Ryan: Trump and the Louisiana funhouse

January 07, 2020

Kevin is an award-winning writer who focuses on long-form literary nonfiction and investigative reporting.

Part 1

The police car sharked onto Ronald Reagan Memorial Highway, strobing blue and red and white and wailing like a baby with a fever.

"I don't like it when they catch me," I said, slapping the dashboard. The same way President Trump slaps the dias at his rallies, glowering behind the decorous seal and the slanted glass teleprompters and the mayhem of a teenage nation.

This was outside Arcadia, Louisiana, about a potholed hour from Monroe, Louisiana, where we currently needed to be. Myself and fellow journalist Jade Byers, who needed a break from the story she'd just begun, an ethnography of Texas State Fair carneys.

Media check-in for the Keep America Great rally would end at 5:00 p.m and it was 4:00 p.m., and it wasn't the sort of occasion you could be late for, so in the afternoon pallor all I wanted was to keep driving, on and on and on past nowhere.

"Just slam the gas," said Jade, "ahead of that semi."

But life was no movie. Especially not in Louisiana, land of corruption and sky-high incarceration. And jail is awful. So we both shrugged, and I guided my white Subaru to the side of the bare grey highway.

We'd just been discussing the nature of justice. Was it a form of truth? Or an attempt to enforce it? I sensed that Louisiana was not just. Did you know that it has the highest murder rate in the nation? Later, Trump would bring this up, and, because Trump is a man of superlatives, it spun all the journalists into a fact-check scramble. Sure enough. Number One.

My mind had wandered, as usual. With a blink, I snapped back. This was no time for fanciful thoughts about justice.

The State Trooper pointed for me to get out of the car, then to the woody embankment 15 yards from the road. He pointed in that way that police could point but politicians are not supposed to because it sends the wrong message. Aggressive, capable of violence.

I loved it, every bit of it. Confrontation is lovely. So I strode to the cop in my white Birkenstocks and my stained white "Music for 18 Musicians" t-shirt and my white jeans, looking so much like a Millenial Big Lebowski.

The trooper had already started writing the ticket when he asked where we were going and why. His eyebrows sprouted when I told him I was a reporter for Blaze Media covering the Trump rally in Monroe, where, that very moment, Secret Service had begun letting the first round of rally-goers into the Monroe Civic Center.

"You work for Glenn Beck?" he asked. Then lowered his glasses and scoped me over again. "You're messin' with me."

At the sight of my press badge, he restrained a smile, as if fighting an eagerness to speak freely.

"I am not allowed to talk politics," he said, "being an guardian of the state and all."

Well I'd never heard anything like that and I suspected it was horseshit, so I smiled as he proceeded, unabashedly, to talk politics.
"Glennnnn-Beck," he said, ending with a "Hm." And, right on cue, "I listen to ole Glenn in the mornings, and Stu."

They're my bosses, I said. He liked that pretty well.

"You going to Shreveport too?" he asked. So I nodded and grinned and pretended to know what he was talking about. I smiled the way you smile when everyone around is speaking a language you've never heard and it's time to get going but nobody understands you.

Trump would mention Shreveport later. "I'm coming back here on Thursday, can you believe it?" he said. "I'm doing a double — I'm doing a double." Just six days after the Monroe rally, he would return to Louisiana, and so would I, this time with Jim Dale, an author and lifelong sailor.

Louisiana felt like a State Fair house-of-mirrors. Some kind of warp. Too much of yourself then none of you at all. A ghost following a helium-choked balloon. The homes seemed to rise from nothing, all shadows and grey shrub as if misshapen on purpose. And a wide shaggy green overtook the bare hills. Even the sky, the way it tilted, like a petri dish of glittery dark.

Much of America has untouched land and old-world buildings, but nowhere else I'd been left me feeling so indescribably odd. Not quite sad, but certainly not happy. Like when strangers in a dream know everything about you, and nobody acknowledges why or how.

