I left Richmond headed up I-95 to New England. Final destination: Newport, Rhode Island. I’m an old-school radio dial guy. No SiriusXM or podcasts for me. I’m constantly changing the station, always curious to hear what local broadcasters have to say.
Leaving Richmond, a local station was reporting that ICE had arrested an illegal immigrant. A city council member from a crime-infested district was on an unhinged screed about how the man had gone missing and nobody knew where he was. Well, sweetheart—that’s what happens to everyone who gets arrested: they disappear for a bit because they’ve been arrested. Funny how this same councilwoman has never shown concern for the hundred or so U.S. citizens arrested daily in her district who experience the exact same thing. It’s been that way for about 6,000 years. Here’s a tip: if you live with a criminal and he didn’t come home last night, chances are he’s in jail.
When I reached the suburbs of D.C., all the chatter was about a D.C. Council–orchestrated meeting to discuss spending $1 billion to renovate RFK Stadium to lure the Redskins back to the city. A woman—slaughtering the King’s English—was recorded angrily ranting that she deserved the stadium because, as she said, she lives in the District. Get it? Since she might attend a football game every now and then, taxpayers should cough up a billion dollars to support her entertainment preferences.
Next up was a labor union boss pushing for inflated, government-mandated wages—never mind market value—for any job remotely tied to the stadium. The final speaker insisted the city should throw in more low-income housing near the stadium as part of the deal. Nothing makes folks want to visit a venue more than walking through a government housing project! Call me crazy, but I have a sinking feeling this RFK renovation thing might just end in financial disaster.
A few miles into Maryland, the news shifted to Trump’s cancellation of a 2009 EPA mandate that declared carbon dioxide a dangerous toxin. The same carbon dioxide you exhale—the stuff that makes plants grow—was suddenly killing the planet. The Obama-era dictate? Surely not a clever trick to funnel hundreds of billions to woke causes and special interests. No way! After all, Obama was a good Christian who sat faithfully in the front pew of Reverend Wright’s church. A regular choirboy.
Veering off toward Annapolis to cross the Chesapeake Bay, I caught coverage of Keir Starmer stating that the UK might recognize Palestine if Israel didn’t fix the humanitarian crisis in Gaza. Starmer, always the statesman. You see, when terrorists invade your country, rape the elderly, and burn babies alive, your job is to feed them. Then, when your country sends enough food to feed Gaza for two years and its leaders steal it, sell it on the black market, and stage fake photos of starving children—you’re the bad guy. That’s what drives Keir to want to recognize a country that doesn’t exist. But if it did, it would likely be a terrorist state bent on destroying his own nation. True statesmanship: dreaming the world into a fantasy instead of dealing with the one in front of you. Reality is for chumps.
Driving up the Eastern Shore of Maryland and Delaware was quite pleasant. I tuned into the Bloomberg Report, and—shockingly—nothing they said pissed me off!
Once I hit Wilmington, though, the radio was ablaze with warnings about “record heat.” Of course! News producers need to create sensation, or no one would stay tuned long enough to hear the used car dealer yelling, “I’d give ’em away, but my wife won’t let me!” Social media has made everyone so forgetful, no one remembers it gets hot in the summer. Still, I’m grateful to radio for offering life-saving tips like “wear light clothes” and “stay hydrated.” Thank goodness Marconi invented radio before the first humans evolved from three-eyed fish. Otherwise, how would we survive summer without being warned not to pet a Tyrannosaurus Rex?
Next stop: New York!
The big story, of course, was the Midtown Park Avenue shooting. That rugged outdoorsman, Chuck Schumer, was in a frothy frenzy over the need to ban “assault rifles.” Chuck proved his manliness to me last year when he posted a photo of himself grilling burgers on the Fourth of July. I always assumed his favorite holiday was May 1st, but hey—maybe I was wrong! Real men celebrate the Fourth of July, and they grill meat. When I saw Chuck throw cheese on those raw patties, I thought, now this guy’s the real deal!
Sure, I understand that “assault rifles” today are almost exactly the same rifles a 12-year-old could order from a Sears Roebuck catalog a century ago—but Chuck is such a Marlboro Man, who am I to question him?
Naturally, I agreed with all the NYC radio hosts arguing for more gun laws. After all, the shooter had already broken 27 existing ones. Surely, if we’d had a 28th law, that would’ve stopped him!
Now, I don’t want to sound like a paranoid skeptic, but I do find it odd that almost all mass shootings are committed either by people on SSRIs or by angry, purple-haired transgender “biology majors”—yet the media never seems to mention that. It’s almost as if… they have a different agenda?
Finally, rolling into Rhode Island, I caught the news that Brown University had reached a deal with the Trump Administration to restore federal funding. President Christina Paxton had written a letter announcing the agreement the way a highly skilled academic sleaze merchant might be expected to use semantics to make her seem like Mother Teresa. She patted herself on the back about how the “voluntary” agreement upheld Brown’s values and how she twisted Donald Trump’s arm and made him say “uncle.” Having followed Jim Ryan’s tenure at UVA, I must say the chief requirement for a university president must be to be a sniveling wordsmith who can string together meaningless platitudes to hoodwink the non-thinking that the said institution is not run by a by a bunch of snot nosed Jew hating radicals.
One station played the Trump Administration’s version of the deal which was worded slightly differently! The language was not quite as subtle. It basically called Paxton a woke whore, a crazed commie lunatic and a Josef Mengle fan who laughed like Dr. Evil when children were mutilated at the Brown affiliated hospitals.
It wasn’t my best car radio experience.
That happened when I was 16 playing pick-up basketball along the oceanfront in Virginia Beach. I got in my car and turned the dial to WOWI FM, the all black radio station in nearby Norfolk. She’s Got Papers On Me was playing. They didn’t play that kind of music on the white stations. It was raw, soulful awesomeness! WOWI went out of business years ago, still my all-time favorite station.
The second-best experience was driving east from Southwest Virginia to Lexington one Friday night. For three hours I listened to high school football games. Small towns. So Norman Rockwell wholesome. Students and parents interviewed, all just plain nice, well mannered, articulate and thoughtful. The local ads, the high school boosters, the fundraisers, it put me in a great mood. It wasn’t a WOWI, let’s get jiggy type sensation, nothing beats that, but still a great 3-hour car ride.
Here's another great WOWI song. Grove Me, by King Floyd.
If this doesn’t put you in a good mood, then you’re just a tight-ass honky.
