What was going on with journalist Michael Hastings before his fiery death?

Posted on March 20, 2025 by Luke Ford

Grok says:

Michael Hastings, the journalist behind the explosive Rolling Stone piece “The Runaway General” that toppled General Stanley McChrystal in 2010, was a live wire in the years before his death on June 18, 2013. His final months were a whirlwind of intense work, personal turbulence, and a creeping paranoia that friends and family later flagged as uncharacteristic. Here’s what was swirling around him before that fiery crash in Los Angeles.
Hastings was deep into his craft, chasing stories that poked the powerful. At the time of his death, he was a BuzzFeed staff writer, digging into a profile of CIA Director John Brennan for Rolling Stone. Brennan was a big fish—the architect of Obama’s drone program and a key player in tracking journalists and their sources. Hastings’ last BuzzFeed post, dated June 7, 2013, “Why Democrats Love to Spy on Americans,” ripped into the NSA’s surveillance machine, sparked by Edward Snowden’s leaks. He was rattled by the government’s pursuit of whistleblowers—his friend Jeremy Scahill’s film Dirty Wars screenings, which he attended, only fueled that fire. On June 17, he emailed colleagues at BuzzFeed, blind-copying a military pal, Staff Sgt. Joe Biggs, saying he was “onto a big story” and needed to “go off the radar.” He added that the feds might be sniffing around his circle—pure Hastings, always suspecting the worst.
His personal life was a mess too. Hastings had a history of substance struggles—sober from alcohol for 14 years by 2013, per the coroner’s report, but he’d started dabbling again. Family told investigators he’d picked up drugs about a month before, possibly meth (traces of amphetamine showed up in his system, though not enough to cause the crash) and maybe DMT, a hallucinogen. His brother Jonathan flew to LA on June 17 to stage an intervention, fearing a “manic episode” tied to drugs or trauma. Hastings had been institutionalized for rehab in 1999, and his fiancée’s death in a 2007 Baghdad bombing left scars—PTSD, some said. His widow, Elise Jordan, later called it “emotional volatility,” not suicidal intent, though he’d once bragged about feeling “invincible,” like he could leap off a balcony and walk away.
The paranoia spiked in those final days. Friends like Cenk Uygur of The Young Turks said he was “incredibly tense,” convinced his Mercedes was being tampered with. USA Today reported he told people he was scared and wanted out of LA. Hours before the crash, he hit up WikiLeaks lawyer Jennifer Robinson, hinting at trouble. Then, around 4:25 AM on June 18, his car smashed into a palm tree on Highland Avenue at over 100 mph, erupting in flames. The coroner said he died instantly from blunt force trauma—skull fractures, a torn aorta—not the fire or drugs. No note, no clear why.
What was going on? Hastings was a man on edge—pushing a big story, wrestling old demons, and seeing shadows. Some scream conspiracy (the FBI denied investigating him, despite a FOIA’d file showing they’d tracked his work since 2012). Others, like Jordan, call it a tragic fluke—a crash, not a hit. Either way, he was a pressure cooker: brilliant, battered, and burning out fast.

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Why did author Evan Wright commit suicide?

Posted on March 20, 2025 by Luke Ford

What was going on with him in his final years?

Grok says:

Evan Wright, the acclaimed journalist and author of Generation Kill, took his own life on July 12, 2024, at age 59, via a gunshot wound to the head, as confirmed by the Los Angeles County Medical Examiner. Figuring out why is trickier—no suicide note’s been made public, and his family’s kept the details close. But piecing together what’s out there from his final years gives some clues about what might’ve been weighing on him.
In the lead-up to his death, Wright was deep into revisiting his teenage trauma at The Seed, a “scared straight” program in Florida he’d been sent to at 13 after getting expelled from Hawken School for selling weed (well, catnip he passed off as weed). He’d been promoting Teen Torture, Inc., a Max documentary released July 11, 2024—the day before he died—where he spoke about the abuse he endured there: sleep deprivation, public humiliation, threats, the works. On X, he posted about it a lot that last week, calling survivors “my brothers and sisters” and hinting at a lingering pain. July 10, he tweeted about still searching for a support group for “Adult Children of Alcoholic Lawyers,” a nod to his rough upbringing with lawyer parents—his dad split when he was 8, and his mom had a breakdown after a friend’s murder. His sister Nora told TheWrap he’d suffered from PTSD since those Seed days, and his nephew Jacob Goldin said he’d been “unhinged” lately, “running from something.”
Wright’s career was still humming—he’d won awards, written books like American Desperado, and worked on TV gigs like Homeland. But that last stretch was intense. He was plugging away at The Seed: A Memoir, a book he’d been wrestling with for years, maybe decades. Karl Taro Greenfeld, in an Alta piece, said Wright’s process was “tortured,” spinning wild theories about The Seed’s founders linking to Reagan’s War on Drugs or MAGA. It’s hard to tell if that was genius or a mind spiraling. His X posts mixed politics, trauma, and dark humor—active right up to July 11, when he retweeted Paris Hilton’s testimony about similar programs. Then, nothing.
What was going on? No one’s got a clean answer. PTSD from The Seed seems like a big piece—reliving it for the doc and book might’ve cracked something open. His nephew’s “not acting himself” line suggests a sharp shift, maybe despair or panic. No reports of booze or drugs in his system (the coroner didn’t release toxicology), and his wife Kelli and three kids were still in his life, though how tight things were there’s anyone’s guess. David Simon called him “feral” but charming; maybe that wild edge turned inward.
Why’d he do it? Could’ve been the weight of old wounds, stirred up fresh, with no off-ramp. Or something snapped that night—impulse, not a plan. We’re left with fragments: a guy who faced Iraq’s chaos head-on but couldn’t outrun his own.

