GT1-Blog: The Bipartisan Patriot

The Question Was Posed: What would you do if you are getting hunted by the CIA? My retort By BR.Giga What I would a fan of Tolstoy and Hunter S Thompson Do If Being Hunted By The CIA? Disclaimer (because the world can no longer identify fact from fiction): this is satirical fiction. Not advice. Not a how-to guide. Written by a burned-out first responder who drinks cheap booze and swears at pigeons. You wake to the polite chime of your phone and three unread messages from unknown numbers. The ceiling is the exact shade of beige that communicates passive aggression. Outside, the sky has shifted to that slightly wonky, off-brand gray that makes even pigeons look apologetic. Somewhere in Arlington a bureaucrat furrows a brow so deep it could be a county line and decides your opinion piece about "White House Sanctioned Buffoonery" is “of interest to the President.” You are not brilliant. You are not targeted for talent. You are targeted because you exist, which in this economy is ...

  The Question Was Posed: Best Christmas Movie of all time, but it can't be Home Alone. My favorite “A Christmas Story” , The One That Feels Like Home You can keep Home Alone. Yeah, it’s funny , loud, shiny, a holiday circus with Joe Pesci getting his skull cooked like a Pop-Tart. But A Christmas Story? That one breathes. It’s the real thing. The one that sticks to your ribs long after the lights are packed up. Because Christmas, if we’re honest, was never about grand adventures or slapstick villains. It was the radiator clanking at 3 a.m., your old man swearing at the fuse box again, your mother yelling “dinner’s ready” even though it clearly isn’t. It’s the mix of chaos and comfort , all wrapped up in one crooked string of lights. Home Alone is fantasy. A Christmas Story is memory. It’s every working-class house in America, the kind that smells like coffee grounds and heating oil. Families hanging on by humor, duct tape, and whatever faith’s left in the cupboard. You can feel the...

The Vanishing Virtues  By BR.Giga There was a time, not that far back, honest, when loving your own country didn’t make folks squint at you like you’d joined a cult. Back when the law meant law, not a set of flexible guidelines for whoever hollers the loudest. You didn’t need to wave a flag to prove anything. You just… lived decent. Paid your bills, minded your business, helped your neighbor haul the trash can when his back went bad. We used to think the good stuff in life was quiet. Real quiet. Little things, handshake deals, late-night coffee, a promise that actually stuck. Those things worked. They built towns that smelled like sawdust and Sunday gravy. Where porch lights meant somebody was still awake if you needed help. Somewhere along the line we got loud. Maybe too loud. Patriotism turned into a costume party, and “respect” got traded like a token, you give it if you get it, and half the time nobody’s giving first. The law? Folks bend it, brag about it, post it online like r...

The Question Was posed: Who Truly Controls SNAP? My interpretation: By Brian Wilson, The Bipartisan Patriot First and foremost: If the government isn’t running the way you think it should, don’t just sit there and stew about it. Vote your conscience next election. Not the party line. Not what your favorite talk host says. Just, you. We’ve spent too many years pretending our mess comes from one man or one moment. Donald Trump isn’t the great evil some make him out to be, and he’s not the savior others think either. The problem sits deeper, baked into the marble, red and blue both. The permanent crowd in D.C. thrives on outrage, division, and noise while the rest of us fight over crumbs. They built the show. They feed it. They argue for the cameras, then shake hands behind closed doors while the country drifts toward apathy. We traded accountability for hashtags, debate for cheap shots, and patriotism for brand loyalty. But democracy only works when the people running it are more afraid ...

“I think I heard the Walrus in the radio static last night.” No-sleep style horro fiction By BR.Giga Look, I know how this sounds. But I swear I wasn’t high — not this time, anyway. It was late, maybe close to two. I was out in my garage, fooling with that old ham radio my uncle left me when he passed. The thing’s older than I am — walnut panel, warm tubes that hum when you hit the sweet spot between stations. I like the sound of it, that soft hiss that feels alive somehow. Comforting, like wind through the trees on Route 2 in November. Anyway — I caught a signal. Not music, not chatter. Just… something. A string of noises that almost made words, like someone whispering through a fan. Then, through all that static, came this voice — soft at first, then clearer. "I am he as you are he as you are me..." My gut went cold. I knew that line. The Beatles. “I Am the Walrus.” Only it wasn’t being sung. It was being said, like a reading from a strange book. I turned the dial up, tryin...

 “The Gardener’s Last Light" By BR.Giga Loss arrives in strange ways, and at stranger times. I was listening to one of my old YouTube playlists when “The Garden” by Rush began to play. I sat there in silence, caught by the weight of it, the beauty, the calm acceptance, the quiet farewell woven through every note. It feels even more prophetic now, knowing it was Neil’s swan song in so many ways. The last track, on the last album. And in my opinion, one of their finest. As the final chords faded, something stirred, a small, familiar ache of gratitude and loss. So I wrote this poem for Neil. In his honor. Please enjoy. For Neil: I tended the years like soil, turning them over with calloused hands a life measured not in wealth but in the green that chose to grow despite me. Every season gave me something to love and to lose: the faces of my children rising like dawn, the slow decay of laughter after supper, the ache that came not from labor but from love doing what it must , ending. N...

The Power of the President Compels You By Brian Wilson: The Bipartisan Patriot  There’s a dangerous myth in America, that Donald Trump is the problem. He isn’t. He’s the symptom. The real problem is that one man, any man, can wield this much power with so few checks in place. Trump didn’t create the system that lets a president reshape the planet by impulse, he simply revealed how fragile the guardrails really are. For more than two centuries, we’ve comforted ourselves with the illusion that honor and tradition would restrain power. That presidents would be guided by the better angels of conscience. But civility was never law; it was habit. And habits break. Trump’s presidency didn’t invent overreach, it merely stripped the polite veneer from it, showing the raw engine of authority underneath. We like to imagine the presidency as a tightly bound office, hemmed in by Congress, the courts, and the Constitution. In truth, those restraints exist mostly in theory. The presidency holds a...