Cinemorphosis

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  • Adolescent Vs. Adult Freedom: College Essay Prompt

    Adolescent Vs. Adult Freedom: College Essay Prompt

    Introduction

    I find myself embarrassingly smitten with It’s Florida, Man on HBO Max, a six-episode documentary romp that most critics dismiss with a shrug. The Hollywood Reporter’s Daniel Fienberg summed it up with clinical indifference: “The premise is very straightforward. Each half-hour recounts a real-life mishap of the kind that helped Florida develop its national reputation as a meme in state form . . .”

    Fienberg is right about the meme, but he undersells the spectacle. Florida isn’t just weird—it’s a hallucinatory soup pot where the heat never turns down. A bubbling Bouillabaisse of runaways, con artists, half-baked dreamers, and humidity-pickled misfits; the broth gets richer, stranger, and more intoxicating by the hour. Novelists like Carl Hiaasen dip their ladles in and remind us with glee: “You couldn’t write this if you tried.” Comedian Marc Maron, who has roamed the continental madhouse, concurs: there is no asylum wing quite as deranged as the Sunshine State.

    The final episode, “Mugshot,” is my favorite. A wanted man from Pensacola turns into a social-media celebrity after his mugshot detonates across Instagram. The local police, suddenly auditioning for daytime television, turn their manhunt into a Jerry Springer-style circus, complete with suspect-shaming and moral squalor masquerading as civic duty. You couldn’t script it unless you were drunk, desperate, and willing to risk being fired by HBO for turning in satire disguised as reportage.

    As a college writing instructor, I confess I watch shows like this with an ulterior motive: I’m always looking for essay prompts hidden in the wreckage. It’s Florida, Man practically delivers one to my desk, gift-wrapped in neon: “Freedom and its Discontents.” Not the noble kind of freedom—what philosophers used to call “freedom for”—where self-discipline leads to self-agency, flourishing, and mastery, the Cal Newport variety of cultivated freedom. No, Florida, Man wallows in the basement: “freedom from.” Freedom from the Id, from restraint, from consequence, from sobriety. It’s Pleasure Island on a peninsula, and the longer you stay the faster your ears sprout into donkey ears, your voice degenerates into animal brays, and your dreams curdle into swamp gas.

    It’s Florida, Man isn’t just entertainment. It’s anthropology of the grotesque, a front-row ticket to America’s most unruly carnival, where freedom is mistaken for license and the monsters are very much real.

    With the background and this assignment’s origin story out of the way, let’s get to the writing prompt.

    The Assignment

    In a 1,700-word essay, your task is to address the following claim:  Cal Newport’s notion of “deep work” is an argument for adult freedom, which results in self-agency, happiness, and flourishing while It’s Florida, Man is a rebuke of adolescent freedom, showing the personal disintegration that results from living in a tropical fever dream where the unbridled Id reigns supreme. 

    Important Concepts to Understand for Your Essay:

    Adult Freedom in the Context of Deep Work

    In Deep Work, Cal Newport frames adult freedom as the disciplined ability to direct one’s attention toward meaningful, cognitively demanding tasks. For Newport, freedom isn’t the absence of restraint but the mastery of it: the deliberate cultivation of focus, the rejection of digital noise, and the channeling of energy into work that produces lasting value. This definition of freedom requires self-command, delayed gratification, and an acceptance that the mind must sometimes be trained against its immediate impulses. Adult freedom, then, is paradoxical: by constraining distraction and choosing rigor, one becomes more autonomous, more capable of shaping a life of purpose rather than drifting along on cultural currents.

    This vision stands in stark contrast to adolescent freedom, which is defined less by self-mastery than by the intoxication of doing whatever one pleases. It is the “freedom from” rather than “freedom for”: a pursuit of unbounded indulgence, of perpetual novelty, of a life with no guardrails. Adolescent freedom mistakes rebellion and impulse for liberation, when in reality it often leads to dependence, mediocrity, or even self-destruction. Where Newport’s adult freedom grows out of discipline and results in greater agency, adolescent freedom resists boundaries altogether, mistaking chaos for autonomy and mistaking license for liberation.

    Adolescent Freedom in the Context of It’s Florida, Man. 

