My wrist is on the mend, so I’m typing again. Here’s a look at some of my recent work.
Over at Splice Today, I used a student essay from 15 years ago as a lens for understanding the mind of the “true” median voter:
Fifteen years ago, an undergraduate student of mine offered a self-description that struck a chord: “I’m a little bit political, a little bit religious, a little bit spiritual, a little bit warlike, and a little bit superstitious.” This characterization, while vague and confusing, resonated with me more than the meticulously compiled voter profiles from Pew, Gallup, or the analytics of Nate Silver. It dawned on me that this mosaic of traits might sketch a more accurate picture of the median voter than any dataset or trend analysis could hope to capture.
The self-description provided by my student—“a little bit political, a little bit religious, a little bit spiritual, a little bit warlike, and a little bit superstitious”—intriguingly encapsulates a composite American ideology that defies straightforward categorization. This blend of attributes speaks to a broader, more holistic understanding of identity that transcends the narrow confines of political labels or ideologies. It reflects the complexity of the human condition, where beliefs, preferences, and inclinations don’t align neatly along a single axis or fit squarely within predefined boundaries.
At the heart of this description lies the recognition of a multi-faceted political engagement—“a little bit political” suggests a nuanced approach to politics, where engagement is neither absolute nor absent but varies with context and issue. This is reflective of many Americans who find themselves engaged in political matters of personal importance yet remain detached or ambivalent towards others. This selective engagement is often overshadowed by the more visible, vociferous participation of the highly politicized, leaving the impression of an electorate more polarized than it might actually be.
The mention of being “a little bit religious, a little bit spiritual” points to a distinction increasingly observed in the American context, where traditional religious affiliation might be on the decline, but spirituality—a sense of connection to something greater than oneself, often expressed outside the bounds of organized religion—remains robust. This duality captures the evolving nature of faith in America, where individuals navigate between established religious traditions and more personal, individualized forms of spiritual expression. This evolution mirrors broader cultural shifts and is indicative of a society grappling with questions of morality, purpose, and meaning in an increasingly secular world.
The descriptors “a little bit warlike” and “a little bit superstitious” further complicate the portrait of the median voter. The former implies a readiness to defend one’s grab bag of beliefs or values, perhaps reflecting the contentious nature of contemporary politics and the often adversarial discourse that characterizes it. This warlike stance, while not universal, speaks to the intensity and passion with which political and social issues are often debated—one must take it personal and then make it personal. The latter, “a little bit superstitious,” hints at an underlying human tendency to seek patterns as well as a reminder of the non-rational elements that influence decision-making and belief formation.
The precision of political science and the granularity of polling data have their place. They offer insights into voter behavior, preferences, and trends over time. However, what often gets lost in the quest for quantifiable clarity is the inherently messy, contradictory nature of human nature itself. My student’s self-description, with its amalgamation of seemingly disparate elements, is more reflective of how most people perceive themselves and articulate their political beliefs.
For UnHerd, I wrote about how former world champ, future Jake Paul foe, and convicted rapist1 Mike Tyson became one of the first celebrities to claw his way back from cancellation:
Tyson’s story did not end with his retirement from boxing. Known for his captivating interviews and distinctive manner of speaking, the boxer found a new avenue for reinvention through the lens of popular culture. Director James Toback, who would later be cancelled for years of alleged misconduct related to women, released a 2008 documentary that offered a sympathetic view of Tyson’s life and struggles, earning critical acclaim and reintroducing him to the public eye.
Following this, Tyson ventured into various media projects, including a detailed and a points harrowing autobiography titled Undisputed Truth in 2013 paired with a one man show of the same name. He added roles in film and television, notably his appearance in The Hangover in 2009 and the Adult Swim cartoon Mike Tyson Mysteries, which aired from 2014 to 2020. These endeavours, coupled with Tyson’s pay-per-view exhibition match against fellow 50-something boxing legend Roy Jones Jr. in 2020, marked not just a comeback but a near-complete transformation in the public’s perception of him.
The key to Tyson’s successful uncancellation undoubtedly lies in the early timing of his controversies and the changing dynamics of media and public engagement. Being cancelled long before the digital age took full swing allowed Tyson’s story of redemption to unfold over years, far from the instant judgement and relentless scrutiny characteristic of today’s fast-twitch, social media-driven culture. This gradual journey afforded the 57-year-old a critical asset: time. Time to evolve, to reflect publicly on his mistakes, and to demonstrate genuine attempts at personal growth, such as mending fences with Evander Holyfield.
His long narrative arc highlights a critical disparity in the redemption journeys of public figures. Many cancelled celebrities today are forced out of view and never given the space to redeem themselves, often due to the rapid pace and unforgiving nature of social media, where public opinion shifts swiftly and decisively, with little room for nuance or change. Tyson’s story, by contrast, illustrates how the provision of space and platforms for open, sincere engagement with one’s past and ongoing efforts at personal improvement can significantly impact public receptivity to redemption narratives.
Tyson’s ability to navigate his way back into the public’s good graces, somehow becoming the underdog and good guy to Jake Paul’s YouTube baddie despite the champion’s very real past crimes, tells us much about celebrity culture and the dynamics of redemption. Regardless of what shrill denouncers would like us to believe, cancellations aren’t always forever.
