Politicon

Is the age-old “beauty myth” dead or have feminists somehow reclaimed it, and if so, is it no longer a tool of patriarchy?  The more women have gained entry into realms once dominated by men, including fashion, the more some seem intent on flipping the script when it comes to objectification of the female body. But is self-objectification — showing a little leg and much more, and sassing those who deride them — really a form of empowerment? Sydney Sweeney seems to be emerging as a poster child for this largely undeclared movement among high-flying Gen Z women to shamelessly flaunt their bodies to create an aura of bad-girl, even raunchy, sexiness. It leaves even their diehard fans, including gaggles of male-gazing men, to tsk-tsk in quiet adoration. But not everyone’s in Sweeney’s thrall.  The thinly veiled angst of the young women who feel left behind isn’t Sweeney “hate,” it’s an anguished call for authenticity. Sweeney thinks she’s turning the tables on The Man. But it’s still just a dance of seduction.

"Nobody knows how to write a book" could signal the most ironic call to arms for a craft book ever penned. As an opening line, it might be right up there with the off-hand "All this happened, more or less," the nonfiction kickoff to a chameleonic twentieth-century novel (Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse-Five). This advice-eschewing book on storytelling, A Long Game: How to Write Fiction by Elizabeth McCracken, nonetheless beckons me from the pages of The Guardian newspaper, where I read a review a few days ago. This from the same McCracken who wrote An Exact Replica Of A Figment Of My Imagination, a remarkable 2008 memoir. That poignant autobiographical take on motherhood surfaces for me like a haunted mirror draped in cotton candy-thin cobwebs, circa 1991 (IYKYK). A twenty-first century Le Guin, she steers writers away from cheerleadery cop-outs that urge everyone can be a writer if they only toe the line(s). Quite simply, it's not that easy, especially hewing to the usual nostrums. And in The Long Game, McCracken "is naughty, perverse, quietly exhibitionist and bracingly unashamed." So says Toby Litt of The Guardian. "Writing is a form of sustained mischievous truancy. It’s not about being good," Litt writes of PEN New England-winner McCracken. And so, I'm keen to push, Sisyphus-style, McCracken's latest-and-greatest from my TBR pile into my TBL (to be lived), that boat-rockin' place where 'well-behaved women rarely make history.' Good trouble, here I come!

Why take over Greenland? Because (like Ukraine) it’s sitting on vast untapped reserves of precious minerals — not the coal, gold, or diamonds of yore that once fueled the colonial “scramble” for Africa — but the lucrative rare earth elements (REEs) and other critical minerals, especially titanium — crucial to green tech and defense. Trump wants them to Make America Mineral-Rich Again, of course, which, in theory, would give us strategic leverage against Russia and China, who would likely gobble up these same vital resources, too, given half a chance. But Trump, as always, wants a private reward for his efforts, and what better place for a Trump family fiefdom than a massive uninhabited territory like Greenland? The wheels must already be turning inside the Orange Man’s head. A palatial estate dwarfing Mar-a-Lago, encircled by farms and ranches for his biggest fans and donors, a Disney-sized Trump theme park perhaps, and all serviced by hundreds of happy-go-lucky guest workers and young nymphs recruited from around the world. (Eat your heart out Jeffrey!) Think of it as a 21st-century version of “Green Acres” (echoing the popular 1960s TV show). He’d just have to convince Melania to wear American Eagle jeans and ride a tractor now and then. (Trump already has the pitchfork down). “Fresh Air . . . Times Square!”

Sad news from Africa! I was sorry to hear on 3rd January 2026, Craig, the legendary “super tusker,” at the age of 54, passed away from natural causes at his home in the Amboseli National Park in Kenya.​ Craig was the last of the rare bull elephants known as super tuskers, whose tusks were long enough to brush the ground as they walked, and each reportedly weighed more than 100 pounds (45 kilograms).​ His magnificent tusks and tranquil demeanor made him a celebrity around the world, as he calmly posed for wildlife photographers and tourists. He was also famed for representing the Tusker beer brand and was part of Kenya’s success in elephant conservation, whose numbers have increased in recent years thanks to these efforts.​ Although his passing will be greatly mourned by wildlife fans, conservationists, and the Kenya Wildlife Service, his life will be remembered and celebrated, and I am glad to know that Craig fathered many calves, so his bloodline will continue.

