David Fagin

The recent White House decision to bar CNN, MS NOW and Politico from the premises has produced the predictable mixture of outrage, legal analysis and hand-wringing. Our ‘Free Speech” president announced the ban on September 18, accusing the outlets of publishing what he called “FAKE NEWS.” By the following morning, reporters from all three organizations were being turned away and having their credentials disabled or confiscated.

But amid the noise, something unusual happened.

C-SPAN showed some backbone.

C-SPAN, which has spent decades playing the media version of Switzerland, issued a statement standing in solidarity with the news organizations that had been excluded. But perhaps even more revealing was the network's appeal for a rational resolution.

A rational resolution!

From a president whose response to unfavorable coverage now includes banning the journalists responsible for reporting it.

And therein lies the problem.

C-SPAN absolutely deserves credit for standing with its colleagues (see how it’s done, Lesley Stahl?) But by appealing for a rational resolution from a president who has repeatedly demonstrated he has no qualms eviscerating every conventional political norm, the network inadvertently illustrates just how clueless it — and much of the mainstream media — still seems to be about the moment we're living through.

Demolish entire sections of the White House?

We can fix this over coffee.

Threaten to raze a memorial to one of history's most cherished presidents if your name doesn't replace his?

Let's talk about it in group.

Ban major news organizations from accessing the People's House?

We respectfully implore you to reconsider.

If this were 1939 Germany, would C-SPAN be asking Hitler to “reconsider” his plans for a master race?

Maybe over a cup of tea, he'd change his mind?

With all the combined intelligence of C-Span executives and its legal team, they’ve apparently still not learned one of history’s greatest lessons: A civilized response to an uncivilized man will get you nowhere. More importantly, at what point does a civilized response to an uncivilized act stop being civility and start becoming complicity through naiveté?

As I wrote previously in my piece about Whoopi Goldberg asking for decorum during Ted Cruz's appearance on The View, the insistence on decorum above all else can become absurd when it is combined with a refusal to acknowledge just how far outside ordinary political norms the situation has moved.

Civility is useful.

Civility is admirable.

But civility is not a strategy for dealing with someone who has decided the rules don't apply to him. Especially if that person swore an oath to protect and defend the Constitution.

The failure by a majority of the mainstream media to acknowledge how far from the norms we really are all but guarantees our current national (and global) nightmare will last much, much longer than it needs to. And that’s a tragedy.

To put it simply using a metaphor from the Spielberg classic Back to the Future, we all know what would’ve happened if George McFly — C-Span — tried to defend Lorraine — America — by politely asking Biff — Donald Trump — to reconsider sexually assaulting her. Biff would’ve become president. Get the picture, media?

Again, C-SPAN absolutely deserves credit for standing with its colleagues. But the second part of its response — asking a president with a documented record of conflict with the press to reconsider his latest self-imposed conflict — also demonstrates the larger problem.

The question isn't whether the media should be civil.

The question is what the media does when civility isn't working.

How should the media respond to a president who repeatedly tests the boundaries of established norms, legal precedent and institutional restraints?

One thing seems increasingly clear: pretending every confrontation has a rational, diplomatic solution isn't working.

A ban isn't just another disagreement.

A threat isn't just another headline.

An attack on a journalist isn't just another news cycle.

And when the response to each successive escalation is, “Perhaps we should all sit down and talk about this,” eventually the people doing the talking need to ask whether they're actually accomplishing anything (Chuck Schumer take note).

Be it ballrooms, reflecting pools, press bans or military action, there comes a point when the question is no longer whether the gloves should come off.

It's whether we've waited so long to take the situation seriously that we're no longer allowed into the ring.

And maybe that's the real lesson of C-SPAN's statement.

The network finally stepped into the fight.

Now it needs to realize that asking the bully nicely to stop isn't the same thing as stopping him.

There are plenty of ways to exercise power in Washington. Pass legislation. Kill legislation. Twist arms. Control committees. Bury investigations. Force votes. Block votes.

And then there’s Mike Johnson’s preferred method:

Everybody go home.

Under Speaker Johnson, the House has repeatedly canceled scheduled voting days and headed for the exits when the political terrain became uncomfortable. In 2026 alone, the House cut 28 scheduled days while adding four — a net loss of 24 legislative days, roughly one-fourth of the originally scheduled total. In September, Republican leaders canceled another two weeks of planned votes before the November midterms, giving members considerably more time to campaign instead.

This week, Johnson did it again.

On September 16, Johnson recessed the House early, sending members home before the scheduled end of the week and leaving unfinished business behind. Republican Rep. Thomas Massie — not exactly a Democratic operative — responded incredulously from the House floor:

“We’re calling off Congress? And we’re in the majority?”

That may be the perfect epitaph for this hapless Congress.

Johnson argues that the House has been extraordinarily productive, pointing to hundreds of bills passed and major Republican legislative accomplishments. His critics counter that he has repeatedly canceled voting days when his razor-thin majority faced difficult votes or internal divisions. Even Republicans have complained. In 2025, the House held just 105 voting days — barely above the COVID-era 2021 total of 104.

