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I don’t pretend to understand how the news business works these days. Oh, I know the mechanics of it—reporters, editors, headline writers, the whole circus of cameras and microphones.

What I don’t understand is the selective memory of it all. Some stories are blasted across our screens day and night for weeks, while others disappear quicker than a fried shrimp platter at a church potluck.

Take, for instance, this recent shooting involving a boat, a seafood restaurant, and a man who decided violence was the catch of the day. Three people lost their lives, and eight more were wounded. That should be the kind of thing that makes headlines and keeps them there for a long time, if only to honor the victims and shine a light on what really happened.

But no. The story popped up, bobbed on the surface like a cork, and then sank straight to the bottom. Try to find it now, and you’ll see more about Taylor Swift’s cat or some Hollywood gossip than about this tragedy. It’s as if someone hit the “delete” button on public memory.

The fellow who pulled the trigger happens to be a registered Democrat in North Carolina. Suddenly, the story lost its legs.

If he’d had a different voter card in his wallet, you can bet it would be the headline from here to next Sunday. The press would be busy linking his political registration to every decision he ever made, right down to whether he liked his hush puppies crispy or soft.

But since he carries the “wrong” affiliation for their narrative, the silence is deafening. Now, before you roll your eyes and say, “Oh, here we go again—another rant about the media,” let me tell you this isn’t a rant.

It’s a fireside chat with a little common sense sprinkled in.

Let’s start with the obvious–killing people is evil. I don’t care if the shooter was a Democrat, a Republican, a Green Party tree-hugger, or a guy who only votes for the winner of the hot-dog-eating contest.

Wrong is wrong. Lives are lost, families shattered, and party affiliation won’t fill the hole in the world, and we ought to grieve together, not tally political points.

But here’s where the rub comes in. We’ve gotten so used to media spin that we almost expect the truth to come with a political filter.

If the facts align with the preferred narrative, they get blasted until we’re weary of hearing them. If they don’t fit, they get buried like last week’s fish heads.

And so, this boat-restaurant-shooting story barely had time to surface before being dropped overboard. The narrative that “only certain types of people commit mass shootings” is too valuable to risk.

Heaven forbid the public should learn that violence doesn’t care about party lines.

Now, I’m not saying the shooter wasn’t struggling with mental health issues. Anyone who thinks shooting into a crowd is a good idea is not thinking clearly.

But isn’t it funny how mental illness is only talked about when it helps the spin? If the suspect had been wearing a red hat instead of a blue one, the headlines would scream about “domestic extremism.”

But since he wasn’t, the fallback excuse is “mental health,” which is convenient, because we all know murderers have mental health issues, or they wouldn’t do what they do.

Here is where I think we need a dose of old-fashioned honesty: not everything has to be part of a political game. Some things—like grieving with families who’ve lost loved ones, or working together to make sure restaurants and boats are safe places again—are bigger than party affiliation.

But honesty is secondary when you’re chasing clicks instead of truth. The media has turned into that neighbor who can’t resist telling half a story.

You know the type. “Did you hear about Joe’s accident?” and then stop, leaving you to wonder whether Joe broke his leg or backed over the mailbox, dangling information like bait, but never serving the entire plate.

Meanwhile, we’re left to figure it out ourselves. Some of us dig through public records.

Some of us compare different news outlets like we’re piecing together a jigsaw puzzle. And some of us give up, deciding it’s easier to believe the headlines about celebrity divorces than to untangle the mess of real news.

That’s a shame. Because real stories, with real people and real consequences, matter far more than celebrity trivia.

Let me tell you something, my dad used to say when we went fishing. We’d be out on the KLamath, poles over the water, waiting for a nibble.

Dad would point to a floating stick or a bit of debris and say, “Don’t pay attention to what’s on the surface, son. Pay attention to what’s going on underneath. That’s where the big fish are.”

He was right about fishing, and he’s right about news, too. What’s underneath the surface is often more important than what’s floating on top.

The surface tells you what they want you to see. Underneath is where the truth swims.

So, what do we do about this disappearing-headline problem?

First, we stop relying on any single outlet for our news. It’s like eating only one thing for every meal.

Sure, I love fried chicken, but if that’s all I ate, I’d be in worse shape than the fellow who invented gravy on everything. We need variety.

Different perspectives. Sources that don’t march in lockstep.

Second, we need to ask questions. When a story vanishes, ask why.

When details are vague, ask what’s missing. A healthy skepticism isn’t cynicism; it’s common sense.

And third, we need to remind ourselves that truth isn’t fragile. It doesn’t need protecting from inconvenient facts.

If the shooter in North Carolina was a Democrat, say so. If a Republican, say so.

If he were an independent who spent his evenings watching reruns of Gilligan’s Island, say that too. Hiding it only makes people suspicious, and suspicion feeds division.

Bring it out into the open, and at least folks can decide what to do with it. Bury it, and it stinks.

So let’s not bury this tragedy. Let’s not forget the three lives cut short or the eight wounded.

Let’s not let them get erased because the shooter’s voter card made the wrong headlines. We owe the victims more respect than that.

We also owe ourselves more honesty. Because when stories disappear, trust disappears with them. And without trust, society starts to look like that leaky boat from the shooting—taking on water, drifting, and in danger of sinking.

At the end of the day, I think we all want the same thing–to live in a world where truth matters, where loss is acknowledged, and where tragedies aren’t swept under the rug to protect somebody’s political comfort. And maybe, if we demand that kind of honesty, we’ll find ourselves back in calmer waters.

Until then, keep your life jacket handy, because in this media storm, you never know which headlines will sink next.

Ashwick had always been a quiet town, a pocket of order pressed between pine forest and mountain. People worked, slept, and raised families.

Computers hummed in coffee shops and kitchens, each a window into the wider world. Nobody realized those windows could also look inward.

The anomaly began on a Tuesday.

Clara Henshaw, coder by trade, insomniac by habit, leaned close to her monitor. A flicker, a blink—she expected the familiar crash.