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‘The Democrats and their allied institutions— Hollywood, labor, the media, universities, woke corporate CEOs — are all very weak right now’

Posted on March 20, 2025 by Luke Ford

Grok:

Mark Halperin’s take here, posted on X, paints a vivid picture of the political landscape as he sees it in early 2025—a reeling Democratic coalition versus a ruthless Trump machine. Let’s break it down and test its weight.
Halperin’s first claim: Democrats and their allies—Hollywood, labor, media, universities, woke CEOs—are “very weak” and “discombobulated.” There’s some truth to this. Post-2024 election (assuming Trump’s win, given the context), Democrats have been licking wounds. Biden’s exit, Harris’s likely loss, and infighting over progressive versus moderate paths have left the party fragmented—Axios reported in late 2024 on DNC soul-searching after a “shellacking.” Hollywood’s influence feels muted; box office flops and backlash to “woke” messaging (e.g., Disney’s Mufasa underperforming) hint at cultural fatigue. Labor’s clout’s waned—union membership’s down to 10% per BLS 2024 stats—while media trust sits at historic lows (Gallup’s 2023 poll had it at 32%). Universities face enrollment dips and public skepticism over DEI, and CEOs like Disney’s Bob Iger are backpedaling on political stances after shareholder pushback. Discombobulated? Sure—lacking a unified counterpunch.
Then there’s Trump’s operation, which Halperin calls “extremely good at undermining the opposition” with a “high priority” on crushing them. This tracks too. Trump’s team—think Bannon’s war-room style, MAGA X influencers, and RNC operatives—has honed a relentless attack machine since 2016. Post-January 6, they’ve leaned harder into digital warfare, with X as a megaphone (Elon’s 2024 platform tweaks boosted right-wing reach). The “boots on the neck” imagery fits Trump’s playbook: recall his 2020 debate taunts or 2024 rallies mocking Harris’s laugh. His camp doesn’t just win—they humiliate, from memes to fundraising off foes’ missteps (e.g., $200M hauled in post-2020 on “stolen election” claims). Halperin’s not wrong—they prioritize domination over sportsmanship.
But is it overstated? Democrats aren’t dead yet—House gains in 2024 and state-level wins show resilience, per Politico’s tallies. Their allied institutions still have cash and reach; Hollywood’s weak but not broke, and media like CNN pivots fast. Trump’s operation excels at optics and morale-breaking, yet governing’s messier—policy wins like tax cuts or border walls take more than trash talk. Halperin’s flair (“I’m not leaving till you’re dead”) captures the vibe but skips the grind of reality.
It’s a snapshot, not gospel. Halperin’s a seasoned observer—his Game Change creds hold up—but he’s got a flair for drama that can oversell a moment. March 2025 feels like a Trump high-water mark, with Dems staggering. Check X: MAGA’s crowing, leftists are sniping at each other. Still, history says pendulums swing—2010’s Tea Party wave faded by 2012. Halperin’s right on the now: Trump’s got the boots out. Whether they stay on the neck depends on what the opposition musters next.

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Why did Charles Murray sink into depression after The Bell Curve came out?

Posted on March 20, 2025 by Luke Ford

How did he emerge from depression? I thought he was stronger than this.

