciary Committee was delayed. Sen. John Cornyn, R-Tex. and Sen. Thom Tillis, R-N.C., both who are leaving the Senate at the end of the year, are threatening to vote no unless Blanche formally commits to rolling back the deal that created this slush fund and also gave Trump and his family eternal immunity from IRS audits.

“This is not popular,” Tillis told the New York Times. “It is killing some of our candidates because they can’t explain it. And now it looks like they weren’t being honest when they said it was inoperative.”

It’s not just a “looks like” issue. Anyone who said the fund was inoperative because of Blanche’s informal say-so is either ignorant or lying. As the Democrats on the House Judiciary Committee wrote in June, Blanche and Trump remain committed to funding a “pipeline of taxpayer-funded payouts to political allies and convicted criminals.” Even the conservative National Review’s Andrew McCarthy agrees, writing on Wednesday that “Blanche has resisted memorializing in writing his claim that the fund is kaput, because President Trump wants the fund.”

The White House has already been funneling taxpayer funds to these bad actors through a slightly different but related process. As the Washington Post reported in June, the Justice Department has paid out millions to Trump allies who claim victimization because they were investigated or even convicted of crimes. The family of Ashli Babbitt got a nearly $5 million check over baseless claims that her shooting death during the Jan. 6 riot was unwarranted, even though video footage clearly showed her climbing through a window in an apparent attempt to chase down congressional members and staff fleeing in fear. On Wednesday, the New York Times reported on a seven-figure check written to Paul Vaughn, who was convicted of a federal crime in 2024 for conspiring to blockade an abortion clinic before being pardoned by Trump last year. 

Vaughn’s legal representation by the Thomas More Society is a reminder of who really benefits if Blanche and Trump succeed in reviving the fund after the midterm elections: right-wing lawyers, who started licking their lips within moments of the Justice Department’s announcement. 

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“Everybody’s very excited about it,” Mark McCloskey, a lawyer representing Jan. 6 defendants, told the Washington Post. Even though his clients have been pardoned by Trump, he has been lobbying for the fund, hoping to see a big payday by claiming wrongful prosecution. Such a claim would be all but certain to fall apart in a court of law. But as the existing track record shows, the goal is to get the Justice Department to “settle” these claims by writing checks to people who otherwise wouldn’t see a dime. Clients would get money, but so would the lawyers — especially those who, like McCloskey, would get a cut of check after check. 

At this point, it’s unclear if Blanche would be able to personally benefit from various schemes to pay off Trump’s political allies with government money. He could return to private practice and start taking on those kinds of clients after leaving the Justice Department. By then, though, it’s possible a Democrat will be in the White House again, and will have either shut down the fund or started blocking payments for phony claims made by right-wing operatives. But, as someone who was on a similar gravy train not that long ago, Blanche knows full well how rich his fellow right-wing lawyers could get from this. 

And it’s not just private practice lawyers, either. Groups like the Thomas More Society, Alliance Defending Freedom and other far-right legal nonprofits need funding for their legal crusades, as seen by the lawsuit that overturned Roe v. Wade, or the ongoing cases meant to curtail voting rights or LGBTQ+ equality. Taking on right-wing clients with baseless claims of victimization could be an easy way to get money, which could then be used to fund cases attacking reproductive rights or religious freedom. 

That Cornyn and Tillis are taking this stand is surprising. The pair have a long history of supporting the right-wing legal organizations that could find themselves flush with slush money. As Tillis’s comments about the midterm campaigns show, it may not be anything deeper than a sense that this is politically toxic. Trump’s consideration of withdrawing Blanche’s nomination would be nothing more than a pause until after the midterm elections, when he is banking on new Republican senators to replace Cornyn and Tillis — and put his payola scheme back into action.

It may not even come to that. On Thursday, Senate Majority Leader John Thune, R-S.D., was assuring reporters that Blanche’s nomination would be back as soon as next week, after “a resolution on the issues that Senators Cornyn and Tillis raised.” Thune’s comments suggest that as long as Trump does a slightly better job at deflecting attention from the fund, the two senators can claim victory and give Blanche their support. 

Or perhaps this will really be the moment that Republicans, two of them at least, stand up to Trump for real, instead of just doing so as quickly-dispatched political theater. If so, it’s a hopeful sign that Republicans can read a poll and see his corruption is starting to wear thin, especially for a public struggling to make ends meet while the president enriches himself and his cronies. 

The post The real reason Todd Blanche won’t drop Trump’s slush fund appeared first on Salon.com.

Lt. Gov. Dan Patrick on Monday asked state lawmakers to study ways to further infuse religion into public life as part of a new crop of interim charges unveiled by the Texas Senate leader.

One of the lieutenant governor’s directives tells senators to compare state and federal laws surrounding religious liberty, with specific instructions to look at whether state laws line up with the “establishment” and “free exercise” clauses of the First Amendment and determine if “additional protections are needed.” Another charge instructs lawmakers to examine ways to educate Texans about their right to practice their religion “in all settings, including, but not limited to: education, workplace, government, and healthcare.”

A third calls for a pulse check on a law passed by the Legislature in 2025 that lets public schools excuse student absences for off-campus religious instruction. All three charges are assigned to Patrick’s newly formed Religious Liberty Committee, chaired by state Sen. Phil King, R-Weatherford, that was announced in March.

The latest charges arrive as Texas’ Republican leaders continue to attack Muslims in the state. One of Patrick’s first charges, released earlier this year, called for “preventing Sharia law in Texas,” while party members at the Texas GOP convention last month tried to expel Muslims who arrived to participate in the event.

Patrick has long been a champion of Christian conservative values and has said he does not believe there is a separation between church and state. Last year, President Donald Trump tapped him to lead a new commission on religious liberty.

“There is no such thing as ‘separation of church and state’ in the Constitution. For too long, the anti-God left has used this phrase to suppress people of religion in our country,” Patrick said in April after the commission held its final hearing.

Interim charges are lists of issues that the lieutenant governor and speaker give to their respective chamber’s committees to study during the period between legislative sessions. They typically include reviews of recently passed laws and instructions to recommend laws for the upcoming session. Patrick has already released multiple waves of interim charges ahead of the Legislature’s reconvening in January.

The lieutenant governor’s other charges Monday call for preventing unfair online ticket sales, studying gaming platforms that target children for inappropriate advertising, examining “inefficient or inconsistent” divorce and child custody proceedings, and assessing the Pecos River Basin’s water situation.

The Republican-controlled Legislature has already thinned the line separating church and state in recent years. A new law requires public schools to display the Ten Commandments and another lets schools set aside time for prayer, yet few school boards did so last school year. 

Lawmakers have also required classrooms to hang donated signs that say “In God We Trust”; allowed unlicensed religious chaplains to supplant mental health counselors in public schools; and approved new curriculum materials that teach the Bible and other religious texts alongside grade-school lessons.

This article first appeared on The Texas Tribune.

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Throughout July, The Swell is celebrating the lasting cultural inspiration of animator Hayao Miyazaki and the legendary films he created with Studio Ghibli. As part of GKIDS’ annual Studio Ghibli Fest, which kicked off in June, you can enjoy theatrical re-releases of some of his most famous works.

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It’s a $16 disappointment every time.

These days, the airport sandwich tends to emerge from a fluorescent-lit vending machine with a name like Farmer On-the-Go or Nutrition Inc. The machine is usually white, decorated with soothing green or blue iconography meant, I suppose, to conjure grass and sea in one of the least pastoral spaces on earth. Through its glass door, you can survey the foods generally understood to be “healthy,” at least compared with the Panda Express and Cinnabon farther down the concourse: yogurt parfaits with thin geological strata of berries; Caesar and chef salads in plastic clamshells; a few juices and smoothies; wraps, usually Caesar; and sandwiches, almost invariably ham or turkey.

