Without First Amendment crusaders to catch our backs, journalists—along with educators, activists, and anybody else whose career or passion often requires that they take unpopular public positions—would be no more useful than a Putin fan zine published by the Kremlin.
Don’t even think about leaving the arcade before you swipe a couple bucks away trying to wrap a claw that couldn’t lift a Lego around an anonymous L.O.L. Surprise! prize the size of a toddler.
My point is to draw a comparison between the horse-race repetition and robotic uniformity of the kind of trash commercial bigs, from putrid right-wing radio to elitist broadsheets like the Post, reported out of New Hampshire this week, and the unique features that our squad produced.
The reporters I roll with may not dress like the coifs on TV, or have as many cool lanyards in their credential collection as those who ride campaign buses, but I assure you we are much more serious than most of them.
A few weeks ago, I went there. I told family members who reside politically south of America’s metaphorical Mason-Dixon line that they were unqualified to wrestle with me on the subject of impeachment.
In this case pickleball is merely the vehicle through which I chose to weave this particular parable about finding unexpected prizes through patience and pain.
As the lone remaining leaf on the street in some neighborhoods and corners, we promise to take the responsibility that comes with that seriously.
Are you tired of the same horse race political coverage? Are you sick of hearing about how much money the candidates raised? Do you want coverage to reflect more state and local issues?
For every 50 right-wing roaches who wreak havoc on my nerves, there is only one Eileen, who just three weeks ago sent me her latest care package.
The next time someone makes a movie that’s specifically about my life, almost line for goddamn line, it would be great if one of you told me ahead of time.