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It's "what kind of society do we actually want to build?" Because right now, the answer we've built looks a lot like one that's more interested in caging problems than solving them.

Mark Twain gave the first Gilded Age its name, and I suspect he would not be surprised that we are due for a second. Gilt is cheap. It looks like gold from across the room.  Chicago is holding an election for its school board on November 3rd. Twenty-one seats. Here is what I found: everyone is for the children. The Illinois Network of Charter Schools has about five million dollars in its super PAC and has said it will spend up to four million of it.

America is still a great, unfinished poem. But right now, the rhythm is broken, the rhyme is forced, and the poets in power are counting their money instead of matching the meter of the people.

The line dividing us isn't a border on a map, nor is it a difference in how we pray. It is the simple, unvarnished distance separating the boardroom from the shop floor.

America is still a great, unfinished poem. But right now, the rhythm is broken, the rhyme is forced, and the poets in power are counting their money instead of matching the meter of the people.

We ought to stop looking for salvation in the silicon chips of California or the campaign rallies of Florida.

We ought to stop looking for salvation in the silicon chips of California or the campaign rallies of Florida.

We ought to stop looking for salvation in the silicon chips of California or the campaign rallies of Florida.

We ought to stop looking for salvation in the silicon chips of California or the campaign rallies of Florida.

We all want to believe in the dream. That a music supervisor or brand will randomly discover our track on SoundCloud and hand us a big break. Scammers know this dream all too well, and they exploit it to con independent artists out of their hard-earned money. In this video, I walk through a real i

We ought to stop looking for salvation in the silicon chips of California or the campaign rallies of Florida.

From the desk of Mr. Samuel L. Clemens, lately of the river, now of the republic To the Editor: Sir — I have been dead a good while now, but a man does not have to be alive to recognize a confidence game. What is being run on the American public at present is as fine a piece of flimflam as ever I saw worked on a riverboat, and I saw a great many.

The line dividing us isn't a border on a map, nor is it a difference in how we pray. It is the simple, unvarnished distance separating the boardroom from the shop floor.

The line dividing us isn't a border on a map, nor is it a difference in how we pray. It is the simple, unvarnished distance separating the boardroom from the shop floor.

The line dividing us isn't a border on a map, nor is it a difference in how we pray. It is the simple, unvarnished distance separating the boardroom from the shop floor.

They divide the flock with ancient prejudices, to ensure that while the sheep are busy with which side is more holy, the shearing continues in peace.

We ought to stop looking for salvation in the silicon chips of California or the campaign rallies of Florida.

They divide the flock with ancient prejudices, to ensure that while the sheep are busy with which side is more holy, the shearing continues in peace.

We ought to stop looking for salvation in the silicon chips of California or the campaign rallies of Florida.

I have lived in enough states to know that a man who tells you the trouble is Left against Right is usually selling something, and the thing he is selling is your attention, so you won't notice who's holding your wallet while you argue about the bathroom or sports. Here is what I notice instead. There are tents in the park. 

They divide the flock with ancient prejudices, to ensure that while the sheep are busy with which side is more holy, the shearing continues in peace.

The line dividing us isn't a border on a map, nor is it a difference in how we pray. It is the simple, unvarnished distance separating the boardroom from the shop floor.

They divide the flock with ancient prejudices, to ensure that while the sheep are busy with which side is more holy, the shearing continues in peace.

America is still a great, unfinished poem. But right now, the rhythm is broken, the rhyme is forced, and the poets in power are counting their money instead of matching the meter of the people.