    The HBO series It’s Florida, Man is essentially a case study in adolescent freedom run amok. Each episode parades a cast of misfits whose choices reflect “freedom from” responsibility rather than “freedom for” growth or virtue. Characters pursue impulse, chaos, and notoriety as if these were badges of independence. In one episode, a fugitive becomes a minor celebrity when his mugshot goes viral, and the spectacle escalates into a carnival of bad decisions—police exploiting fame, communities laughing at ruin, and the fugitive himself reveling in his fifteen minutes. This is adolescent freedom in its rawest form: the unchecked Id let loose in the swamps, mistaking recklessness for liberation.

    Adult freedom, by contrast, would require self-command, reflection, and purposeful direction—the very qualities absent in the fever dream of It’s Florida, Man. Where adult freedom cultivates discipline to expand genuine autonomy, adolescent freedom collapses into spectacle, chaos, and eventual self-destruction. The show becomes a cautionary tale: when freedom is stripped of responsibility, it ceases to empower and instead devours, leaving its practitioners transformed into caricatures or, in Newport’s terms, “donkeys on Pleasure Island.” By staging these spectacles, HBO doesn’t just entertain—it inadvertently dramatizes the gulf between the hollow thrill of adolescent license and the deeper, harder-won autonomy of adult freedom.

    Required Sources for Your Essay

    To support your essay, you will use the following:

    1. At least 3 episodes from It’s Florida, Man.  
    2. Cal Newport’s YouTube video: “Core Idea: Deep Work”
    3. Escaping Ordinary (B.C. Marx) YouTube video: “How to Build a Brain That Doesn’t Get Distracted.”
    4. Huberman Lab Clips YouTube video: “Avoiding Distractions & Doing Deep Work.”

    Prescribed Outline for Your Essay

    Paragraphs 1 and 2: Profile people you know who embody adolescent and adult freedom with vivid details. Each paragraph should be about 300 words. 

    Paragraph 3, your thesis: Address the following claim:  Cal Newport’s notion of “deep work” is an argument for adult freedom, which results in self-agency, happiness, and flourishing while It’s Florida, Man is a rebuke of adolescent freedom, showing the personal disintegration that results from living in a tropical fever dream where the unbridled Id reigns supreme. 

    Paragraphs 4-6: Analyze adolescent freedom by breaking it down into 3 major characteristics with salient examples.

    Paragraphs 7-9: Analyze adult freedom by breaking it down into 3 major characteristics with salient examples. 

    Paragraph 10: Write a powerful conclusion that underscores that it is urgent to understand the difference between adolescent and adult freedom. 

    Sample Thesis Statements with Mapping Components

    1. Straightforward, Clear Thesis
     Cal Newport’s Deep Work defines adult freedom as the disciplined ability to channel one’s attention toward meaningful work, while It’s Florida, Man dramatizes the collapse of adolescent freedom into chaos. Adult freedom is marked by discipline, purpose, and flourishing, while adolescent freedom is characterized by impulsiveness, spectacle, and eventual self-destruction.

    Mapping components:

    1. Adolescent freedom, as shown in It’s Florida, Man, is impulsive and reckless.
    2. Adolescent freedom thrives on spectacle and fleeting notoriety.
    3. Adolescent freedom often ends in self-destruction rather than liberation.
    4. Adult freedom, as defined in Deep Work, begins with self-discipline.
    5. Adult freedom aims toward meaningful purpose rather than distraction.
    6. Adult freedom results in flourishing and autonomy.

    2. Analytical & Nuanced Thesis
     While adolescent freedom promises limitless possibilities, It’s Florida, Man shows it devolving into chaos and dehumanization. In contrast, Cal Newport’s Deep Work frames adult freedom as a paradox: by imposing constraints on distraction, individuals gain the autonomy to flourish. The contrast between these two models reveals that true freedom lies not in the absence of rules but in the deliberate embrace of structure.

    Mapping components:

    1. Adolescent freedom rejects boundaries, mistaking chaos for autonomy.
    2. Adolescent freedom feeds on distraction, notoriety, and spectacle.
    3. Adolescent freedom leaves individuals diminished rather than empowered.
    4. Adult freedom requires disciplined focus and deliberate boundaries.
    5. Adult freedom transforms attention into purpose and meaning.
    6. Adult freedom produces self-agency and long-term flourishing.

    3. Provocative Thesis (for stronger student voices)
     It’s Florida, Man is more than cheap entertainment—it is a grotesque anthropology of what happens when adolescent freedom dominates: people mistake license for liberty and collapse into parody versions of themselves. Cal Newport’s Deep Work, however, insists that adult freedom emerges only through focus and discipline. Together, these texts reveal that our culture must choose between two freedoms: adolescent chaos that consumes us, or adult discipline that liberates us.