The Trooper shifted in his tall shiny black boots. Was he still talking about Trump? Boy, I zoned out pretty hard. It was Wednesday and I could flip a coin for days.

"He sure has done a lot for the elections here," he concluded.

Then he gave me a rundown of the political situation in Louisiana. Explained how run-offs work, and why a Republican would be good for the roads and oceans or something, and how a majority was counted a little different in Louisiana. Something like that — I don't know. It was all so boring.

How long had we been standing there? Never in my life had I been so bored.

At the time, the big meme was "OK Boomer," which Generation Z used to disparage the Boomer Generation as part of a feud that popped up for no discernible reason, and which I hated because the joke was kind of mean and never funny yet all four generations kept repeating it and repeating it like big dumb squawking parrots. But in that moment, I understood it. And, may God forgive me, but I whispered that disrespectful phrase.

And I had to pretend to be interested, in case he got the urge to search my car. Whereupon he would find marijuana concentrate and sativa gummies. Paraphernalia. Not a ton. Not much, even. But enough. Some unopened beers, a flask. No guns, but a few knives. An ordinary amount of knives.

All of which would land me a night in the clink, no doubt.

And who had the time or the money for that. Not me, with a Trump rally to cover and a fiery career and a pregnant wife with our two dogs at home, waiting.

Then I felt rotten for getting bored while the guy was talking. The man risked his life every day just so he could protect the community. Never mind the exorbitant ticket. What was $300 when this guy risked everything every day?

You were supposed to listen to people when they trusted or admired you. To care. To give them a chance, no matter their rank or stature or political affiliation. Especially the police.

Before, in situations like these, I resorted to military-style salutes, gestures I had seen as a child in cartoons. However you were meant to signify honor. I was not a military type. But I felt a great reverence for them and their service and whatnot.

Turns out, that's not how they do it at all. The salute, the hard stomp down with the heel, the huge grunt, the serious face, the violent turns of the waist, the gibberish that sounded like military phrases.

So I didn't salute anymore, but that didn't make it any easier not to salute. Usually I boiled and boiled till all of a sudden I was shouting out a long-winded, hard-to-follow story. So I told him what it's like to work at Mercury Studios.

"We've got the Forrest Gump bench," I said. "For a while it was in the dining area and, one time, I saw an intern sitting on it, eating a burrito. We have the original Darth Vader mask, too. And Dorothy's shiny red shoes that were supposed to be silver."
His face spread in all four directions, like I was a child reciting Socrates.

"And the tree from Barney, you know, that dinosaur kids show? And JFK and Robocop and an Eric Clapton video and Guns 'N' Roses, all filmed there. And a few months ago Sean Spicer stopped by. Before all the Dancing with the Stars drama. Interesting people are constantly stopping by. Pat Boone told me that Elvis had stage fright. But, between you and me, I think Pat Boone has stage fright."

I don't care who you are, all of that is fascinating. So I yammered on about this election series and justice, ignoring the trooper's polite impatience. He'd stopped me so the least he could do was listen to my weird story.

Secretly, I wanted to rip the ticket from his gloved hand and wad it up and toss it into the grass below my feet. It was paper. I would litter. It would vanish and no harm done, anonymous among all the other garbage of Louisiana.

There are places where nothing is wasted. America is not one of them.

Jade slumped in the car, fidgeting. We'd never talked about it but I assumed she didn't like police all that much. I get it. Usually, when the police show up, someone's day is about to plummet. But I like them, personally. Which I made sure to tell the trooper again, as he blabbed about some recent mayoral election.

Then I laughed, because this situation had gotten pretty funny. There I was on the side of a highway named after former President Ronald Reagan, on my way to see current President Donald Trump, my hair dismantled by the violent wind of a passing semi-truck, as a Louisiana state trooper in a prim uniform gave me a civics lesson.