The last time I bought one, I was flying from Louisville to Chicago. It was early, and I was travel-day queasy enough that whatever Smashburger considered a breakfast sandwich seemed unwise. A turkey sandwich and a pack of mint gum appeared to be the more prudent option.

I accepted the disappointment the moment I tapped my debit card: this was not a $16 sandwich.

It came in a rigid plastic triangle sealed with peel-and-stick film—a transparent reliquary for something nobody revered. Condensation had gathered beneath the lid, suggesting freshness, or at least recent contact with the natural world, but when I peeled it back there was a suspicious lack of smell.

The bread was stale. One piece of lettuce was limp; another was somehow entirely lettuce rib. The turkey was fine, and the cheese was technically cheese, though the sandwich had achieved the improbable condition of being simultaneously refrigerator-cold and slightly melted. There were packets of Hellmann’s mayonnaise and mustard at the counter, which helped, but only so much.

This felt particularly insulting because I really, really love sandwiches—not merely as lunch, but as a form. Watching “Scooby-Doo” as a child, I came away with two clear ambitions for adulthood: a side gig solving mysteries and a refrigerator always full of sandwich ingredients. The towering versions assembled by Shaggy and Scooby embodied abundance, customization and the exhilarating possibility that nearly anything could be made better by placing it between two pieces of bread.

The airport sandwich represents the betrayal of that promise. It has presumably been engineered by a team, calibrated for refrigeration and focus-grouped into broad acceptability, yet it feels made by no one. Its chief ambition is endurance: it must survive transit, uncertain demand and an unknowable stretch between gates. Endurance is the full extent of its imagination. 

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Its true opposite is not the restaurant sandwich, constructed by a chef and eaten promptly under ideal conditions. 

It is the beach sandwich: made by everyday people with a zest for life and brine, then carried some distance before being eaten with an appetite sharpened by sun, swimming and the lugging of chairs across hot sand.

Building one brings out the latent chef in nearly everyone. Italian-American shore moms know this. So do dads carrying old-school Igloo coolers, each of whom, I suspect, has strongly held beliefs about bread density, condiment placement and whether tomatoes are worth the risk. These people may never use the phrase “moisture barrier,” but they know where the cheese belongs.

A good beach sandwich is designed not merely to survive the wait but to improve during it. The bread grows slightly more tender. The cheese softens. The sauces settle into the meat and greens. It becomes a little compressed, a little messier and somehow more itself.

Though the Scooby-Doo towers would never make it across the dunes, there are better ways to build a sandwich for adventure. Let me show you.

The beach sandwich blueprint 

Bread is the first and last defense against sogginess, which is why sturdy loaves — focaccia, baguettes, bâtards, Italian bread — shine in beach-sandwich applications. They can take a generous smear of sauce, withstand several hours of compression and still emerge recognizably bread-shaped.

For this sandwich, I wanted ciabatta because it is perhaps the most pillowy of the sturdy breads. It has enough backbone for the journey without requiring the determined chewing that makes lunch feel like a mandibular endurance event. Its open crumb absorbs just enough sauce to become more flavorful as it sits, while the soft crust remains easy to eat on a towel without showering your lap in shards.

Next come the condiments. I am an avowed condiment hound, especially when two sauces are doing different jobs. Double sauce is not necessary, but I like a little indulgence underscoring the practicality of a packable meal.

On one side goes lemon mayonnaise, our acid-fat lever: rich enough to keep the turkey lush, sharp enough to wake it up. On the other goes a coarse, olive-bar-inspired romesco made with jarred roasted peppers, sun-dried tomatoes, salted roasted almonds and smoked paprika. It brings vegetal sweetness, salt, smoke and nubby creaminess without requiring anyone to roast and peel peppers before packing the cooler. Marcona almonds are lovely if you want an amusing high-low dialogue with the potato chips that appear later, though any salted roasted almond will do.

I initially considered Manchego. Its saltiness and nuttiness made perfect sense with the romesco, but I realized I wanted foldiness rather than crystalline hunks. Muenster is less assertive but more accommodating: its mild butteriness stands beside the sauce without competing, and it softens agreeably in summer warmth without becoming stringy or oily. The best beach-sandwich ingredients have promising future states.

Then there is the turkey.

Like all good beach sandwiches, some of this comes down to pure personal desire. I could eat a turkey sandwich every day of my life. I maintain a running ranking of the best ones in Chicago, from the version at my local bánh mì counter—resplendent with pickled daikon and carrots, Vietnamese mayonnaise and soy sauce—to the one at my neighborhood café, served on crackly oat bread and actually worth its fifteen-dollar price tag.

I considered prosciutto, roast beef, cured meats and even a pickle-heavy chickpea salad. All would have worked. But good sandwich architecture is not the same thing as bloodless optimization. At some point, desire gets veto power.

Turkey, baby.

For greens, I turn to arugula. Crisp-head lettuces have their place — I love them on summer sandwiches destined to be eaten immediately — but given enough time, crunch becomes limpness.

Arugula knows how to wilt gracefully. Its peppery bite survives the wait, while the leaves soften into the sauces rather than collapsing into wet ribbons. It also lends the sandwich the air of something procured from a real cute deli, perhaps one with handwritten menu boards and expensive sparkling water.

Finally, the salt-and-vinegar chips go inside.

This is partly whimsy, but also practicality. Their crunch interrupts the softness of the turkey, cheese and sauces; their salt seasons the sandwich; and their pucker sharpens the lemon mayo and smoky-sweet romesco. Tucked against the arugula, they function almost like an extremely unserious vinaigrette.

They will soften somewhat as the sandwich waits, but not entirely. That slightly crushed, partially melded state is the point. A good beach sandwich should not remain frozen in the moment of assembly. It should settle into itself.

How you wrap it matters, too. I prefer parchment paper for the first layer, which allows the bread to breathe and avoids recreating the clammy condensation routine of the airport sandwich. Wrap it snugly enough to hold everything together and encourage a little beneficial compression.

If it is headed into a cooler, place the parchment-wrapped sandwich inside a resealable bag or hard-sided container. The inner layer remains breathable; the outer one protects it from the ice pack and the inevitable little lake at the bottom of the cooler. You are not trying to preserve the sandwich in suspended animation. You are creating the conditions under which it can improve without becoming waterlogged.

And improve it does.

It is delicious fresh. It is better after the walk to the lake and an hour in the water, when the ciabatta has grown slightly more tender, the Muenster has relaxed, the romesco has settled into the turkey and the crushed chips have become one with the peppery greens.

By then, the sandwich has changed, but so have you. Your appetite has been sharpened by sun, distance and swimming, and what you unwrap tastes less like something that survived the journey than something that has been quietly getting ready for you.

That is the true art of the beach sandwich: building something not merely to endure the wait, but to meet you at the other end of it.

 

 

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After the killings of Lorenzo Salgado Araujo, Alex Pretti, Ruben Ray Martinez, Renee Good and too many others, a familiar scene is unfolding in Madison, Wisconsin. Following yet another fatal shooting by law enforcement in broad daylight, the streets are full of protesters while social media is aflame with horrifying videos.

The difference is that this time, those responsible are local police — not Immigration and Customs Enforcement.

The United States has watched federal immigration agents wreak havoc and fear in communities, shooting eight people to death in public on the streets since January and allowing more than 50 people in detention to die on their watch since 2025. The nation is justifiably angry, with nearly two-thirds of Americans saying ICE has gone too far. 