    Mapping components:

    1. Adolescent freedom exalts the Id: reckless pleasure, chaos, and notoriety.
    2. Adolescent freedom mistakes rebellion for liberation but breeds collapse.
    3. Adolescent freedom, when unchecked, dehumanizes individuals.
    4. Adult freedom demands restraint and cultivated attention.
    5. Adult freedom transforms constraint into autonomy and purpose.
    6. Adult freedom builds lasting agency and flourishing.

  • Pleasure Island with Humidity: My Obsession with It’s Florida, Man

    Pleasure Island with Humidity: My Obsession with It’s Florida, Man

    I find myself embarrassingly smitten with It’s Florida, Man on HBO Max, a six-episode documentary romp that most critics dismiss with a shrug. The Hollywood Reporter’s Daniel Fienberg summed it up with clinical indifference: “The premise is very straightforward. Each half-hour recounts a real-life mishap of the kind that helped Florida develop its national reputation as a meme in state form . . .”

    Fienberg is right about the meme, but he undersells the spectacle. Florida isn’t just weird—it’s a hallucinatory soup pot where the heat never turns down. A bubbling Bouillabaisse of runaways, con artists, half-baked dreamers, and humidity-pickled misfits; the broth gets richer, stranger, and more intoxicating by the hour. Novelists like Carl Hiaasen dip their ladles in and remind us with glee: “You couldn’t write this if you tried.” Comedian Marc Maron, who has roamed the continental madhouse, concurs: there is no asylum wing quite as deranged as the Sunshine State.

    The final episode, “Mugshot,” is my favorite. A wanted man from Pensacola turns into a social-media celebrity after his mugshot detonates across Instagram. The local police, suddenly auditioning for daytime television, turn their manhunt into a Jerry Springer-style circus, complete with suspect-shaming and moral squalor masquerading as civic duty. You couldn’t script it unless you were drunk, desperate, and willing to risk being fired by HBO for turning in satire disguised as reportage.

    As a college writing instructor, I confess I watch shows like this with an ulterior motive: I’m always looking for essay prompts hidden in the wreckage. It’s Florida, Man practically delivers one to my desk, gift-wrapped in neon: “Freedom and its Discontents.” Not the noble kind of freedom—what philosophers used to call “freedom for”—where self-discipline leads to self-agency, flourishing, and mastery, the Cal Newport variety of cultivated freedom. No, Florida, Man wallows in the basement: “freedom from.” Freedom from the Id, from restraint, from consequence, from sobriety. It’s Pleasure Island on a peninsula, and the longer you stay the faster your ears sprout into donkey ears, your voice degenerates into animal brays, and your dreams curdle into swamp gas.

    It’s Florida, Man isn’t just entertainment. It’s anthropology of the grotesque, a front-row ticket to America’s most unruly carnival, where freedom is mistaken for license and the monsters are very much real.

  • On Watches, Aging, and Invisibility

    On Watches, Aging, and Invisibility

    Today I strapped on my Seiko Tuna diver, a hulking slab of steel that announces itself the moment you walk into a room. I don’t exactly want the attention, but let’s be honest: the watch is a radar blip that keeps me from fading into the wallpaper, just another suburban relic limping through the final trimester of existence.

    This fear of invisibility gnawed at me after my cousin Pete’s 75th birthday party in Studio City. His brother-in-law Jim, a retired ophthalmologist at 77, leaned in and muttered, “The worst part of aging is people stop seeing you.” Those words have been rattling around in my skull ever since. Old age, it seems, is less about wisdom and more about turning into a frayed recliner everyone resents but no one wants to haul to the curb.

    I’ll be 64 soon, and I know the rules: Father Time has a master plan, and it doesn’t include my vanity. Sure, you can still play piano with arthritic fingers, hike with a knee brace and a back girdle, and keep a smartwatch ready to call in helicopter rescue if you tumble into a viper-filled canyon. But invisibility is baked into the contract. You can fight it with kale salads and kettlebells, but in the end, your processor slows, your refresh rate lags, and the world swipes past you at 5G speed.

    Take the Samsung QLED my wife bought at Sam’s Club in 2021. Four years later, the picture is fine, but the processor is a fossil. Menus freeze, apps take two minutes to load, and the whole thing wheezes like a Pentium II running Windows 11. Samsung cheaped out on the chip, and now I’m stuck with a dinosaur. My solution? Upgrade to an LG OLED, not because I need perfect pixels, but because I want a TV with an AI 4K processor that doesn’t choke when I click Netflix. The irony isn’t lost on me: I’m furious at Samsung for selling me a laggy processor, yet here I am, trudging through life as a laggy processor. My younger colleagues adapt to new tech in a snap; I freeze and buffer. I’m a Boomer Samsung in a Gen Z OLED world.