The blue screen. The digital sigh of defeat.

But the screen bled instead into a sickly, pulsating green. It didn’t look like pixels.

It looked like something alive, writhing, phosphorescent, the light of deep-sea creatures dragged where they didn’t belong. Shapes twisted across the surface, fractals that bent back into themselves, recursive symbols that seemed to lean toward Clara.

Her vision swam. She felt—not dizzy, not faint—but pulled. Like the light had reached past her eyes into her thoughts, tugging them gently, insistently, toward something vast.

When she finally turned to her coworkers, her face was unchanged. But the woman behind the face was gone.

Her smile stretched too long. Her eyes didn’t blink. And when she spoke, her words vibrated through the marrow of those who heard them.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “The lattice.”

By Wednesday, it was everywhere.

Laptops. Tablets. Phones.

Even idle monitors sprang to life, unprompted, glowing with that same unnatural green. The pattern shifted, deliberate, like an intelligence breathing behind the glass.

Those who saw it didn’t scream or faint, but each changed.

They became precise. Movements too exact. Smiles stretched into masks. Their voices deepened into a resonance that made windows hum. And always, they spoke of the lattice.

The unaffected tried to understand. Was it a virus? A signal? A trick? But the Changed didn’t argue, didn’t explain. They only repeated the word, reverent: lattice.

By Thursday, the horror sharpened.

A father sat unmoving in his recliner, whispering to his terrified daughter, “We are threads. You are thread. The lattice is weaving us back where we belong.”

At school, teachers scrawled glyphs on chalkboards—circles within circles within circles, geometries that made the students bleed from the nose if they looked too long.

And still the Changed didn’t eat, didn’t sleep. They only stared—at screens, at each other, at anyone foolish enough to meet their gaze.

By Friday, Ashwick was falling apart.

Neighbors hammered boards across their windows, smashed their televisions, dragged computers into the street, and set them ablaze. They tore phones apart with screwdrivers, hurled tablets into rivers.

But it didn’t matter. The green seeped through anyway.

Reflections in windows. Puddles after rain.

Even the sheen of an eye was enough to carry it. One glimpse—and the lattice rooted itself, spiraling through the mind until resistance collapsed.

It wasn’t possession. Possession would have been merciful. It was a realignment.

Dr. Elias Varn, retired physicist, became the last holdout. His cabin ran on kerosene.

He lit his nights with flame and fear, scribbling frantic notes. He had glimpsed the lattice once, before smashing his monitor. The image burned in him still.

“It is not code,” he scrawled. “It is architecture. Not made of matter, but of relation—angles, ratios, symmetries older than atoms. The lattice is the framework under reality. We thought we invented it. But we only replicated it. Our machines are mirrors. And the lattice has finally noticed us staring.”

That night, the Changed gathered at his cabin. They didn’t knock. They stood in the snow, faces lifted toward the windows, their hum rattling the glass.

Elias gripped his axe. Useless.

The glow seeped through the cracks anyway. Not from a device.

From the air itself. The sky pulsed green, the stars rearranging themselves into geometry too vast for human comprehension.

Elias felt his thoughts unravel, each strand pulled and rewoven into new patterns. He realized too late that the lattice wasn’t coming.

It had always been here. The universe itself was its loom, and humanity had created machines finely tuned to hear its hum.

He closed his eyes. It didn’t matter. The lattice was already inside him, redrawing him to fit.

By Sunday, Ashwick was silent.

The changed moved in perfect unison, glowing faintly, their faces masks for something far older. They didn’t speak anymore. They were no longer individuals, neighbors, or humans.

They were filaments. Threads woven into a pattern so enormous it stretched across galaxies, binding stars to stars, thought to thought.

Through them, the lattice watched.

And in the next town, a boy’s laptop flickered to life in the dark.

The screen bled green. The lattice hummed.

And the weaving began again.

It has taken far too long to piece together the truth about the Sacramento shooter who targeted an ABC affiliate. That delay wasn’t accidental.

From the start, details about the incident were quietly buried, scrubbed from the internet, or mentioned only in passing before disappearing altogether. In an age where newsrooms pounce on stories, spinning them into partisan narratives, the near blackout on this one says more than the shooting itself.

Yes, a Sacramento television station—an ABC affiliate owned by Tegna—got fired upon in broad daylight. Three bullets struck the station’s lobby, forcing an immediate lockdown and a 9-1-1 call to law enforcement. At the time, journalists speculated whether this was another episode of California’s rising violent crime problem or, more ominously, political violence.

And then—almost instantly—the story evaporated.

Why? Because the suspect, it turns out, was not the kind of criminal the media wanted to talk about.

The shooter is Al Hernandez Santana. He isn’t some random street criminal. Santana is part of California’s political machinery. He once served as chief legislative staffer for the powerful California Federation of Teachers, one of the largest and most influential unions in the state. He also worked as a state appointee on the Indian Health Board and has a history of political activism.

His résumé alone should have kept the story alive for weeks. A former top union lobbyist arrested for firing into the offices of a media outlet?

It should have been front-page news nationwide, but instead of digging into his background, most media outlets dropped the story altogether. The same industry that can’t stop lecturing about the dangers of “political violence” suddenly lost its appetite upon learning that the shooter is a far-left operative with deep ties to California’s Democratic establishment.

In the hours after the attack, national outlets did what they always do after a shooting–breathless coverage, live shots from the scene, and soundbites from police promising accountability.

NBC reported: “Tonight, gunshots fired at an ABC-affiliated television station in Sacramento. Bullet holes were seen in the window of the lobby. An employee of the Tegna-owned station telling NBC News someone pulled up, fired into the lobby, and drove off.”

But after the suspect’s arrest, coverage shifted quickly. Suddenly, reporters lost interest in a motive. Networks pivoted toward safer ground—commentary about Jimmy Kimmel’s suspension, speculation about Disney’s corporate politics—anything to avoid the uncomfortable fact that the shooter wasn’t a right-wing extremist but rather a union insider with a documented history of far-left political rhetoric.

