As your elected representative for Ward 3, I need to share my reasoning behind a difficult but ultimately necessary decision: my vote in favor of the Dover High School athletic field project.
This was not an easy call. I understand and respect the concerns around cost and timing and decision to use synthetic surfaces. But after years of deferred maintenance and growing student needs, it became clear that action could no longer be delayed. Our athletic fields have been ignored for too long, and the time to invest is now.
This project was recommended by the Joint Building Commission (JBC), endorsed by the Recreation Department, and approved by the School Board. The City Council’s role was to authorize the necessary funding—and I believe that as stewards of Dover’s future, we had a responsibility to support it.
I want to thank the JBC for their tremendous work over the past 18 months in shaping and guiding this project. Their dedication, planning, and attention to detail have been critical in bringing this proposal forward. I also want to thank the citizens of Dover who took the time to come out, speak up, and let their voices be heard. Civic engagement is the cornerstone of good local government, and I deeply value the input I received.
Two-thirds of the residents who reached out to me expressed support for moving forward. I listened carefully to every voice, and I weighed the facts, the community input, and the long-term impact on our city. In the end, I was guided by our shared values: investing in our youth, creating safe and accessible spaces for families, and ensuring Dover remains a great place to live and grow.
As a small business owner, I understand that responsible debt can be a tool for progress. We’ve used this approach before—with the parking garage, the police station, and the new high school. Each of these projects required financial commitment, but they have strengthened our community in measurable ways. The same principle applies to the athletic fields. Sometimes, we must make bold investments today to build the community we envision for tomorrow.
Thank you for trusting me to make thoughtful, informed decisions. I remain committed to transparency, accountability, and working together for the betterment of our city.
Los Angeles Is Not a War Zone: We Need De-escalation, Not Occupation
Parts of Los Angeles are on edge. The TV is going to make it seem like it is all of LA county. But it is not. What began as civil unrest is teetering on the brink of full-scale riot — not because the people are inherently violent, but because every response from those in power seems designed to provoke rather than pacify.
Let’s be clear: violence is rarely, if ever, the answer. But neither is using armed military forces to patrol American city streets.
President Trump’s decision to federalize the California National Guard, and his open threat to deploy Marines or additional military forces, has only fanned the flames. This isn’t leadership — it’s escalation. And it’s not the first time we’ve seen this movie. From the Watts riots to Ferguson to January 6, history tells us the same story: send in troops, watch tensions skyrocket, and brace for tragedy.
Military personnel are not trained for crowd control in civilian spaces. They are trained for war. They are not equipped to de-escalate, to listen, to understand. They’re trained to neutralize threats, which is a dangerous mindset to import into an already-tense urban setting. When has a tank rolling down Main Street ever made anyone feel safer?
Meanwhile, we have ICE agents — masked, heavily armed, and reportedly detaining people in places like Home Depot — thanks, in part, to Stephen Miller’s ongoing crusade to remake America into a fortress of fear. These are not targeted operations. They are theater — threatening, intimidating, and ultimately counterproductive. The optics are horrifying. The consequences, potentially deadly.
LAPD, for its part, has failed to lead with restraint. Video after video shows aggressive tactics, poor communication, and an unwillingness to engage with peaceful demonstrators as human beings. When people are met with riot shields and rubber bullets for chanting, is it any surprise that some lash out in frustration?
And as if things weren’t chaotic enough, we have former right-wing pundit, now Secretary of Defense, Pete Hegseth — a man with zero experience in crisis management or law enforcement — playing armchair general, fanning the flames for clicks and clout. Meanwhile, Trump’s Twitter tirades (now bouncing between his platform and jabs at Elon Musk on X) read more like the ramblings of a wounded ego than the directives of a steady hand. Billionaires battling over ego while cities burn? That’s the America we live in?