    Nature is no kinder than tech. Watch the documentaries: Scar the lion rules the pride until Skip, the younger challenger, finally takes him down. Scar hobbles into the brush, invisible, forgotten, licking his wounds. That’s the arc. You don’t argue with it; you acknowledge it, maybe laugh about it, then go buy a $50 German Chocolate Cake at Torrance Bakery and eat the whole delicious thing. Because if invisibility is inevitable, you might as well go out with frosting on your face.

  • College Essay Prompt: Hurricane Katrina—Man-Made Catastrophe

    College Essay Prompt: Hurricane Katrina—Man-Made Catastrophe

    The story of Hurricane Katrina is not simply one of wind and water but of betrayal. The documentaries Hurricane Katrina: Race Against Time (Hulu) and Katrina: Come Hell and High Water (Netflix), along with Clint Smith’s essay “Twenty Years After the Storm” and Nicholas Lemann’s “Why Hurricane Katrina Was Not a Natural Disaster,” confront us with a grim truth: New Orleans, a city celebrated for its culture, music, and resilience, was devastated less by the storm itself than by the nation’s failure to protect its people.

    Through the voices of survivors, these works expose what might be called a fourfold sin: decades of red-lining that left poor Black neighborhoods especially vulnerable; government neglect that failed to strengthen levees or prepare for disaster; abandonment in the crucial days after the storm, when aid was sluggish and chaotic; and media defamation that painted survivors as looters rather than victims. Together, they suggest that Katrina was not just a natural disaster but a man-made catastrophe rooted in systemic racism, incompetence, and indifference.

    In a 1,700-word argumentative essay, take a clear position on the claim that Hurricane Katrina was less an act of nature than an act of national negligence. Your essay should:

    • Analyze how the films and essays portray the failures of government and institutions.
    • Consider how systemic issues (race, class, geography, and policy) compounded the disaster.
    • Explore how family, community, and cultural identity offered resilience when systems failed.
    • Use evidence from both documentaries and essays to develop your argument.

    Your goal is not just to summarize these sources but to engage critically with them, asking: What does it mean when a city is abandoned by its own country? What lessons does this catastrophe offer us about justice, resilience, and human dignity in the face of systemic failure?

    Sample Outline for Katrina Essay

    Thesis Statement:
     Hurricane Katrina was less a natural disaster than a man-made catastrophe, as decades of red-lining, government neglect, abandonment during the crisis, and media defamation amplified the storm’s destruction—yet amidst betrayal, the people of New Orleans revealed a code of resilience rooted in family, community, and cultural identity.

    Introduction (Paragraph 1)

    • Hook: vivid image of Katrina’s aftermath (rooftops, floodwaters, stranded families).
    • Background: films (Race Against Time, Come Hell and High Water) + essays (Clint Smith, Nicholas Lemann).
    • Transition: disaster reframed not as “natural” but as systemic failure.
    • Thesis (above).

    Body Paragraphs

    2. Historical Red-Lining and Vulnerability

    • Show how discriminatory housing policies left Black neighborhoods in flood-prone areas.
    • Use evidence from Lemann to explain how structural racism predetermined who would suffer most.

    3. Government Neglect Before the Storm

    • Weak levee systems and ignored warnings.
    • Films highlight repeated calls for reform that were dismissed.
    • Argue this negligence magnified the hurricane’s impact.

    4. Abandonment in the Storm’s Aftermath

    • FEMA’s failures and delayed military response.
    • Smith’s essay on families stranded without aid.
    • Link to systemic indifference toward vulnerable populations.

    5. Media Defamation and Public Perception

    • “Looters vs. survivors” narrative.
    • Racialized framing of desperation as criminality.
    • Analyze how defamation deepened the betrayal of victims.

    6. Katrina as Man-Made Catastrophe

    • Synthesize the “fourfold sin” into a coherent argument.
    • Emphasize how the storm was natural, but the disaster was political and systemic.

    7. Bonds of Family as Survival

    • Use Smith’s depictions of kinship.
    • Highlight family loyalty as a lifeboat of resilience.

    8. Community as Improvised Solidarity

    • Neighbors rescuing neighbors, churches as sanctuaries.
    • Films show grassroots resilience when official systems failed.