Being overlooked is the violence being brought by local law enforcement. On July 22, four police officers in Madison held down Corey Ruiz, a 38-year-old Black man, and shot him three times during an attempted arrest. Tens of thousands have now seen the videos circulating on social media platforms: bystanders screaming in the background, the attempted arrest turning violent within seconds, another person killed by police. 

This is nothing new. Ruiz’s killing is a painful reminder that state and local police have been left out of the conversation about violence and accountability. Much of the country has moved on from the mass protests in 2020 after George Floyd was murdered by a Minneapolis police officer. 

But police violence has never slowed.

Police continue to kill around 1,300 people every year, with at least 689 killings in 2026 already. Much media attention has gone to ICE’s traffic stops, but far less to the 93 people killed by police in traffic stops this year. While the enthusiasm behind police accountability in 2020 resulted in some important changes — including state bans on chokeholds and no-knock warrants — we never saw the “major changes” 58% of Americans called for, including reforms that would protect everyday people from police brutality. Congress failed to pass even modest police accountability legislation in George Floyd’s name after bipartisan negotiations broke down, and most federal lawmakers have shown little interest in returning to the issue.

Under the Biden administration, the federal government remained an important force for police reform, including executive orders that increased accountability and prioritized deescalation and alternatives to use of force. These orders quickly fell after Donald Trump returned to office, alongside consent decrees designed to curb police violence, leaving communities to fend for themselves.

Part of the reason the issue has fallen off the national radar has to do with a (perverse) relative comparison. ICE has made local police look astonishingly well-trained, well-behaved and accountable, leading Senate Democrats to take action. In January, Nevada Sen. Catherine Cortez Masto introduced a bill to redirect $75 billion in federal funding from ICE to local police. Her colleague and fellow Nevadan, Sen. Jacky Rosen, said, “It’s simple: ICE should be held to the same standards as our local police departments.” Rosen and Cortez Masto, and their colleagues like Senate Minority Leader Chuck Schumer are correct, but we should hold ICE and police to a significantly higher standard of accountability.

A majority of voters agree. Extensive polling by Vera Action has found that the most popular position on policing is “supporting police who put their lives on the line for us everyday and holding those who use excessive force or abuse their power accountable.” This message consistently ranks far above simply adding more police officers or funding. The majority position on policing is one of support and accountability — better policing, not simply more policing.

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Six years ago, the country’s demand for police accountability was subsumed by a muddled debate over “defunding the police” and valid concerns about rising crime. In 2026, we are past that conversation. The country is in the middle of a quiet public safety revolution, in which police departments, despite having fewer officers, are working with partners like mental health crisis response and community violence intervention to drive record-low crime rates.

Many people have become numb or indifferent to — or even defensive of — police violence. But ICE violence continues to shock us. The killing of Ruiz is a reminder that both problems persist — and can be solved with similar measures. As lawmakers propose accountability measures for ICE like better use-of-force standards, ending qualified immunity, improved training and more budgetary oversight, these same accountability measures should apply to police. We should also demand more than the tools, like body cameras, that have failed to stem police violence.

The officers who killed Corey Ruiz should and may face accountability. Madison Mayor Satya Rhodes-Conway said, “Our community deserves full transparency and accountability,” and the killing is being investigated as a homicide. 

But it will be a rare exception. One ICE officer recently told a reporter that the Trump administration has empowered aggressive behavior by officers because they know “they’re going to be protected.” Until accountability becomes the norm across all levels of law enforcement, this violence will continue. 

The message should be clear: If America wants accountability from federal law enforcement, it is time to demand real accountability for police as well.

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As The New School’s 2026 class of performing arts graduates enters the workforce and we face the beginning of a new school year, we are reminded of what our students will take into the world. Viola Spolin, one of the great acting teachers of the 20th century, put it simply: “being part of the whole generates trust and frees the player for playing, the many then acting as one.” 

That lesson — how to genuinely inhabit a shared world with others — has never felt more urgent.

Our nation is divided on everything from food safety to our country’s future, and there are numbers to back this schism. Half of Americans report feeling divided from one another; a recent Stanford study gives this fracture a sharper name: the “empathy perception gap.” People have not stopped caring about others, but they believe that no one else does. This misperception carries profound consequences and is currently rippling through our world, eroding trust, deepening isolation and creating a social environment in which empathy is swiftly becoming an atrophied muscle in desperate need of exercise. 

We are living through a crisis of empathy and, more precisely, of empathy not being learned. We live saturated in opinion, reaction and digital noise, a culture that turns other people into content: flattened, accelerated, easy to dismiss. We’re quick to cut off those we disagree with, and the conditions that might allow for empathy to flourish — time, attention, presence and vulnerability — are increasingly scarce. Empathy becomes something we endorse in principle but rarely practice. There is one place, however, where these conditions not only still exist, but are required: the stage.

Actors, musicians and performers train to inhabit perspectives not their own, to remain present through discomfort, and to sustain attention across time. In rehearsal and performance, they develop the capacity to hold another’s reality without collapsing it into their own. Crucially, they do so in the presence of others — before audiences who are themselves engaged in the rare act of collective attention. 

Empathy, on stage, becomes a cornerstone of experiencing live performance that pulls heartstrings, inspires raucous laughter or elicits a collective groan when a poorly-hatched plan falters. For example, in “Hadestown,” the moment Hades allows Orpheus to lead Eurydice back to the land of the living on one impossible condition — he can’t look back to make sure she’s there — converts a moment of positive surprise when the song lands into a dark swell of tension, anxiety and doom. It’s felt between the actors on stage and from the orchestra pit to the last row of balcony seats.

Of course, this is not a new function of the stage. When audiences gathered in ancient Athens to watch plays by Sophocles, they were confronting a shared reality together. Theater operated as a civic technology, a structured environment in which a society could examine itself in public. What the ancients understood, and what remains true now, is that empathy can be taught through the sustained act of attending to another’s experience in the presence of others. 

The stage has always taught this, and the evidence of its impact is no longer anecdotal. Participation in the arts has been shown to reduce isolation, improve mental health and strengthen social bonds. 

Broadway is home to several plays that address these issues head-on while bringing deeply human experiences to life in creative, even comedic ways. For example, in “Every Brilliant Thing,” the lone person on stage, currently played by Tracee Ellis Ross, is tasked with cheering up a deeply depressed mom by making a list of things that make life worth living. The answer: bring the second cast member — the theater audience — into the brainstorming session to help them understand and connect more deeply to the very human situation the main character finds himself in.

Programs in social prescribing — the act of doctors prescribing non-medical care — are now expanding from their origins in the United Kingdom to states like Massachusetts and New Jersey — recognize that engagement in shared cultural activity can be a meaningful complement to clinical care. Medical schools, too, have long incorporated the study of performance to develop empathy and observational acuity in future doctors. These practices point to something central: The ability to encounter another person’s experience with care and attention is a skill, and it can be taught.

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That skill is cultivated through education in the performing arts. Actors and musicians learn to exist and create out of tension without rushing to resolve it. They learn to inhabit perspectives that are not their own, and to recognize the humanity within them. They practice sustaining tension, navigating uncertainty and responding in real-time to others. 

Playwrights from Shakespeare to Sondheim to Manuel-Miranda, meanwhile, write around human emotion while infusing relatability to enrich the audience’s theater experience. But it’s the actors who execute their vision by playing off of each other and leaning into creative impulse when the scripted scene or real-time audience reaction calls for it.

The ability to hold another person’s reality alongside one’s own, without reducing it or rewriting it, requires training, repetition and exposure. Studies have even shown that inhabiting a character increases one’s ability to see from others’ perspectives. And crucially, they do so in the presence of others—before audiences who are themselves engaged in the rare act of collective attention. 