And let’s not ignore the backdrop: an economy in decline, a budget bill collapsing under its own contradictions, too many unqualified people in the presidents cabinet all eager to just kiss his ass and a Republican Party with no moral backbone. Top this with Trumps name being in the Epstein files. What better distraction than chaos in the streets?
I talk to veterans. Real ones. The vast majority are disgusted. They signed up to serve and protect, not to become props in a domestic political stunt. None of them believe troops should be patrolling U.S. cities. And then there are the cosplay commandos — the “militia” guys who love dressing up in tactical gear, fantasizing about being heroes in some Red Dawn sequel. They cheer this madness on from the sidelines, but they wouldn’t last a minute in the middle of it.
We know what de-escalation looks like. It means listening. It means dialogue. It means showing restraint — especially when you have the power and the weapons. It means bringing in community leaders, not armored personnel carriers.
This is a moment of choice. We can continue down this path — a path where someone is almost certainly going to die — or we can step back and begin to heal. The chaos we see in Los Angeles is not the disease. It is the symptom. The real illness is leadership that prefers domination to diplomacy, and spectacle to solutions.
I’m sitting in my apartment outside of Rome Italy. Thinking of heading down to the bar at the corner to grab an espresso. The bar is the kind where the espresso is strong, the voices are soft, and the conversations swirl around art, food, and life. A few days ago, I was in Iceland, breathing in cold volcanic air and watching the midnight sun hover just above the horizon. Now I’m here, taking a few days off after work before heading back to the United States. But my thoughts aren’t on the Renaissance paintings I saw today or the cobblestone streets beneath my feet. They’re on my home in the USA — and what it’s become.
While I’ve been gone, President Trump nationalized the California National Guard and sent U.S. Marines into Los Angeles to put down what’s being called a “riot.” That word — riot — is doing a lot of work right now. The same man who sat in silence as his supporters stormed the Capitol on January 6 is now unleashing military force on civilians protesting injustice.
Masked ICE agents are grabbing people off streets and college campuses. Not just undocumented immigrants — American citizens, too. Some are being targeted based on editorials they’ve written. Let that sink in: we’re now arresting people for writing. Meanwhile, Trump is planning a grotesque birthday party, complete with a military parade, while our cities simmer in pain.
Congress — led by a Republican majority — is trying to gut Medicare and Medicaid, lifelines for millions, all while handing tax cuts to billionaires and oligarchs. Our president has issued a wave of pardons for violent insurrectionists and corrupt elites — one of them conveniently following a $1 million contribution to his re-election fund.
The Department of Justice has become a weapon. A tool for revenge. A shield for allies. This isn’t just about policy differences anymore. This is about power without accountability. Justice is for sale, and morality has been thrown into the back of a black van.
Yes, we have immigration issues. But who isn’t being arrested? The CEOs, the managers, the business owners who hire and exploit undocumented workers with full knowledge and zero consequences. Because in this America, only the powerless are punished.
And the Democratic Party? They’re too busy tearing each other down over ideological purity to offer any real counterforce. They chase symbolism while the house burns.
It hurts to write this. It hurts more to feel ashamed of my own country. But I am. I’m not proud to go back home tomorrow. I wish I didn’t have to. I look around here — in countries with their own flaws, sure — and I envy their stability, their sanity, their belief in facts and decency.
I don’t know exactly when the United States lost its way. Maybe it was a slow drift. Maybe this darkness was always there, and now it’s simply taken off its mask. What I do know is this: we are not okay. We are not the country we pretend to be. We are adrift — and those in power are more than happy to let the ship sink as long as they get a lifeboat.
But here’s what I also know: silence is complicity. Comfort is complicity.
I do not want to be arrested. But I’m not afraid of it either. I will not be silent while my country descends into authoritarianism under the guise of law and order. I will not stand by while neighbors are taken, while dissent is crushed, while the vulnerable are sacrificed for profit and power.
If you’re reading this and you feel the same — speak up. Get involved. Protest. Write. Organize. Call your representatives. Support independent journalism. Refuse to look away. Refuse to normalize this.