    9. Cultural Identity and Resilience

    • New Orleans’ unique culture—music, food, community pride—helped people endure.
    • Argue that culture is not superficial but a survival mechanism.

    10. Lessons for Justice and Human Dignity

    • What Katrina reveals about systemic racism, governmental accountability, and disaster response.
    • Extend argument: resilience is inspiring, but betrayal should never be normalized.

    Conclusion (Paragraph 11)

    • Restate thesis in fresh language.
    • Reflect on the paradox: beauty of resilience vs. shame of abandonment.
    • End with a call to remember New Orleans not as a drowned city but as proof of what solidarity and dignity look like when systems collapse.
  • Exit Stage Left: A Teacher’s Final Act

    Exit Stage Left: A Teacher’s Final Act

    I’m fewer than four semesters away from retirement—June 2027, the final curtain—and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared. For nearly forty years I’ve worn the armor of a college classroom persona: bigger, bolder, more disciplined than the fragile, fumbling man who hides inside. Teaching gave me a stage and a referee’s whistle. Without it, who am I? Just the broken man-child without a supervisor, left to his own devices.

    During the pandemic, when colleagues were clawing to get out, I puffed out my chest and declared I was born ready for retirement. I pictured myself a disciplined Renaissance man: mornings at the piano, afternoons writing, evenings lifting kettlebells in the garage, book in hand before bed. A gilded schedule, as though I were independently wealthy. Now those boasts feel like hot air. Structure is one thing. The man animating that structure is another. In the classroom, the stakes were high: thirty pairs of eyes asking, Are you boring? Do you know what you’re talking about? The pressure kept me sharp, funny, and, occasionally, wise. No one lets you coast when you’re trapped under fluorescent lights for two hours with judgmental twenty-year-olds.

    Bitter irony: I’m leaving just as I finally got it right. It took me decades to balance theater with approachability, to drop the drill-sergeant persona that once scared students into silence, to actually build a classroom where people learned and laughed. Now I can scaffold essays like an architect and coax timid students into crafting arguments brick by brick. And just as the machinery is humming, I’m stepping offstage. Melancholy doesn’t begin to cover it.

    And then retirement makes you pay with loads of endless paperwork. Work forms that warn you that you cannot rescind your decision. Medicare forms with their cryptic alphabet soup (A, B, C, D), switching to my wife’s insurance, navigating private plans that read like IKEA instructions translated from Martian. I’ve joked I’d rather do faculty assessment reports than wrestle with retirement forms, and I meant it.

    Meanwhile, time itself heckles me. I’ll be sixty-four in six weeks. At my cousin’s seventy-fifth birthday, the guests—all seventysomethings—mingled like ghosts of futures to come. One cousin, seventy-eight, told me that old age makes you invisible. You still occupy space, but people’s eyes skip over you, as if you’re furniture. Old age is rude like that: the world resents you for hogging resources after your best years are spent. You should apologize for existing. Step aside, old man.

    So here I am, staring down a three-headed monster: paperwork, invisibility, and the slow evaporation of the job that kept me sane. What’s the plan? At six years old, I invented a companion—James, my imaginary friend. I’d knock on the apartment wall and tell my parents James wanted to play. They laughed, which only confirmed that James and I were onto something.

    Now, on the cusp of retirement, I feel his absence. Because when I think of retirement, I think of loneliness, and when I think of loneliness, I think of Gollum—squatting in the cave, muttering “precious” as he caresses the ring. Only for me, the ring isn’t a piece of jewelry. It’s youth. Precious, lost youth. I stroke it with nostalgia and curse it with bitterness. How dare people treat me like I’m invisible, when old age has taught me more than their Google searches ever will? And yet—I know this bitterness is the opposite of wisdom.

    So maybe I do need James back. But not the sweet, knock-on-the-wall James of childhood. I need James 2.0: a drill-sergeant life coach who will slap me across the face and bark: Stop whining. You’ve got love. You’ve got lights on in the house. You’re walking into retirement with more than most people ever dream of. Be grateful. And don’t you dare let this next chapter kick your ass.

  • The Backyard Beast No One Wanted

    The Backyard Beast No One Wanted

    About eight years ago, my wife dragged home a secondhand monstrosity: a deluxe, double-tarp trampoline large enough to launch a small circus. It came with netted partitions to keep bouncing children from achieving low-Earth orbit, a backyard NASA program disguised as “fun.”