Within days, the story became a local footnote. Search results online became increasingly sparse. To find the details now, one must dig through archives, press releases, and cached versions of deleted articles. The mainstream press has performed a quiet erasure.

Santana’s social media history makes his motives hard to deny. He posted openly hostile comments toward conservatives, including grotesque remarks wishing death on Donald Trump and mocking Charlie Kirk after Kirk’s assassination.

Santan is not a man who randomly snapped. His actions were those of a politically motivated individual who directed his fury at a news organization following left-wing protests over Jimmy Kimmel’s suspension. The attack was, in every sense, political violence.

Yet the same outlets that dedicate days of coverage to “right-wing threats” couldn’t spare more than a passing mention here. The hypocrisy is staggering. When violence fits their narrative, it’s headline news. When it doesn’t, it disappears.

Perhaps more disturbing than the media blackout is the response from California officials. After Santana’s arrest, he was allowed to post bail—despite firing into a building full of journalists. For politicians who never tire of lecturing about “common-sense gun laws,” the silence was deafening.

Releasing an armed political extremist back onto the streets is not “justice reform.” It’s negligence, coddling, and a deliberate refusal to acknowledge the danger posed when violent activists are treated as harmless simply because their politics align with those in power.

Only when the federal Department of Justice intervened was Santana taken back into custody under federal charges for interfering with a licensed broadcaster through violence. If not for that, he might still be free today.

The case highlights a broader problem: America’s media is a gatekeeper of narratives rather than a seeker of truth. The press leaps to cover shootings when the suspect might be conservative, Republican, or a Second Amendment advocate, even making it up, as in the case of CNN and MSNBC. But when the attacker is a left-wing union lobbyist with ties to California’s political elite? Silence.

The silence isn’t harmless. By refusing to acknowledge violence when it comes from the left, journalists create a warped perception of reality. The public gets told over and over that political violence is a one-sided problem, when in fact it isn’t.

Even more ironic is that journalists themselves were the victims here. An ABC affiliate got targeted with gunfire. Yet the same media class that usually rushes to play the role of martyr chose to bury the story because it didn’t fit their preferred storyline.

There’s a bitter irony in watching media outlets coddle pro-crime politicians and then becoming victims of the very lawlessness they excuse. It’s reminiscent of the San Francisco crew whose news van got burglarized while they were covering thefts in the city. They were shocked—shocked!—that criminals would target them.

But why wouldn’t they? Reporters have spent years pushing the narrative that criminals are victims of circumstance, that law enforcement is oppressive, and that bail reform is “compassionate.” Now, those same policies put journalists in the line of fire. Literally.

Yet even after being targeted, the press can’t bring itself to confront the ideology that fuels this violence. Instead, the media retreats into silence, protecting the very forces that endangered them.

This story isn’t just about one man with a gun. It’s about the culture of cowardice that dominates California politics and media alike. It’s about a system where violent extremists are given second chances because of their political affiliations. It’s about a press corps so beholden to partisan narratives that it cannot even defend its own colleagues when violently attacked.

The public deserves honesty. Political violence is unacceptable, whether it comes from the right or the left. But until the media acknowledges that fact, we will continue to live in a distorted reality where some victims get mourned loudly while others get brushed aside.

Journalists should be the loudest voices demanding accountability in this case. Instead, they’ve gone quiet. Politicians should be outraged that a politically connected activist opened fire on a news station. Instead, they rushed him through the revolving door of California’s broken justice system.

The question isn’t just why this story disappeared—it’s why we allow such disappearances to happen at all. A free press that suppresses inconvenient truths is no free press at all.

Until the media stops sweeping inconvenient facts under the rug, and until politicians stop excusing criminals who share their ideology, incidents like this will continue. Next time, we might not be so fortunate, and someone could be injured, or worse.

There’s an old saying that’s been floating around since my granddad’s day: “You can tell a lot about a man by the way he treats his enemies.” If that’s true, then right now we’re in a heap of trouble.

Because let’s be honest—nothing makes the headlines faster than folks whooping and hollering over somebody else’s misfortune. Even death, that most solemn and unavoidable appointment, has somehow turned into a spectator sport for people who ought to know better. It’s enough to make a fella want to shut off the news, lock the front door, and retreat to the back porch with a tall glass of iced tea and a Bible.

But here’s the rub: as tempting as it is to wag our finger at the folks celebrating and call them every name under the sun, Jesus didn’t give us that option. He laid it out plain as day—love your enemies, bless those who curse you, pray for those who spitefully use you. Now, He didn’t say it would be easy. He just said it was necessary.

I’ll tell you right now, praying for people who cheer at death is tougher than trying to get a cat to take a bath. My instinct is to stomp around, mutter under my breath, and maybe even compose a very un-Christlike letter in my head. But then that still, small voice sneaks in and reminds me, “Son, their hearts are just as broken as yours, only twisted in another direction.”

And that’s when I realize something. These folks aren’t celebrating because they’re whole. They’re celebrating because they’re hurting. Hatred is often just pain with its Sunday clothes on.

So what’s the remedy? Not more shouting, not more division, not more smug “we’re right and you’re wrong” speeches. The only medicine that works on a heart twisted with hate is forgiveness mixed with prayer.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Forgiveness isn’t approval. It doesn’t mean we pat folks on the head and say, “Good job cheering for death.” That’d be nonsense. Forgiveness means we put down the heavy sack of bitterness we’ve been dragging around and hand it over to God. It’s His job to judge hearts, not ours.

I remember once when my boy was little, he and a neighbor kid got into a shouting match over who got to use the red toy truck. The neighbor boy stomped home in a huff, and my son sat on the porch sulking. After a while, he asked me, “Dad, why do people act like that?” I thought about it for a minute and said, “Because we forget we’re supposed to love each other more than we love winning.” He nodded, then wandered off to play with the blue truck. Kids get it faster than adults sometimes.