Congress, of course, isn't paid by the hour. Members work in their districts, hold hearings, meet constituents and conduct legitimate business away from the House floor.

But let's not pretend a congressional recess is politically meaningless.

The speaker possesses enormous power over what reaches the House floor — and when the floor itself effectively closes, legislation doesn't pass, subpoenas don't get enforced, investigations don't advance and members don't have to cast votes they'd rather not explain back home.

That brings us to a much larger question — one Democrats should be prepared to confront if they regain congressional power.

Every member of Congress takes an oath to support the Constitution. Article VI explicitly requires federal and state officials to be bound by oath or affirmation to support it. Federal law requires members to swear that they will “support and defend the Constitution” and “well and faithfully discharge the duties” of their offices.

But there is no general federal crime called “violating your oath of office.”

Maybe Congress should finally have a serious debate about whether that gap makes sense.

Not a law criminalizing political disagreement. Not a law allowing a Democratic administration to prosecute Republicans for conservative votes — or a Republican administration to prosecute Democrats for liberal ones. Not some vague statute allowing the Justice Department to decide which politicians are sufficiently patriotic.

Something far narrower.

Congress could examine whether federal law adequately covers intentional abuses of official power designed to obstruct constitutionally mandated governmental functions — and, where it does not, whether precisely defined criminal statutes are warranted.

The distinction is crucial. Members of Congress receive substantial constitutional protection for legitimate legislative activity under the Speech or Debate Clause. Any new statute would have to respect that protection and survive serious constitutional scrutiny.

But Democrats should stop treating institutional guardrails as though they magically enforce themselves.

If they regain power, they will face a choice.

They can hold hearings.

They can issue sternly worded statements.

They can appear on cable television and announce that they are “deeply concerned.”

They can spend another congressional term telling Americans that certain conduct is unprecedented, dangerous, outrageous and unacceptable — and then accept it.

Or they can legislate.

They can examine the weaknesses exposed over the past several years and ask a straightforward question: What happens when an officeholder knowingly abuses the powers of his office to frustrate the constitutional system he swore to support?

If the answer is merely “voters can punish him eventually,” Congress should decide whether that is sufficient.

Because accountability cannot depend entirely upon shame when the people involved have demonstrated that shame is not particularly high on their list of concerns.

And Democrats should understand something else: writing enforceable rules is not political revenge. Properly drafted laws would apply to Democrats too. They would apply to whoever holds power next year, 10 years from now or 50 years from now.

That is precisely the point.

Democracy cannot survive indefinitely on the assumption that everybody entrusted with power will voluntarily respect norms. Norms work only when the people breaking them fear consequences. When those consequences disappear, “norms” become suggestions.

So if Democrats take Congress in November, don't just investigate what happened.

Don't just televise it.

Don't just condemn it.

Write the rules. Define the offenses. Establish the penalties. Put constitutional guardrails into federal law wherever Congress legitimately can — and make those laws apply equally to everybody.

Do it carefully. Do it constitutionally. Make the prohibited conduct specific. Protect legitimate legislative activity and political disagreement. Build in demanding intent requirements so prosecutors cannot criminalize ordinary politics.

But do it.

Because an oath of office should be more than ceremonial wallpaper recited on the first day of Congress and forgotten by lunchtime.

And if Congress concludes that certain intentional abuses of public power really do constitute a betrayal of the duties officials swear to perform, then it should have the courage to say so in law.

Otherwise, stop calling it an oath.

Call it what it has become:

A suggestion.

There may be no better metaphor for why Democrats keep getting pantsed by Republicans than Whoopi Goldberg asking an audience to please be respectful to Ted Cruz.

Ted Cruz.

Not Jimmy Carter. Not Mister Rogers. Ted Cruz.

Cruz appeared on The View, and when the audience became disruptive, Goldberg admonished them, essentially insisting that he was a guest and deserved to be heard.

And there it was: the Democratic Party’s entire problem condensed into one exquisitely painful television moment.

The other side shows up with a flamethrower. Democrats ask everyone to please use their indoor voices.

To be clear, Cruz should be allowed on The View. Put him on. Ask him questions. Let him speak. Free speech isn’t the problem.

The problem is the bizarre insistence that someone who helped legitimize the effort to overturn the 2020 election must also be wrapped in the warm blanket of institutional respectability while doing it. My phone blew up with texts from friends/family who couldn’t believe what they were seeing.

Cruz objected to certification of Arizona’s electoral votes even after courts had repeatedly rejected claims of widespread fraud sufficient to change the election. He wasn’t some guy in a Facebook group forwarding blurry screenshots of voting machines. He was a United States senator. A Harvard Law graduate. Former solicitor general of Texas. He understood exactly how serious the moment was.

And yet somehow the people booing him are the ones who need a lecture about decorum.

This is why Democrats will never “get it.”