    Fast forward to now: my daughters, fifteen and far too sophisticated for backyard astronaut training, want the beast gone. They imagine chic barbecues, fairy lights, friends lounging with kombucha spritzers—scenes that don’t exactly pair with a faded, sagging trampoline hulking like a rusted Saturn V in the middle of the yard. Dutifully, we tried to offload it. We canvassed neighbors, begged on Facebook’s “free stuff” group, even flirted with Craigslist. The universal response? Crickets. No one wants this backyard dinosaur. And frankly, who could blame them? It’s not a toy—it’s a liability. Let a kid hop on it and you’ll be hosting a neighborhood ER shuttle service, complete with broken limbs and dislocated shoulders.

    Denial is over. I’ve stared long enough at its faded tarps, its sun-bleached frame, the sad gaps in its safety net where the gardener hacked through to trim a tree. Whatever curb appeal it once flaunted has been roasted away by the California sun, leaving something closer to a giant lawn ulcer.

    So the verdict is clear: I will dismantle it. Piece by reluctant piece, I’ll scatter its remains into trash bins, an unceremonious Viking funeral for the backyard beast no one wanted.

  • When the Levees Broke, Love Held: Kinship and Trust as Survival Codes (A College Essay Prompt)

    When the Levees Broke, Love Held: Kinship and Trust as Survival Codes (A College Essay Prompt)

    Essay Prompt

    When Hurricane Katrina hit in August 2005, it wasn’t only a natural disaster; it was a test of the nation’s moral infrastructure. Hurricane Katrina: Race Against Time (Hulu) and Katrina: Come Hell and High Water (Netflix) lay bare a grim truth: while government agencies stumbled, delayed, or failed outright, it was ordinary people—families, neighbors, church groups, and communities—who often became the real lifelines of survival.

    This paradox deserves attention. Katrina exposed systemic abandonment: broken levees, collapsed evacuation plans, and botched relief efforts. Yet amid this neglect, stories emerged of neighbors carrying the elderly through floodwaters, families sharing scarce food, and communities improvising codes of loyalty and solidarity to keep one another alive. These grassroots responses were not bureaucratic; they were visceral, rooted in bonds of kinship, shared suffering, and a deep sense of responsibility to one another.

    The films reveal a cultural alchemy unique to New Orleans—where music, food, faith, and kinship traditions already wove people together. During Katrina, those traditions became lifeboats, not metaphorically but literally. In the absence of functioning institutions, families and neighbors reinvented survival itself, showing that human dignity doesn’t only exist in comfort or prosperity but can be forged in the crucible of catastrophe.

    Your Task: Write a 1,700-word essay analyzing how bonds of kinship and community loyalty functioned as lifeboats of survival in post-Katrina New Orleans.

    Address the following questions in your essay:

    • How did family love and neighborhood trust create improvised survival systems when formal institutions failed?
    • In what ways did communities create a code of resilience, a shared moral contract, during the disaster?
    • What lessons can be drawn from this improvisational solidarity about human dignity, loyalty, and the meaning of community in times of collapse?

    Your essay should balance analysis of the documentaries with close attention to human stories of resilience. Use specific examples and consider how these lessons apply beyond Katrina: What do they teach us about disaster, community, and the fragile but essential bonds that keep us human?

    Sample 9-Paragraph Outline

    Introduction (1 paragraph)

    • Hook: Paint the scene—abandoned streets, flooded houses, helicopters circling, and yet neighbors wading through water with makeshift rafts.
    • Context: Briefly note government failures highlighted in both documentaries (FEMA delays, stranded citizens, broken levees).
    • Thesis: Argue that when institutions collapse, kinship and neighborhood bonds become codes of resilience—informal but powerful lifeboats—that preserve human dignity, improvise survival, and reveal enduring truths about community loyalty in catastrophe.

    Body Paragraph 1: Government Collapse vs. Community Response

    • Detail FEMA delays, local government paralysis, and the abandonment felt by residents.
    • Contrast with ordinary people organizing rescues, distributing food, and opening their homes.
    • Set up the theme: resilience grows where systems fail.

    Body Paragraph 2: Families as First Responders

    • Show how families stayed together, sharing resources, protecting elders and children.
    • Examples from the films: families wading together through water, refusing to abandon one another.
    • Argue that love in the family unit became the most reliable “infrastructure” of survival.

    Body Paragraph 3: Neighbors as Kin

    • Explore how neighbors expanded the definition of family.
    • Community members who had never spoken before suddenly acted as protectors and caregivers.
    • This shows the elasticity of kinship: disaster stretches the definition of who counts as “family.”

