507 - Perez Hilton, Trump’s Lies, & Data Center Detonation

Ladies and gentlemen, Perez Hilton went live in what looked like a self-harm crisis, then wound up at the hospital. I wish him and his kids well, but I couldn’t tell whether I was watching real blood or another internet performance. Even if it was staged, your children should not be watching Daddy explain the cuts are fake. He was cruel in the gossip-blog era, tried to become a family man, and now seems deeply unwell. I’m not a doctor, but this is not good-parent behavior.

Trump is back to giving Iran its last chance, again. Every week it’s obliterating infrastructure, then another negotiation. We can’t act like we win every war through threats and bluffing. Maybe America has to admit this went badly, leave with whatever dignity we can salvage, and stop pretending there’s a brilliant military turn coming.

The president says the Strait could reopen as soon as tomorrow, with denuclearizing Iran next. He says massive strikes were prepared, but Iran called for talks, and they respect us.

There is a way to lose with style. Manufacture the story that Iran escalated, we mercifully shut it down, and everybody begged us to stop. Political lies are partly for the liar: repeat an invention enough and it becomes a cloudy historical possibility. That’s the win now. Trump’s crowd can’t follow the account, so they grab the one line they understand—Iran must not get a nuclear weapon—and applaud. This war may have exposed that our strategists don’t have the dominance they kept selling us.

Social media is a miserable machine. An influencer accused her estranged husband on TikTok and was later killed; I fear more online disputes will become real-world catastrophes. Old Facebook was imperfect but comprehensible: people you knew, boat photos, move on. Now it’s politics, products, aspirational travel, rage, and algorithmic pressure. The sweet content is somebody with a hard life singing beautifully; everything else seems designed to make you poorer, angrier, crazier, or dead.

How do you price a home you never planned to sell, one carrying more than twenty years of memories?

I was maybe five or six when this place was built. This yard is where we buried our pets. My mother wanted this property to become generational wealth, and Georgia Power is a billion-dollar company taking land from people without money to fight back. You can’t carve through thirty-five miles of rural Georgia and pretend nobody gets hurt.

Georgia Power needs more than three hundred properties for a transmission route, with roughly seventy to eighty percent of added capacity expected to serve data centers. If an owner refuses to sell, it could pursue eminent domain with compensation.

Oh, right, the poor data center. We must evict a family so Kevin O’Leary can have more servers. Progress apparently means ordinary people quietly accept being discarded. If you take a lifelong home, don’t offer market value and call it compassion. Give them enough money that their children are secure.

Brown knows she likely cannot save this house. She wants other families treated differently, and her mother to receive an apology.

They bullied her, and nobody has said sorry. That’s all we’re asking for: an apology from Georgia Power.

I’d say, I’ve reconsidered. I wanted an apology, but I understand you’re in a difficult position and doing your job. From the bottom of my heart, I’m doing mine. Then: inshallah.