Republicans figured out years ago that politics is a knife fight being held inside a country club. Democrats are still worried someone might use the wrong salad fork.

The modern GOP has spent years attacking institutions, demonizing political opponents, calling elections rigged, treating compromise as weakness and turning politics into professional wrestling. Democrats respond by polishing the lectern and reminding everybody that, traditionally, we wait until the other person finishes speaking.

Wonderful.

Maybe democracy will put that on its tombstone.

HERE LIES THE AMERICAN EXPERIMENT.
IT LOST, BUT WAS EXTREMELY POLITE ABOUT IT.

This fetishization of civility is particularly maddening because it confuses manners with morality.

They are not the same thing.

You can behave impeccably while doing terrible things. History is filled with well-dressed people calmly explaining monstrous ideas. Take Joseph Mengele, the SS officer and physician dubbed the "Angel of Death." He gave out candy to the children who called him “Uncle Joseph,” before removing their spines. Conversely, an angry citizen yelling “BS” from the cheap seats may occasionally have a better grasp of the situation than the person sitting under studio lights explaining why we should all hear both sides.

There aren't always two equally respectable sides.

If somebody claims an election was stolen without evidence, the journalistic response shouldn't be, “Interesting. Let's explore that perspective.”

It should be, “Prove it.”

And when they can't, say so.

This is where Democrats and much of liberal television, not to mention the White House Press Corp., remain trapped in an obsolete fantasy: that if they demonstrate enough fairness, restraint and respect for norms, Republicans will eventually become embarrassed and reciprocate.

Any day now.

Perhaps immediately after infrastructure week.

The instinct isn't evil. In another political era, it might even have been admirable. Democratic institutions require disagreement. People with opposing political views have to coexist. Losing an election cannot mean deciding the winner is illegitimate.

Which is precisely why election denial is different.

The peaceful transfer of power is the mechanism that allows all the other disagreements to happen. Taxes, abortion, immigration, health care — we can scream about all of them because underneath the screaming is supposed to be one basic agreement: elections decide who governs.

Once politicians decide that elections only count when their team wins, we're no longer debating policy. We're arguing over whether the scoreboard itself exists.

And Democrats still seem terrified of appearing rude while pointing this out.

They worry about “norms” while their opponents discovered that norms are only enforceable when both sides care about them. They worry about hypocrisy while their opponents discovered hypocrisy has roughly the shelf life of yogurt left on a Phoenix sidewalk. They worry about being accused of partisanship by people who will accuse them of partisanship regardless.

Then, inevitably, somebody like Cruz walks onto a television set and liberals feel compelled to prove how much more civilized they are.

“Please be respectful.”

Why?

Be lawful. Don't threaten anyone. Don't assault anyone. Don't prevent someone from speaking indefinitely.

But respectful?

Respect is earned.

A functioning democracy doesn't require citizens to politely applaud politicians who tried to undermine confidence in an election. In fact, democracy depends on citizens being allowed to tell those politicians exactly what they think of them.

Loudly.

The irony is that Democrats constantly wonder why their voters aren't as energized as Republicans. Maybe it's because whenever Democratic voters actually become furious, somebody immediately appears with a rolled-up newspaper and tells them to get off the furniture.

Calm down.

Be reasonable.

Don't alienate anyone.

Respect the institution.

Meanwhile, Republicans have spent years discovering that anger is political rocket fuel.

Democrats don't need to become Republicans. They shouldn't lie more effectively, abandon democratic norms or turn every disagreement into mortal combat.

But they desperately need to learn the difference between defending norms and being imprisoned by them.

Democracy doesn't survive because everybody behaves nicely.

It survives because certain lines matter.

Trying to overturn a legitimate presidential election should be one of those lines.

Ted Cruz can appear on The View. He can speak. He can defend himself. He can even complain about the reception.

But nobody owes him applause.

Nobody owes him deference.

And Americans certainly don't need a celebrity moderator explaining that the important thing, after an attempted subversion of an election, is that we remember our manners.

That's the problem.

Republicans keep testing how far the guardrails can bend.

Democrats keep reminding everyone not to lean on them.

And then they wonder why they keep losing the argument. And for that, we say “Shame on you, Whoopi.”

There is a question Democrats should be asking themselves before the November midterm elections, and it is more uncomfortable than simply asking whether they can win.

What happens if they do?

More specifically: What will Democrats do if voters hand them control of Congress?

The fact that this question even needs to be asked — especially amid what many regard as the most corrupt and lawless administration in history — should tell Democrats something about the depth of voter frustration.

We sat through nearly eight years of Barack Obama trying to play Kumbaya with Republicans whose only goal was opposing everything he stood for. We watched the Justice Department's burying of the Mueller investigation and its aftermath. We endured nearly two years of an attorney general who seemed determined to move on. After an insurrection.

And we're now faced with Democratic leaders who, at least on the surface, still appear to be failing to read the room.

