I’m a writer and photographer living in Chicago. Before moving to the Windy City, I worked at daily and weekly newspapers in Arizona, Colorado and Wyoming.
I don’t always ride Google’s search engine. (Midjourney synthagraph)
All right, folks, let’s chat. The U.S. Department of Justice has gone after Google with antitrust charges — and honestly, it’s got many of us shaking our heads. Let’s break down what’s going on.
First off, Google isn’t stealing cookies from the cookie jar. They’re spending big bucks, fair and square, to have that sweet spot on our browsers. And guess what? The folks who own those browsers? They’re not forced to sell that spot to Google. They’re choosing to because it’s good business. If some other search engine wanted to fork out the cash, they could have that spot, too.
Now, let’s talk about search results. Yeah, I admit, I use Google. Why? Because for a ton of my searches, they’re just plain better.
But I’m also a fan of underdogs. Bing? They’ve surprised me more than once with top-notch results. And DuckDuckGo? It’s a great way to guard your privacy.
Google isn’t some sinister monopoly; it’s about getting the best bang for your click.
But here’s the rub: whenever someone does well in America, a line of folks is waiting to knock them down a peg.
Remember when Google was a scrappy startup? Where were AltaVista, Magellan, and HotBot when Google was on the rise? Oh, right, they got outpaced.
Think about our homegrown heroes – Amazon, SpaceX, eBay, Tesla, Microsoft, Apple. None got a free pass to the top. They clawed their way up, took risks, and made it big. And now? They’re household names.
Instead of applauding folks who make it big, we’re waiting to tear them down. What’s next? Will we make everyone play on the same level, even if they’re not bringing the same game?
You’ll be blown away by this one. Could it be that there are no coincidences?
Here’s the deal. I stumbled on this video, right? Puts “Back to the Future” and the September 11 attacks in the same sentence. Sounds like mixing apple pie and motor oil, doesn’t it? But bear with me.
First off, Marty McFly. Guy’s a regular teen with a crappy family and a DeLorean. He gets into a time machine and aims to fix his life. We’ve all seen the flick.
It’s Americana wrapped in Spielberg, a rollercoaster of a movie. But put it next to one of America’s most tragic days, and your brain starts doing somersaults.
This video claims all these “hints” and “clues” peppered throughout the film point to 9/11. I’m talking about clocks, license plates, scenes that should be viewed upside-down, and even lines of dialogue. Makes you think Marty should’ve been more worried about a national catastrophe than his parents’ lame love story.
So I watched it.
Once.
Twice.
Then, a third time after eating half a bag of kratom gummies because, hey, why not?
And I had a full-tilt freakout. Not because I bought into it but because someone sat down and stitched this wild quilt of conspiracy. Like taking pieces of a Picasso and a Pollock and saying they tell the same tale.
I’m not the tinfoil hat type. There are no alien abductions or Bigfoot sightings in my book. But this? It’s like when you’re three sheets to the wind, and someone starts talking politics — you listen but don’t buy the T-shirt.
So, watch the video, then let me know whether Marty McFly could’ve, would’ve, should’ve warned us about 9/11.
I’m proud to have worked with Mike Curtis, Shelley Pleger, and the creative team behind “Dick Tracy.” The comic strip always remembers 9/11 and its heroes.
It was a big day for I-DEP, a Chicago-based dot-com startup poised to ignite a new era in conducting remote legal depositions.
I-DEP’s tech team had found a way to seamlessly merge video, audio, real-time court reporter transcript, and secure private chat into a single, easy-to-use service.
This stuff is routine now, but in 2001, amalgamating the technologies to accomplish all this was bleeding-edge.
To show prospective clients how the I-DEP system worked, we’d improvise a brief sample deposition where staffers portrayed attorneys, plaintiffs, and defendants. At the same time, actual court reporters entered the live transcription.
On that day, we were on deck to hit a home run.