    Body Paragraph 4: The Code of Resilience

    • Define the unwritten rules that emerged: share what you have, protect the vulnerable, don’t abandon your people.
    • These codes operated faster and more effectively than bureaucratic policies.
    • Examples: strangers pooling resources, neighborhood patrols against looters, churches as shelters.

    Body Paragraph 5: Improvisation as Survival Strategy

    • Show how ordinary people became engineers, medics, and rescuers.
    • Example: makeshift boats, rafts, and supply lines.
    • Connect to the broader point: resilience is not planned in a manual; it is improvised under pressure.

    Body Paragraph 6: Dignity Amid Despair

    • Explore how solidarity preserved dignity in dehumanizing conditions (Superdome chaos, flooded homes).
    • Argue that dignity comes not from institutions but from mutual recognition—neighbors affirming each other’s worth when society seems to have abandoned them.

    Body Paragraph 7: Lessons Beyond Katrina

    • Broaden the lens: how does this apply to future disasters (pandemics, climate change, social unrest)?
    • Argue that resilience depends less on bureaucracies than on the cultural strength of communities.
    • Point: family and community loyalty may be the last firewall against collapse.

    Body Paragraph 8: Counterargument & Rebuttal

    • Acknowledge critics: some argue neighbor-to-neighbor efforts were insufficient or uneven, that only systemic reform can prevent tragedy.
    • Rebuttal: While systemic change is essential, Katrina shows that human dignity cannot wait for bureaucratic rescue—it depends on immediate solidarity.

    Conclusion (1 paragraph)

    • Restate thesis: Katrina revealed abandonment but also exposed the cultural wealth of kinship and loyalty as lifeboats of survival.
    • End with a powerful image: in the floodwaters, where the state faltered, the human heart did not.
    • Call to action: value, protect, and invest in community bonds before the next disaster arrives.
  • Muscle Man: A Novel of Rants in Disguise

    Muscle Man: A Novel of Rants in Disguise

    Jordan Castro’s Muscle Man is a strange beast: less a conventional novel than a stack of scathing essays stitched together with the thread of a character named Harold, an English professor obsessed with bodybuilding. Harold isn’t so much flesh and blood as a delivery system for polemics. He rants against bureaucratic absurdities, the avalanche of pointless emails, academia’s desperate clawing for relevance, and the smug Groupthink masquerading as intellectual superiority. He rails at the hypocrisy of universities that wave the flag of social justice while exploiting adjuncts, athletes, and students, and he sneers at the notion of campus as sanctuary when his inbox is clogged with alerts about robberies and assaults.

    Where the novel shines is precisely in these acidic rants. Castro’s Harold is less character than conduit, channeling fury and despair at a culture unraveling into nihilism. The ironies abound: Harold, who clings to bodybuilding as a refuge, is ironically less muscle than mouthpiece—an abstraction desperate for mass. And that is both the strength and weakness of Muscle Man. The pleasure lies in the essays-in-disguise, the delicious insights, the spectacle of academia and American culture descending into entropy. What you won’t find is narrative immersion, the joy of getting lost in a world that feels lived-in.

    That doesn’t make Castro’s experiment invalid. Novels aren’t bound by rules; if a writer wants to build a stage for ideas instead of characters, so be it. But a novel that thrives on abstractions will only light up some of the reader’s neurons, not all. If you want a narrative that delivers both scabrous cultural critique and the visceral, personal journey of a bodybuilder spiraling into madness, reach for Samuel Wilson Fussell’s Muscle: Confessions of an Unlikely Bodybuilder. That book flexes.

  • True Crime Shows Us the Demon That Hides Behind the Diagnosis

    True Crime Shows Us the Demon That Hides Behind the Diagnosis

    I still gag a little when I think of tabloid TV from the ’80s and ’90s—A Current Affair, Hard Copy, Inside Edition. The formula was simple: snarl into the camera, crank up the drama, and serve audiences their daily ration of moral panic wrapped in neon graphics. Having swallowed enough of that sludge in my twenties, I swore off the “true crime” genre, suspecting most modern entries were little more than tabloid reruns with higher production values.

    Then my wife and daughters talked me into it. In the last week I watched Love Con Revenge, a six-episode saga of con artists devouring their marks and detectives chasing them down like bloodhounds, and Unknown Number: The High School Catfish, the tale of a grotesque mother harassing her own daughter and boyfriend with a relentless barrage of obscene texts. Both were polished, chilling, and—for my sins—utterly absorbing.

