Republican, Democrat, spare me the team jerseys. I don’t give one fuck what color your tie is. If you’re guilty, you should be prosecuted to the absolute ends of the law. No exceptions. No winks. No quiet resignations and soft landings. The Epstein horrors were never political, they were moral atrocities, and they should be treated like the crimes against humanity they are.

And now here comes democrat Larry Summers, slinking out with his carefully manicured apology tour, “deeply ashamed,” “full responsibility,” “stepping back from public commitments.” Spare me. The man wasn’t “misguided”; he was comfortable. Comfortable enough to keep talking to a predator whose existence was an open secret among the powerful. Comfortable enough to keep basking in the glow of proximity, because Epstein’s currency was access, and Summers kept cashing the checks until the house of cards finally collapsed.

Now the boards and think tanks are suddenly discovering their consciences, funny how that works. The Center for American Progress hits the brakes. Yale Budget Lab quietly unhooks his name from the masthead. Everyone scurries to distance themselves, as if cutting the rope after the ship has already sunk is some kind of moral victory.

And Harvard, of course, says nothing. Silence is their favorite language when the rot creeps too close to the marble halls.

Elizabeth Warren is right: sever the ties. All of them. Stop pretending that selective shame is the same thing as accountability.

Because this isn’t about Summers alone. It’s about the entire ecosystem of “respectable” people who orbited Epstein like he was some kind of diseased sun, who enjoyed the warmth and now want to pretend they never saw the heat.

This isn’t about politics. This is about character.

— Michael Jochum

Michael Jochum is a writer and musician reflecting on art, politics, and the human condition.

 

Robert Weston Smith….AKA Wolfman Jack. He was an American disc jockey, active for over three decades. He was famous for his gravelly voice. At his peak, Wolfman Jack was heard on more than 2,000 radio stations in 53 countries.

In 1973, Wolfman Jack appeared as himself in George Lucas's second feature film, American Graffiti. Lucas gave him a fraction of a "point", the division of the profits from a film, and the extreme financial success of American Graffiti provided him with a regular income for life. He also appeared in the film's 1979 sequel More American Graffiti, though only through voice-overs. In 1978, he appeared as Bob "The Jackal" Smith in a made-for-TV movie Dead man's Curve based on the musical careers of Jan Berry and Dean Torrence of Jan and Dean. Smith appeared in several television shows as Wolfman Jack, including The Odd Couple, What's Happening!!, Vega$, Hollywood Squares, Married... with Children (his final public performance), Emergency!, The New Adventures of Wonder Woman, and Galactica 1980. He was the regular announcer and occasional host for The Midnight Special on NBC from 1973 to 1981. In 1976, he furnished his voice in The Guess Who's top-10 hit single "Clap for the Wolfman".

He was the host of his variety series The Wolfman Jack Show, which was produced in Canada by CBC Television in 1976 and syndicated to stations in the U.S.

In 1984, Wolfman Jack starred as himself on the short-lived ABC animated series Wolf Rock TV.

On July 1, 1995, Smith died from a heart attack at his house in Belvidere, North Carolina, shortly after finishing a weekly broadcast. He was 57 years old. He is buried at a family cemetery in Belvidere.

 

I put my phone on silent at 8:12 p.m.—the official hour of “my heart is too heavy for company.”

A minute later, I saw it:

A notification from my memories' app.

A video.

Of my dog.

Timestamped 8:12.

I hit play.

That familiar little bark floated out, the one that always sounded like he was asking a question.

His tail thumped against the floor—slow, steady, like a heartbeat made of hope.

Replay.

Replay again.

His breath.

The tiny pause before he tilted his head.

The jingling of his tags—our old house soundtrack.

Back then, 8:12 p.m. was his magic hour.

That was when he’d wait by the door, ready for our evening walk, staring at me like I was the entire universe wrapped in a hoodie.

Sometimes I’d come home late and find him sitting by the window, tail sweeping the floor like a tiny broom of forgiveness.

Tonight, my apartment felt too quiet.

