CLASSIC CITY NEWS

By T. W. Burger Old age is a strange country, stranger than I ever expected before I entered it. Not sure when that was. I’m 77 now. I crossed the border sometime in the last six or seven years: More and harder-to-pronounce medications. More and harder-to- pronounce doctors. The fields on which I have lived my life are now smaller, flatter and less interesting. The challenges have devolved from exploring them to just trying to stay present. Too many of those with whom I rompe

By Albert DeSimone Let’s cut straight to semantics. One of the most basic human flaws is greed. Greed is a primordial force of nature, manifesting itself in our social and cultural environment as excessive self-interest. It affects us in many ways, including the two major socio-economic systems—simplified as collectivism (socialism) and individualism (capitalism). Of course, not everyone is going to see greed the same way, but I discovered a study by the National Institutes

By Erik Hogan Change comes suddenly with late September rain. Clouds and cool weather. The brutish heat of summer spilling carelessly into autumn is finally, thankfully, driven into remission. The seasons have found a pivot, but the atmosphere is attended by vague heaviness. A somber recognition of the brevity of autumn already slipping past as life continues to careen wildly down its tracks. In the early morning an owl calls from a tree at the edge of the yard, in the darkne

By T. W. Burger It was the rainstorm that started it. Almost 40 years peeled away in a peal of thunder. We were driving west, my friend and I, just to the east of the mountain named Tuscarora. The sky behind the granite bulk rose forbiddingly black. "It looks like we might get some weather, " I said. We plowed through the tunnel at 60; framed in the exit was air that looked like a wall of steel. The brake lights lit up on every car and truck that hit that wall; most of them,

By T. W. Burger A delicious irony orbits constantly around the popular nickname of the generation I was born into. Starting in 1951 at our naming by a journalist, those of us born roughly between 1946 and 1964 were pegged as Baby Boomers. Though some quibble over the exact dates, Baby Boomers, or simply Boomers, we have remained. Et Voila! Me, my brother and almost all of my friends, enemies, paramours, wives, and co-workers, whatever our similarities and differences, have be

By Eddie Whitlock ​In my twenties, I discovered a category of stories called “urban folklore.” You’ve probably heard of it, but it wasn’t as well-known back then. ​These were typically stories that were outrageous, but the teller swore they were true. I collected the stories myself before I stumbled on author Jan Harold Brunvand. ​Dr. Brunvand collected these stories and published them in a series of books. His background was in folklore and mythology. He was a genuine academ

By Eddie Whitlock ​In my twenties, I discovered a category of stories called “urban folklore.” You’ve probably heard of it, but it wasn’t as well-known back then. ​These were typically stories that were outrageous, but the teller swore they were true. I collected the stories myself before I stumbled on author Jan Harold Brunvand. ​Dr. Brunvand collected these stories and published them in a series of books. His background was in folklore and mythology. He was a genuine academ

September 10, 2026 Dear Commissioners, I am writing to you because two formal ethics/conflict-of-interest (COl) complaints I filed with the City Attorney in June and July 2026 remain publicly unaddressed over 60 days later. In that regard, I am requesting a formal public response from you to the specific questions on page three of this letter. Overview These complaints allege COl's involving the mayor and two nonprofit organizations. The City Attorney acknowledged receipt of

By Erik Hogan Science may explain the night to us. It describes an aspect of the spherical Earth rotating away from the illumination and warmth of the sun’s light. In those hours of facing the emptiness of space, darkness covers that part of our planet, diminishing ambient light and cooling off the atmosphere. But the Earth continues to rotate and, invariably, the hours of visibility and warmth return. This does not even begin to portray the human experience of the night. Beg

By T.W. Burger It was built somewhere around 1917, the same year my father was born and while the U.S. threw itself into World War One, also known as The Last War. As if. It was a gift from a schoolteacher aunt when I was 15. I like to think she gave it to me because she recognized in me a writer taking root. More likely, she had decided nobody would ever be able to decipher my handwriting. It was the beginning of a very productive relationship. School papers, journals, poetr