I-DEP had been invited to strut our stuff at a meeting in Washington, D.C., before a meeting of state attorneys general and federal prosecutors. I’d penned a script for a mock deposition inspired by Michael Fortier’s testimony in the McVeigh trial. Darkly ironic, it dealt with domestic terrorism. Showtime was close, adrenaline fired up.
I-DEP was ready for our closeup on September 11, 2001.
Then, the world shifted. Twin Towers, Pentagon, United Flight 93. All crashed and burned. A different kind of terror script, one you couldn’t delete or rewrite. Our team en route to D.C.? Uncertainty gripped us. Hours later, we determined they were OK. But we couldn’t say the same for nearly 3,000 others.
In the following days, the media got under my skin. They were already wringing politically correct hands over how to assess this attack. Or claiming that Todd Beamer “reportedly” or “allegedly” declared “Let’s roll!” as doomed passengers heroically prevented Flight 93 from being used as a weapon.
I also forced myself to look at those photos. The ones showing desperate souls leaping from the Twin Towers. Each image was an indictment, a promise from history that we’d forget too soon. Somewhere in those snapshots, the world’s tough questions lurked.
In the years that followed, everyone talked about resilience and heroism. All justified, sure, but what about the questions, the actual interrogation? People compared 9/11 to Pearl Harbor. Remember the Alamo, never forget; catchy slogans that fade into bumper stickers. Meanwhile, the tough questions remain AWOL.
I did my job and hit my PR targets in the aftermath.
But September 11 changed the script and not just the one I wrote. Some things can’t be revised or redacted. Questions remain forever unanswered.
There are no clean edits in real life. And that, as they say, is the hell of it.
Every year, hundreds of my highrise neighbors get the message when my Christmas tree goes up early.
When October rolls around, I’ll be dragging out the Christmas tree.
Yeah, you heard me. October 1. Go ahead, roll your eyes like it’s the end credits of a Hallmark movie. I have my reasons.
COVID’s on another tour, a sequel nobody asked for. So, lighting up that tree early will feel like a middle finger to the gloom. And this encourages everybody else to do the same. Put up a Christmas tree, fire up a menorah, or string lights on a Monstera deliciosa.
Your neighbors will see the spectacle. They’ll stop, scratch their heads, and wonder what you’re doing. It makes them think, doesn’t it? The world’s a shitshow right now. Wars, pandemics, politicians acting like they’re auditioning for a soap opera.
They’ll understand — and maybe put up their holiday decorations early, as well.
The tree? It’s your break from reality, your effort to wring laughter from sorrow. Trust me, we all need it.
Now, what do others say? Some call it holiday creep. Like it’s some kind of disease. Articles get written, social media defecate cinderblocks.
“It’s too early!” they shout like there’s a rulebook. The thing is, rules are meant to be snapped in half.
So, October 1, my tree goes up.
You don’t like it? Fine.
But I’ll be here, basking in the glow of my premature Christmas spirit, listening to vintage Kmart canned holiday Muzak, and not giving a damn what you think.
Bought these at the Streeterville Walgreens up the street from my Chicago apartment. One taste takes me back to days of my Colorado youth — and how bad girls got me hooked on SweeTarts.
Morrison, Colorado, the early 1960s. No street address, just a big-ass mailbox on a Rural Route. I spent my days in 4-H, raising sheep, a pig, chickens, and ducks. Tried to tame our Shetland pony from hell and yearned to be one of the cool kids who rode in the Westernaires.
Out past our back field, U.S. 285 bulked up like Stallone for a Rambo flick, ballooning from two to four lanes as Colorado lit the fuse for its population explosion.
Up the road, you could see Lakehurst, a world of tomorrow whose show homes featured built-in vacuum cleaners. No need to haul that bulkiy canister upstairs and down — just carry that hose from room to room and plug it into any strategically located wall receptacle connected to a central vacuum in the basement.