At its best, the performing arts create a space for shared witnessing. Audiences experience a story alongside others, in real time, aware of each other’s presence. Faces clench before pivotal moments of conflict on stage. Eyes tear up when unrequited love leads to isolation or forbidden love leads to death. Our bodies experience excitement and anticipation when hearing musical tension or suspension. Outside the theatre, this collective attention is increasingly rare and necessary. In a society shaped by fragmentation and misperception, the capacity to remain present with complexity is one of the most urgent skills we can cultivate.

A performing arts education does more than train artists to perform. It prepares individuals — actors as well as audience members — to live with tension rather than flee from it, to participate in spaces of collective witnessing and to build communities grounded in attention, responsiveness and critical reflection. It offers a structured, repeatable method for developing empathy as a lived, practiced capacity. At a time when our social contract with each other is fraying, and we speak to Claude or ChatGPT as much as we chat with friends or family, we need more spaces where this work can happen, and more people trained to do it.

The stage is one of the last places where we learn, together, how to be with one another. It may be the most important classroom we have left. 

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Across the country, federal judges are calling out Department of Justice lawyers, questioning in unprecedented ways whether they can be trusted to tell the truth or uphold centuries-old legal norms.

From Washington, D.C., to Rhode Island to Oregon, federal judges nominated by presidents from both parties, including Donald Trump, have zeroed in on what’s called “the presumption of regularity.” It essentially means that judges must presume that the government — whether it be federal prosecutors, an IRS auditor or an FBI agent — did their jobs according to the rules and in good faith.

Until Trump’s second term, which has seen an exodus of veteran DOJ lawyers and a transformative shift in priorities from issues like enforcing civil rights to instead defending a mass deportation agenda, this foundational tenet had rarely been discussed in federal courtrooms, former judges, lawyers and scholars say. But as Trump’s DOJ exhibits behavior that judges have called “unlawful,” “unethical,” “unseemly” or otherwise dishonest, adherence to that bedrock standard is now being questioned.

ProPublica reviewed hundreds of cases since Trump retook the White House in which judges criticized the actions of DOJ lawyers and found more than 40 in which they explicitly referenced the presumption of regularity. In many cases, judges have expressed frustration that they can no longer take the government at its word.

“Judges simply don’t believe the representations that are being made by United States attorneys, assistant United States attorneys and the like,” said John E. Jones, a former federal judge for the District of Pennsylvania, appointed by President George W. Bush.

“I don’t think in the annals of the Department of Justice, in the history of jurisprudence in the United States, we’ve ever seen anything close to this.”

In Rhode Island in May, Trump-appointed federal Judge Mary McElroy rebuked federal prosecutors’ conduct — saying they withheld information and misrepresented facts — as she quashed their requests for a subpoena in their investigation into a hospital’s care of transgender children. The judge alleged the DOJ had inappropriately claimed its investigation was operating out of Texas to secure subpoenas targeting sensitive medical records of patients in another state and that it falsely claimed the Rhode Island hospital hadn’t communicated with the department.

“The discrepancy between the honorable conduct expected of federal prosecutors and DOJ’s tactics in this case is unsettling,” McElroy wrote. “The Court cannot help but share the sentiment that ‘[t]he presumption of regularity that has previously been extended to [DOJ] that it could be taken at its word — with little doubt about its intentions and stated purposes — no longer holds.’”

Judges have emitted a chorus of condemnations against the legal basis for some of Trump’s political agenda, including the mass firings of federal workers, an immigration dragnet that has imprisoned hundreds of U.S. citizens and retribution campaigns against the president’s political enemies.

In doing so, federal judges are imbuing forceful language into their orders in a way that scholars say signals to the Trump administration that the third branch of government is losing trust in the Justice Department.

“I don’t think in the annals of the Department of Justice, in the history of jurisprudence in the United States, we’ve ever seen anything close to this.”

Former federal Judge John E. Jones, a George W. Bush appointee

Federal judges rarely grant interviews, and none of the judges who criticized the Justice Department in their orders granted interviews to ProPublica.

In a statement, a spokesperson for the DOJ said its attorneys are “dedicated public servants who represent the United States with integrity, in accordance with their ethical obligations and the law.”

“The Department stands firmly behind the professionalism and good faith of its attorneys,” said spokesperson Kiersten Pels. The White House did not respond to a request for comment.

Federal judges have found that the government filed statements generated by artificial intelligence that referenced nonexistent case law, wrote briefs that ignored facts and filed declarations with inaccurate dates, the ProPublica review shows.

In one case, the government included documentation claiming a detainee had been convicted of marijuana possession in 2009. That detainee, the judge noted, citing what she called the government’s persistent “sloppiness,” would have been 4 years old.

“This Court will no longer blindly accept statements of fact from [the U.S. government] unless they are made under oath by an individual with personal knowledge,” Judge Christine O’Hearn, a President Joe Biden appointee, wrote in New Jersey while reviewing a writ of habeas corpus petition filed by a man who claimed he was unlawfully imprisoned by immigration officers. O’Hearn accused the government of defying her orders when, instead of releasing the man, Immigration and Customs Enforcement transferred him to a different facility in New York.

In Minnesota, the state’s top political leaders had publicly clashed with the administration following the violent ICE raids that led to the deaths of two U.S. citizens. Then the administration filed a flurry of subpoenas against them.

Last month, Judge Patrick J. Schiltz, who was appointed by George W. Bush and clerked for Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia, slammed the government’s actions and “spurious claims,” saying the presumption of regularity was being abused.

“Initiating a criminal investigation in order to harass political opponents or to coerce them into taking official action — particularly official action that the federal government cannot directly require those political opponents to take — is a blatantly unlawful and unethical use [of] the grand-jury process,” the judge wrote.

“Breakdown” of a Presumption

The presumption of regularity creates a high bar for those suing the government or defending themselves against it in criminal cases. They often must provide evidence that the government willfully violated a policy or otherwise deviated from its charge — that is, did something irregular — to overcome the standard.

It’s a shield the government wields often, with little notice, and one that is almost always successful. But overcoming that presumption has become increasingly common under Trump’s second term, according to court watchers.

About half of the cases ProPublica identified as questioning the presumption come from districts, including D.C., Maryland and Virginia, where by proximity and jurisdiction many of Trump’s actions are challenged and often heard by Democratic-nominated judges. The Southern District of New York, which has issued repeated rebukes of Trump administration actions, and the Northern District of California, another Democratic stronghold, are other hotbeds of judicial scrutiny.

Last September, D.C. District Magistrate Judge Zia M. Faruqui accused the administration of working around the federal grand jury process, getting an indictment from a state court after prosecutors had failed to get one in his court, which he called “unseemly,” if not “unlawful.” He fired off one of the earliest signs that the presumption itself could come into question.

“This only deepens the growing mistrust of the actions of prosecutors,” the judge wrote. “That is a sentiment that was once unthinkable, but the irregular is now the regular.” While the case was largely managed by assistant U.S. attorney Caelainn Carney, according to court transcripts, Faruqui was aiming his frustration at her bosses, including senior prosecutor Jonathan R. Hornok, and the leadership at DOJ. Neither attorney responded to requests for comment.

Pels, the DOJ spokesperson, told ProPublica that Faruqui “was wrong on the law” and noted that after the government appealed to the district’s chief judge, his order was overruled. “Judge Faruqui has a long-standing documented pattern of editorializing from the bench beyond the scope of the cases before him,” Pels added.

But in recent months, skepticism about the presumption has also come from judges appointed by Republicans, such as McElroy, or in GOP strongholds.

