The site for ranting and reporting by John Masters
I would classify things in this category that were related to arts, literature, cinema, performance. Things that make us and the world better.
“Waste” should describe money spent badly. Too often, it becomes a political label applied before anyone proves that a program failed, cost too much, or duplicated another service.
This essay looks at how that label can be used to weaken support for public programs before the facts are settled. Real waste should be cut. Political dislike should be debated honestly. Those are not the same thing.
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Not every proposed cut is the same. Unused software licenses, underused vehicles, vague contracts, and weak bidding rules are real places to look for waste.
But the Hillsborough County DOGE report also targets nonprofits, equity work, community outreach, and cultural programs. In this essay, I separate genuine control problems from programs that appear to have been labeled “waste” because committee members do not like their purpose.
Political opposition is fair. Calling it financial analysis is not.
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For years, the Latin phrase Res severa est verum gaudium has appeared at the bottom of my personal letterhead. I understood it to mean, “True joy is a serious thing,” and I loved the way it gave joy weight. Only recently did I learn that the words came from Seneca.
That discovery opened the door to a deeper reflection on the difference between happiness and joy. From the grand ending of Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition to a quiet hillside in Boone, this essay explores the kind of joy that carries memory, beauty, loss, gratitude, and meaning all at once.
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This is the 4th in a series related to this 250th Fourth of July
Imagine, for just a moment, that one of America’s Founders could return on the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence and quietly walk among us. What would he see? More importantly, what would he think?
In this work of historical fiction, I explore that question through the eyes of an aging observer who discovers a nation that has exceeded the dreams of 1776 in remarkable ways while, at the same time, placing many of its founding ideals in jeopardy. His journey takes him from Independence Hall to Monticello, Gettysburg, Selma, and Washington as he confronts both America’s greatest achievements and its deepest contradictions.
The result is not a history lesson or a political speech. It is a meditation on liberty, citizenship, and the unfinished work of the American experiment. Along the way, familiar figures from our past take on new meaning, old promises are reconsidered, and one unforgettable question is left for every generation to answer.
I hope you’ll take a few minutes to read The Second Declaration. I suspect it may stay with you long after you’ve reached the final sentence.
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Essay 3 of a series examining where we are at 250 years
That question is easy to ask but far more difficult to answer. It is tempting to surrender to cynicism, retreat into anger, or simply conclude that one person’s voice no longer matters. Yet history tells a different story. Every major step toward a more just America began because ordinary people refused to believe that tomorrow had to look exactly like yesterday.
This concluding essay in my 250th Fourth of July trilogy is not about despair. It is about responsibility. It is a personal reflection on the kind of citizen I have decided to be, regardless of the political climate, and an invitation for each of us to consider the role we will play in writing America’s next chapter. Because history will move forward. The only question is whether we will help hold the pen.
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Essay 1 of a series examining where we are at 250 years
For many Americans, the Fourth of July is a celebration filled with fireworks, flags, and patriotic pride. But as our nation marks the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, I find myself looking back to the optimism of the 1976 Bicentennial and wondering what became of the country I believed we were becoming. This is not a rejection of America, but a lament for a promise that feels increasingly out of reach.
The Declaration was never meant to be proof that America had achieved liberty and equality. It was an invitation for every generation to continue the work of building a more perfect Union. As constitutional norms erode and our politics become more divided, I struggle to celebrate, but I also remember John Lewis’ reminder never to surrender to despair. Patriotism, perhaps, is not blind celebration, but the willingness to keep defending the ideals that first gave birth to this nation.
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Lately, life has been asking for more decisions than usual. Not small ones, but the kind that seem to carry a future inside them. Work. Money. Health insurance. A parent’s care. A funeral. An estate. What to keep. What to let go. What to protect. What to release. In this season, I have learned that decision-making is not only a matter of logic. It also carries emotional weight, especially when the outcome remains uncertain.
In this essay, I reflect on a difficult job-search decision that still brings occasional regret, and how Stoic philosophy helps me think about it more clearly. The Stoics remind us that we can control the care, judgment, and integrity we bring to a decision. We cannot control the outcome. That distinction does not eliminate uncertainty, but it does offer a kind of mercy. Sometimes the best we can do is choose honestly from the place where we stand, then release what was never fully ours to command.
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There are seasons in life when the question is no longer whether things are difficult. The difficulty is already there. A parent dies. A career changes unexpectedly. A familiar version of life begins slipping away, and suddenly the future feels less certain than it once did. In those moments, we are left asking a quieter and more important question: What now?
In this essay, I reflect on Viktor Frankl, a Holocaust survivor, psychiatrist, and author of Man’s Search for Meaning. Through Frankl’s life and philosophy, and through some deeply personal experiences of grief, transition, and rebuilding, I explore the idea that meaning is not something we discover once and hold forever. It is something we continue choosing, step by step, even when life feels unsettled. Read more.
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Most of us think philosophy is meant for big moments like crisis, loss, and life-altering decisions. But what if it’s actually meant for something quieter? The ordinary days when nothing falls apart, but something still feels off. The slow drift of attention, the small irritations that take more than they should, the moments where we lose our footing without even realizing it.
Marcus Aurelius never intended his Meditations to be read by anyone. They were private notes. Reminders to himself to stay grounded, to respond better, to return to what he knew mattered. In this essay, I explore how those quiet, personal corrections still speak to us today, and why we don’t need an empire to govern, just a Tuesday to get through. Read more.
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Let’s be honest: when you hear the word Stoic, maybe you picture a distant figure, an old philosopher in flowing robes, sitting far away from the noise and chaos of real life. But the real heart of Stoicism isn’t about detachment or shutting down your feelings. It’s actually a philosophy for living well in a complicated world. That neat, distant image isn’t just outdated—it completely misses the point.
The Stoics weren’t removed from life—they were in the middle of it. They argued in marketplaces, advised emperors, endured exile, and faced the same uncertainty, loss, and frustration we deal with today. And they weren’t all ancient relics either. Stoicism didn’t disappear with Rome; its ideas have carried forward across the centuries and still shape how we think about resilience, purpose, and how to live well.
This new sub-series begins by asking a simple question: Who were these people, really? We start at the beginning—with Zeno—and begin to see the Stoics not as distant figures, but as companions in a conversation that’s still unfolding.
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Justice is a word we hear all the time, but people often understand it differently. It shows up in courtrooms, sermons, protest signs, and political speeches. Before it became a slogan, justice was seen as a way to live. Not just a stance or an opinion, but a mode of living.
For me, justice starts with faith. The prophet Micah says it simply: Do justice. Love mercy. Walk humbly with God. This command is not abstract. Justice is not something to admire from afar. It is something you do, often quietly, sometimes without certainty, and sometimes at a real cost.
I have seen justice take shape in public gatherings and protest marches, but I have also seen it in smaller, steadier acts. Helping someone get a meal. Standing up for a person who cannot speak for themselves. Showing up again when the work seems slow and unfinished. Justice does not always announce itself. Most often, it looks like ordinary people refusing to look away.
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