Back then, getting candy wasn’t a stroll to 7-Eleven. You’d have to talk your parents into driving you to Safeway or King Soopers miles away.
But me and the local gang discovered a gold mine. Residents at a reform school for girls a quarter-mile away ran a little commissary. Like some twisted Willy Wonka setup, they’d sell candy to the staff, inmates, and neighborhood kids.
So there I was, my pocket change jangling louder than Elvis’ hips.
I walked in, eyeing those shelves like I’d hit the jackpot in Vegas. Laid my coins down. “Gimme a SweeTarts,” I told the girl behind the counter. To my disappointment, she looked more like the girl next door than the girl behind some outlaw biker.
First bite? I hit the motherlode. A punch of tang and sweet; it was like the Beatles and the Stones jamming in my mouth. A rock concert of flavor. Each color a different opening act, all leading to that headliner — pure satisfaction. And from then on, I was hooked. . .
Bad girls and good candy!
Years roll by. Life’s been a spaghetti western of ups and downs, but those SweeTarts? They stayed the same.
So here’s my toast to SweeTarts, the candy of outlaws and reform school rascals. Whether you’re from the country or the big city doesn’t matter. Those little discs pack a punch like Ali.
And if you’ve never had ’em? Well, what are you waiting for?
I moved to this highrise several years ago — and finally opened the last moving box. It had school report cards, class photos, and newspaper clips from early in my career.
I spent a couple of hours reviewing my reports, and something hit me like a slap. We’re all stuck in a system of reports and lists.
Think school report cards are a kid’s game? You’re dead wrong. They’re prepping you for the nine-to-five grind. A through F, pluses and minuses, it’s a whole circus act designed to put you in your place.
Flash forward to my first newspaper job, my first evaluation. My manager called me into the back office. Papers spread out, and it looked all too familiar. Like my high school report card, but without the doodles. Punctuality, teamwork, and performance — all had their neat little categories.
He looked at the paper, looked at me, then finally spoke. “Doing good, but room for improvement.”
Annual reviews are report cards.
They’re lists.
William Cooper, the late conspiracy radio host, was big on lists. He told his listeners there’s only one list in this world. Everything else, grades and promotions, is a subset like a Venn diagram of life’s screw-ups and victories.
You trade an “A” for a Christmas bonus; a “C” gets you a sit-down with human resources. Different stages, same drama. You live by the list; you get clipped by the list.
Here’s the lowdown: the system’s rigged like a carnival game. Your GPA morphs into your annual review, and your kindergarten gold stars become employee-of-the-month plaques.
The list never ends.
We’re all waiting for the next rating, the next evaluation, like a never-ending game of musical chairs. Just make sure you’re not the one left standing when the music stops.
Stumbled on a relic from 1963, a Vacation Reading Program award from the Denver Public Library. Brought back a flood of memories faster than a DeLorean gunning to 88 mph.
In the summer of ’63, I was all about dolphins. I had my mom take me to “Flipper” at the Federal Theater, and man, I was hooked. I went on a reading spree that included “The Friendly Dolphins” by Patricia Lauber and “Dolphin Island” by Arthur C. Clarke.
Lauber’s was a breeze, but Clarke? Damn, that was like trying to make sense of “2001: A Space Odyssey” without CliffNotes.
Lauber taught me something solid: dolphins and porpoises? Different dental plans. Dolphins have cone-shaped teeth, while porpoise chompers are spade-shaped.
So, come fall, I was back in school, and some teacher started yapping about dolphins and porpoises being the same critters. I corrected her and got an earful. She sent a note to my parents complaining that I shouldn’t undermine a teacher’s authority.
Fast forward to 1976, and I’m sitting in a film class at Metropolitan State College. Professor’s rambling about “Lifeboat,” says Hitchcock cameoed as a floating corpse.
Wrong again, Teach, but I kept my trap shut. No need for another lesson in humility.