And maybe that’s where we are now—squabbling over who gets to feel righteous, forgetting that love is the only victory worth winning.

So here’s my prayer: Lord, forgive them. Forgive us. Heal the wounds in our country that keep bleeding every time someone falls. Remind us that death is not a scoreboard–it’s a sorrow. And teach us that no matter how deep the divide, Your grace can still build a bridge across it.

Friends, I don’t know if this will change the world overnight. Probably not. But it just might start changing us. And maybe that’s enough for today.

Because at the end of the day, we’re all going to face our Maker. And when that day comes, I don’t want to be remembered for how clever my insults were or how loudly I cheered at someone else’s fall. I want to be a man who, even when it was hard, tried to pray instead of curse, forgive instead of fume, and love instead of gloat.

That, I reckon, is the only remedy worth taking.

Britain is witnessing one of its most extraordinary political meltdowns in modern times. In the space of three days, Prime Minister Keir Starmer’s flagship policy on digital identification has triggered mass public resistance, a leaked royal meeting has upended centuries of constitutional protocol, and his own words about the monarchy have left Labour MPs openly discussing whether he can survive the week.

The scale and speed of the crisis are without precedent in British politics. What began as a petition against digital ID cards has snowballed into a full-blown confrontation between the government, the Crown, and a public suddenly galvanized in ways Westminster had not anticipated.

On September 25, the parliamentary petition “Do not introduce Digital ID cards” had just over 100,000 signatures. That figure was significant enough to require a government response, but far from record-breaking. Everything changed a day later when Starmer formally announced plans for a mandatory “BritCard” system by 2029—an all-digital identity card required to prove the right to work and access public services.

The backlash was instant. By the evening of September 26, the number of signatures was beyond 1.1 million. The following day, momentum intensified even further, with over 6,800 signatures collected in just one hour on Saturday morning, and by late afternoon, the total approached 2 million. As of Monday, September 29, the number had reached 2,545,086 and was continuing to increase.

Only five petitions have passed a million signatures in the past decade. The most notable was the 2019 petition to revoke Brexit, which peaked at over six million signatures. Observers suggest that the current anti-ID campaign could potentially break that record.

Opposition has come from across the spectrum. Reform UK leader Nigel Farage denounced the proposal as “un-British.” The Liberal Democrats, privacy campaigners at Big Brother Watch, and grassroots groups such as the Together Association have all condemned the scheme. Critics argue the plan would criminalize the digitally excluded and hand the government unprecedented powers over daily life.

Symbolic protests have already sprung up. A pub in Merseyside rebranded itself the “George Orwell,” projecting Starmer’s face across its façade with the caption “1984.” On social media platform X, activists urged the public to push the petition to 5 or 6 million signatures, framing the campaign as a stand against “a future where every part of our lives is monitored.”

Starmer defended the BritCard as a necessary modernization to secure borders and streamline services, but polls suggest his message is not landing. A recent survey found 63 percent of Britons distrust the government’s ability to safeguard digital ID data. The Scottish Government has voiced opposition, and even some Labour MPs are uneasy.

As the petition gained momentum, another story broke—one with even more explosive consequences.

King Charles III held a private two-hour meeting at Windsor Castle with Nigel Farage and senior members of Reform UK on September 26. The gathering violated three centuries of royal convention: monarchs do not meet opposition leaders outside the established parties, and certainly not in closed-door sessions with political strategists.

The meeting might never have become public had it not been for a leak. According to palace insiders, the revelation did not originate with Reform UK but from within Starmer’s own party. Disaffected Labour MPs, frustrated with the prime minister’s leadership, allegedly exposed the encounter to weaken him further.

What made the story truly seismic were the King’s reported words during the session. While discussing Reform UK’s policy paper Restoring Britain’s Democratic Foundation, Charles allegedly remarked:

“Perhaps it’s time for fresh thinking in Westminster. The current path seems unsustainable.”

Thirteen words. But in Britain’s delicate constitutional balance, they were dynamite.

According to cabinet sources, the leak sent Starmer into a rage. At an emergency meeting, he allegedly slammed his fist on the table and shouted:

“If Charles wants to play politics, I’ll show him how the game is really played. The monarchy serves Parliament, not the other way around. He’s forgotten his place.”

Education Secretary Bridget Phillipson later told colleagues the tirade escalated further. Starmer reportedly dismissed 300 years of constitutional tradition as “old men in fancy clothes playing dress-up” and vowed to confront the King directly.

Within hours, his remarks were public. The backlash was immediate and ferocious. Social media erupted with #DefendTheCrown trending worldwide. Memes depicted Starmer as Oliver Cromwell or under a guillotine. A viral video from a retired Liverpool teacher captured the mood: “I supported Labour through Thatcher, through Blair. But attacking our King? That’s not the Labour Party I know. That’s not Britain.”

Polls Collapse, Party Cracks

An emergency YouGov poll conducted within 24 hours revealed that 73 percent of Britons thought Starmer had gone too far. Labour’s approval rating plummeted from 42 percent to 28 percent overnight. By September 29, support had dropped further to 26 percent.

Inside Labour, chaos reigned. A WhatsApp group titled “Damage Control” swelled to over 40 MPs. Discussions quickly shifted from messaging strategies to potential successors. Deputy Prime Minister Angela Rayner, Chancellor Rachel Reeves, and Shadow Home Secretary Yvette Cooper were all floated as alternatives.

Veteran MP Diane Abbott summed up the mood: “In 40 years, I’ve never seen a leader self-destruct like this. He’s taken a wrecking ball to our credibility.”

Cracks in the cabinet soon became fractures. Transport Secretary Louise Haigh resigned, citing “irreconcilable differences” with Starmer’s stance on the monarchy. Two junior ministers followed. Reeves remained conspicuously silent, fueling speculation she was preparing a leadership bid.

