- Against Active Measures: Take the Fight to the Russians
- After Comey: Will Democracy Die in Darkness?
- Trump White House Succession Planning: A Loyalty Day Thought Experiment
- Postcards from the Resistance, Vol. 8: Mother of All
- The Rosneft Commission: What We Should Be Looking For
- An Outsider’s Guide to the 2017 French Election
- How Deep is Your Treason? The Three Tiers of Trump/Russia
- Trump/Russia Has Entered the Third and Final Act
- Meet the Collaborators: A Rogue’s Gallery of Trumpromat
- The Complete Trump/Russia Timeline
- The Russia Story: Everything Donald Trump Doesn’t Want You to Know
- Secession Planning in California: CALEXIT is Russia’s Ultimate Objective
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- The 50 Greatest Superhero (and Villain) Names of All Time
- The 50 Greatest Literary Character Names of All Time
- The 50 Most Drug-Addled Albums in Music History
- The 50 Greatest Band Names of All Time
- The 50 Greatest Civil War Names
- How to Get Rid of Donald Trump: An Action Plan
- The 50 Greatest Unrequited Love Stories Ever
- From Axl to Zappa: The 50 Greatest Musician Names of All Time (Side A)
- The 50 Greatest Pro Football Names of All Time
- Song Beneath the Song: Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven” as Tarot Card Reading
- Song Beneath the Song: “Casimir Pulaski Day” by Sufjan Stevens
- The 50 Greatest Writer Names of All Time
Category Archives: Popular Culture
Laurie Frankel places the blame squarely where it belongs: right down Broadway. Continue reading
Kurt Baumeister and John Updike met once upon a time. The event probably wasn’t memorable for Updike, but it was for Baumeister.
A random and possibly embarrassing list of crushes, inane longings, smoldering gazes, and youthful inamoratas. “Deep down, all we really want is to be righteously hated by a woman not even deigning to put effort into her pretense of love.”
In his Weeklings debut Scott Waldyn asks the musical question, “What’s adulting anyway?”
Two media launches, two failures. It’s like Mookie Wilson hit not one but TWO ground balls to first base, and Bill Buckner botched them both.
Let’s hope Hillary is a better candidate than Joe Quimby.
I had only recently discovered the glories of a naked body entwined with mine and, like every sex neophyte since time began, I had figured nothing would ever compare. I was wrong.
Binge-watching Hannibal gets to be a pretty harrowing affair. Hear why.