Americans aren't simply angry at Republicans. Many are also deeply frustrated with Democrats who, in their view, have repeatedly failed to meet the moment: funding ICE when resistance was demanded, responding with “strong letters” when action was required, engaging in private meetings with members of Trump's inner circle, and appearing remarkably passive when voters expected action — Mitch McConnell's months-long vanishing act being just one example.

These are not minor complaints.

They reflect a larger problem: the perception that Democrats are unwilling to use the power they have — or the power voters might give them — to demand accountability.

A Republican victory in November would be deeply consequential. A continued Republican majority could mean another two years in which congressional oversight of the current administration remains about as likely as the Trump EPA protecting the environment.

But there is another possibility:

Democrats win control of Congress — and then decide that the country needs to “move on.”

That could be almost as damaging.

To some, “moving on” may sound like national healing. To angry voters who believe they have watched institutions and their leaders fail and want accountability, it may sound like something else entirely:

Surrender.

Americans are exhausted by political warfare. They want lower prices, better jobs, functioning government and safer communities.

But there is a fundamental difference between moving forward and moving on.

Moving forward means establishing what happened, determining whether laws were broken, exposing abuses of power and putting safeguards in place so they cannot happen again.

Moving on means deciding that accountability is too politically inconvenient.

Winning Congress Is Not the Same as Restoring Accountability

If Democrats regain the House, they will have subpoena power, committee gavels and the ability to conduct serious investigations.

Reports indicate Democratic leaders are preparing investigations into the Trump administration, its business interests and its political network should they win the House.

But preparation is one thing. Follow-through is another.

That is where Democratic candidates need to be pressed.

Consider Iowa Senate candidate Josh Turek, who recently appeared on The Briefing with Jen Psaki. Turek is the Democratic nominee challenging Republican Ashley Hinson. When asked whether, should he win, he would hold members of the Trump administration accountable, Turek responded with familiar, complacent Democratic talking points: the desire to “move on,” establish “guardrails,” and “prevent this from happening again.”

Not exactly the “mad as hell and we're not going to take it anymore” candidate many voters are looking for.

When Psaki pressed him again, he again avoided the simple answer many voters wanted: “Yes.”

That kind of timid response does not sit well with voters who want accountability.

We are furious.

We are enraged.

Many Americans believe the country has been profoundly damaged by political corruption, institutional dysfunction and stentorian abuses of power.

Any Democrat who fails to understand that anger — or assumes voters will be satisfied with another round of carefully worded statements about “norms” — is profoundly out of touch with reality.

Congressional oversight is not revenge.

It is one of Congress's fundamental responsibilities.

So what if it looks political?

It only looks that way to those being investigated.

At some point, caution becomes complicity.

Fence-sitting becomes normalization.

I have friends who say, should the Democrats win in November and then fall back into their old, cautious ways, they will never vote for a Democrat again. Imagine how frustrated one has to be to pull the trigger for corruption over compassion and ethics? It’s the last act of a voter who feels betrayed by both parties. It’s our way of saying, you won’t do what we’re begging you to do? When we need you the most? We’d rather see it burn.

That should concern Democratic leaders more than a little.

So which is worse?

A Republican victory in November would certainly carry enormous consequences.

But a Democratic victory followed by political timidity could create a different — and perhaps more profound — result:

Resignation.

Imagine millions of voters turning out because they believe Congress should serve as a check on executive power, then seeing their elected officials spending their political capital explaining why they shouldn't investigate. Imagine, in Chuck Schumer's voice, hearing that “taxpayer dollars should be spent helping Americans get the things they need.”

What if the thing taxpayers need most is accountability?

We've lived with armed agents patrolling our streets, the doubling of gas prices, pardons for criminals, and bacteria in our food. We can endure a bit longer if it means those responsible are held accountable.

What we can’t endure another minute are those in power being let off the hook by the people we elected to do just that.

Imagine hearings that produce headlines but no subpoenas.

Investigations that produce reports but no consequences.

Evidence that produces outrage for a week and disappears the next.

And eventually, the inevitable Washington conclusion:

“It's time to move on.”

Move on to what?

The next election? If there is one?

The next scandal? We can’t keep track.

The next administration? President Vance?

If credible evidence shows that laws were broken, public trust abused or government institutions corrupted, the answer cannot simply be:

“Forget it.”

It must be:

Investigate it.

Establish the facts.

Hold accountable those who deserve accountability.

Then fix the system.

That is not partisan warfare.

That is democracy protecting itself.

So, Democrats, in the immortal words of Sean Connery:

“What are you prepared to do about it?”

When history looks back on the unraveling of 60 Minutes, one question will loom larger than all the others: What do you do when the institution you love is no longer the institution you joined?

Scott Pelley answered that question with clarity. Others who resigned — or were shown the door after refusing to compromise the editorial independence that made 60 Minutes the gold standard of television journalism — answered it with courage. They understood that there comes a point when staying no longer preserves an institution. It merely legitimizes its decline.

Lesley Stahl chose a different path.

