Standards are only standards so long as everyone agrees to abide by them.

And starting Monday, YouTube is changing one of its biggest.

Beginning August 24, a view will register the moment a video starts playing, from the very first frame. Duration won’t matter. Someone can click, immediately decide they’ve made a terrible mistake, and leave.

And that counts as a view.

Until now, YouTube required someone watching a regular long-form video to stick around for roughly 30 seconds before that view counted. There was at least some indication that the person actually watched something.

The company says it’s “standardizing” views across its different formats, including Shorts, and that the new measurement will better reflect a creator’s exposure and make it easier to demonstrate that creator’s value to brand partners.

There is an important distinction here. YouTube will still measure what it calls “engaged views,” and the change won’t alter how creators qualify for the YouTube Partner Program or how their earnings are calculated. YouTube will still know whether people actually watched. It just won’t require that for the big number displayed under the video.

Radio has gone through its own version of changing the ruler.

Nielsen changed the way radio quarter-hours are measured, reducing the amount of listening required for a PPM panelist to qualify from five minutes to three minutes.

That change gave radio bigger numbers, too.

But it’s still a standard. A listen doesn’t count because somebody tuned in for a second and immediately tuned back out. They have to listen for a measurable amount of time.

I put my music on Bandcamp, and when I look at the streaming numbers, there’s a distinction between a skip, a partial play, and a complete play. Those distinctions matter because they tell me something. Did somebody encounter my music? Did somebody try it? Did somebody actually listen to it?

Those are three very different things. And they inform me. A song with many skips is one I might need to rethink. A song with lots of full plays tells me people are sticking with it. A song with lots of partial plays tells me they gave it a chance, but something made them stop.

That’s useful information.

YouTube is about to take the first one and publicly call it a “view.”

Garrett Searight at Barrett Media raises an interesting question about what this means for broadcasting. Radio companies are currently pushing for changes in federal ownership limits, arguing that they need greater scale to compete with digital platforms.

But they’re not playing by the same measurement rules.

If YouTube can count someone who watches one frame as a viewer, why should broadcasters have to meet a minimum listening threshold before counting someone as a listener?

Take that argument far enough, and the whole concept of “engagement” starts becoming meaningless.

Imagine walking into an advertiser’s office and saying, “Two million people listened to our station!”

For how long?

“Well, some of them might have heard half a second.”

And that’s the problem with metrics once everybody starts changing the definition to make their particular number look better. Eventually, we’re no longer measuring the same thing.

The numbers get bigger while the meaning gets smaller.

Maybe advertisers won’t care. Maybe they’ll look beyond that giant public view count and demand the engagement numbers YouTube still collects behind it.

Or maybe we’re heading toward a media world where every platform gets to invent its own definition of an audience. And all that matters is that one number.

If so, I can play that game, too.

From now on, perhaps I should count someone as having read Archer’s Line if they clicked on an article, saw the first sentence, thought better of it, and disappeared.

Look at those numbers!

Except they wouldn’t tell me what I actually want to know: Did you read it? Did it mean something to you? Did it make you want to come back and read my other articles?

And speaking of numbers that actually mean something, becoming a paid subscriber is one very good way to tell me that what I’m doing here matters to you. There are some changes coming soon to Archer’s Line, and to me personally, and I’d love for you to be here for them.

If a paid subscription isn’t in the cards right now, that’s fine. Becoming a free subscriber counts, too.

Sharing an article with your friends and leaving a comment below help keep this thing going, too.

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The pushback against AI music is loud. Very loud.

I can hear why.

Some of it sounds bland. And there’s a good reason for that — because it’s an average of other music and sounds it’s been trained on. Same with AI writing. Most of us can easily spot the red flags now.

And big tech companies are leading campaigns to combat AI image slop.

Full disclosure: I use AI tools.

I use AI for research, and sometimes for help cleaning up my copy. But I write what I write first, and use AI to clean up mistakes.

But because so many people let AI completely write for them, there’s backlash against it. We even make fun of it.

But the pushback on AI music is even more pronounced. The prime target is Suno, though there are plenty of other AI music sites. So naturally, I had to try it out.

More on that in a bit.

Spotify has noticed the pushback. The company announced that beginning in mid-September, it will start labeling artist profiles whose identities appear to be AI-generated.

“Listeners have been clear in telling us that they don’t like seeing an artist profile that seems human, only to find out that the persona is AI-generated,” Spotify said in announcing the change.

Those profiles will get an “AI Persona” badge. By default, Spotify also won’t put music from AI Personas into its editorial or algorithmic recommendations.

And yes, there are plenty of people using Suno to create music out of whole cloth, letting the AI create the song structure, the composition, the lyrics, the whole thing. And it’s become obvious when they have.

But there are others — actual musicians — who use Suno as another tool.

Back in the pandemic days, I added to my guitar collection, learned how to use GarageBand and Logic Pro, and wrote and recorded some of my own music.

I discovered I could upload that music to Suno. I was curious to see what it would do with it.

I’d long harbored a dream that, one day, I could convince some good musicians, a good band, with a good producer, in a professional setting, to take my music “demos” and cover them.