While Labour imploded, rivals capitalized. Farage framed Reform UK as the defender of Britain’s institutions. Flanked by Union Jacks outside party headquarters, he declared, “While others attack our King, Reform UK stands with the Crown. While others tear down our traditions, we defend them. While others forget what it means to be British, we remember.”

The optics were powerful. Reform UK reported a 400 percent surge in membership and record donations within 72 hours. Polling put the party at 24percent—just two points behind Labour and within striking distance of becoming the official opposition.

The Conservatives also seized the moment. Leader Kemi Badenoch condemned Starmer’s “complete disrespect for our constitutional monarchy” and insisted the crisis showed Labour could not be trusted with the foundations of democracy. Party strategists privately admitted they could not have scripted a better scenario.

Through it all, King Charles III has remained silent. Constitutional experts say this restraint has strengthened the monarchy, as the leak has elevated him in the public eye. Far from diminishing his authority, the controversy has underscored the monarchy’s enduring symbolic power.

The spectacle has drawn global attention. Canada’s Justin Trudeau offered diplomatic support for “the role of constitutional monarchy in parliamentary democracy”—widely interpreted as a rebuke to Starmer. Australia’s Peter Dutton was more blunt, branding the prime minister’s comments “disgraceful.”

In the United States, cable networks replayed clips of Starmer mocking “old men in fancy clothes,” with anchors shaking their heads at Britain’s turmoil. For a country once viewed as a bastion of political stability, the images were sobering.

With Labour polling at 26 percent, the Conservatives at 32 percent, and Reform UK surging to 24 percent, the UK’s political map is shifting rapidly. Starmer faces a mounting internal rebellion, with backbench MPs drafting no-confidence letters and senior colleagues maneuvering for succession.

Meanwhile, Farage has never been closer to mainstream legitimacy. For the first time, Reform UK appears poised to overtake Labour as the primary opposition force.

For now, the monarchy stands taller than ever. In a crisis sparked by just twelve words, Charles has reminded the nation—and the world—that Britain’s ancient institutions still carry immense weight.

Whether Starmer can survive the week remains an open question. What is clear is that the digital ID petition, the Windsor leak, and the prime minister’s fury have combined to create a political earthquake—one that may reshape Britain’s future for years to come.

Northern Nevada’s once red-hot housing market is showing signs of serious cooling, and in some places, outright distress. Towns that staked their futures on Tesla’s Gigafactory and the promise of high-tech growth are now confronting a sobering reality: fewer jobs, too many houses, and a wave of automation that is hollowing out entire communities.

The slowdown is particularly affecting Sparks and Fernley. Both communities rode the wave of tech-fueled optimism, adding thousands of homes and apartments in anticipation of explosive growth. But with job cuts, automation, and declining demand, the region’s housing bubble appears to be deflating—and fast.

Sparks: Growth Without People

Sparks, often described as Reno’s scrappy younger sibling, spent the last decade rebranding itself as a growth engine for Northern Nevada. Developers rushed to build, putting up 8,500 new housing units in just four years. City leaders justified the expansion with projections tied to Tesla’s Gigafactory, Panasonic’s battery plant, and the Switch data center.

On paper, it was a compelling story: the Gigafactory was supposed to employ 10,000 people. In reality, current employment has plateaued around 5,500, and recent rounds of cuts suggest that number is shrinking. Panasonic has automated most of its operations, reducing the need for workers. And Switch’s data center—an imposing presence just east of Reno—requires surprisingly few employees to keep its servers humming.

“Everyone assumed these were job magnets,” said one Sparks-based realtor. “But you don’t need a thousand people to watch robots build batteries or to keep a server farm running.”

That mismatch between expectations and reality is showing up in the housing market. The glut is especially acute in the luxury apartment sector, where developers bet heavily on an influx of high-paid workers. Instead, many buildings struggle to keep tenants.

The Fountains at Victorian Square reports a vacancy rate of nearly 30 percent. Marina Vista, another high-end complex, is offering three months of free rent to lure renters. Meanwhile, The Metropolitan, a downtown Sparks development once marketed as a crown jewel, just sold for 40 percent less than it cost to build.

“When apartment complexes start selling at a loss, it’s not just a red flag,” said an industry analyst. “It’s a warning siren for the single-family market.”

The financial implications extend beyond private investors. Sparks borrowed heavily against future property tax revenue to fund roads, schools, and utilities sized for a city twice its current capacity. If property values tumble, the town faces a brutal choice: raise tax rates or cut services. Either path risks further depressing values.

“It’s a death spiral with casino lights,” said one longtime resident.

Fernley: The Bedroom Community That Never Woke Up

If Sparks is wobbling, Fernley is teetering.

Fernley, located about 30 miles east of Reno, is positioned as an affordable suburb for Gigafactory employees. Here, workers can purchase larger homes at lower prices while commuting to the Tahoe-Reno Industrial Center.

For a while, the story held. Builders broke ground on sprawling subdivisions like Desert Springs, Copper Mountain, and Victorian Ranch. Fernley’s population surged, and so did optimism. Local leaders spoke confidently about new schools, bustling retail districts, and a thriving community life.

But as Tesla trims staff and Amazon automates its Fernley warehouse, the foundation is cracking. The city of 23,000 currently has more than 2,100 homes for sale, an astonishing figure for its size.

“Drive through Fernley today and it’s like a monument to optimism gone wrong,” said a broker who specializes in Lyon County. “Brand new houses with nobody in them. Community centers with no community. Parks where the only things playing are tumbleweeds.”

The developer of Victorian Ranch has already filed for bankruptcy protection, leaving parts of the subdivision unfinished. Other projects are seeing 40% of their phases unsold, a stark contrast to just a few years ago, when houses were being snapped up before construction even finished.

The retail that was supposed to follow never really materialized. Instead, Fernley has a cluster of marijuana dispensaries, a scattering of fast-food outlets, and a proliferation of storage facilities—seven and counting.