Her apparent belief that she could somehow "save what was left" by remaining inside the building may ultimately be remembered as one of the great miscalculations in modern journalism.

By the time Pelley made his stand, the damage to 60 Minutes had already been done. Editorial independence — the program's defining principle for nearly six decades — had already been called into question. Once viewers begin wondering whether powerful interests are influencing what appears on screen, the magic is gone. Trust is journalism's only real currency. Once it's spent, no amount of prestige, ratings, or famous correspondents can buy it back.

That's why the notion of "saving" 60 Minutes from the inside feels so detached from reality. Especially if she was witnessing the same implosion the rest of us were. You don't save a house on fire by dusting the furniture.

If the foundation has been compromised, staying behind to straighten the paintings on the wall isn't preservation. It's denial.

Stahl's decision, at least from the outside, seems rooted in a familiar impulse: stay calm, keep the peace, avoid making things worse, and hope that time somehow restores what has been lost. That instinct may work in families or businesses. It rarely works in journalism. No greater example of this than boss Bari Weiss’s recent hiring of far-right-wing nut Ross Douthat. Apparently, Stahl had little to no input on that.

Journalism depends on public confidence. It depends on audiences believing reporters will walk away before surrendering their independence. Once respected journalists demonstrate they're willing to absorb compromise in the name of institutional survival, the institution itself becomes the compromise.

Perhaps Stahl believed that an experienced insider could slow the erosion. Perhaps she felt she owed the staff, the audience, or the legacy of 60 Minutes one last effort. Those motivations would be understandable.

But noble intentions do not guarantee wise decisions. And not in the immediate aftermath of a colleague’s courageous stance.

By choosing to remain after Pelley walked she inadvertently diminished the power of his sacrifice. Her decision had the exact opposite effect she desired. One wonders how someone so in tune with the public pulse could be so obtuse? Or, was it ego?

Resignations are meaningful because they send a clear message: this line cannot be crossed. Their moral force comes from solidarity. When respected colleagues instead choose to stay, management receives a very different message — that the crisis isn't quite serious enough for everyone to leave.

The symbolic impact changes overnight.

Instead of presenting a united front defending editorial independence, the newsroom appears divided over whether the compromise is tolerable. That's precisely the ambiguity powerful executives rely upon.

History is filled with people who believed they could moderate institutions from within, only to discover that institutions change them far more than they change the institution.

That is why Stahl's decision evokes comparisons — not because the circumstances are identical, but because the underlying instinct is similar — to former Attorney General Merrick Garland. Garland was widely criticized by many observers for believing patience, restraint, and institutional preservation were sufficient responses during extraordinary circumstances. His defenders viewed that approach as principled. His critics viewed it as paralysis masquerading as prudence.

Whether one agrees with that assessment or not, the comparison captures a broader point.

Sometimes protecting an institution requires refusing to protect its leadership.

Sometimes preserving a legacy requires sacrificing your position within it.

And sometimes resignation is not abandonment at all. It's the last act of loyalty available.

The tragedy is that Lesley Stahl hardly needed to prove anything. She has spent decades building one of the most respected careers in broadcast journalism. Her interviews, reporting, and professionalism secured her place in television history long ago. She had nothing left to gain by staying.

She had everything to gain by standing beside colleagues willing to risk their careers for principle. And now, history will forever remember her as a capitulator to power. An appeaser at a time defiance was needed.

Imagine the image history might have recorded: Scott Pelley walks out. Lesley Stahl follows. Other correspondents join them. Together they send an unmistakable message that 60 Minutes is bigger than any corporate owner or executive suite.

That moment would have been impossible to ignore.

Instead, the public conversation shifted toward who stayed rather than why others left.

That's a loss not only for the journalists who sacrificed their positions, but for the audience that depended on them.

The lesson extends far beyond one television program. Institutions do not preserve themselves through reputation alone. They survive because people within them are willing to pay a personal price for their integrity. Once enough people decide that staying is more important than drawing the line, the institution may continue to exist — but only as a recognizable shell of its former self.

There may still be excellent reporting on 60 Minutes. There may still be talented producers and correspondents doing outstanding work.

But if viewers no longer believe the newsroom is willing to risk everything to defend its editorial independence, then the program's defining promise has already been weakened.

In the end, the greatest irony may be this: by trying to save 60 Minutes, Stahl may have helped normalize the very transformation her departing colleagues were desperately trying to stop.

When Tim Cook steps down as CEO of Apple on September 1, he will be leaving behind a company enjoying record-breaking profits. In just the second quarter alone, Apple reportedly earned over $100 billion. Financially, the company couldn’t be any stronger. Ethically, it couldn’t be in any more peril.

Since Donald Trump returned to office, his masked goon squad—aka ICE—has killed 10 people. Fifty, if you include the roughly 40 who reportedly died while in custody. And that's not counting the tens of thousands who have allegedly been injured, brutalized, or wrongfully detained at the hands of these poorly trained, poorly screened, and increasingly lawless agents.

