Just before falling asleep on Tuesday night, my phone — resting peacefully on my night table — chirped. Then chirped again. Then again. I have a rule about checking my phone before bed. The phone at that hour is a portal to doom-scrolling and existential questions like: Who in God’s name can still support Donald Trump and call himself a patriot?

It is not a mistake… When federal prosecutors in Minneapolis sought a warrant to collect evidence from Renee Goods’ vehicle after the shooting, they were told to stand down. They were told by senior officials in the White House, including Kash Patel, that they were concerned the evidence uncovered would completely contradict Agent Orange’s claim that she “violently, willfully, and viciously ran over the CE officer.”

The man currently residing in the White House announced this week that the U.S.

The man currently residing in the White House announced this week that the U.S.

The man currently residing in the White House announced this week that the U.S. used a secret weapon when we attacked Venezuela. He called it the “discombulator.” He said he wasn’t allowed to talk about it — which meant, of course, that he immediately kept talking about it. (Remember, this is a guy who liked storing top-secret documents in public restrooms.)

“No ICE please!” There’s a moment that happens dozens of times a day across America.A barista asks, “Would you like that iced?”A server says, “Ice with your water?” It’s such an ordinary exchange that it barely registers. Pure autopilot. But what if this tiny interaction could double as political expression? What if the simple act of ordering a drink could quietly signal resistance to Trump’s version of law enforcement cosplay?

Paul, it’s called “Minnesota Nice.” A long time ago — when Donald Trump was still on his first wife and had only three bankruptcies under his belt — my best friend moved to Wayzata, Minnesota. At the time, he was on the fast track at one of the largest insurance brokers in the world, and with my New Yorker’s view of life, I couldn’t fathom why they’d send him somewhere that regularly posted the coldest temperatures in the nation.

WAFFLES!

WAFFLES! That’s the proclamation I make to my wife, sister, and friends when the fluffy white stuff is falling from the sky. This isn’t due to a brain injury or a neurodiverse condition. I know it’s snowing. I could easily say “snow.” But I don’t, because those who know me understand that long ago, in some breakfast corner of my deep, dark past, I decided I like waffles far too much.

How this government responded to kindness with bullets — and what that says about us “That’s fine, dude. I’m not mad at you.” Those were the last words Renee Nicole Good ever spoke. They were not uttered in anger. They were not provocative. They were said with warmth, understanding, and a smile — a tacit acknowledgment that the ICE officer in front of her was doing what his superiors had asked of him.

Long ago, in a galaxy remarkably similar to the one we live in now, I read an article in Rolling Stone magazine titled “Among the Euroweenies” by P.J. O’Rourke. It was a hilarious takedown of everything in Europe that Americans find just a little strange. The gem I remember most from that story was his observation that European phones (we had landlines then, even though we didn’t call them that—we just called them phones) sounded like dogs farting.

Merry Christmas, everyone. I hope your holiday has been filled with the joy of the season. As a Jewish family, we always celebrated Christmas. According to family lore, this tradition began with my mother’s parents. Her father was a physician, and somewhere along the way they decided to host a Christmas party for his patients and their friends. The idea, I’m told, was to lift the burden of hosting from their Christian friends and to create a place for anyone who might feel alone at that time of year.

This has been a tough week. I don’t need to tell you that. You’ve lived through most of it too. But let’s recap, just to be sure we’re all singing from the same Union Prayer Book. It began with the shootings at Brown University. Two students were killed and nine injured—on the thirteenth anniversary of the Sandy Hook massacre. Whether that timing was coincidence or intent, we will never know.

A Tale of Two Nephews I have two nephews. They are much alike. Both stand over six feet tall—handsome by any measure—with light complexions, rosy cheeks, dimples as deep as divots, and unruly mops of blond hair. They are athletic: one a former rower and lifelong gym rat, the other a onetime baseball player and current Peloton warrior. Both are intelligent, blessed with prodigious memories, and keenly aware that being smart is not an end in itself.

Both of my nephews have wonderful intentions. Both want a better world than the one they inherited. They’re just approaching it from wildly different starting points. That may be the hallmark of our t...

Today marks the eighty-sixth anniversary of my father’s arrival in the United States. In our family we treated the date like a small holiday. Maybe it didn’t have the sparkle of Hanukkah, Christmas, or the cluster of December birthdays in our house, but it carried its own quiet reverence. It was a day to pause, acknowledge what this country gave to my father, and—importantly for a family with a serious sweet tooth—to eat cake.

My father’s favorite holiday was Thanksgiving. When I was a kid, I assumed this was because the food was excellent and my father enjoyed eating more than anyone I knew. He truly savored savoring. But that wasn’t why he held such a deep affection for the holiday. He believed Thanksgiving was the ultimate American holiday. While celebrations of gratitude exist in almost every culture, our Thanksgiving—with its customs and traditions—was uniquely American.

I went looking for the Old Grey Lady the other day. For as long as I can remember, she has been a part of my life—educating and informing me in a way few others ever did. She was known for being responsible about what she said and how she said it. Her mission was simple: “All the News That’s Fit to Print.” You could rely on her for in-depth reporting about the world around you.

Introducing what may soon be the most popular game in America: Trump: Dementia, Felon, or Huckster.  While listening to the latest dispatch from Trumpverse, players pick which part of the President’s ...

I used to be a news junkie. It was a habit I inherited straight from my parents. My father would practically read the ink off the New York Times every morning—not every article, maybe, but every section. It was how he warmed up for the day and ensured he knew more than most people in the room. He liked that.

He never wanted another living soul to endure the hell he and his family faced that night. I publish his story each year to honor his memory and his wish that we never forget.But we have failed him — ...

For the better part of the last twenty years, on the anniversary of Kristallnacht, I have published my father’s “A Minor Memorandum to My Children on the Fiftieth Anniversary of Kristallnacht: November 9 and 10, 1938.” He wrote it for his children so that we would never forget the horror of that night — and the genocide that followed. His hope was simple: we remember what happens when a society loses its humanity.

There’s a moment in every democracy when the fringe stops being the fringe. It’s not when an extremist gains followers online, or when their rhetoric briefly trends on social media. It happens when institutions that once stood as gatekeepers begin to open the door. That’s why the growing embrace of Nick Fuentes by groups like the Heritage Foundation isn’t just a warning light—it’s a klaxon.