Society

For decades, the picture of Earth’s future – as laid out by journalists and climate scientists alike – has been bleak. By 2070 we will see famine, economic collapse, a sun that cooks us, melted icecaps, flooding, extreme hurricanes and ever-present tropical storms. "Vast swathes" of the planet will be inhospitable for human life. And Greta Thunberg, in her late sixties, will wear a gas mask as she sits on the steps of Swedish Parliament with a cardboard sign declaring, "I told you so." Advocates have poured gasoline on the climate-alarmism fire earnestly, backed by reports declaring, "There really is no serious scientific debate remaining about climate change.

When President Trump said in July that he planned to host a Ultimate Fighting Championship event on the White House lawn next year as part of the U.S.A.’s 250th birthday celebrations, people dismissed it as a typical piece of hyperbole and bluster. “We have a lot of land there,” Trump said, which is somewhat true, but that doesn’t mean that you can plop down an Octagon, right? Well, as it turns out, that’s exactly what it means. Trump is like that boy in the old Twilight Zone episode. Whatever he wishes, comes true. In an interview with the Wall Street Journal, UFC boss Dana White, one of Trump’s biggest supporters, said that the UFC 250th anniversary (of the U.S.) is definitely going to happen. “Fighters will be warming up in the White House,” White said.

The Trump administration issued a memo Monday saying that federal workers are openly allowed to express religious beliefs in the workplace “to the greatest extent possible unless such expression would impose an undue hardship on business operations.” This means that they can display Bibles, religious artwork and items “such as crosses, crucifixes and mezuzah,” among other religious symbols. But that’s not all. Workers are also allowed to talk about how their own faith is “correct” and how others should “re-think” their beliefs. “During a break, an employee may engage another in polite discussion of why his faith is correct and why the nonadherent should re-think his religious beliefs.

When I was promoting the various books I wrote about the British royal family, I was asked a number of questions by the audience. A lot were about Meghan and Harry and were uniformly hostile. Some were, indeed, more an observation than a question. I’d allow the speaker a couple of moments to rhapsodize about the late Queen and the Princess Royal; I usually didn’t mind, as long as the gabber bought a book afterward. But one of the running strands throughout my various appearances was that there would usually be someone present, slightly more excitable looking than the others, who would ask me, “Do you believe the official stories about Princess Diana’s death?” The questioner would then be pleased, and many of the others surprised, when I replied, candidly, “No, I don’t.

To many people mourning him this week, Hulk Hogan was a larger-than-life super being, an outsized professional wrestling character with a singularly American persona. “I watched him lift 350-pound men over his head and throw them out of the ring,” President Trump said on Friday.  I appreciate a good show as much as anyone, and have seen Rocky III many times. But I was never really a pro-wrestling guy. For me, Hulk Hogan is an important figure because he helped bring about the defeat of one of my life’s great villains: Gawker Media.  Since only a couple of dozen people remember my personal drama with Gawker, I’ll provide a brief summary.

It was the summer of 1954, and Texas Senator Lyndon B. Johnson was locked in a primary fight with fellow Democrat Dudley Dougherty. Flush with cash, Texas oil tycoons threw their support behind Dougherty through tax-exempt organizations like Facts Forum and the Committee for Constitutional Government. But Johnson, political shark that he was, quietly slipped in a new amendment to the IRS code banning tax-exempt organizations from engaging in partisan political activity. Lyndon Johnson sailed through the primary, and the name Dudley Dougherty became lost to history. The Johnson Amendment lived on, though in the present age, it has been contorted by political activists to crack down on Christians.Johnson’s intention was not to censor religious institutions.

Before I’d established my tiny crew of fellow local moms, I aggressively befriended – or tried to befriend – any woman with a baby who looked vaguely friendly. I’d try my luck in cafes, playgrounds, baby classes, yet with only minimal success (one find, a Cambridge-educated Irish lawyer, "forgot" her wallet on our date, leaving me to pay for her expensive glass of wine).So I clung gratefully to one of my café pickups, Marta, with whom two or three pleasant playdates (or rather: mommy walking dates) had taken place. I had rosy hopes for more as her kid was cute and reminded me of my own. But one day, strolling along the dark and wintry main drag that connected our two adjacent neighborhoods, things took a turn for the ominous.

Politico recently published a piece titled “Mike Lee Can’t Stop Throwing Social Media Grenades. His Church Isn’t Happy.” It cast Senator Lee as a liability to his own religion and positioned him against the church. The entire article hinges on a premise that is misleading at best and manipulative at worst: that Lee, being a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (the Mormon church), must conform to a certain political tone or risk disapproval from “his Church.” But this article isn’t reporting on some objective religious rift. It’s a political attack dressed up in ecclesiastical robes. The author of the piece is himself a member of the LDS church.

"Nearly 3-in-4 Americans say they rely on their public radio stations for alerts and news for their public safety,” National Public Radio CEO Katherine Maher said in a statement after the Senate approved a rescissions package that would, once and for all, take NPR off the federal funding payroll. It was a very NPR way of deploying the usual Democrat policy complaint that “people will die,” which they won’t. In reality, most Americans learn about public emergencies from phone alerts or while watching Wheel of Fortune, or, in the case of non-NPR listening Kerr County, Texas, when the water is at their front door. But these are desperate times at NPR headquarters, so “people will die if they defund us” is their last strategy.

In a 2023 interview, California Governor Gavin Newsom was asked how he ended up in a leadership position. After struggling with his response, he eventually paraphrased a line from George Orwell’s Shooting an Elephant: “I put a mask on and my face grew into it.” It was a remarkable admission that inadvertently validated his most common critique – that he is fundamentally inauthentic. Newsom has always seemed as though he were grown in a lab to be a politician. In a way, he was. The son of a well-connected judge and insider of the Getty family dynasty, he has glided through public life with the polished ease of someone born to power. He looks like a central casting governor, speaks in political platitudes and has successfully learned to suppress any sign of human spontaneity.