In one of my favorite essays to date for the Washington Examiner’s print magazine, I wrote about how fans have increasingly come to associate themselves with the interests of owners rather than players:
This spectacle of young talent being measured, analyzed, and commodified is at the heart of the NFL draft’s allure. It is a moment in which athleticism and potential are quantified, in which a player’s worth is distilled into numbers, rankings, and what one long-ago scout called “dollar signs on the muscle.” The draft, with its endless stream of content, scouting reports, and player ratings, overshadows many real sporting contests between March and April. Fans, taking on the role of armchair general managers, delve into the minutiae of each prospect, debating who will be the most cost-effective savior of their beloved team.
Herein lies a more complex reality. The draft serves as a mirror reflecting the best and worst of capitalism in professional sports, the packaged securitization of athletics, a numbers-obsessed meritocracy in which young men are scrutinized in ways that border on the dehumanizing. Descriptions on the NFL draft website can venture into uncomfortably personal territory. Such a description, for instance, might detail a player’s “broad chest, thick hips, and meaty hands,” “exceptional high calves and long thighs,” or his “low rear end and gorgeous acceleration off the block,” applying marketing language and market values to what once might have been described in terms of transcendent physical prowess.
Descriptions lauding a player’s “plus body” or “huge hands and feet” not only serve to objectify but, more importantly, to commodify, making the player’s physical attributes the primary focus of their value proposition. This relentless focus on physicality effectively dehumanizes the athletes, shifting the narrative from their skills, work ethic, and on-field intelligence, factors usually reduced to a single marginal unit of analysis labeled “intangibles,” to an assessment reminiscent of livestock auctions rather than evaluations of professional talent.
This relentless, cash-on-the-barrelhead analysis is accompanied by a host of numerical grades for all sorts of physical and mental attributes. The process is oddly akin to the scouting of potential supermodels or the casting for a big-budget porn film, positioning these young men at the intersection of opportunity and exploitation. Along the way, hundreds of thousands of draft-obsessed sports fans become enthusiastically complicit in this money-saturated process.
The NFL draft’s exhaustive coverage reflects a culture that places its highest value on the process of valuation itself, in which the physical measurements of young athletes become fodder for endless return-on-investment analysis. Of course, this phenomenon extends beyond the draft itself. Fantasy sports enthusiasts and video gamers lost in their Madden and NBA 2K franchises become engrossed in the minutiae of salaries, contracts, and the cold calculus of “cutting dead weight,” aligning their interests more closely with the financial imperatives of team ownership than with the near-miraculous athleticism or the well-being of the players themselves. This alignment with capital interests reflects a culture in which shareholder value trumps other considerations, such as the aesthetic pleasure of watching generational talents utilize their skills or the communal spirit of local sporting rivalries.
The culture surrounding the draft and fantasy sports creates a vast gulf between fans and the athletes they purportedly support. Instead of identifying with the players or appreciating the nuances of their talents — far more common in the age of local sandlot teams with broad civic participation — many fans now view athletes through the lens of asset management. The transformation of fans from localists rooting for “our boys” into armchair general managers aligns fan loyalties with those of billionaire owners and corporate entities over star athletes.
Amid this value-maximizing nonsense, it pays to recall the words of the legendary Detroit Lions defensive tackle Alex Karras. When talking with writer George Plimpton in the book Mad Ducks and Bears (1973), Karras explained that what mattered most to him in sports wasn’t money but getting a close-up view of other superlative athletes: “The best part for me was the thrill I got seeing what great football players can do physically — to see what they really can do. It’s breath-taking to see Jim Brown do things that the normal player can’t. That’s why the Pro Bowl game means so much to football players: we get to see the sort of company we keep.”
To Karras, these moments offered a chance to appreciate the talent of his peers, a reminder of the human element that underlies all these performances. Rather than making our fandom as much about budgets and charts as it has often become these days, we regular old sports fans, too, should pause to marvel at what such human beings are capable of doing — and what, in turn, they can inspire us to do with ourselves.
Also for UnHerd, I wrote about the blandness of the Rock’s film career, and why returning to the WWE to play a bad guy was probably a good move for him:
In a similar vein, despite being hailed as one of Hollywood’s premier stars, Johnson’s solo drawing power remains startlingly nebulous. His most lucrative cinematic ventures, notably the Fast & Furious series, are ensemble pieces, while his foray into the superhero genre with the DCU’s Black Adam (2022) was a resounding dud. Only in a pair of critically panned roles in Southland Tales (2006) and Pain & Gain (2013) — in which he plays an anxiety-riddled actor and an anxiety-riddled bodybuilder respectively — does his capacity for depth and nuance emerge. Perhaps such feckless characters represent his truest self; it would explain why his attempts at gravitas and bravado have always fallen short.
The prolific nature of Johnson’s career further complicates the narrative. His relentless output — from film projects to business ventures such as the acquisition and merger of two minor spring American football leagues — paints a picture of a man in constant motion. Yet his relentless productivity, while admirable, often feels devoid of the originality and vibrancy that defined his first half-decade as a pro wrestler. Once someone who defined wrestling’s “attitude” for an entire generation, he now struggles to define anything. Even the occasional calls for him to run for president are met with lukewarm bipartisan support solely because so little is known about him; when, for instance, he appeared at the 2000 Republican National Convention, he spoke about the importance of voting.
Palate Cleanser
He maintains his innocence!