Russ Smith
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Articles by Russ Smith
One More Vexing Language
I can’t read or write Russian. Or Italian, French, Gaelic or Chinese. As a mediocre Spanish student in high school and college, I can get by on a rudimentary level. One language I tried—five times—is that used by National Review senior writer Michael Brendan Dougherty, whose October 19th “Guest Essay” in The New York Times, “The Midterms Look Dark for Republicans. Their Future Looks Brighter,” was incomprehensible.
Stop Treating Security Classification Guides Like Static Documents
Zscaler Blog Get the latest Zscaler blog updates in your inbox >Stop Treating Security Classification Guides Like Static Documents Operationalizing SCGs for Zero Trust data decisions Every national security organization has some version of the same data sharing problem: the security guidance exists, the data exists, the mission need exists, but the control path between them is manual.
One Semi-Honest MLB Owner
Although I’ve lived in Baltimore for a long time—from 1973-1987 and then 2003-present—I’m not an Orioles fans. As noted many times, I grew up a Red Sox fan, and it baffles me when people switch their allegiances to teams on the basis of location. Not a major criticism—though a very minor character flaw—but it’s on the order of adults who get decked out in jerseys or jackets that have the name of a player on the back. Isn’t that for kids?
All the Stout Men
While much of his newspaper is teetering, you can generally count on Wall Street Journal sports/humor columnist Jason Gay for a decent read. He’s versatile, topical and low-key funny (not P.J. O’Rourke/Taki funny, but that’s a tough comparison). I liked two of his articles last week, one on the really stupid media meme of Mark Zuckerberg making a face when drinking a pint of Guinness; the other a send-up of the mercifully playoffs-eliminated New York Yankees.
The New Yorker’s David Remnick is Cautiously Optimistic About a Blue Wave
One of the most famous sore-loser gripes of a political candidate came on November 7th, 1962, when Richard Nixon, after losing by five points to incumbent Pat Brown in California’s gubernatorial election, rambled on and on at the Beverly Hilton, and bitterly concluded: “You don’t have Nixon to kick around anymore, because, gentleman, this is my last press conference.” This tirade, more than five decades ago, is instructive for a couple of reasons.
It’s the Recycling That Counts
The Atlantic has no use for demographics. What year is it (#652)? Does The Atlantic’s website (1.4 digital subscriptions, which is in the Top 10 for “news” sites) have any clue about its audience—are demographics too pedestrian for study—and what it wants to read, or better yet, seeks articles that will challenge their preconceived ideas about politics and culture? Could be that’s a naïve, or stupid, question, but I’m curious.
Beyond Belief
Remember when “I Hate Thanksgiving” socialist Francesca Hong was defeated by David Crowley in Wisconsin’s Democratic gubernatorial primary last August, after leading in almost every poll? Probably not: August was a long time ago. A refresher: activist Democrats and media enablers expressed disbelief and swore that polls in general no longer meant anything. That lasted about a week.
The War That Wasn’t
It’s a rare occasion when I read a book review before finishing the novel myself—as noted, for the past 10 years I read strictly fiction in print; my head’s already exploded from the digital junk consumed during the day—but will do so afterwards. On this occasion, I took in the opinion of New York Times critic Alexandra Jacobs, and it was mind-numbingly suited to her agenda. Had David Brooks remained with the Times, this is the exact lecture he’d have given.
Corn Dogs All Around
It’s only a matter of time before the bimonthly County Highway newspaper runs a 7000-word feature on Ree Drummond, “The Pioneer Woman,” whose Food Network TV show (set at her enormous 43,000-acre rural Oklahoma ranch) tickles me every time it’s on background in our bedroom. She’s the de facto heir of “cracker cooking” Bad Girl Paula Deen, whose voice was silenced in 2013 after racial epithets she made were uncovered on social media.
Only the Lonely
You, too, can believe in miracles. Philip Galanes is aces at The New York Times. What year is it (#650)? Do what you like, but I refuse to believe that everything in The New York Times is worse than five tablespoons of castor oil, canned peas or getting a cavity filled without Novocain. The “news” and “Guest Opinion” sections are always irksome at best, although, and it’s hard to believe, they’re a tick above the insult known as The Athletic.
Schoolgirl Crush
This close to November’s midterms—which TDS charter member Larry Sabato, still running the University of Virginia’s allegedly non-partisan Center For Politics, suggests will be a “blue tsunami,” bold at this juncture, and will either land in him Ann Selzer territory, or on a pedestal—it’s fair for the antsy commentariat to cast their lot with prospective 2028 Democratic presidential nominees.
No Photographs, Please
Around and around with The Wall Street Journal. In any given week there are several articles I like, whether in agreement or not, and then increasingly more that are inane, as if they were churned out on a phone in an Uber on the way to pick up delicate pastries. AI-enhanced?