The award? I tucked it back in its box and shoved it into a corner of my closet.
The lesson stuck: Sometimes, it’s not about being right. It’s about knowing when to talk and when to listen. So I shut my Doritos chute, even when they got it wrong, because nobody likes a smartass.
I learned an even more valuable lesson from the Vacation Reading Program: There’s always another page to turn.
A sight similar to this caused my junior-high self to nearly have a nervous breakdown. (Synthograph by Midjourney)
It’s late summer 1968, and I’m about to enter ninth grade. Then my dad quits — or is fired from — his job at the National Bank of Alaska in Anchorage, piles our family into our VW Campmobile, and we leave town.
Mom tells me we’re moving to Seattle, but after a half-day of driving, it’s clear that’s not our route. My parents reveal we’re heading northeast over 300 miles to link up with the Alaska Highway at Delta Junction and then drive almost 3,000 miles down to Denver, Colorado.
This is the second time in two years we’ll be traveling the highway — but in the opposite direction.
We drove up in 1966 from the Bay Area after Dad quit — or was fired from — his job with Wells Fargo in San Francisco.
Today, the Alaska Highway is paved, but in the late 1960s, 75 percent remains unpaved and winds through some of North America’s most desolate inhabited stretches. You can drive for miles even during the day and not meet another vehicle.
Services are so scarce that travelers carry “The Milepost,” a guidebook listing gas stations, grocery stores, campgrounds, motels, radio stations, RCMP outposts, and hospitals designated by their mile marker along the highway. Failure to mind your “Milepost” can leave you stranded or dead.
Around midnight, we’re in the Yukon Territory and heading south. On the horizon, I spot a yellowish-orange glow. As we get nearer, the light brightens and flickers; the source seems beyond a small hill.
I tell Dad to stop and turn around, that this doesn’t seem right. Someone is going to “get us.” Years later, Mom will recollect that I nearly had a complete breakdown — screaming, throwing things around, banging my head on the floor.
Dad slows the Campmobile to a crawl, and as we reach the top of the hill, we see…
An oil drilling rig venting and burning off natural gas. Today, nobody wastes petroleum that way, but back then, it just hinders tapping a petroleum field.
The oilfield workers smile and wave us on.
I don’t consider the incident anything other than a funny story — until maybe 10 years ago. I’m reviewing the events in my mind, and that’s when I suddenly remember something else that happened after we found the oil rig.
A few hours later, we stop in a small town with one of those old downtown hotels. It’s not a motel but an actual hotel with a lobby. It’s maybe 2 a.m. now. Mom and Dad usher me out of the Campmobile and into the lobby. At first, I’m excited — I wouldn’t say I like camping and am looking forward to sleeping in a real room for a change.
But we don’t check in. There aren’t any people coming in or out of the hotel that I can recall, and I never see a desk clerk. All I remember is hearing an old clock ticking somewhere and watching Mom sit on a battered leather couch. I’m in a big chair next to her — and my father stands at the hotel lobby window, staring out into the street.
Dawn comes early this far north in summer, and we leave. None of us mentions either incident to relatives when we arrive in Denver.
The oil rig story passes into family lore as an amusing example of why I never should have been allowed to read “The Interrupted Journey,” one of the first widely publicized alien-abduction stories. Betty and Barney Hill described a similar encounter. So did architect David Vincent, for that matter.
And nobody but me remembers the hotel — and it doesn’t bubble to the surface until 20 years later.
When I tell this story, I think it’s funny, and the people I’m telling it to do, too.
But I get a different response when I tell the story to Wally Reichert, a freelance photographer with whom I discuss high strangeness.
Wally suggests that the oil rig incident is merely a false-memory implant and that something else happened that night.
At one point, I considered being hypnotized to recover these alleged abduction memories. Still, I decided against the idea since my mind is so polluted by ufology and pop culture I doubt the truth could be sifted out.
L.T. Hanlon 