The housing numbers paint a bleak picture. The average time on market has ballooned to 127 days, compared with just 34 days last year. Price reductions are piling up.

One seller who listed a home at $485,000 has cut the price five times, now down to $399,000. Despite an 18% drop, there are still no offers.

“It feels like Black Friday out here,” said another agent. “Except nobody’s buying.”

A Region Built on Assumptions

The slowdown highlights a vulnerability in Northern Nevada’s economic model. City planners, developers, and investors alike banked on sustained tech-driven growth. They assumed workers would flood in, fill new homes, and fuel a self-reinforcing cycle of prosperity.

Instead, automation is undercutting demand. The very companies that drew national attention to Reno and Sparks—Tesla, Panasonic, Amazon—are now proving that the facilities don’t necessarily translate into large workforces.

“Everyone forgot that technology is designed to replace people,” said a housing economist. “The Gigafactory was never going to need 10,000 employees for long.”

The consequences ripple outward. Empty apartments in Sparks put pressure on landlords to slash rents, which in turn drags down property values. In Fernley, unfinished subdivisions and unsold homes signal distress that could reverberate through the broader market.

If current trends continue, the wave may not stop at Fernley or Sparks. Communities like Spanish Springs, Dayton, and Silver Springs may face similar challenges as builders pursue demand that has diminished.

What Comes Next?

Local officials face unenviable decisions. Sparks must either raise taxes to service debt or cut spending to balance its books, each option carrying political and economic risks. Fernley, with fewer resources, may find itself leaning heavily on Lyon County for support.

For homeowners, the outlook is equally grim. Those who bought at peak prices in 2021 and 2022 are now staring at the prospect of negative equity. Industry insiders warn that foreclosures may increase if job losses persist and refinancing options remain unavailable.

“This isn’t just a market correction,” warned one housing analyst. “This is the unraveling of an entire growth story that was built on shaky assumptions.”

Not everyone is ready to dismiss Northern Nevada just yet. Some believe that lower prices could attract retirees, remote workers, or Californians looking for more affordable housing. However, this transition may take years, and in the meantime, both residents and investors are preparing for the potential challenge.

As one Fernley homeowner put it while standing outside a for-sale sign in front of his neighbor’s empty house: “We were promised Silicon Valley with mountains. What we got is a ghost town with mortgages.”

I’ve been saying this for years—if you wouldn’t speak it to your mama at the dinner table, your boss in a Monday morning meeting, or even the government man with his clipboard, then don’t post it online, because nothing is private, not even that “anonymous” comment you typed while hiding behind a cartoon profile picture.

Every word is a seed, and sooner or later, what you plant will grow, and most folks get this–even the people with twisted thoughts usually know enough to keep their thoughts to themselves.

We call it a filter, the little pause button God installed between our brain and our mouth, or our typing fingers.

You stop, you think, and you ask, “Is this kind, wise, or am I about to unleash evil into the world?”

But some folks today?

The filter between the mouth and the brain is busted.

It’s like trying to make coffee with a spaghetti strainer.

Everything pours straight through, and each person fails to recognize evil even when it is staring them in the face, especially when it’s dressed in the colors of their own tribe.

That’s why we’ve got people out there celebrating the death of a man, laughing and cheering as if it’s a football game. That’s a soul with its compass pointing straight into the abyss.

See, words don’t just float around harmlessly. Words justify actions but cover for violence.

James wrote in Scripture that the tongue is like a spark that can set a whole forest on fire. And he didn’t have X or Facebook.

The problem isn’t just politics. It’s deeper than that.

It’s a moral sickness. People who can’t tell right from wrong, call evil “justice” and cruelty “truth.”

They honestly believe hatred makes them righteous. And when you can’t see evil for what it is—especially when it’s coming from your own side—you’re not just lost, you’re blindfolded and walking toward a cliff.

The Bible said it would happen.

Now, I’ll admit, it’s tempting to fight fire with fire. To swing back twice as hard, spit out the same kind of venom, but that’s not the answer.

Jesus didn’t say, “Love your neighbor, unless he posts something nasty about you.” He said, “Love your enemies. Pray for those who persecute you.”

That doesn’t mean we roll over and pretend evil is good—it means we confront evil without letting it poison our own hearts. So, filters matter, not because we’re trying to be fake or polite for the sake of appearances, but because they’re part of accountability.

A working filter says, “I know my words can wound, so I’ll choose them carefully.”

A broken filter says, “I’ll say whatever I feel, no matter who it destroys.”

Guess which one builds up society and which one burns it down?

Our words at the end of the day reveal our moral compass: Are we pointing toward light, or stumbling toward darkness, sowing peace, or scattering sparks that’ll burn someone else’s house down?

So here’s my simple advice, which I’ll repeat until I’m blue in the face–Before you hit “post,” imagine Jesus, your grandma, and your boss all reading over your shoulder: if you wouldn’t say it in front of them, don’t say it at all.

Because one day, we’ll all give an account—not to Facebook, not to the government, not even to the family dinner table—but to God Himself, and I’d rather hear Him say, “Well done, good and faithful servant,” than, “Why did you spend your days lighting fires with your tongue?”

I was walking down the street the other day, minding my own business, when a fellow in a pickup leaned out his window and hollered something at me that wasn’t exactly a blessing from the Beatitudes. I couldn’t make out all of it, but I caught enough syllables to know I wasn’t getting invited to Sunday supper.

Now, my first reaction was the same as yours would be—cheeks flushed, fists clenched, and a dozen witty comebacks marching through my brain like an army with fresh boots. It’s funny how our tongues can outpace our common sense by about three football fields when we feel slighted.

But then, like an old hymn sneaking into my head, I remembered Jesus’ words: “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.”

That’s Matthew 5:44. I don’t know about you, but I usually prefer the verses about God being my shepherd or my refuge. “Love your enemies” feels like it was slipped in by mistake, maybe as a test to see if we’re paying attention.