In Indiana, Trump-appointed federal Judge James Patrick Hanlon ordered the release of Salah Sarsour, president of the Islamic Society of Milwaukee and a lawful U.S. resident, from ICE custody in March. Sarsour’s lawyers argued the government had targeted him to suppress his First Amendment right to free speech. The DOJ invoked the presumption of regularity and argued his arrest was part of an anti-terrorism dragnet, which the judge threw out.

In the Southern District of Ohio, Judge Michael R. Barrett, appointed by George W. Bush, ordered ICE to release a detainee after concluding the presumption had been overcome because the government hadn’t presented a reasonable argument that the man was a flight risk.

News outlets, including CNN, have documented federal judges’ ire with Trump’s DOJ, and some of the cases under question have been well-publicized, such as the government’s illegal deportation of Maryland resident Kilmar Abrego Garcia to El Salvador. In that case, Judge Paula Xinis, a President Barack Obama appointee, criticized the government, saying, “You have taken the presumption of regularity, and you’ve destroyed it.”

Many of the rulings challenged one of Trump’s hallmark efforts: immigration enforcement and deportations.

“The presumption of regularity and integrity previously and routinely afforded to the Executive branch and the United States Attorney’s Office has been undeniably eroded in this jurisdiction and across the country,” O’Hearn wrote in February, noting that the federal government had repeatedly violated court orders in her district and others related to immigration operations.

In another immigration detention case, this one in Washington state, Biden-appointed Judge Lauren King said, “[t]he ‘presumption of regularity’ is dislodged here by the numerous factual errors in Respondents’ filings and by their conflicting representations.”

Jeremy Fogel, executive director of the Berkeley Judicial Institute and a former federal judge from California, said what’s happening in the courts feels more like a “political conflict” than the normal ebb and flow of the justice system.

“It’s really one branch that is really sort of questioning the legitimacy of the other one,” Fogel said. “I think the judges are trying to stand up for the legitimacy of their branch.”

Just Security, an online law and policy journal, has been tracking cases in which federal judges have admonished Trump’s prosecutors, including those involving the presumption.

“We’re witnessing a breakdown in the ways in which any administration ordinarily carries out its responsibilities, through the Justice Department in particular,” said Ryan Goodman, Just Security’s co-editor-in-chief.

Erosion of Trust, Ethics Inquiries

The erosion of trust from the federal bench comes as Trump has profoundly shifted priorities at the DOJ to align with his political platform: ending civil rights and diversity programs, deporting immigrants and stripping away environmental protections.

Those who deal with DOJ lawyers have noticed the difference in court.

Mitch Bernard, chief counsel at the nonprofit Natural Resources Defense Council, has faced off on environmental issues with the DOJ many times. Although they may disagree, he said, he always expected his opponents to be “fair and above board.”

That dynamic is gone, he said.

“I would call it a transformation of the role of the Justice Department,” he said. “There are many different judges in different jurisdictions not only ruling against the government but calling the government out for dishonesty and dissembling, and that’s an extraordinary thing.”

The result, Bernard said, is that “the government will lose more cases as a result of the way the Justice Department is behaving.”

“There are many different judges in different jurisdictions not only ruling against the government but calling the government out for dishonesty and dissembling, and that’s an extraordinary thing.”

Mitch Bernard, chief counsel at the Natural Resources Defense Council

Meanwhile, groups such as his are benefitting from the government brain drain. “We hired 10 litigating attorneys last year,” he said. Of those, eight came from the DOJ.

Judges aren’t just losing faith in the DOJ. Some are pushing to sanction Justice Department lawyers.

This month, Miami federal Judge Kathleen M. Williams ruled that Trump’s lawsuit against the IRS was an improper exercise in self-enrichment, citing the president’s lawyers for a series of misstatements in the case.

The Obama appointee referred the lawyer who brought the president’s case against the IRS, Alejandro Brito, to the Florida Bar for potential disciplinary proceedings. She also forwarded her ruling to disciplinary officials in New York, who had earlier received an ethics complaint about acting Attorney General Todd Blanche.

A DOJ spokesperson called the Blanche case “nothing more than a politically motivated bar complaint, filed by partisan activists who disagree with this Administration’s policies.” Brito did not respond to a request for comment.

In Rhode Island, McElroy referred DOJ lawyers to a review board for possible discipline for their handling of the hospital investigation.

“As citizens, we trust that federal prosecutors, when wielding this awesome power against a state, a company, or certainly against vulnerable children, will play fair and be honest with its counterparts and the judiciary,” McElroy wrote. “DOJ has proven unworthy of this trust at every point in this case.”

The post Judges call out Trump DOJ for “unlawful,” “unethical” and “unseemly” conduct appeared first on Salon.com.

For an hour and four minutes on Friday night, the president stood at a podium in a hotel he used to own and used the White House press corps as a prop. The irony of staging a White House Correspondents’ Dinner in the presence of a man actively working to dismantle the First Amendment protections of the very press he was ostensibly there to honor is almost too thick. To no one’s surprise, Donald Trump used the event as a campaign rally and personal vendetta, targeting CNN’s chief White House correspondent and anchor Kaitlan Collins with misogynistic, transphobic “jokes,” and capping the night with a “Trump 2028” hat — an authoritarian flourish masquerading as humor. 

The press stayed seated and silent. 

A press corps with any genuine values would have walked out. They would have recognized that attention is what fuels Trump’s authoritarian political strategy. Instead, reporters sat in their black-tie attire and behaved like sycophants. For an institution that loves to preen about its courage, the WHCD was a profile in cowardice. The people in that ballroom knew that Trump and administration officials have barred reporters from briefings, pursued subpoenas against journalists and threatened outlets with legal action, and that he routinely labels unfavorable coverage “fake news” to discredit any check on his power. It would have been absurdly simple for the White House Correspondents’ Association to issue a straightforward, principled declaration: “We cannot in good conscience allow a president who does not believe in the First Amendment protections this night celebrates to attend this event. Accordingly, we have rescinded our invitation.” But they refused to make a stand, apparently terrified of losing their access.

Even some of the president’s usual sympathizers on television couldn’t pretend the choice made sense. The hosts of MS NOW’s “Morning Joe,” who once sprinted to Mar‑a‑Lago in the early days of Trump’s presidency, called the decision to host him “tone‑deaf,” saying the event should never have been held in its current form and highlighting the absurdity of platforming him while his Justice Department subpoenas New York Times journalists for doing their jobs. (On July 23, the department rescinded the subpoenas after a federal judge said it hadn’t followed appropriate procedures in its investigation of how reporters obtained information on the new Air Force One’s security capabilities.) The television hosts were right about the tone‑deafness, but wrong about the scale. This wasn’t merely tone‑deaf; it was a dereliction of duty.

CNN’s Kaitlan Collins had won the WHCA’s Award for Excellence in Presidential News Coverage Under Deadline Pressure for her reporting on the tense February 2025 Oval Office confrontation between Trump and Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy. In his address, Trump could not let the opportunity pass. “I want to personally congratulate CNN’s Kaitlan Collins on receiving her award,” he told the room, then spent the next several minutes insisting the award was “fake,” that she “shouldn’t get” it, and that she “never smiles.” Trump told her to smile. Then he built to the joke he’d clearly been saving: that he thought Collins had landed a lucrative new endorsement deal with Bud Light, only to learn the face on the beer can actually belonged to Dylan Mulvaney, the transgender actress whose 2023 partnership with the brand triggered a right-wing boycott. 

It’s an old joke often shared by conservatives on X. The only problem is that there was no Bud Light commercial starring Mulvaney. But factual accuracy was never really the point. The point was to shame a reporter by misidentifying and weaponizing a person’s identity, using two women’s faces to deliver one insult: that neither of them is quite what she claims to be, and neither is pretty, feminine or smiley enough to matter. 

