Entertainment

Putin’s idea of holiday cheer is a million body bags strung up like ornaments—proof that in the Kremlin, even failure gets a parade.

In a quiet bar where ghosts keep their own rhythm, Cordova’s three plays of “Wish You Were Here” turn grief into a kind of communion for the living.

I came for wheel-to-wheel combat and got a choreographed runway show where Saturday crowns the winner and Sunday parades the cars.

Writing is the long, bloody slog between inspiration and execution, but when it hits—when the scene fires clean—it’s like kicking in a door and finding the whole damn world on the other side.

The ghosts in McGarvey’s weren’t haunting the bar—they were teaching the living how to remember without breaking.

When Washington stops cutting checks, it’s the folks keeping the lights on and the flag flying who get burned—while the Beltway’s elite keep clinking glasses at the D.C. Buffet that never closes.

Two and a half centuries on, the few and the proud still storm the breach with grit, gallows humor, and zero hesitation to kick in the next door, whatever waits on the other side.

Some men come home from war with medals, others with ghosts—but every one of them is still trying to be a simple man in a world that forgot how.

In McGarvey’s, the jukebox glowed like a field altar, each slot a dog tag on a guitar string, and Marcus realized the living keep the dead in tune.

I didn’t teach Kamal to swim; I taught him to harness fear until it pulled him across ten feet of water like a tide he commanded.

In the realm of personal and home defense, one must navigate a sea of tactical “enhancements” with discerning wisdom, for while some gadgets offer genuine advantages, others may simply weigh you down with unnecessary prestige and expense.

When military families line up by the hundreds for groceries while paychecks stall and aid gets snarled, that is a gut punch to readiness and a broken promise to those who serve.