It was just barely November, and the cold had not descended. Not in the sunshine at least, all pale orange and soft still.

"Trump sure seems to be doing a lot of things right," said the state trooper. "Jobs, economy, all that. And as you know, he's a friend of the police."

Was that a wink? Best to wink back. WINK! A good one.

Oh great now my eye was twitching into rapidfire winks. Too many winks. Veering into sexual wink territory. Oh this will not end well. This will not end will. He will misread my winking and then what? Nothing good. But it stopped, thank God.

Then I spat out some crap about Trump and NATO, something that I'd heard someone at the studio say, something about the parameters of heroism and Milton What's-his-name.

Around us, the aroma of tree bark. Deciduous perfume. A piney landscape that rose out of mud. Forested swamp lined with rivers purging toward a fat, chubby delta. That was where freshwater meets the ocean. Or the other way around.

"Well anyway, here's your ticket, Mr. Ryan. You have a nice day." Then he, a real tough guy, smiled. That was pretty neat.

By habit, I was about to wink but stopped just in time.

Then, he paused, grabbed the ticket. Rip it, rip it, rip it. Be wild, my man. Rip. Rip.

But he just rewrote the station's telephone number, as if to say "Maybe things can change." Not justice. It could not change. Not for me, not in Louisiana. Not under God and all the angels that don't have a gender.

Plus, we all know I wasn't going to pay the ticket anyway. Better to just never return to Louisiana. Drive around it if need be. Fly over. And once the police car was out of view, I stomped on the gas pedal and we were lawless again. Like a comet, friend. A comet.

Welcome back to the election series. New installments are going to be Monday through Thursday leading up to the Iowa caucuses. Check out my Twitter. Email me at kryan@blazemedia.com

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JPMorgan Chase CEO issues dire warning about America's prosperity

Win McNamee / Staff | Getty Images

Jamie Dimon has a grim forecast for America — and it’s not a recession. He sees a fragile nation drifting into crisis while its leaders fight over TikTok.

Jamie Dimon, CEO of JPMorgan Chase — one of the most powerful financial institutions on earth — issued a warning the other day. But it wasn’t about interest rates, crypto, or monetary policy.

Speaking at the Reagan National Defense Forum in California, Dimon pivoted from economic talking points to something far more urgent: the fragile state of America’s physical preparedness.

We are living in a moment of stunning fragility — culturally, economically, and militarily. It means we can no longer afford to confuse digital distractions with real resilience.

“We shouldn’t be stockpiling Bitcoin,” Dimon said. “We should be stockpiling guns, tanks, planes, drones, and rare earths. We know we need to do it. It’s not a mystery.”

He cited internal Pentagon assessments showing that if war were to break out in the South China Sea, the United States has only enough precision-guided missiles for seven days of sustained conflict.

Seven days — that’s the gap between deterrence and desperation.

This wasn’t a forecast about inflation or a hedge against market volatility. It was a blunt assessment from a man whose words typically move markets.

“America is the global hegemon,” Dimon continued, “and the free world wants us to be strong.” But he warned that Americans have been lulled into “a false sense of security,” made complacent by years of peacetime prosperity, outsourcing, and digital convenience:

We need to build a permanent, long-term, realistic strategy for the future of America — economic growth, fiscal policy, industrial policy, foreign policy. We need to educate our citizens. We need to take control of our economic destiny.

This isn’t a partisan appeal — it’s a sobering wake-up call. Because our economy and military readiness are not separate issues. They are deeply intertwined.

Dimon isn’t alone in raising concerns. Former Google CEO Eric Schmidt has warned that China has already overtaken the U.S. in key defense technologies — hypersonic missiles, quantum computing, and artificial intelligence to mention a few. Retired military leaders continue to highlight our shrinking shipyards and dwindling defense manufacturing base.

Even the dollar, once assumed untouchable, is under pressure as BRICS nations work to undermine its global dominance. Dimon, notably, has said this effort could succeed if the U.S. continues down its current path.