Multiple reports described the room’s reaction to that bit as silence. Even a post-event panel on CNN’s “State of the Union,” which featured a Republican congressman and a former Trump administration aide, unanimously agreed the president had bombed with his speech. It did not stop Trump. On Truth Social over the weekend, he had a second try at delivering his joke, using an image generated by artificial intelligence that placed Collins’ face onto Mulvaney’s body on a mock Bud Light can. 

Collins didn’t take the bait. On Instagram, she posted an Eleanor Roosevelt line about nobody being able to make you feel inferior without your consent, alongside a note thanking her mentor Wolf Blitzer for the award with a reminder of why asking uncomfortable questions matters. On Monday’s “Daily Show,” she told host Jon Stewart she’d rather keep the focus on the reporting than on her own reaction, because turning it into a personal feud with the president is exactly the trap he wants her to fall into.

Collins has long been known for getting under his skin. During his first term, Trump clashed with her on numerous occasions in the briefing room and on social media, almost always after she challenged him for dodging questions or making false statements. In 2018, Collins was famously barred from attending an open-press event in the Rose Garden after daring to ask pointed questions about Michael Cohen and Russian President Vladimir Putin while serving as the pool reporter.

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When Stewart pressed her on the president’s fixation, Collins defended her record, emphasizing that she refuses to serve only one political audience. “I want anyone, from my family in Alabama to people in the White House to people in Washington, to be able to hear that answer or hear that question and think, ‘What is the answer to that?’” she said. “In terms of my reaction . . . it’s really not about me. And I don’t want it to be about my reaction. If you let it become about that, then it becomes a back-and-forth between the two of us. Instead, I think it’s more effective to remind people in those moments, when he is insulting me or when he is criticizing me, about the question I asked or the reporting that I did that he was so angry about. And the fact that I got an award for it really bothered him, clearly.”

On one level, watching Collins navigate these attacks offers a masterclass in professional composure. Regardless of political perspective, one has to acknowledge she is remarkably unflappable. Yet beneath this narrative of journalistic fortitude lies a far more transactional reality that defines modern Washington media. Collins has profited quite handsomely from her singular access to and conflict with power. In the mutually beneficial ecosystem of outrage that has come to define Donald Trump’s Washington, one hand washes the other.

Collins did not enter the dinner unaware of what was coming. In truth, from a brand-building perspective, such attacks are pure gold. She emerged from the weekend with half the media world and a chorus of Hollywood celebrities wildly applauding her bravery. This dynamic highlights the core problem with the era of the celebrity reporter, one of the most paradoxical developments in modern political media. We have built an ecosystem where personal confrontation with authority is parlayed into network stardom and lucrative contracts, all while the systemic threat to democratic norms continues unabated.

Look no further than Megyn Kelly, who famously parlayed a high-profile clash with Trump in 2016 as a Fox News reporter into a massive, multi-million-dollar (and short-lived) NBC contract only months later. Now a right-wing podcaster, Kelly went on her podcast this week and rationalized the attacks on Collins while complaining that the CNN star is “never nice to the president.” Using Trumpian language, Kelly argued that Collins is “always nasty” and that her questions carry “the most negative bent you could possibly go into the questioning with,” dismissing the president’s vulgar insults as mere “jazz” that all leaders throw around. 

Then there is Collins’ own network. Semafor’s Max Tani reported that CNN leadership was “furious” over the president’s remarks and has discussed scaling back its footprint at next year’s dinner, or skipping it altogether — with one internal conversation reportedly framing the event as having become “a platform for making crude remarks at their employees’ expense.”

Such a move would be a step in the right direction. But where was that fury in the room, when it could have mattered? Where was the immediate pronouncement that they will not sit quietly while their journalists are demeaned in front of their colleagues?

Far from defending one of their own, they sat as participants.

The post Kaitlan Collins and CNN are complicit in the Trump circus appeared first on Salon.com.

Lenny Kaye is one of rock ’n’ roll’s national treasures. He’s the guy who never has to pay for his drinks in bars from Stockholm to Shanghai, thanks to “Nuggets,” his now-essential compilation of what were obscure garage rock classics that became the foundation of punk rock and a lingua franca for the spirit of DIY. He’s the kind of guy who should have been given a Guggenheim Fellowship because of his galactic range of interests, knowledge and influences and for his input and his contributions to rock ‘n’ roll as an art form. 

Kaye was writing about music — for publications like Rock Scene, Crawdaddy and Rolling Stone — when the discipline was still nascent. If you read his early writing, which is well worth your time to hunt down (like this review of The Rolling Stones’ “Exile On Main Street,” in 1972), he brought knowledge and curiosity and genuine enthusiasm; even if he didn’t like something, he still gave it his serious consideration. 

It was that exact spirit of inquiry, within an article about the history of the doo-wop revival, that caught the attention of another doo-wop aficionado from South Jersey. She tracked him down and they became friends, hanging out and listening to music. One night, she asked him if he thought he could make a guitar sound like a car crash for an upcoming poetry reading she was doing, and that’s how Kaye joined forces with Patti Smith.

Lenny was at Patti’s side until she bowed out of public life and rejoined her when she returned — but he’s never sat still. Across the years, he put together a band (The Lenny Kaye Connection), accompanied Jim Carroll as he tried to work out his rock ‘n’ roll form, wrote Waylon Jennings’ biography, produced Suzanne Vega’s first two solo albums (among others), has a country and western alter ego, wrote introductions and liner notes and seemingly offered and participated in hundreds of other contributions across the decades. Lenny Kaye was the kind of cool, level-headed rock ‘n’ roll maven who was both important to and part of our history. His openness and curiosity — still, turning 80 later this year! — makes him the music fan’s music fan. 

The only thing Lenny Kaye somehow hadn’t done was release a solo record, which he rectified in July of 2026 with the release of “Goin’ Local,” out on Yep Roc on July 17. “Goin’ Local” is a collection of deliberate compositions across a range of styles, whether straight-ahead rock ‘n’ roll (the title track), ballads (“This Love,” “Let’s Make A Memory”), folk rock (“The Things You Leave Behind”) and sweet ditties (“World Book Night,” “Pennsylvania Girls”) that might seem light until you find yourself humming them later after only listening to them once. There are bulletproof pop melodies, gentle riffs, solid construction, and engaging stories. And that’s the result of a formidable quantity of skills acquired over half a century immersed in the rock ‘n’ roll trenches, whether as a listener, critic, producer, or active participant. 

“Goin’ Local” was assembled both from songs he started 15 years ago with friend and bandmate Tony Shanahan (who has a co-production credit and also plays on half the tracks), and another half dozen that were written over the last few years. “I don’t write a lot of songs,” Kaye told Salon, “I believe a song has to need to be written, if only for one to figure out a situation or to understand the dynamic of a relationship, or something occurs to me that needs framing as if in a picture. So if I write one or two songs a year, I’m happy with that, and I bring them to fruition. But I just continue to sit there with the guitar, and come up with something that is meaningful to me and hopefully, whoever listens.”

The title track is a perfectly crunchy, rock ‘n’ roll number about haunting the East Village’s watering holes and the people you meet (and the challenges of maintaining a cross-borough relationship). Emphasizing the ‘local’ point, the album’s cover is a black-and-white historical photograph from the early 1900s, taken from the New York Public Library’s historical collection, with Kaye imposed into the frame, standing under elevated train tracks. Look closer and you can just make out the street number of the Lyceum Concert Garden (“Follies of the Day!”), which was located on the Bowery at number 302. That’s across the street and about half a block away from where CBGB’s would find itself decades later, and also just happens to be adjacent to another landmark: “If you stand in front of CBGB and look in the 10:00 position, that’s where I lived,” Kaye confirmed.