    No shock, then, that Netflix, Hulu, and every other platform groan under the weight of hundreds of these fraudster chronicles. They mirror our times: technology weaponized into psychological napalm, the digital swamp rising up to engulf ordinary people. The stories console us by drawing a line between the “real world” of decent citizens and the fever swamp where predators feed—though that line, as these shows prove, is faint and fragile.

    What gnaws at me are the faces of these fraudsters: unrepentant, smug, cannibalizing innocence with the appetite of vultures while spinning narratives in which they—God help us—are the real victims. Watching Unknown Number, I thought of Scott Peck’s People of the Lie, a book that haunted my twenties. The book explores the unsettling terrain where mental illness and evil blur into one another, arguing that certain destructive patterns of thought and behavior cannot be neatly filed under psychiatric diagnosis alone. Peck suggests that some people hide behind the language of neurosis or dysfunction when what they are really exhibiting is a willful commitment to deceit, denial, and cruelty—a kind of “malignant self-righteousness” that psychiatry struggles to name. In his case studies, ordinary families cloak acts of profound betrayal and abuse in banality, showing how evil masquerades as normality. The book’s disturbing thesis is that evil is not always the exotic monster of horror stories but can manifest in the evasions, manipulations, and rationalizations of those who choose to deform their humanity, collapsing the categories of illness and moral corruption into one corrosive force.

    And here’s the ugly echo: the fraudster’s toolbox of deceit, self-victimization, and gaslighting isn’t confined to con men or deranged mothers. It has migrated, wholesale, into the attention economy. TikTok influencers now weaponize the same tactics, performing ailments and afflictions as if auditioning for sainthood, diagnosing themselves in real time while amassing legions of followers. This is fraud with a ring light: branding through pathology, monetized self-deception packaged as authenticity. It is the same theater of manipulation, dressed up in pastel filters instead of burner phones. And maybe that’s why these true-crime tales fascinate us: they remind us that manipulation, gaslighting, and deception have found their ultimate playground online. We watch to reassure ourselves that we’re still anchored to reality, but what we see instead is how terrifyingly porous the line is between mental illness and pure, corrosive evil.

    When we slap a psychiatric label on every grotesque act, we risk letting the guilty off the hook. To call fraud, cruelty, or sadism merely a “condition” is to dodge the darker truth—that people are capable of choosing evil. Peck was right to warn that deceit and malignant self-righteousness are not just quirks of the psyche but deliberate acts of corruption. If we keep misnaming evil as illness, we blind ourselves to the reality that a demon can take root inside ordinary people, feeding on their rationalizations until it grows strong enough to wreak chaos and devastation in the world around them.

  • How Soon Is Theft?

    How Soon Is Theft?

    In 1990, I was in my late twenties, a newly minted college writing instructor drifting through life with the ethereal soundtrack of The Smiths, the Cocteau Twins, The Trash Can Sinatras, and The Sundays rattling in my head. One afternoon on Hollywood Boulevard with my girlfriend, I did what any self-respecting young melancholic would do: I bought Smiths T-shirts and posters like sacred relics. The crown jewel was my “How Soon Is Now” poster, a portrait of an angst-drenched youth in a gray cable-knit sweater, gazing downward as if staring into the abyss. I taped it proudly to my office door, a shrine to my tribe. Within a week, it was gone—stolen.

    The theft still smolders decades later. It wasn’t just the insult of having something ripped from my door; it was the betrayal of the faith I placed in The Smiths’ congregation. Their music was heartbreak bottled into beauty, sadness transmuted into community. To love The Smiths, I believed, was to be incapable of theft. Fans were supposed to be fellow pilgrims on the same road to melancholy salvation. You don’t rob your brother of his relics. You light a candle with him and hum “There Is a Light That Never Goes Out.”

    But there it was: my poster ripped away not by a barbarian from the outside, but by a fellow initiate. The irony was unbearable. If The Smiths could not protect us from base impulses, if their music could not ennoble even their most ardent listeners, then what was art worth? Wasn’t it supposed to make us better, kinder, less brutish? The theft of that poster wasn’t just petty larceny. It was the murder of a principle.

    To this day, I remember the empty rectangle of tape marks left on my office door, staring back at me like a smirk from the abyss. The thief didn’t just pocket a poster; they handed me a lesson in nihilism, gift-wrapped in Morrissey’s sorrowful croon. And I’ve been suspicious of beauty ever since, knowing it can inspire devotion and betrayal in the same breath.