To date, not a single ICE agent has been held personally accountable for their actions.

While it’s impossible to know how many lives might have been saved had Cook not bowed to pressure from the Trump Justice Department and removed IceBlock, the app that gives communities advance warning of ICE activity, allowing people to avoid potentially dangerous encounters, one can’t help but wonder how many of those tragedies might have been prevented had Cook stood his ground.

IceBlock operates on essentially the same principle as Waze—and even Apple Maps—which alert motorists to police activity and speed traps ahead. Yet, Waze is still available on the App Store.

By eliminating one of the few tools communities could use to warn one another of potentially dangerous encounters, Apple sided with a government that had already demonstrated its willingness to use executive power to achieve what it could not accomplish in a court of law. We'd already seen those strong-arm tactics succeed against major law firms and universities that chose capitulation over litigation. Apple simply became just another institution to fold.

What makes Cook's decision particularly striking is that it represents a complete reversal of the principles he, himself, once defended.

In 2016, Cook refused repeated demands from the FBI to build a backdoor into the iPhone used by one of the San Bernardino shooters, arguing that weakening encryption for one case would endanger the privacy and security of millions. He rightly stood on principle, even in the face of enormous political pressure.

ICEBlock developer Joshua Aaron has said in numerous interviews that one of the primary reasons he never released the app for Android was Google's inability to protect user data to the same degree as Apple. Apple, he believed, was "100% safe.”

Or, so he thought.

All it took for Apple to eviscerate that promise was a five-minute phone call to its CEO. No lawsuits. No subpoenas. No prolonged legal battle. Just a phone call.

By agreeing to remove ICEBlock, without so much as an ounce of pushback, Tim Cook betrayed not only Steve Jobs' vision of technology empowering ordinary people, but his own.

At the time, Apple tried to justify the decision by citing safety concerns—that someone could theoretically use the app to locate ICE agents and commit violence. Yet the company has yet to explain why that rationale applies to ICEBlock but not to Waze or Apple Maps, both of which notify users of police activity in remarkably similar ways.

The precedent this sets for Big Tech—and what it means for the everyday user—should keep all of us awake at night. If the companies entrusted with the most intimate details of our lives are willing to fold at the slightest hint of political pressure, then none of us can be certain our privacy is protected, no matter what their policies promise.

Good luck putting that horse back in the barn.

If you ever wondered what would happen if Fyre Festival and a political rally had a baby, Donald Trump's Great American State Fair may have provided the answer.

Billed as a celebration worthy of America's 250th birthday, the GASF — which ends Friday — may instead be remembered as a case study in how hype and wishful thinking can outrun reality.

Fyre Festival organizer Billy McFarland promised a luxury music event complete with private villas, gourmet cuisine, supermodels, and A-list performers. Instead, attendees got FEMA-style tents, total chaos, and cheese sandwiches.

Trump promised a "first-of-its-kind World's Fair on the National Mall" — an extraordinary 16-day celebration featuring state pavilions, rides, rodeos, food, major musical acts, exhibits, and patriotic displays worthy of America's semiquincentennial. Instead, visitors were greeted by empty booths, canceled attractions, a broken Ferris wheel, melting ice cream, sparse crowds, collapsing scenery… and Vanilla Ice.

In both cases, the warning signs had been flashing for months. Organizers simply chose to believe their own marketing over the logistics.

Before Fyre Festival, contractors with decades of experience warned McFarland there was no way to build the event in the time available. Before the GASF, officials from states including Michigan repeatedly questioned whether the deadlines imposed by Freedom 250 were even remotely achievable.

One email reportedly pleaded, "We're worried about the short time frame... we'd like formal approval as fast as possible if we're going to try and do this well."

It apparently went unanswered.

Meanwhile, officials from New Hampshire questioned why Freeman—the event contractor tied to Trump and hired to furnish exhibits—was quoting roughly $12,000 for little more than a table and chairs.

As reality set in, groups from both festivals began heading for the exits.

Blink-182 pulled out of Fyre Festival before opening day. Likewise, performers including Martina McBride, Bret Michaels, and The Commodores ultimately withdrew from the Great American State Fair after learning it would be associated with a Trump rally rather than the broadly bipartisan national celebration they believed they had signed up for.

Both events also generated questions about where the money was going. Fyre Festival became synonymous with investor losses, graft, and attendee funds that failed to produce the promised experience. The Great American State Fair has drawn scrutiny over the relationship between the congressionally chartered America250 commission and Freedom 250, the separate, Trump-created, nonprofit helping organize the event, along with criticism over contracts awarded to Trump-connected companies.

And in both cases, the internet did what the internet does best.

Photos of empty spaces, malfunctioning attractions, and disappointed attendees spread far faster than the organizers' promotional videos ever did.

The main difference between the two?

After Fyre Festival, Billy McFarland went to prison.

After the Great American State Fair, Donald Trump went to the World Cup.

Hooray, we're free! Screw you, England!

Now what?