One of the record’s highlights is a co-write with the musician who stood to Kaye’s right onstage for more than 50 years. “Solstice,” where he shares writing credits with Patti Smith, possesses the same kind of metaphysical shimmer that’s often intrinsic to a Patti Smith composition (think “Ghost Dance” or “Beneath the Southern Cross” to name two other relevant co-writes from the pair). As to how the song ended up on “Goin’ Local,” Kaye said, “As the song developed, Patti thought it certainly suited my new persona,” he told Salon, “and she urged me to sing it. I mean, she could have sung it quite well, but she urged me to take it under my wing and express it. And she felt it appealed to a certain sense of the celestial that I have in my solo persona.”

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Then there’s the delightful “World Book Night,” a song that Kaye performed live via livestream from Electric Lady with Smith during the days of the COVID-19 lockdown, on the anniversary of their first performance together at St. Marks On The Bowery in 1971. “I wrote it originally when there was a kind of strange day set aside called ‘World Book Night.’ Publishers would give books to people and they would spread out all over the city or wherever they were and just hand them out for free, at subway stations or on the beach, and I thought that was a beautiful thing,” Kaye explained. “. . . It’s just my tribute to the written word, how it feels putting those words one after another after another, and the readers out there who find them and find something of themselves within the pages of a book.”

On the note of physical media, there’s “The Things You Leave Behind,” a song that Kaye’s been playing at the occasional solo show for a while now. It’s a wistful, country-folk paean that offers both a wry yet realistic assessment of the disposition of collections someone leaves the planet. “Gonna pick up the pieces and your life and theirs/who gets what and why/we all cart around a whole lot of baggage/that would better be left/by the side of the road/books and records, old clothes and photos. . .” and of course, in Kaye’s case, guitars.

Even at 79 — he’ll hit octogenarian status in December — Kaye confesses he hasn’t slowed down as a collector. “I haven’t cut myself off yet, but I’ve been more discerning,” he tells Salon. “That said, I always come home from being on the road with a few well-chosen records and a few well-chosen books that I will read one of these days.”

Does he still have a holy grail?

Kaye laughs. “Absolutely not. At this point my holy grails are things I have yet to discover. I found most of the things I really needed to have, but every once in a while you’re exposed to a new record, and sometimes it’s not that great to just be able to go on eBay and poke the bid. You want to find it. You want to find it in context.”

He’s on a roll now: “The other day I was in the East Village and I went past a store on E. 2nd Street called Ergot and I walked in and they had 12 Umm Kulthum 45s from the ’60s and I just put my money down, came home with them, and they’re all fascinating. I have certain genres that I always check out: I’m particularly into Jamaican gospel now, which is kind of primitive and not reggae, very illuminated, great singers. I’m into Egyptian music too; I really like the music of the Middle East. And of course then there’s the rock band that I’ve never heard of that really needs to be part of my collection.” He pauses. “I always think, like the song, about cleaning it up or at least culling it so I could get all the records off the floor and onto the shelves.” 

Kaye was good friends with Tom Verlaine, the late Television guitarist whose epic collections of books are still being distributed and caused hour-long lines when they were first put up for sale, and whose music equipment is next for dissemination. Salon asked Kaye if he had any clue to the extent of his friend’s collection, or its future plans for disposition? 

“No, but I’m very excited because it’s kind of a way for me to perhaps move my accumulations into the world at large,” he said. “I knew that Tom loved records, books, all of the above, and often would find the weirdest, which is of course great. I think it’s wonderful that his legacy of intellectual curiosity is being moved into the world at large so other people can be illuminated by his quest for the unusual.”

On the subject of holy grails, there’s the first recording by Lenny Kaye, “Crazy Like A Fox,” released under the nom de guerre Link Cromwell. That was the result of Kaye’s uncle Larry Kusik, who was a working film songwriter (his credits include the love themes from both “The Godfather” and “Romeo and Juliet”), trying to get in on the burgeoning protest music movement in the 1960s. He recruited his nephew to sing the vocals and although the song didn’t chart (it got re-released a decade later under the auspices of Ork Records, the label that launched in order to release the first Television single), it did give the young hopeful Kaye the conviction that he could find a way in the music business. And decades later, that’s Uncle Larry’s lyrics behind the plaintive and gorgeously intricate “Yes I Will,” the album’s closer. 

So while “Goin’ Local” is technically Kaye’s first solo record, back in 1984, there was another project, the Lenny Kaye Connection, a quartet which gigged around New York City and environs. They released one album, “I’ve Got A Right,” not on a major label but instead on Giorno Poetry Systems, a record label started by downtown poet John Giorno. The Connection reunited back in 2022 for a show in honor of Kaye’s 75th birthday, but the record’s been out of print for some time. Salon asked Kaye if there were any plans to reissue it, even just on streaming. 

“Well, you never know,” Kaye said. “Right now I’m kind of pointed to the future. I’ve listened to that record recently and I do songs from it. I still do ‘I’ve Got A Right’ and ‘Record Collector,’ which I often play when I appear at record stores, but at this point I’m future-oriented. I mean, it came out 42 years ago. It represents a much younger version of myself, and right now I’m more in tune with who I am today. That doesn’t mean that it might not see a reissue along with some of the bonus tracks that got left by the wayside in those days, but right now I’m really moving into the future.”

He continued, “I have studio time booked and Dennis Dyken from the Smithereens is going to come up and play on a couple of songs that I have under construction, and that to me is where my fascination is. I think the Lenny Kaye Connection has merit. It is kind of my debut solo album, even though it was within a group context. But to be honest, I’m more about the future. I mean, Patti has that great quote, ‘Progress isn’t the future, it’s keeping up with the present,’ and my present is unfolding at actually quite an unexpectedly rapid rate, so today, I’m just gonna ride that pony.”

In 2022, Kaye’s book “Lightning Striking: Ten Transformative Moments in Rock ‘n’ Roll” was published. It wasn’t the long-awaited memoir folks might have hoped for, but it was a sterling example of the kind of careful scholarship Kaye excels at, where he can maintain a 30,000-foot view over music history while diving deep into specifics and individual historical moments. This was Kaye’s fourth book, along with the other considerable inches of print he’s logged over the decades. Salon asked Kaye if there were any plans for more long-form writing.

“I think I mostly got it out of my system for ‘Lightning Striking,’ that seemed to cover all the bases, though I just did a foreword for a Led Zeppelin biography called ‘When Giants Walk The Earth’ by Nick Walls. So I still write. I have some vague ideas, but right now more on the musical side of my personality,” Kaye said. “You know, writing is time-consuming and very solitary and I’m enjoying making music and following that inclination in my personality. I’m not ruling out another piece of writing. But again, you go into any bookstore and there’s millions of volumes, so just like a song, it has to mean something.”

But he’s not saying no. “I would like to assemble a collection of some of my writings. But that means I have to go into the file cabinet and be shocked by some of my early attempts at explicating rock ‘n’ roll . . . when I finish this next solo record, and see the Adrift project (his “goth psych jam band, a power trio”) through to its record, perhaps I’ll feel like I’ve done that and I can return to the one word after another, after another, after another. I do believe that in writing, there is a rhythm and melody within a sentence, just like there’s a narrative arc in a guitar solo.”

Across the last 60 years or so, Kaye has toured the globe, worked with amazing musicians, and witnessed multiple incredible moments. Salon asked if he had one favorite thing that he’d gotten to do because he was Lenny Kaye.