George W. Bush Takes a Long Breather
Give veteran commentator Jacob Weisberg (early-60s) this much credit: he sticks to a subject, mostly the failings of George W. Bush, and doesn’t let go. I’d assume it’s a fairly lucrative corner, starting with the popular, if often inane “Bushisms” that he penned for Slate in the early-21st century (later collected in a short book), skipping along in 2008 with The Tragedy of George W. Bush.
Ben Rhodes and The New York Times Pimp For Each Other
Another day, another political advertisement for the Democratic Party published by The New York Times, dressed up as a “Guest Essay.” The latest shill is Ben Rhodes, a widely-disliked 48-year-old man who spent eight years in Barack Obama’s administration, one of the 44th president’s butt boys who snapped to attention when the 2009 Nobel Peace Prize winner walked into the room.
Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory of a Red Sox Win
It’s not often I attend baseball games anymore, primarily because my eyesight has deteriorated to the point that it’s impossible to tell a pop-up from a warning-track blast, never mind seeing who’s at bat by looking at the Jumbotron, which is a colorful blur.
Democrats Have No Class
It’s not often, two months away from the midterms, that you’ll find a commentator who doesn’t assault readers with “back-of-the-envelope” predictions (and a battery of “battleground” polls) and instead flips on the entertainment button. It’s a break from the columnists, affecting a “deeply serious” tone, who proclaim the upcoming elections are the “most important in American history,” like they’ve bellowed since 1964 or so.
Joe Klein’s a Glum Guy
The now almost-forgotten author of Primary Colors wallows on Substack. It’s years now since I asked the question, “Whatever happened to Joe Klein?” Could be the memory’s fuzzy and I never wondered at all about Klein’s relative disappearance.
Andy Beshear Wins the Dog Rape Nicholas Kristof Primary
I embrace The New York Times’ increasing, but undeclared, status as a public relations arm of the Democratic Party. The paper’s politics are screwy—it’s likely that few remember its strange January 20th, 2020 twin endorsement of Sens. Amy Klobuchar and Elizabeth Warren—but all it takes is a spread-out map (of the old AAA vintage) and within 15 minutes of so, a reader can get the gist.
Journalists Claim They Have Trump Fatigue
Paraphrasing Joni Mitchell’s 1974 song “Same Situation” from Court and Spark (her best record): Again and again in the same situation, for year after year, I’m stuck in an auto-repeat of commentators—some earnest, most not—blathering about lame-duck Donald Trump and his countless acts of real and imagined perfidy. On successive Thursdays, The Wall Street Journal’s Peggy Noonan devoted her columns to Trump.
More News at 10!
I don’t subscribe to the print edition of The Baltimore Sun, but take the digital version (which gets zero traction on Twitter, which is surprising for a daily that, in the 20th century, was a legacy newspaper), and that’s good for weather, Orioles stories, crime stats—no matter what the public-relations studies say, the violence turnaround is part-fact, part-fantasy—and an occasional whopper of a news story.
Journalists Tell Readers How to Live
During the past month I’ve run across a load of “How-To” articles—once a staple of community weeklies and USA Today—and maybe it’s a coincidence, but probably not. Most journalists/commentators have run out of anything to say that approaches a minimum level of substance.
Hot Stuff
When I was a kid, like most of my friends, I loved summer. No school, too young for a job save mowing lawns, mornings starting with re-runs of sitcoms (My Little Margie, Father Knows Best, Dennis the Menace, The Bob Cummings Show and so on), playing softball, exploring the woods behind the 14-house development we lived in, and swinging from vine to vine, sneaking a cigarette or two at the construction site nearby and having wicked water pistol—or machine gun—fights.
It's Not Trivial
It’s come to this: when I get around to logging into The New York Times website each morning, I look for the latest advertorial/product placement bonanza from fashion writer Alexander Nazaryan (and others).
You’re Elite, I’m Elite
As noted previously in this space, I think The Wall Street Journal’s relatively new op-ed section, the “brand-extension” called “Free Expression,” which debuted last December, is a worthwhile addition, mostly because it provides work for younger writers, some of whom aren’t yet 30. Maybe I haven’t kept up, but if there’s another major newspaper/website offering that opportunity—it’s not philanthropic, obviously, since all media covets a younger audience—I haven’t seen it.
I Like Summer Breezes, but Hold the Seals & Crofts
The Doobie Brothers? That “yacht rock” period was bleak. It was nothing more than a mild neck spasm, really, a five-minute online mild thunderstorm (I still got wet), and at least a diversion from seeing Zohran Mamdani’s mug on Twitter every 20 minutes. But even the mention of Seals & Croft’s purposely inoffensive “Summer Breeze” from 1972 can get me going on a laid-back rant. The song was almost immediately dubbed “soft rock,” a contradiction, since rock ‘n’ roll, at its best, was never flaccid.