When Benjamin Franklin emerged from the Constitutional Convention and said we'd been given "a republic, if you can keep it," is there any doubt he was talking about 2026 America?

Taking stock of where we are—on our nation's 250th birthday—we're not exactly knocking it out of the park.

The Supreme Court appears well on its way to anointing the first American king: a man who has seemingly escaped accountability for everything under the sun, including fomenting an insurrection, then pardoning many of those involved. Meanwhile, Congress appears to have thrown in the towel years ago.

Our FBI is run by a frat bro. Our Justice Department seems hell-bent on prosecuting anyone who creates an offensive array of sea shells, while overseeing what looks to be one of the most blatant cover-ups of a sexual predator in modern history.

Legions of poorly trained "Brute Squads" roam our streets, disappearing people on their way to work, asking for proof of citizenship, even killing American citizens in broad daylight, with zero consequences.

Business-wise, we've helped create the world's first trillionaire. Surprise—it happens to be the same guy who recently oversaw the dismantling of foreign aid programs that fed some of the world's poorest children.

Our tech oligarchs have gone into full capitulation mode, cozying up to power, settling frivolous lawsuits, and swallowing media companies whole, decimating decades of journalistic independence and public trust in the process.

Meanwhile, millions of Americans are on the verge of losing healthcare coverage and Social Security benefits. Thanks to our kowtowing Congress allowing a president to start a war for no discernible reason beyond placating his fragile ego, oil companies are once again enjoying record profits.

Not to mention, cage fighting on the lawn of the White House, crypto grabs, billion-dollar ballrooms, abandoning clean energy, throwing protected lands open to drilling, election tampering, gutting cancer research, and a Health Secretary calling for an end to vaccines.

Oh—and the small matter of judges handing out near-life sentences for exercising the right to protest your government.

It's as though we've opened the Ghostbusters containment tank and the demons are running wild through Times Square, while the people who should be stopping them have decided it's easier—and infinitely more profitable—to switch sides. Along with the Zuckerbergs and Bezoses of the world, they've concluded that courage is expensive. Character even more so. Both are in desperately short supply in 2026 America.

Especially in an America where our highest court can acknowledge that a president committed sexual abuse with one breath, then proceed to hand the guy even more power with the next.

The situation has become so beyond absurd, even the country we fought a revolution to escape is openly wondering why Americans suddenly seem so eager to crown a king. A king who just boasted about making more than $2 billion during his first year back in office. A king who demonstrates daily that the word "honor" may as well be a four-letter one.

Given all this, would it really have been so terrible to just pay the damn tea tax and move on?

I mean... could it honestly have turned out any worse?

We're the teenagers entrusted to watch the house while their parents are away, only for them to return home to a smoldering pile of rubble.

One of the many reasons we find ourselves in this predicament: The Electoral College.

This anti-democratic relic was created to give states with smaller populations an equal say, but instead, allows the few to govern the many.

Until this archaic, obsolete law is vanquished, digging ourselves out of this hole will remain nearly impossible. As long as we continue to give states that routinely rank near the bottom in every meaningful category, i.e., education, healthcare, economic opportunity, the ability to decide the future of our entire nation, we're going to keep reliving this Orwellian nightmare for generations to come.

Having said all that, before you climb the tallest building and start screaming, "THIS GUY HATES AMERICA!!"

Consider how tragic it is that we've reached a point where standing up for the rule of law, the Constitution, and basic accountability requires the ones doing it to have to repeatedly reassure those listening that they love their country.

For what it's worth, I do.

I loved America before the Mad King took the reins. I loved it when the Supreme Court effectively decided a presidential election over a hanging chad. I loved it when a president lied about an affair with an intern. I loved it when a president’s entire Cabinet lied about weapons of mass destruction. And I loved it when a president wore a tan suit.

Call me crazy, but I love the America that practices what it preaches. Or, at least, used to preach.

The one that welcomes people with open arms. The one that believes everyone deserves the opportunity to pursue happiness. The one that believes helping those less fortunate is more important, and much more rewarding, than adding another zero to your bank account. The one that values compassion. Ethics. Tolerance. Decency. And Character and Accountability over Hate and Lies and Bigotry and Misogyny.

However, as dim as the future looks, we’re not done yet. In a few short months, it'll once again be up to us to decide whether we want to continue living under the hand of an unhinged wannabe autocrat who can barely spell ‘c-a-t’ without assistance—or whether "We the People" still possess the courage, and the desire, to reclaim what has been taken from us.

Because the alternative isn't patriotism.

It's demanding everyone look like you, think like you, worship like you, and obey like you—or they don't belong.

And that's not America. That's a cult.

For the first time in 53 years — and for the first time in many of our lifetimes — the New York Knickerbockers are world champions.

They achieved the ultimate goal in sports and now stand alone atop basketball's Mount Olympus.

This gritty, ridiculously talented, never-say-die bunch won 13 straight playoff games, tying an NBA record before finally stumbling at home against San Antonio in a game remembered almost as much for the chaos outside Madison Square Garden as for what happened on the court. Depending on who you ask, the culprit was poor defense, bad luck — or the appearance of a certain individual whom superstitious fans have since blamed for jinxing the team.