“It’s really hard for me to say ‘favorite things,’” he explained. “My favorite thing is, I like to go and hang out, and see what the serendipity and pinball of the night shows me. I mean, I’ve done incredible things as a musician. The Dalai Lama put a scarf around my neck at Glastonbury, and I’ve also stayed up till four o’clock in the morning with Tom Clark singing songs at the Treehouse at 2A. To me, they’re all kind of a thing. But what my favorite thing to do is see what my inclination is in terms of the next sentence or the next song or the next guitar part. The fact that I can continue to do that is really my favorite thing.”

Kaye’s always had an optimistic, positive attitude, and that has not changed. “Right now I’m a solo artist, which is kind of fun. I’m up there like a folk troubadour, singing the songs, reading from the book, and making some well-timed joke,” he told Salon. “It’s portable and there’s a certain sense of being able to control the song. I do like the power of a band behind me, but I’ll see how that begins to reveal itself. I’m having a good time.”

He continued, “I feel good. I’m a new artist! That’s what cracks me up. I feel whatever I’ve done in the past, this is a new mode of presentation for me. And it feels very much at one with who I am at this moment, drawing on the experience of, at this point, sixty years of playing that guitar, and yet I feel an excitement because I’m entering uncharted territory. And that, to me, is what makes life exciting and revelatory.”

“Goin’ Local” is out now via Yep Roc and Bandcamp; you can keep up with him on YouTube and Instagram.

The post How Patti Smith helped Lenny Kaye find his solo voice appeared first on Salon.com.

JD Vance sees himself in a former president. In a recent on-stage conversation about his memoir “Communion: Finding My Way Back to Faith,” the vice president was apparently inspired when talking about how this politician was a “political genius” and “peacemaker” who pulled America out of an unpopular war. “Young senator, writes some bestselling books,” he said, ticking off a number of shared qualities. “It kinda sounds like JD Vance.”

The vice president was talking about Richard Nixon. But it’s understandable if readers first imagined the face of Barack Obama. As Vance gears up to run for president in 2028, he’s clearly trying to position himself as the GOP’s answer to the 44th president, who remains the most popular political figure in the country.

Vance will likely never say this out loud. It’s possible, though unlikely, that he’s unconscious of it. But following his recent book tour, it’s hard to ignore how much the vice president fancies himself to have the charisma, demeanor and even the wife required to be the GOP’s answer to Obama. 

Vance’s public arrogance certainly suggests he believes himself equal to the former president in both intellect and charm. In this, he’s utterly deluded, nor it is it clear that Republican voters, despite the persistent bitterness over Obama’s continued popularity, would even want a candidate who possesses these traits. Vance may well end up bumbling his way into the Republican nomination, giving him a real shot at the White House, but it would only be because the GOP has a dearth of contenders to replace Donald Trump.

Between his camera-hogging and social media addiction, Vance is ubiquitous. This serves to conceal how thinness of his political resume. Besides his victory as Trump’s running mate, he has won only a single election: the 2022 Ohio Senate race, an easy victory in a mostly-red state. He skipped the line of career politicians, not by beguiling ordinary Republican voters, who aren’t impressed with Ivy League degrees or his tendency to pontificate like a wannabe philosopher-king instead of a baby-kissing politico. It was because of money from tech billionaire investor Peter Thiel and other Silicon Valley types who seem to equate being rich with being learned. 

For tech bosses like Thiel, having a Barack Obama of their very own is an appealing prospect. On paper, Vance seems to check all the boxes. Humble background but an Ivy League education? Check. Gorgeous, accomplished wife who was induced to set her career aside for her husband’s ambitions? Check. A talented wordsmith who writes his own books, and with a bestselling memoir penned before he considered running for office? Check. Youth appeal, down to listening to actual pop music and an agility with 21st century slang? Check. 

Sadly for Vance, in politics, as in art and sex, it’s less about your stat block and more about your ability to execute. Like any cheap knock-off, with Vance the ruse becomes clear at even a cursory examination. The vice president’s long list of Obama-esque attributes read like ill-fated attempts at parody in the real world.  

When it was published in 2016, Vance’s first book, “Hillbilly Elegy,” got a similar glowing reception to the one Obama received when his debut, “Dreams from My Father,” was published in 1995. Although both authors were only 32, they had lived unusual enough lives to justify memoirs. But while Obama’s tome remains beloved for its nuance and grace, Vance’s book has soured with time as many critics and readers come to recognize the shallow Appalachian stereotypes and conservative agenda it contains. “Hillbilly Elegy” was turned into a 2020 film by Ron Howard, but it is mostly remembered as an embarrassment. 

The contrasts become worse in looking at Vance and Obama’s second books, both of which were more obviously written with an eye toward running for higher office. Obama’s “The Audacity of Hope,” released in 2006 less than four months before he announced his candidacy for president, is an exemplar of the form, with authentic autobiographical details that remind readers the book was not primarily the work of a ghostwriter. Vance’s “Communion: Finding My Way Back to Faith,” released in June, has mostly raised questions about whether the vice president cares for anything but his own ambition. His high-minded rhetoric about his conversion to Catholicism sounds hollow in light of his willingness to spread racist lies about immigrants and rebuke Pope Leo for opposing war. In a passage a more compassionate editor might have removed, Vance reveals the higher power he seems to actually worship. Of hearing Thiel speak for the first time in 2011, Vance writes he saw the man who would become his patron as “[p]ossibly the smartest person I’d ever met.” 

Obama endeared himself to voters, especially younger ones, by coming off as the cool college professor who manages to sound erudite without being condescending. A former community organizer, he used youthful slang and pop culture references with the same ease he played pick-up basketball games. Vance’s efforts to seem hip come across as forced, as if he has never met a fellow millennial and can only approximate their lingo and cadence from reading old magazine reviews of movies like “Clueless.” 

When it comes to relatability and authenticity, perhaps no better example of the differences between the two men can be seen in their marriages. Both have beautiful wives with impressive careers of their own. Michelle Obama and Usha Vance were arguably more accomplished than their husbands were at the start of their political careers. Both women were openly wistful about having to leave that behind for one spent supporting their husbands in Washington, D.C.

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The difference is that the Obamas appear to like each other and, especially in the early years of his presidency, had palpable chemistry that induced romantic fantasies. The Vances, however, can’t seem to shake off suspicions that they loathe each other, no matter how many smiles they flash at the camera. It doesn’t help that the vice presidents constantly runs down his wife in speeches, comments he tries to play off as jokes, but which are too hard-edged to sell as jovial. 

Vance has admittedly been getting better in interviews and speeches in recent months. He managed to get through his entire book tour, including a stint on “The View,” without clips of his awkward behavior going viral. That may seem like a low bar, but this is the man whose time on the campaign trail in 2024 is mostly remembered for his angry “cat lady” obsession and an unfortunate incident in which he attempted to seem normal (and failed) while ordering donuts.

Vance will never have Obama’s easy charm. But if he keeps practicing, he might start being read by Republican voters as person-shaped enough to shrug his way into the nomination. 

Ultimately, Vance has erred in a way Obama was smart enough to avoid. The vice president tied himself to another politician whose stink rubs off on everyone around him. Obama’s political talents helped him rise quickly through the Democratic ranks, but his best asset was that he was able to plausibly run as an anti-war candidate, while his opponent for the 2008 Democratic nomination, Hillary Clinton, couldn’t escape her early support for the Iraq War.

Nearly two decades later, the public is yearning even more for an outsider uncorrupted by the failings of the Washington political establishment. Vance, however, didn’t have the foresight to see what should have been obvious: that Trump would make easily avoidable mistakes, like the Iran war, which has resulted in historic disapproval numbers that could well taint everyone who associates with him.

No amount of slang or smug chuckling will be able to get Trump’s stank off the vice president. 

The post JD Vance will never be the GOP Obama appeared first on Salon.com.