So what does this all mean?

Christopher Furlong / Staff | Getty Images

It means we are living in a moment of stunning fragility — culturally, economically, and militarily. It means we can no longer afford to confuse digital distractions with real resilience.

It means the future belongs to nations that understand something we’ve forgotten: Strength isn’t built on slogans or algorithms. It’s built on steel, energy, sovereignty, and trust.

And at the core of that trust is you, the citizen. Not the influencer. Not the bureaucrat. Not the lobbyist. At the core is the ordinary man or woman who understands that freedom, safety, and prosperity require more than passive consumption. They require courage, clarity, and conviction.

We need to stop assuming someone else will fix it. The next crisis — whether military, economic, or cyber — will not politely pause for our political dysfunction to sort itself out. It will demand leadership, unity, and grit.

And that begins with looking reality in the eye. We need to stop talking about things that don’t matter and cut to the chase: The U.S. is in a dangerously fragile position, and it’s time to rebuild and refortify — from the inside out.

This article originally appeared on TheBlaze.com.

James J. Hill’s railroad triumph: Why private enterprise ALWAYS wins

Heritage Images / Contributor | Getty Images

On radio last week, Glenn discussed California’s bullet train project, which is a complete and total joke. Billions of dollars, decades in the making, and what do they have?

A hopeless boondoggle that’s become the poster child for government waste. Politicians just leaf-blowing your tax dollars into a black hole.

Rewind to the late 1800s, to a man named James J. Hill and his Great Northern Railroad – the polar opposite of California’s embarrassment. His story is about American grit, private enterprise, and it’s proof that when you keep the government’s hands off, you can get real results.

James J. Hill didn’t just build a railroad; he built a legacy that shames every federally funded train wreck of his era.

Picture this: it’s the 1870s, and railroads are the arteries of America’s growth. But most transcontinental lines, like the Union Pacific and Central Pacific, are swimming in federal cash through massive loans and land grants. They would get up to 20 square miles of land PER MILE of track, plus loans of $16,000 to $48,000 per mile, depending on the terrain. Naturally, those railroads were bloated, mismanaged, and built as fast as possible to grab the government subsidies. Since they got a pile of federal cash for every mile they completed, they often picked less efficient routes. The cheap and fast construction also meant the tracks were in constant disrepair and had to be re-laid. By the Financial Panic of 1893, they were bankrupt, bleeding money, and begging for bailouts.

Enter James J. Hill. This guy was different. He didn’t want Uncle Sam’s handouts. He spent three years researching the bankrupt St. Paul and Pacific Railroad, ensuring it could be profitable with strategic expansion. In 1878, Hill and his investment partners bought the SP&P with their own money. No federal loans, except for a single small land grant in Minnesota, that they needed to connect their line to the Canadian Pacific Railroad. Hill carefully used profits from this line to fund further expansion, avoiding excessive debt.

By 1893, the Great Northern Railroad stretched from Minnesota all the way to Seattle, built almost entirely with private capital. Why did Hill’s Great Northern become the gold standard? First, efficiency. Hill was obsessive. He scouted routes himself, picking paths like Marias Pass – the lowest crossing of the Rockies – saving millions of dollars by avoiding tunnels. His tracks had low grades, minimal curves, and were built to last.

Universal History Archive / Contributor | Getty Images

Second, Hill didn’t just build tracks; he built an economy. He attracted settlers by offering cheap fares, free seeds for their farms, and even programs that taught them better farming techniques. He invested in timber, ensuring that freight kept rolling. The result? His railroad always had plenty of customers, cargo, and cash flow. The federally funded lines, on the other hand, often ran through barren land, chasing land grants, not profits.

When the Panic of 1893 hit, the Great Northern line withstood the storm – it was one of only two Western railways NOT to go bankrupt.