Hexes aside, no sooner had the Knicks hoisted the Larry O'Brien Trophy than speculation began swirling about a visit to the White House.

Within minutes of the buzzer, I posted:

"Congrats @NYKnicks! Please don't ruin it by visiting the White Supremacist House!”

Then I waited.

Because we all knew this moment was coming.

Because our president has to make moments like this about him.

And now it's here. And so is the reckoning. For a team. For a city. For a country.

The Knicks are facing a decision that extends far beyond basketball.

On one side sits tradition: championship teams have long been invited to the White House regardless of who occupies it. On the other sits conscience: the reality that the majority of Americans view the current administration as, to put it mildly, fundamentally at odds with the values they, as well as our founding fathers, hold dear.

Complicating matters further is the fact that the Knicks are owned by a man who has been an outspoken supporter of a president whose behavior seems to embody the opposite of the qualities we associate with champions: humility, character, grace, and dignity.

Which raises the question:

What does a championship team owe tradition when tradition collides with principle? And duty?

Because whether they accept the invitation or decline it, the decision will resonate far beyond Madison Square Garden. Especially when you consider that no NBA championship team has visited the White House during the Trump era. If nothing else, should they go, the Knicks would be breaking a decade-long streak.

For whatever reason, the NBA has been the exception. Across most of the sports world—professional and collegiate alike—teams from The Dodgers to The Panthers to The Hoosiers, and many more, have eagerly accepted invitations to this White House. Whether it's a desire to honor tradition, avoid controversy, or simply enjoy a once-in-a-lifetime experience, the result is the same: a photo opportunity that inevitably becomes political.

For those who view this administration as morally bankrupt, those images carry a different message. They signal acceptance. Endorsement. Normalization.

To them, these athletes’ willingness to break bread with this poor excuse for a president also confirms a sad truth: that these role models apparently have no issue with the message they’re sending to the kids who idolize them — “being a bully is not only okay, it can lead to the White House.”

Take the recent example of the U.S. men's hockey team. Fresh off an incredible Olympic victory, several players found themselves embroiled in controversy after laughing at remarks many viewed as misogynistic and disrespectful toward the women's team. What should have been a moment of pure celebration instantly became something else. Forever.

That's the risk.

A single visit to shake this toxic man’s hand can alter the conversation around an achievement forever. Is it worth it, New York?

Let’s face it, Donald Trump is the kind of guy to whom, if you gave him a plastic replica of the Larry O’Brien trophy, would go around telling everyone he won the NBA championship, too.

Perhaps Knicks owner James Dolan supports a man like Trump because both men have one thing in common: They are the epitome of fragile, petty, power-hungry billionaires.

After all, like Mr. Trump, Mr. Dolan’s desire for total control has been well documented; be it his countless lawsuits against anything and anyone who challenges him, or banning Knick fans from the Garden simply for shouting “Sell the team!” Going as far as to install facial recognition security cameras to keep the undesirables out. Heck, a friend of mine who’s a well-known sports writer told me he can’t write anything ‘bad’ about the Knicks because Dolan keeps a ‘hit list’ of his enemies and will subsequently ban him from all MSG events, permanently. Sound familiar?

Donald Trump is a man whose blatant racism has been on full display going back decades. Whether it was discriminating against Black tenants in the '70s, calling for the execution of the Central Park Five in the '80s — and refusing to apologize when they were acquitted, or the now infamous “Good people on both sides” vitriol. We’re now supposed to believe this man gives a damn about these players? About the city that booed him into oblivion less than two weeks ago?

Looking at it from another angle, should the Knicks have lost, which response do you think would’ve been more likely to come from this president?

“We’ll get ‘em next year, boys! You fought the good fight! Be proud!”

Or

“Just like their weak mayor, the Knicks are losers. They couldn’t handle the pressure and they choked. Pathetic. And have you seen Jalen Brunson’s wife? Is she a man?”

Men like James Dolan and Donald Trump represent the antitheses of what champions are made of. Both were gifted their companies by their fathers, both have demonstrated rancid pettiness and cruelty throughout their lives, and both refuse to lose with grace and dignity. After all, one of them is still trying to redo the 2020 election.

The Knicks' championship belongs to New York. It belongs to the fans who waited more than half a century for this moment. It belongs to the players who sacrificed, bled, and battled to bring a title back to the Garden. It definitely does not belong to either of these men who have a knack for making everything all about them.

Incidentally, you could even say the Knicks won in spite of James Dolan, as he’s had complete control of the team for 27 years, yet only has one title to show for it.

The question now is, not whether a trip to Washington enhances that legacy or distracts from it. It’s how bad will it tarnish this incredible decades-in-the-making victory?

Because once that photograph is taken, it doesn’t just become part of the story. It becomes the story.

Forever.

And the world is watching.