The truth is, Jesus meant it. He wasn’t just correcting the Pharisees for their stiff-necked reading of the law.

He was calling us all to something higher, and holier—God’s kind of love. A love that doesn’t just stop at “Don’t cuss back at the guy in the pickup,” but pushes us to pray for him, wish him well, maybe even wave without using all five fingers if you catch my drift.

And that’s where it gets uncomfortable, because the world doesn’t applaud this kind of love. We learn to defend ourselves, clap back, cancel, or strike first.

But Jesus says, “No, take the better way. Don’t just avoid evil—overcome it with good.” (Romans 12:21)

I thought about that as I kept walking home. Somewhere between the corner store and my mailbox, I realized that if God shines His sun on the evil and the good alike (Matthew 5:45), maybe I could at least manage a prayer for a stranger with a loud mouth and a rusty muffler.

After all, who knows what kind of day that poor soul was having? Maybe he just got bad news at work, or his dog ran away, or he’s just the kind of person who thinks shouting insults is a sport.

Whatever the reason, it didn’t cost me much to whisper, “Lord, bless him anyway.”

Christians sometimes get painted with a broad brush as angry, hateful, or judgmental. And sure, some loud voices fit that caricature, but I’ve also known countless believers who live quiet lives of love—delivering meals, forgiving debts, showing up at hospital bedsides, loving people who don’t love them back. Those folks rarely make headlines, but they make heaven smile.

That’s the better way. It isn’t pie-in-the-sky. It’s shoe-leather faith. It’s making the choice—sometimes daily, sometimes minute by minute—to let Christ’s love outpace our temper.

Does it mean we become doormats? No.

Jesus never told us to ignore justice or stay silent in the face of real harm. But He did instruct us to forgive, to refuse revenge, and to pray for those who cut us deep, which isn’t a weakness, but strength measured in mercy.

So here’s my challenge, to myself first and then to you–the next time someone hollers, mocks, or mistreats, try the better way. Pray for them.

Bless them in your heart. Forgive before being asked.

If nothing else, you’ll walk home lighter, freer, and maybe with a story worth telling. Because love—real love—always leaves you stronger than hate ever could.

And who knows? Maybe that fellow in the pickup will get home, sit down in his recliner, and wonder why the guy he insulted just waved back and smiled.

Stranger things have happened on the road to heaven.

I’ve been officially retired according to the federal government for only ten days, and I’m already tired of this life. And I cannot see it getting any better.

It’s not that retirement snuck up on me. I had decades of advance notice.

A steady job, long hours, a payroll department dutifully withholding from every paycheck—every month a reminder that someday Uncle Sam would pat me on the head, hand me a monthly stipend, and say, “Go on now, enjoy your golden years.”

I pictured fishing, naps, reading books without falling asleep on the first page, and long drives with no destination in mind. I imagined I’d finally catch up with myself.

What they don’t tell you is that catching up with yourself is a surprisingly exhausting race. You’ve spent your life building a schedule, getting up at the same time, walking the same path, measuring your days by other people’s clocks.

When that’s all stripped away, the day yawns at you like a wide, empty parking lot. I used to complain about meetings, but now I’d give anything for one to have someone tell me where to be and what to do.

On Day One of retirement, I woke up at 4:00 a.m., like always, because the body doesn’t know what the government knows. It was a cool, dark morning, and the neighborhood was silent.

I sat at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee and no reason to hurry. The first hour was lovely. The second was nice. By hour three, I had cleaned out the junk drawer, reorganized the spice rack, and begun alphabetizing my old receipts. When my wife came into the kitchen at nine, I was leaning on the counter, staring at the toaster. “You’re up early,” she said. “Not really,” I told her. “I’m still on Day One.”

By Day Four, I had created a routine: I would wake up, drink coffee, stare at the ceiling, walk around the block, open the fridge, close it, and then open it again to see if anything had changed.. Retirement, I decided, is just working without pay, working at finding ways to fill time.

Everyone tells you retirement is a reward. What no one says is that it’s also a test. A test of patience. A test of imagination. A test of how long you can stand your own company without starting an argument.

The one thing saving me is my morning radio show, Monday through Friday. Without those hours on air, I think I’d lose track of what day it is—or worse, start talking back to the refrigerator. That show keeps me from unraveling completely.

On Day Five, my neighbor Larry—retired two years before me—invited me to join him for morning pickleball at the community center.

“It’ll keep you young,” he said. “Keeps the reflexes sharp.”

Pickleball, it turns out, is just tennis for people who’ve accepted they’re not as fast as they once were. The court is smaller, the ball is slower, the rules are looser.

You’d think it would be easy, but it isn’t. My reflexes weren’t just dull—they were practically on life support.

We played for forty minutes before I collapsed on a bench, gasping like a goldfish on a dock.

Larry looked as fresh as a daisy. “You’ll get used to it,” he said. “After a few weeks, you’ll feel like a new man.”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to feel like a new man. I wanted to feel like my old self, the one who could do a day’s work and still have the energy to mow the lawn.

On Day Six, I decided I needed a project. Retired people always talk about “projects.”

Build a birdhouse. Paint a fence. Write a memoir.

Something to make the hours stack up in a way that feels like a life. I went to the hardware store and bought lumber, nails, and a new hammer.

I built a birdhouse so lopsided that no self-respecting bird would move in. It looked like a condemned property.

I tried again, but the second one was worse. My wife suggested maybe the birds wouldn’t mind.

“They’re not paying rent,” she said. “They’re not picky.”

On Day Seven, I began writing a list of things to do, thinking a list would make me feel productive. “Make list” went at the top.

By the time I got to “Refill coffee” and “Check mail,” the list had already lost its luster. Retirement, I realized, is a little like being a teenager again–no money, no schedule, and an alarming amount of time to wonder what you’re supposed to do with your life.

I tried reading. I used to fantasize about days spent in a chair, a good book in one hand, a cool drink in the other.