History is watching us. And one day, maybe our children will ask what we did when democracy was on the edge.
This was copied from one of my other blogs (VACILANDO). I thought it was worth sharing here.
The Spirit of ‘76 — A Dedication to My Friends Through the Years
There’s a line from a song that hits me every time I hear it:
“And me, I’ve seen my dreams come true
But that don’t make me no hero, just one of the lucky few…”
It’s from Spirit of ‘76 by The Alarm — a song about growing, surviving, taking chances, and holding on to belief even when the world gets dark. Mike Peters, who wrote it, recently passed away. He was an incredible songwriter, and oddly enough, I ran into him a few times over the years. It’s a story for another day, but it connects deeply with my brother, who passed away ten years ago from the same cancer that took Mike’s life. Life’s strange like that — full of echoes, connections, and chance moments that never quite leave you.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about the friends who helped shape me, especially those I grew up with during the 70s and 80s. It was a different world back then — one without GPS tracking, instant messages, or helicopter parenting. We were wild, mostly unsupervised, and totally free. Feral, some might say, and maybe that’s not wrong.
Our parents worked. We raised ourselves — and sometimes our siblings too. From the moment we could ride a bike, we could be anywhere: at the lake, in the city, maybe even a different state. It was chaotic, and it was beautiful. Tight friendships were not a luxury; they were a necessity. There were no cell phones to check in with, no social safety nets. Your lifeline was your crew. You stuck together, or you sank.
Those years taught me how to read people, how to adapt, how to lead, and how to follow. We learned resilience not from books, but from scraped knees, missed buses, heartbreaks, and long summer nights with nothing but music, stars, and dreams.
Fast forward to last week — I was on a work trip in Iceland, and I had dinner and a beer with one of my oldest friends. Someone I met during my first year of college. Back in the fall of 1984, I had just quit competitive gymnastics and was coaching to pay the bills. I wanted to be a teacher. Or maybe a politician. I had no real idea — just this drive to do something that mattered.
We were part of the punk and new wave scene. We studied hard, worked harder, and lived for the weekends when we’d see bands, play a little music ourselves (badly), and just exist in this weird, beautiful community of misfits. It was raw. It was real. It was formative. And that friend? He helped me find myself when I didn’t even know I was lost.
During those college years in New York, I started feeling the push from my parents and professors to fit into boxes. A teacher should look like this. A politician shouldn’t say that. A gymnastics coach? That’s a dead-end job. You’ll never make any money. You’ll never make a difference.
And yet, I kept going.
Eventually, I transferred to a school in New Hampshire. Summers were spent coaching at a gymnastics camp just outside NYC. I was one of the younger coaches — full of nerves, full of awe. But I learned. I grew. I made more friends — and quietly fell in love with someone. (I could write volumes about the people at this camp. Love them all). Life was intense and vivid and complicated, and I wouldn’t change a second of it.
What strikes me now, looking back, is how those friends — the ones from college, the ones from camp — saw me. Really saw me. Not for who I was supposed to be, but for who I was becoming. They accepted the radical thinker, the idealist, the scrappy coach, the music-obsessed kid with big ideas and no clue how to pay rent.
And here I am now. Writing this from the terrace of my apartment in Italy. I’ve got an amazing wife — my rock for over 35 years. Two kids, grown, thriving, chasing their own paths. I’ve coached a few gymnasts who have made Olympic teams, yes. But more importantly, I’ve helped athletes become who they are, in and out of the gym.
But my heart is also with the friends who have struggled — and there have been many. Some have faced down their demons and still fight them every day. Some fell into patterns they couldn’t quite break — whether it was drugs, alcohol, failed relationships, or simply the weight of expectations that never matched their own dreams. Some just never quite “closed the deal” or found the life they were looking for. I see you. I still believe in you. I believe in your ability not just to survive — but to flourish. Think back to the dreams we shared. The promises we made in parking lots and coffee shops and on the hoods of cars in the dead of night. There is still time.