I’m So Existential I’ve Gotta Wear Shades
Politics & Media Aug 03, 2026, 06:29AM David French is exhausted from schooling readers who don’t know much about history. What year is it (#640)? I don’t get into the business of “sending good thoughts and prayers” to people I don’t know—on Twitter, some pleas are real, others on-nose parodies—but it’s likely that some suckers will try and fix up New York Times op-ed columnist David French.
The Lore of Jose Caballero
The Wall Street Journal, not a surprise even as it desperately attempts to skew its demographic younger, is thin on sports, and as I’ve noted before my preference is Jason Gay—well-rounded and funny—over baseball columnist Jared Diamond, but the latter wrote a dandy on July 23rd. Nothing to do with the August 3rd MLB trade deadline, but a mini-profile of Jose Caballero, a decent utility player for the New York Yankees.
What a Day for a Daydream
When the “news” is a never-ending re-run, you’ve to improvise. What year is it (#639)? I’ve got a head full of ideas and they’re driving me straight to a couple of flat tires. Not much new anywhere you look in America. Zohran Mamdani can’t arrest Bibi Netanyahu if the Israeli Prime Minister sets foot in New York City; the Mayor’s silliness just points out that the United Nations is an anachronism now used solely to condemn the United States.
The New Yorker Takes a Brief TDS-Break
Relatively speaking, but Bill McKibben at least has a new idea.
A Taste of Honey
There’s a talking blues song from the 1920s—the singer I can’t recall, but it’s on several compilation CDs I play—that has the random lyric, “Ain’t it nice to be nice, when you can be nice.” That’s a pretty good rule of thumb when interacting with other people, whether on the street or in a retail store. Not long ago, I was in a Charles Village supermarket here in Baltimore, and as usual there was only one cashier open out of seven lanes.
I Didn’t Know That!
The most pointless article I read last week—I assume it wasn’t purposely dense or AI-generated—came from Rose Horowitch in The Atlantic, with a headline that was designed for digital subscribers of the well-trafficked but rarely insightful magazine/website. “The End of Reading is Here,” and considering the thousands of similar “grand white papers” that’ve appeared in the last decade, I’m not sure why I clicked and consumed almost every word.
Forbidden Words
At this point, it’s neither here nor there to me, but I wonder if editors at The New York Times realize that their once-upon-a-time putative conservative Bret Stephens is stuck on the top of a Coney Island roller coaster and no one hears his screams for help. Or respect. Stupid question, as non-liberals who read the Times know, since that paper meanders along in 2026 without a care in the world.
Cottle Won’t Grovel
It’s not often that I read a New York Times column by the aggressive left-winger Michelle Cottle twice; hard to remember if I ever did. But her July 3 entry for The Paper Of Clicks, headlined “This Pathetic Groveling Is No Way to Rebuild a Party,” was an accurate shot to the head.
Smiles and Scowls
There’s not a chance that I’ll read Joshua Kendall’s new biography of Garry Trudeau, Trudeau & Doonesbury: The Cartoonist Who Turned the News Into Art—not necessarily a slight on Kendall, I just have little interest in white-washed stories about pop culture “icons,” whether from rock ‘n’ roll, politics or film—but did enjoy Dwight Garner’s New York Times review of the book, even if I found his writing as clunky as he claims Kendall’s is (It’s possible that a “busy-work” Times assistant editor...
Gloved Knuckles
Devils with or without disguises. A week after the “political tsunami” in New York City, where three Zohran Mamdani-endorsed DSA candidates won House seats—there’s an election in November, but in blue cities the primary is tantamount to final victory—I’ve little idea what it means for the midterms and presidential race in two years.
Memory Loss
The DSA is crazy, man, crazy. What year is it (#635)? Last Wednesday, the day after three of Mayor Zohran Mamdani’s confederates won primaries in New York City, my 83-year-old brother called early in the morning to wish me a happy birthday.
Let Them All Talk
It was by happenstance that I read a story by Nathaniel Frum—32-year-old-son of David Frum, the creep who’s parlayed his NeverTrump purple prose into a small fortune—in The Atlantic, a not altogether loony-bin opinion that Democrats ought to speak out about sports more often, like Trump does. In April, I wrote a story, in part, about the importance of men (and often women) demonstrating at least a passing knowledge of MLB, NFL, NBA, etc. as a way to break the ice in a business conversation.
Damp Firecrackers
I’ve had it up to my ears reading pundits begging, beseeching and groveling that Americans take the upcoming 250th July 4th anniversary with historic joy and pride. Independence Day is a favorite holiday of mine—not least because it’s not pushed to a Monday, like, say, “President’s Day,” which allows Americans to bridge a three- or four-day mini-vacation—and it gives me a pleasant jump in the step. I don’t need to be reminded, and, really, the “milestone” of 250 doesn’t mean a lot.