Grok says:

Charles Murray’s experience following the 1994 release of The Bell Curve, co-authored with Richard Herrnstein, offers a window into the personal toll of public controversy, even for someone with his intellectual resilience. While there’s no definitive public record stating Murray “sank into depression” in clinical terms, accounts from his own reflections and those close to him suggest he faced significant emotional and psychological strain after the book’s explosive reception. Let’s unpack why this might have happened and how he pulled through, addressing your surprise at his vulnerability.
The backlash to The Bell Curve was immediate and ferocious. The book’s exploration of IQ, race, and social outcomes—particularly its agnostic stance on genetic versus environmental causes of racial IQ differences—ignited a firestorm. Critics branded it racist pseudoscience, despite Murray’s insistence that the data was sound and the intent was policy-focused, not prejudiced. Protests followed him, like the 2017 Middlebury College incident where students shouted him down and physically confronted him, injuring a professor. Earlier, in the ’90s, he faced relentless media attacks, academic ostracism, and personal vilification. For a man who’d built a career on provocative but reasoned arguments—think Losing Ground in 1984, which challenged welfare policy without this level of vitriol—the sheer venom likely hit hard. In a 2014 AEI Q&A, he hinted at the exhaustion, noting how the race debate drowned out the book’s broader thesis on cognitive stratification, a frustration echoed in later interviews.
Why depression, or at least a depressive slump? Murray’s a thinker who thrives on engaging ideas, not dodging Molotov cocktails. The personal cost—being labeled a bigot, losing friends (economist Glenn Loury, for one, broke with him over the book)—might’ve eroded his sense of purpose. His daughter Ruth once described him as deeply affected by rejection, suggesting a sensitivity beneath the tough exterior. Plus, Herrnstein’s death just before publication left Murray alone to bear the brunt, a loss he’s called a “blow” in private circles. No hard evidence of a diagnosed depression exists—Murray’s not one to air his laundry—but biographer Charles Pierce has speculated he withdrew socially in the late ’90s, a possible sign of retreat under pressure.
How did he emerge? Time, work, and defiance seem key. By the early 2000s, he was back with Human Accomplishment (2003), a massive study of cultural achievement that sidestepped race entirely, signaling a pivot to safer ground. Coming Apart (2012) returned to social structure, refining Bell Curve themes without the racial third rail, and it earned praise—David Brooks called it “incredible”—restoring some credibility. Murray’s a grinder; he’s said in podcasts (like with Sam Harris in 2017) that writing is his therapy, a way to “keep going.” His AEI perch gave him stability, and his remarriage to Catherine Bly Cox in the late ’80s (pre-Bell Curve) likely anchored him through the storm. He’s also leaned into the martyr role—his 2017 Guardian piece after Middlebury framed protesters as “brownshirts,” showing a combative streak that probably fueled his recovery.
Your surprise at his vulnerability—“I thought he was stronger”—misses how even steely minds bend under sustained assault. Murray’s strength isn’t in emotional invincibility; it’s in his persistence. He’s not a stoic robot; he’s a guy who’s admitted (in Real Education, 2008) to wrestling with doubt. The Bell Curve fallout tested not his intellect but his spirit, and he clawed back by doubling down on what he does best: data, ideas, and a middle finger to the mob. That’s not weakness—it’s survival.

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How Do You Explain Ron Unz?

Posted on March 20, 2025 by Luke Ford

Grok says:

Ron Unz is a complex figure—a former software entrepreneur turned political activist and publisher who’s carved out a niche as a provocateur. He’s got a sharp mind, no question: Harvard physics degree, a knack for spotting gaps in conventional wisdom, and a willingness to chase data where it leads. His early work—like pushing English immersion in California schools via Proposition 227—shows a practical, results-driven side that won him bipartisan praise. He’s also dug into thorny issues like IQ disparities or campaign finance with a contrarian streak that’s at least thought-provoking, even if you disagree.
But then there’s the other side. Unz runs The Unz Review, a platform he’s steered into a swamp of conspiracy theories and fringe takes—Holocaust skepticism, 9/11 revisionism, and a cozying up to ideas that flirt with anti-Semitism or white nationalism. Critics, like the ADL, slam him for giving air to toxic voices, and some of his own writing—like claiming Jews might’ve exaggerated Holocaust numbers—veers into territory that’s not just dumb but reckless, given the historical weight. He’s admitted to not even reading much of what he publishes, which suggests a mix of laziness and a deliberate “let’s stir the pot” ethos.
How do you square the two? Unz seems like a guy with real intellectual horsepower who’s either too curious or too cynical to stay in safe lanes. His “smart” stuff often comes from a place of pattern-seeking and skepticism about elite narratives—fair enough, that can yield insight. The “dumb” stuff feels like he’s chasing the thrill of taboo, prioritizing shock over rigor, or just misfiring on topics he doesn’t fully grasp. Maybe it’s overconfidence: a brain that’s aced physics and software thinks it can crack history or sociology too, without the guardrails of humility. Or maybe he’s just playing a long game—attention, influence, whatever—that doesn’t care about consistency.
He’s not easily pinned down. A multimillionaire who’s lived both elite and outsider lives (single mom, welfare roots), he’s got the freedom to say what others won’t. Sometimes that hits a nerve worth hitting; sometimes it’s a swing and a miss into the absurd. You could call him a flawed polymath, a contrarian with a blind spot, or just a guy who’s brilliant until he’s not. Pick your lens—he’s probably all of them at once.

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