Richard Crowson | Political Commentary

It’s so easy to forget in the midst of winter’s blanketed paralysis, that cold misery is temporary. As logs burn down to crumbles while our discomfort is being mocked outside by the ice that believes itself to be concrete, as if it had every intention of glazing the driveway and causing us to baby-step our ginger way until the end of time.

Here we go again. From Richard Nixon to Newt Gingrich to Donald Trump, the bias against unbiased news reporting continues. The president recently unleashed his famous fury on public broadcasting. And, what do you know! NPR’s public donations increased as a result, which puts me in mind of a song, of course…

Watch out for Friday the 14 th . Love it or hate it, Valentine’s Day is looming on the calendar. I thought I’d take the moment to express appreciation for some of the love-worthy things for which Hallmark does not create big glittery heart-shaped greeting cards. Among the loves of my life: The lady around the block from me who has an elaborate Valentine’s Day draping of red light strands in her front yard. They illuminate the dark wintery nights of our February gloom. The flat lay of the land out here on the Kansas prairie that enables unobstructed views of unpaintably colorful sunsets and awesome sunrises. Surely they deserve a Valentine. Also deserving: Those cardinals who were singing their little hearts out on the still bare limbs of some pin oaks this morning as we had our predawn dog walk. How about a Valentine for the Kansas City Chiefs who, however briefly, gave us all a chance to root for and to celebrate the same thing in spite of our many other divisions? Shouldn’t Hallmark

Here’s my prediction for Wichita in 2020: A successful petition drive will put saving Century II on the ballot and, thanks to Russian hackers, it will appear to have failed by a narrow margin.

Now that we’re past Thanksgiving, it’s time to turn toward the season of Mr. C. No, no, I’m not talking about the Claus guy. At my house “Mr. C” means Perry Como. Although I listen to Perry all year round, the Christmas season is when his music becomes especially meaningful to me. I harken back this time of year to when I was around age 6 and my family gathered in front of our big old black-and-white tv to watch Perry’s shows, and his Christmas specials in particular. Our television set had a “hi-fi” record player built into it and that part of the unit was also occupied by Perry. We had a total of one Christmas record. It was Perry Como Sings Merry Christmas Music. And it was all we needed. There’s still a little bit of eye-rolling that’s evoked whenever you tell someone you really like Perry Como. I don’t care. In my book Perry is tops. Granted, my infatuation started with nostalgia for an earlier, carefree time in my own life. But as I’ve researched Perry and dug deep into the

Had an interesting conversation with a turkey the other day. We were in line together at the grocery.

I first experienced zombies around 1974 or so. That’s when a Memphis TV station decided to run “Night of the Living Dead.” Scared the bejabbers out of me. If I’d had some 2-by-4s and nails handy, I’d have secured my doors and windows. How could I have known, all those years ago, that someday our nation would elect a zombie for President? And yet, here we are. That’s how hot zombies are – that we’d actually elect one as president. And this one scares me every bit as much as my first Night of the Living Dead viewing. What’s the evidence that he’s a zombie, you ask? Just listen. Listen to his tortured syntax and trance-like speech patterns. Same words, over and over, jumbled incoherently to form nonsensical phrases. Trying so very hard to sound like the living. And remember: zombies consume brains. See those poor soulless individuals that surround him? Any evidence of brain activity amongst them? They have been extracted - conscience, sense of right and wrong. All gone. And just repeating

Ah, fall! Tumbling down between the branches of our government come the plummeting shreds of our Constitution.

I’m a fan of Wichita’s Century II. It’s an iconic component of our city’s skyline. The architecture is unique and eye-catching. It was designed by John Hickman, a student of Frank Lloyd Wright, and it looks like it. Sand-colored pillars represent our Kansas wheat fields. The baby-blue domed roof is a reminder of our big, beautiful Kansas sky. Lit up at night it looks like a giant flying saucer has landed downtown. That’s weird and that’s wonderful. Who wants our city to look like a clone of every other urban dwelling place? We shouldn’t look like a city that has Des Moines-ites trudging around it in snow boots. We shouldn’t look like a city that has cigar-chomping Oklahoma oil barons trying to walk bowlegged as if they were real cowboys. Is it any wonder the issue of Century II’s future has beamed itself smack dab into the middle of our mayoral race? People don’t want this beautiful building felled by a wrecking ball. And they have reasons to be suspicious of the decision-making

Greenland for sale or rent, Vlady Putin’s my best friend No wall but I’ll build it yet, I ain’t got no White House pet I grab ladies by their lady parts I ride out hurricanes in my golf carts I gotta ego bigger than anyone else King of the world! I tell 12 lies on the average day I raise tariffs and make the farmers pay I tweet insults out just for fun I even claim that I’m the Chosen One I don’t care what the scientists say Let the polar caps melt away If the earth burns what do I care? I gotta Space Force to blast me outta here I’m glad that nobody seemed to read The things the Mueller Report said about me I just keep on yelling ‘bout fake news And doing any ol' crazy thing that I choose Greenland for sale or rent Ignorance is my best friend I’m a man whose ego rules above all King of the world!

This commentary originally aired on September 3, 2010. Isn’t passion great? Not the romantic kind of “oh, baby, I love you, I love you” passion, but the everyday sort of passion that people feel for practically every kind of imaginable thing. I was whining to my wife the other day about Facebook and how weird it is and how I can’t quite put my finger on what it is about Facebook that turns me off so much, when a friend sent me one of those little Facebook exercises of the sort that I especially think are weird. It was called “15 Albums,” and you were supposed to quickly make a list of albums that have made an impact on you. It drew me right in. I passionately pecked out my list then read my friends’ comments, their lists and I obsessed even more about the albums I had forgotten to list. I was in the throes of passion about record albums. Later I got an email from a friend who is passionate about art. Attached to his email was an essay written by a person who was passionate about

This is treehouse weather. The hot, dog days of summer. The right weather for climbing up into the deep green shade of an oak tree’s canopy. Sweet relief.

God bless Bela Fleck. He has reached the pinnacle of success in the banjo world. By that I mean that his is so well-respected by musicians of every stripe that he can speak the truth.

This commentary originally aired on July 15, 2016 I got tired of tripping over our old dining chairs, stored in our basement. We replaced them months ago, but I tend to hang onto things too long. This past Saturday, we put all seven out by the curb with a sign saying “free.” Throughout the day, I’d glance out the window, expecting them to be gone. But, no. There they sat, as cars impertinently flew by. It’s shallow and immature of me, but by the end of the day I was actually a little peeved. How dare everyone reject our chairs??? Chairs on which we had joyfully celebrated birthdays, holidays and visits by dear friends and beloved family? Chairs on which we raised our daughter, sharing life’s problems and victories, both large and small? Why, it was almost an affront to our entire family for those seven chairs to continue sitting orphaned on the curb all day. It’s illogical but I can easily believe that inanimate objects take on a sort magical aura over time. It’s as if they absorb the

You think you know somebody and then they slap you right in the face with their “Make America Great Again” cap. This happened to me recently in a conversation I was having with my dog Lucy.

Do we really need a “Space Force”? Extremely Stable Genius Donald Trump seems to think so, and that should be good enough for most of us.

This commentary originally aired on April 4, 2018. Some months ago we decided to add to our family and we adopted a labradoodle. His calm and demure personality at the time caused us to name him Perry. It was in honor of Perry Como, the calm and demure crooner from years ago.

You're listening to me right now, so you may be aware of the latest NPR controversy: The new Morning Edition theme song.