Hill reinvested profits, kept debt low, and outmaneuvered the government’s new rate controls that crippled his competitors. By 1901, he controlled the Northern Pacific and Burlington lines, creating an empire that still exists today, part of a merger in the 1990s that created the BNSF Railway. That is the power of private enterprise – no government bloat, just hard work and vision.

James J. Hill’s Great Northern Railroad proves what happens when you let markets, not bureaucrats, drive progress. Hill’s legacy reinforces a vital truth: keep the government out, and let builders build. That’s the American way.

Greta Thunberg's latest escapade: Gaza aid or Mediterranean vacation?

Fabrizio Villa / Stringer | Getty Images

What would we do without Greta Thunberg?

Everyone's favorite Swedish nepo-baby climate activist is making waves with her latest plea for attention. Thunberg, who rose to fame when she prophesied an environmental apocalypse before the UN in 2019, has set aside the climate rhetoric to champion a new cause: freeing Palestine.

On Monday, June 2nd, Greta and her motley crew of wealthy activists, actors, and politicians—including Liam Cunningham of Game of Thrones fame and Rima Hassan, a French member of the European Parliament—set sail from Catania, Italy. The small sailboat, known as the Madleen, embarked with the lofty goal of "breaking Israel’s siege" of Gaza and delivering humanitarian aid. This fool’s errand was orchestrated by the Freedom Flotilla Coalition, a "grassroots" organization founded in 2010 to bring aid and attention to the plight of Gazans… through boat rides.

Greta Thunberg’s so-called “freedom flotilla” encapsulates the delusion and hypocrisy surrounding the Israel-Gaza war.

This isn’t a humanitarian mission—it’s a Mediterranean leisure cruise. Participants are smiling, swimming, and filming TikTok videos. This is self-serving… pic.twitter.com/eUzhsXW54r
— Maccabee Task Force (@MacTaskForce) June 3, 2025

As this video reveals, the so-called "urgent humanitarian mission" looked a whole lot more like a Mediterranean pleasure cruise, complete with swimming, frolicking in the sun, and social media posting. The booze-cruise vibe of the crew, paired with the tiny size of the craft, which could only carry enough "aid" for a token photo-op, exposed the true nature of this voyage. It was nothing more than a flimsy excuse for a group of privileged elites to enjoy an exotic vacation while fishing for attention and a dose of self-righteousness. All the while, chanting 'Free Palestine'—a slogan Glenn warns can fuel anti-Semitic violence like the Boulder firebombing.

Fabrizio Villa / Stringer | Getty Images

In the end, Greta Thunberg’s latest escapade was a textbook case of performative activism dialed up to eleven. Trading in her climate doom-mongering for this half-baked humanitarian jaunt, she clung to relevance without lifting a finger to do anything meaningful. The Freedom Flotilla Coalition’s little boat trip wasn’t about helping Gaza—it was a golden ticket for smug elites to soak up the Mediterranean rays while playacting as saviors. It’s a shameless grab for the spotlight, and Thunberg, with her flair for theatrics, is the ideal poster child for this floating fiasco.

Your voice unveiled: 81% support Trump’s stand against rigged justice

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Glenn asked for YOUR take on Trump’s pardon of Sheriff Scott Jenkins, and your response was unmistakable.

A resounding 71% of you said you believe the Biden Justice Department unfairly targeted Jenkins, a clear rebuke of the narrative peddled by the powers that be. Even more striking, 81% of you backed Trump’s decision to pardon him, seeing it not as a dodge of justice but as a defiant stand against a corrupted system. Your votes revealed a deep-seated belief that the judicial process is being twisted to serve political ends. Can the DOJ’s claims of fairness survive such overwhelming doubt from voices like yours?

Your verdict rings loud: Trump’s pardons aren’t undermining accountability—they’re exposing the rot within institutions that prioritize power over truth. The question now is, how long will the elite’s “justice” hold up against your demand for answers?

Want to make your voice heard? Check out more polls HERE.