You see, some nights when I can’t sleep
I still think of you
And all the promises, all our dreams we shared
I know those lights still call to you
I can hear them now…
And every now and then, like anyone else who’s lived a little, I find myself flashing back to those Talking Heads lyrics:
And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack
And you may find yourself in another part of the world
And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile
And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife
And you may ask yourself, “Well… how did I get here?”
It’s surreal — because that’s exactly what happened. Somehow, in the whirlwind of choices, failures, detours, and friendships, I ended up here. And the honest answer is: I got here because of the people who stood by me. Who lifted me up. Who challenged me, believed in me, and let me be messy and real and unfinished.
The work was hard. The path wasn’t always clear. But it was worth it.
And me? I’ve seen my dreams come true.
But I know I’m just one of the lucky few.
So this is for my friends — the ones from those lost summers and gritty winters, from New York and New Hampshire, from the campgrounds and the music clubs, from the gyms and the midnight drives. Some of you are still here. Some are gone too soon. All of you live in the best parts of me.
“I still believe a man can change his own destiny
But the price is high that has got to be paid
For everyone who survives, there are many who fail…”
I carry your spirit with me — the spirit of ’76. And I will never give in until the day I die.
On Sunday, the Texas House of Representatives passed a bill requiring public schools to display the Ten Commandments in every classroom. The irony couldn’t be more obvious: they passed a Christian-themed bill on a Sunday, violating the Fourth Commandment—“Remember the Sabbath and keep it holy.”
How many other commandments have these lawmakers broken?
“Thou shalt not bear false witness” — Political dishonesty is basically its own department.
“Thou shalt not commit adultery” — Trump won Texas by over 600,000 votes, despite being a serial adulterer. Should he be banned from visiting the state?
“Thou shalt have no other gods before me” — In Texas, football is god. Are Sunday Cowboys games canceled out of reverence for the Sabbath? Not a chance.
This isn’t about morality or improving education. It’s about power. It’s about performative piety and Christian nationalism flexing its muscle in public institutions. And it’s intimidating—to non-Christians, nonbelievers, and anyone who still believes in the First Amendment.
Let’s be clear: I’ve never read a peer-reviewed study that says posting the Ten Commandments boosts learning, test scores, or student behavior.
But here’s what we do know works: universal free meals.
The Supreme Court has ruled repeatedly that government-endorsed religious displays in public schools violate the Establishment Clause of the First Amendment.
Some landmark cases:
Engel v. Vitale (1962) – Ruled that it is unconstitutional for public schools to sponsor prayer, even if it’s non-denominational.
Abington School District v. Schempp (1963) – Held that Bible readings and other religious activities in public schools are unconstitutional.
Stone v. Graham (1980) – This one’s key: The Court explicitly struck down a Kentucky law requiring the posting of the Ten Commandments in public school classrooms, stating it served no secular purpose and violated the Establishment Clause.
Lee v. Weisman (1992) – Found that even school-sponsored prayer at graduation ceremonies is unconstitutional due to its coercive nature.
Santa Fe Independent School District v. Doe (2000) – Ruled that student-led prayer at football games, even if initiated by students, is unconstitutional if facilitated by the school.
Texas lawmakers are ignoring decades of legal precedent. This isn’t about educating children—it’s about imposing religion on them. And that’s not just un-American—it’s unconstitutional.
What Actually Improves Education?
If lawmakers truly cared about improving schools, they’d:
Fund universal school meals.
Hire more mental health counselors.
Invest in teacher salaries, modern textbooks, and school infrastructure.
Instead, they’re putting up stone tablets and calling it reform.
Let’s teach ethics through action, not indoctrination. Feed students. Support them. Empower them to think freely—including the freedom not to believe.
Because when religion is forced, it’s no longer faith—it’s control.