Even the rain outside sounded lonely, tapping the window like a soft reminder I didn’t ask for.

I promised myself:

Tomorrow.

At 8:12.

I’ll light his candle again.

The next night at exactly 8:12, I was still drowning in emails, my brain fried like someone left it on a skillet.

I ducked into the hallway and opened my phone.

I played another old clip.

Just a few seconds.

Him running.

Him smiling.

Him existing.

It stitched something in me back together.

The next night, I did it again.

And again.

Nothing dramatic.

Just love exchanged in spoonfuls.

I’d look at his old collar.

The worn spots where my fingers used to rest.

The tiny scratch on the tag from the time he tried to “fight” a bush.

I’d whisper a memory to him:

How he stole socks like they were treasure.

How he barked at balloons.

How he’d tuck his nose under my hand like he was plugging himself into a charger.

Sunday, I drove out to the park where we used to go.

It looked the same—just slightly older, like me.

I sat on our bench and placed a little paw-shaped candle on it.

Not bright, not fancy—just a soft glow with a couple of very committed moths dancing around it.

A woman walking her dog smiled at me.

For a second, I almost expected my boy to run up beside her, tongue hanging out, telling me I was taking too long.

“I still light a candle for him at 8:12,” I said quietly, as if he could hear.

He always understood quiet things.

The winter came early this year.

The kind that makes everything sound like a memory.

One night, at 8:12, I came home tired and frozen.

I forgot.

When I finally lit the candle at 8:27, the flame flickered in this soft, forgiving way —

like it was saying:

“It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.”

We’re people, not clocks.

And pets?

They were never clocks either.

They never cared about minutes — only moments.

Now I keep a small lamp by the window.

Next to his picture.

Next to his collar.

Every night at 8:12 — or 8:18 or 9:03 — I turn it on.

A tiny lighthouse for a soul made of fur.

A reminder:

Love doesn’t leave.

It just changes where it waits.

If you’re lucky enough to have a pet beside you right now — go give them a moment that matters.

And if your furry angel watches from heaven…

light a little glow for them tonight.

Because sometimes the softest light says the biggest thing:

“Here. Still here.”

 

 

The decay of Lhotse mountaineer Milan Sedlacek

 

Milan Sedláček, one of the Czech Republic’s most respected high-altitude mountaineers, lost his life on Lhotse on 20 May 2012. He was fifty, experienced, and driven by a deep love for climbing, the kind of passion that pulls people toward places most of the world will only ever see in photographs.

Sedláček had spent years pursuing some of the planet’s hardest peaks, including Shishapangma and two attempts on K2. Lhotse was a mountain he had returned to before, always drawn back by the challenge. In 2012, he and his teammates made a push for the summit. He reached the top, an achievement that represents the pinnacle of a climber’s devotion but never made it back down.

The exact cause of his death remains uncertain, though exhaustion at extreme altitude is believed to have played a role. His body remained high in the “death zone” for more than a decade before recovery teams were finally able to bring him home, giving his family long-awaited closure.

 

 

 

In Norse mythology, the goddess Freyja (Freya) — ruler of love, beauty, and magic — rode across the skies in a chariot drawn by two giant cats. These celestial felines, gifts from the god Thor himself, symbolized not just grace and mystery, but power wrapped in gentleness.

Freya’s cats were said to embody feminine strength and divine independence — fierce enough to pull a goddess, yet tender enough to purr beside her. In ancient tales, farmers left out offerings of milk to earn Freya’s favor and to protect their homes and harvests from misfortune.

Even now, Norse storytellers say that when a cat stretches in a sunbeam, it’s paying homage to Freya — basking in her eternal light.

These myths remind us that cats were never meant to be ordinary. They’ve always walked beside magic, balancing softness and strength with the elegance of gods.

References:

Norse Mythology Online – “Freya and Her Cat-Drawn Chariot”

Smithsonian Magazine – “The Role of Animals in Norse Myth”

BBC History – “Freyja: Goddess of Love and War”