Call me cynical, but there's nothing all that new in Trump's high-profile invasion of Venezuela. In 1994, Bill Clinton surrounded Haiti with a naval blockade and threatened to overthrow the regime if it didn't accede to US demands — and that's exactly what Clinton did, putting deposed leader Jean-Bertrande Aristide back in power. Don't kid yourself: The United States has always arrogated to itself the right to arrange political regimes to its own liking in the Western hemisphere (the so-called American “backyard”) ever since the promulgation of the Monroe Doctrine in 1823. Democracy? Sure, as long as the local regimes agree to serve American interests. The new "Donroe Doctrine" may well dispense with the multilateral fig leaf our nation sometimes seeks to provide diplomatic cover for what, at root, are unilateral U.S. actions. But the fact is, somebody always wants their country “back” — most Haitains did in 1994, and now millions of Venezuelan refugees, including Maria Corina Machado, who just won the Nobel Peace Prize, do. And they expect America to wield the Big Stick to get it for them. In the end, perhaps sadly, that may be all the political legitimacy needed to justify these actions.

There’s a reason the annual Times Square “New Year’s Rockin’ Eve” bash still bears the name of legendary pop music mogul Dick Clark, who founded the event in 1972 and hosted it for more than 30 years. Clark, dubbed “America’s oldest teenager” introduced the entire country to rock-and-roll on his program “American Bandstand” during its heyday in the 1950s and 1960s. And his own preternaturally youthful appearance — which lasted well into his 70s and 80s — has continued to give pop culture a fresh and vibrant spirit ever since. In a small way, perhaps, Clark’s distinctive “brand” and persona reminds us of our "roots," and hearkens to the unity of purpose and direction — and emerging racial harmony — so many of us once felt. Ryan Seacrest has hosted for 20 straight years, but he'll never top the man who inherited Guy Lombardo’s New Year’s Eve gig and who stole the “Bandstand” from DJ Bob Horn by boldly showcasing the likes of Sam Cooke, Chuck Berry, and Chubby Checker.

Several teachers I know have second jobs. One works in construction. Another moonlights as a vendor at an entertainment venue. A third, hotel concierge. I can’t speak for them, but I doubt they live high on the hog — as my family does not. The construction worker? His toddler has leukemia, so surely that contributes, in the absence of a national healthcare system. Meanwhile, I hold down three jobs (one full time); dumpster-dive and do product-testing for food, toiletries, and appliances; and my partner and I pay 45.5% of our income to rent a small apartment, another 14.4% to storage, about 6.5% to utilities, 10% to auto and groceries, and some 50% to medical/student debt (including for an incurable nervous system disorder). Yep, that exceeds 100%. And so, you see, there is precious little affordability, and certainly no getting ahead, no American dream. Just toiling until you fall, gratefully, into death’s loving embrace. It's no wonder that images of guillotines are popping up everywhere. As we the people struggle and seethe, the drumbeats of, by, and for class warfare surge.

James Woods is one of Hollywood's most outspoken conservatives, a staunch defender of Donald Trump. He was sharply at odds with fellow actor and producer Rob Reiner — a diehard liberal — on nearly every issue imaginable. But the two men worked closely on several films and their relationship blossomed. "Did I agree with his politics? I did not," Woods says. "Did I love him as a friend, as an icon of Hollywood, and as a patriot, I most definitely did." There is hope here (Woods interview link).

You can never, ever have enough pitching in Major League Baseball. Detroit Tigers fans have seen what a lack of pitching in September can do firsthand the past two seasons.

One of my hopes for 2026 is to see two fan favorites return to Detroit.

Can you imagine Justin Verlander and Max Scherzer back in the Old English D? I can. I know Santa can, but the real question is, can Tigers owner Chris Illitch?

My entire 2026 wishlist for Detroit is here.

Nostalgia for Kamala Harris is making it impossible for other top Democrats to get air time. Democrats have a deep bench of accomplished two-term governors with real policy chops and track records of success. It took less than 107 days for her last road show to fizzle. Now she's planning to extend her book tour through the spring of 2026. Is the party prepared to commit political suicide twice? She's the gift that keeps on giving — to the GOP.  

London never ceases to amaze me with its unspoken social rules. Adhering to them becomes marginally harder during the holiday seasons. Keep it moving, please, guys!

Right now, I am stalled at the end of the first episode of "IT: Welcome to Derry" (HBO Max), where Stephen King's homicidal harlequin Pennywise springs to bloody life, bit by bit. The AI and what feels like extreme gore are off-putting to me as I watch, even as a long-time horror fan. "Story before gore" appeals to me as a reader's or voyeur's mantra. But, perversely perhaps, as a writerly exercise, immersion in that flow — a visceral blood tide of language one births herself — has its pull. As a big "Shining" fan, I'd definitely like to know how Halloran fits in. So maybe I'll give "IT" another go.