The Architecture of Abandonment: What the Billionaire Bunker Tells Us About the Coming Century

There’s an old saying in the theatre that if you see a gun in the first act, it will be fired in the third act. We are seeing the same drama play out in our real lives as the Billionaire Oligarchs of the world load their Doomsday bunkers in the act one, and we, the unwashed and unknown, prepare for its firing in act three. Yes, the dramatic arc carries its own answer. Mark Zuckerberg’s Koʻolau Ranch on Kauai, valued north of three hundred million dollars, includes two mansions joined by a tunnel that leads to a 5,000-square-foot underground shelter, sealed behind a blast-resistant metal door packed with concrete, with its own living quarters, mechanical room, and escape hatch. The compound is engineered for self-sufficiency in water, energy, and food, monitored by round-the-clock security and a six-foot perimeter wall, with construction crews bound by non-disclosure agreements that have been enforced through firings. The owner of that property has called it “a little shelter,” “like a hurricane shelter, whatever,” in remarks to Bloomberg. The engineering specifications tell a different story. Blast doors and escape hatches are absent from the standard Hawaiian hurricane code. They appear on the architectural plans of people who expect to be hunted.

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The Rehearsal State: When Governance Becomes Performance

There is a scene in every disaster movie where the official steps to the podium, adjusts the microphone, and assures the public that resources are being mobilized, plans are being activated, and the full weight of the institution is being brought to bear. The audience in the theater knows the official is lying or incompetent or both. The audience at home, watching the real version of the same press conference after the real hurricane or the real chemical spill, has no such certainty. They take the performance at face value. They go to bed believing the plan exists.

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Wilma’s Boy

My mother, Wilma Jean Boles, died on June 24, 2024. She was 85-years-old. Her death was unfortunate, and unnecessarily gruesome in that, in the end, she chose not to walk, or eat, or take her medication after a major surgery; the only thing she desired was a quick death. My mother always fought for what she wanted, and sometimes what she wanted is what nobody else wanted, including her death. Wilma never really recovered from elective surgery she had on May 23, 2024 to fix a perforated diaphragm where half of her stomach and part of her colon were stuck in her chest cavity, placing pressure on her left lung. Her surgeon believed she’d been living with that condition for more than 25 years; and he also believed there was “no good reason” for her not to recover and get better. As I have worked to come to terms with Wilma’s death, and the first 23 years of our life together, I am surrounded by — and often hunted with — the memories of my mother’s life, her successes, her disappointments, and her ability to continually confound the unwary. I have also realized, but not quite yet accepted, that no matter how hard I try, or how fast I may run, I will always be “Wilma’s Boy.”

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Superman, Batman and Spider-Man: How Murdering Loss Creates Comic Book Character

Over the holiday break, I decided to watch the newest Superman movie and I was certainly disappointed in the silly story, the rebooting of the franchise, and the awful acting of the lead character.  Superman should be wily, and funny, and tough.  He never preens.

It’s always boring when movie production houses feel they have to re-start a story that’s been never-endingly told for generations.  We pretty much know the backstory of Superman and we don’t need to re-live, over and over again, every 10 years or so, just how the star child becomes the Superman on earth.

In my short life, I think I’ve lived through at least a dozen iterations of Superman in film and on television and I would be perfectly fine to have a new Superman just appear in media res.  We get it he’s special and Superhuman, so just drop him in and let the story start with no explanation necessary!

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The World You Are Left with is Not the World I Wanted for You

One of the joys of my day is when I am able to speak to my friend and mentor, Howard Stein, who always has prescient and lively advice for me on a daily basis — even if we don’t speak every day!

In less than a year, Howard will turn 90 years old.  He just renewed his Stamford Library card until 2014 — making, as he joyously told me, a “bold statement about the fluidity of my future!”

During our latest conversation, as we reflected on our lives — as we are often wont to do — the tone turned serious and Howard said in a sad and somber voice, “David, the world you are left with is not the world I wanted for you.”

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We, Who Did Not Heed Eisenhower, are Now Slaves to the Military-Industrial Complex

We’re in the height of tax season and, as you prepare to pay your fair share, be sure you know you’re giving $260.00USD to Lockheed Martin, a single armaments manufacturer.  Do you feel safer at night knowing you’re faithfully paying your “Lockheed Martin” Slave Tax?

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Magnifying the Human Condition

The universal human condition is one of suffering and it is the Playwright’s moral duty to bring that condition to light on the live stage.

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Colored in Black and The Blues

The history of the African-American experience in America is one of a human rage colored in Black and The Blues. 

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Recoiling from The Cove

There are few movie trailers that are so stunningly effective that you actually recoil from the screen in your seat.  Meet “The Cove” and start your recoil:

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Saartjie Baartman: The Hottentot Venus

Saartjie Baartman was considered a South African sexual freak by Caucasian culture.  In 1810, when she was 20, she was convinced to leave her homeland for fame in England.  Her traditional Khoikhoi body type was considered freakish in Western Culture and she was put on sexual display.  Her bare breasts and genitals were open for the gaping.  She was given the nickname “Hottentot Venus” for her presumptive beauty, though in Khoikhoi, “hottentot” means “stutterer.”  Saartjie was dead at 25 and her genitals and brain were pickled for continued, public, display.

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