But when you’re working, reading feels like a treat. When you’re retired, it feels like homework.

I tried napping, but naps are sweeter when stolen from a busy day. When the whole day is yours, lying down at two in the afternoon feels like giving up.

By Day Eight, I was muttering to myself. “You’re too young for this,” I said. “Find something to do.”

The houseplants were starting to look nervous. Even Buddy avoided eye contact.

On Day Nine, I returned to the hardware store to return the hammer. The clerk asked why.

“Too much responsibility,” I said.

He nodded like he’d heard it before.

That afternoon, I ran into Larry again. He was leaning on his fence, sipping lemonade. “How’s retirement treating you?” he asked.

I told him the truth. He laughed so hard he spilled lemonade on his shirt.

“You’ll be fine,” he said. “You’re just in detox. You’ve been running on other people’s schedules for decades. Takes a while to come down. You’ll find your rhythm.”

“I hope so,” I said. “Because right now my rhythm feels like a funeral march.”

“You’re looking at it wrong,” he said. “Retirement isn’t the end of work. It’s the beginning of doing your own work. No bosses, no deadlines. Just you and the clock.”

“That’s the problem,” I said. “Me and the clock aren’t on speaking terms.”

“Start small,” he said. “One thing a day. Write a letter. Call an old friend. Take a different route on your walk. Don’t try to fill the day. Let the day fill you.”

I thought about that for the rest of the evening. It sounded suspiciously like common sense, which I’d avoid on principle.

On Day Ten—today—I tried Larry’s advice. I woke up at 7:30 instead of 4:00.

I didn’t make a list. I didn’t build anything.

I sat on the porch with my coffee and just watched. The sun came up over the trees. A squirrel attempted a daring leap from one branch to another and missed, hanging upside down by its back feet before scrambling up again, unhurt but embarrassed.

Around noon, I called my son. We talked for an hour about nothing and everything.

By the end of the call, I felt better, not because I’d accomplished anything, but because I’d remembered something: retirement isn’t about stopping. It’s about shifting gears.

I still don’t know if I’m ready for this life. But maybe the point isn’t to know.

It could be that the point is to keep trying things until something fits—like a new pair of shoes you break in over time. Maybe retirement isn’t a prize or a punishment. Perhaps it’s just another stage, like adolescence, like parenthood, like all the other stages we bumble through until we figure them out.

I don’t have a plan yet. But tomorrow I’m going to try baking that pie. And the day after that, maybe I’ll go back to pickleball, or take a drive to nowhere in particular. The days aren’t going anywhere. I don’t have to fill them. They’ll fill me if I let them.

And who knows? Maybe one of these mornings I’ll wake up and realize I’m not tired of retirement anymore.

Eighteen days out now, and I’ll be honest—my words feel about as useful as a screen door on a submarine. I’ve tried jotting things down on scraps of paper, muttering to myself in the truck, even pacing around the kitchen with a half-empty cup of cold coffee.

Still, nothing comes close to easing the hurt folks are carrying. And truth be told, I can’t seem to patch up my own heart either.

Grief has this way of sticking to you, like burrs after walking through a dry field. You brush some of them off, but a few manage to cling in places you can’t quite reach. It doesn’t matter if you’re strong, faithful, or the kind who jokes through funerals—you still find yourself tugging at that ache in the middle of the night.

I’ve noticed that everyone seems to handle it differently. Some folks are angry, stomping around, and blaming anybody within shouting distance.

Others go quiet, like they’ve misplaced their voice. And then there are the ones who keep baking casseroles, because when words fail, food doesn’t.

I call that love in a Pyrex dish.

Me? I write.

I keep thinking maybe I’ll stumble across a sentence that acts like a salve. Something folks can rub on their sore hearts and feel just a little better. But most of what I scribble looks like the notes of a distracted sixth-grader—half-finished thoughts, arrows pointing in every direction, and doodles of stick men fishing.

It hit me yesterday that maybe the reason I can’t find “the right words” is because there aren’t any, at least not from me. Words alone can’t fix the kind of hole left behind when someone’s life gets taken so suddenly.

But presence can. Prayer can. A simple phone call can.

Sometimes just sitting beside somebody and saying, “Yeah, I’m hurting too” is the closest thing we get to holy ground.

I learned this lesson the hard way one morning. I stopped by a little diner, ordered my usual, and the waitress, who’s as cheerful as a bird at sunrise, looked worn-out.

I asked if she was okay. She shook her head, and tears started pooling before she could stop them.

I froze, because I sure didn’t know what to say. Then, right on cue, I spilled my coffee—half a cup right into my lap.

Ouch!

She laughed. I laughed.

And for a moment, her shoulders eased. I didn’t solve her problem.

I didn’t preach a sermon. I just managed to be human at the right time, and maybe that was enough.

That’s the thing about grief. It makes us think we have to come up with grand answers, some thunderbolt of wisdom that’ll straighten everybody’s spine. But sometimes what’s needed is just to be clumsy enough, silly enough, or so tender that someone else remembers life isn’t all sorrow.

Jesus said, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.”

He didn’t say how or when that comfort comes. Sometimes it arrives like a hymn that stirs your memory.

Sometimes it’s in the silence of prayer. And now and then, it comes in the form of spilled coffee and a shared laugh.

So here we are—four days out. Still hurting.

Many of us are struggling to find footing on a floor that won’t stop shifting. I don’t have a tidy bow to tie around this pain.

I don’t even have enough words to patch up my own. But I do know this–God has a way of showing up in the cracks, in the awkward pauses, in the small kindnesses we clumsily give each other.

Maybe that’s the best we can do right now. Let ourselves hurt, let others hurt, and keep showing up anyway—with prayers, casseroles, laughter, and the occasional coffee stain.

Because healing doesn’t happen in a rush, it’s slow, like dawn sneaking up over the mountains, bit by bit, until one morning you realize the dark has lifted enough to see the road again.

And when that day comes—and it will—we’ll walk it together.