By Erik Hogan Subtly, the smell of rain infused darkness infiltrates with a whisper that something has happened. An excitement over storms unremembered in the night, now gone, perhaps never were, but for the evidence of a wet world lingering out there in obscurity before the dawn. The smell of rain. Memory of a dream materialized in wakefulness. Clouds hang low, gracing treetops as the flat light of day advances. The endless succession of torrid summer days is now broken by t

By T.W. Burger Kay Scoggins was tall, blonde, blue-eyed, beautiful, kind, affable, tough as nails, really country, and sort of a force of nature. She served as a patrol officer and state trooper for decades and even ran for president at least once. She got 13 votes. In an interview a few years later she said she had not made a lot of promises during her campaign except to ensure freedom of speech and maybe put a doublewide mobile home on the front lawn of the White House. Eve

By T. W. Burger I found it, naturally, while looking for something entirely different. In a box on a bottom shelf in my office, jammed in with some other mementos, was my old Mr. Trash hat. It was filthy. Of course, it was filthy when I put it away, sometime back in the early 1980s. The grime is easy to explain. Mr. Trash, while it existed, was a “refuse removal business,” which most of us would still call “garbage company.” I was the field manager, though I’m not sure I had

By Albert DeSimone Jimmi Hendrix used it. Jimmy Page, Pete Townshend, Dave Davies, and Tony Iommi used it, as did many others from the 1960s hard rock scene. We’re talking about the power chord and how it was incorporated into the distorted sound of rock music in the 1950s. The process of the heavy, distorted sound of hard rock goes back to Sister Rosetta Tharpe. The Godmother of Rock and Roll, as she is often referred to, is credited with creating the first rock and roll s

By T. W. Burger Mulling over the second mug of coffee this morning, reluctant to begin another day in front of the keyboard, I considered the mass of flowers in the vase at the table's center. It was a typical spring mix, several varieties of daffodil, with a smattering of giant snowdrops. It has often been said that it is a shame that flowers last such a little time before they wither. Wouldn't it be great if they could bloom all the time, some say? Yes. And no. They would n

By T.W. Burger The Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. would be 97 this year if some pinhead hadn’t shot him. He would perhaps be gone frail and a little dotty. Thinking back on his arc as firebrand and martyr, which is frankly hard to imagine. Those of us who were around in his day remember him differently than younger folks do. While he was alive he was, depending on where you stood, a visionary, a man of God who held his country’s collective feet to the fire of its own founding do

By Erik Hogan sat down at my desk to write. In between adventures, I didn’t have a ready story to tell. This was to be a writing exercise, free form and almost stream of conscious, scratching onto the page with a pen to see what ideas would surface. It’s practice. But then a notification flashed across my phone screen. The urge to check it was too great, so I did. And just like that, my attention was snatched away. On a thru hike of the Foothills Trail in the wilds of South C

By T. W. Burger After many years as a reporter covering police, fire and courts, I have decided that our school systems must be required Right NOW to teach our budding inhabitants to always ask themselves this simple question before taking any action whatsoever: “What happens next?” I can't tell you how often I have stood in some district magistrate's office listening to a police officer or state trooper read off the facts on which the charges against the defendant were based

By Eddie Whitlock Hobby ​Remember Jon Lovitz as “the Master Thespian” on Saturday Night Live? He was a fellow who was all ham. His catchphrase was to stop whatever nonsense he had devolved into doing and shout, “Acting!” ​I am no actor. I respect actors. When I was a kid, I thought the people on television were just making things up as they went along. Memorize a script? Are you kidding me? ​In fifth grade, we did a class play. I was cast as the King’s advisor. I had a few li

By Erik Hogan Trout lilies are blooming. A delicate yellow bloom rising from between mottled leathery green leaves catches my attention. The few I saw earlier on the shaded banks of the creek were downcast, petals demurely folded. Sunlight has become harsh now in the late morning, but this flower stands radiant. Scanning the surrounding forest, I am suddenly aware that the hillside is covered in them. Perhaps I can capture a stunning photo of the lily. If I take time here, I