Listen Up, Buster!
In 1973 one of the standout tracks from John Prine’s memorable LP Sweet Revenge was the semi-novelty song “Dear Abby.” It was very funny—still is—and I wonder if Prine, like millions of Americans, read Abby’s column every day. I did, and had since about 1965, along with Ann Landers, who always struck me as more barbed than her twin sister, handing out euphemisms about teen sex, which was a prime topic for friends and me.
Highwire Days
Ross Douthat is a tolerable New York Times op-ed columnist—as I’ve noted previously, he’s wishy-washy, a putative conservative and writes like he’s 82 instead of his 46—which admittedly isn’t saying much since he shares space, and perhaps converses with, Crazy Men like Nicholas Kristof, David French and Jamelle Bouie. I don’t often, if ever, wade into Douthat’s prose when he gets into the quicksand of religion, but his May 30th entry, “The Best News in America,” struck me as abnormally sloppy.
Shattered in the Mid-1970s
A few weeks ago I ran across a brief thread on Twitter about the nearly obsolete press-on sheets of Letraset typefaces, a staple for artists and small newspapers before computers took over. As a young journalist, I doubled as a lay-out “designer” and observer at a Westminster, MD printing plant when 7000 copies of the Johns Hopkins semi-weekly News-Letter whizzed along like in the movies (and a few years later a 20,000 run of the start-up City Paper).
Deliriously High On Taxes
It’s impossible, at least right now, to rid DNC-approved publications of moral scolds, the out-of-touch, but “elite” men and women who presume to lecture to “average” or “normal” Americans about their lifestyles.
Jack’s on the Right Track
It’s unlikely that John Bouvier Kennedy Schlossberg (Jack), the playful Millennials-just-wanna-have-fun grandson of JFK, is familiar with the 1959 Coasters’ smash hit, “Charlie Brown,” with its memorable line, “Why’s everybody always picking on me,” but if a musicologist on his payroll is smart, it’d make a great ad for his quest to represent New York’s 12th Congressional District.
Complete Surrender
One reason I’ve enjoyed—but haven’t followed fastidiously—the back-and-forth between Bruce Springsteen fans who are either ENERGIZED by the 76-year-old celebrity’s up-to-the-moon demonization of Donald Trump or saddened (sad!) by the muse who transported them years ago is that it means nothing. I do find the social media comments that septuagenarian Springsteen looks like somebody’s grandmother stupid—he’s fit and has aged well—but that’s what happens in a pointless online war.
Tied Up In a Sailor’s Knot
Bob Dylan turned 85 last Sunday, and as expected social media was clogged with birthday wishes (a lot of the encomiums included gratuitous personal reminiscences, as if anyone cared), almost all of them showing an image of Dylan before he turned 30. I was surprised, since that contradicts the glowing notices he elicits, especially in the past 15 years, for his “never-ending” string of concerts. The Wall Street Journal’s James B.
The Illusionists: May 2026
Politics & Media May 25, 2026, 06:29AM Shooting buzzards. What year is it (#628)? It’s not much, but for those readers who’ve missed dim flashes of news, while stymied by the Baltimore Orioles’ implosion (and GM Mike Elias’ nearly-certain firing), I’ve gathered a few nuts.
Small Ball
The last time I went to a mall was pre-Covid, and it was a quasi-sociological visit to see how far the once-ubiquitous institution had fallen. (Except as a kid, I’ve never liked the generic collection of stores and fast-food joints at malls, although the 1980s are considered by some as a peak of American culture, back when we had “a proper country”.
Grazin’ In the Green Grass
As a jaunty fellow walking the streets of North and midtown Baltimore, I always get a rise (the snicker-to-yourself-kind) when, at a corner, another person will press the button affixed to a traffic light contraption and expects red will turn to green lickety-split. It never does, but that doesn’t deter the I’m-impatient-for-heaven’s sake pedestrian from jamming a finger on the worn-out button.
Barack Obama As Jesus/Michael Corleone
At this point in 2026, no matter your opinion of Donald Trump, I’d have guessed the expiration date of shameless rim jobs of Barack Obama had passed. But every day there’s a surprise package, in this case an I-Can’t-Stop-Writing celebration of Obama in the May 11-18 “double issue” of The New Yorker by Peter Slevin, who spoke to the former president this spring.
All Those Costco Angels Gone to Waste
Last winter, with no MLB games to set my clock to, I re-watched the first four seasons of Law & Order—a showcase for Michael Moriarty as Executive Assistant District Attorney Ben Stone, whose contentious departure (he was feuding with Bill Clinton’s horrific Attorney General Janet Reno because of her threatened clampdown on TV violence, too much for NBC) after the fourth season left the Dick Wolf ground-breaking cop procedural even more formulaic—and as you might expect for a TV show that...
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