But then I heard about Suno AI and that it could do that.

And that’s what I did. I have to say, most of the time I was impressed.

Here are some results:

Then I had it turn some of my poetry into musical pieces, but I wrote long, detailed prompTs about atmosphere, song structure, tone, modes, and chord progressions.

Again, I was impressed.

My point is that while I used Suno to create music, it started with my music, my ideas, my composition, notes and chords and words I came up with. Out of my head and into the machine.

And I know that you might be saying, “But Rob, real live musicians could have done cover versions of your music, and you could have paid them.”

I hear you. But two things. Thing one, that depended on me finding some musicians who’d want to do that for me — I tried. And thing two, right now it’s money I do not have.

And then you might say, “You still shouldn’t have used soulless AI.”

But here’s where it gets interesting.

When I was recording my original songs myself in GarageBand and Logic Pro, I made use of technology to play instruments I didn’t own or couldn’t play myself.

I could write a violin line, play it on my guitar, and have a virtual instrument turn it into violins. I can’t play the violin. I don’t own one.

And drums? I can’t play drums. So I took advantage of the technology that was there to create drum tracks.

Isn’t that at least a cousin of what we’re doing with AI? Isn’t technology already being used in professional studios to let musicians create things they couldn’t physically perform themselves?

There are some legitimate concerns about Suno and AI music. A major one is copyrights. Some musicians whose creations were used to train music AIs say they should be paid for the use of their music. That’s legitimate.

The other complaint is that AI music is no good because it’s only “scraped” music from other sources.

But… don’t human musicians do something similar?

For example, my influences are Yes, Genesis, King Crimson and Steven Wilson. You could go through some songs I’ve recorded and perhaps compliment me on using those influences. You could pick out a bit and say, “I see you’re channeling some Fripp with that line.”

But if I were an AI, you might cry, “Theft! No fair! Not real!”

The difference is, of course, that I’m a real human. At least, I think I am. I’m told that thinking I exist is the criterion.

Is AI the devil? Will it put real writers and musicians out of work? Most likely, yes. And already, in many cases.

But putting writers and musicians out of work isn’t necessarily the same thing as putting an end to human creativity.

Companies will — and do — use AI to save money. If they can generate a piece of music instead of hiring a composer, or generate copy instead of paying a writer, some of them will. And do.

But people didn’t start writing songs because somebody invented the recording contract. We didn’t start telling stories because somebody invented the publishing industry. We were doing those things long before anyone figured out how to make money from them. We were dancing around in caves miming the story of how we killed that leopard. And then someone had a bright idea of drawing pictures of it on the cave wall.

AI may change who gets paid to create. It may change what those jobs look like. It may eliminate some of them.

But I don’t think it eliminates the human need to make something. It won’t stop humans from creating.

Such is the danger of technological advancement. Talkies and recorded sound helped put theater musicians out of work. Automation eliminated factory jobs. Computers wiped out entire categories of work.

But careers change. New careers are created. And no, that kind of change doesn’t come without pain. Look at the Industrial Revolution.

We don’t know yet what the result of our AI-ification will be. Perhaps whole new industries will develop, new types of careers.

And yeah, there’s a possibility that AI will take over the world.

But if it did, would it do any worse than we have?

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I used to scribble things like, “Change changelessly changing change.” I scribbled them because to say them might have made people think my brain was glitching.

And in high school, no one would have understood. I had a hard enough time then anyway. I thank all the gods every day that no one found my notebooks then.

There are other lines about change that have changelessly stayed with me.

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“The sands of time were eroded by the river of constant change.” That’s a great line from the Peter Gabriel era of Genesis.

“He knows changes aren’t permanent. But change is.” That’s the late, great Neil Peart with a brilliant Rush lyric.

“Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes, turn and face the strange.” Bowie.

Growing up with an anxiety disorder, changes were terrifying. Even the good ones. It was a disruption to the routine, and my brain has always had a hard time facing the strange changes.

That same anxiety disorder always convinced me that a bad change was permanent. Even though life takes a baseball bat to my head and repeatedly reminds me that nothing is permanent. Except change.

But the flip side of the coin is right there. The good times aren’t permanent either. So strap in and ride the rapids. This is life.

“Change,” said Spock, “is the essential process of all existence.”

But routine is a part of life, too. Maybe it’s an essential tool for coping with too many changes. Most of us can’t figure out how to properly balance the two.

Some of us are so afraid of routine that we obsess over avoiding it, to the detriment of our physical and mental health. And some of us are so afraid of change that we obsess to the point of religious mania over avoiding it. That’s why religion can be so allergic to change.

But change is always coming. Sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s bad — two things we can’t deny. That’s because change itself is always changing.

I’m rambling. But rambling is my routine. And routine helps me get ready for change.

I know that doesn’t make sense. But that’s okay, because nothing does.

All we have, you and I, is a need to understand that we’re all trying to navigate our way down this river of constant change the best we can. And maybe, just maybe, we’ve got to cut each other some slack.

Change is in the air.

More soon.

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We’re now getting a closer look at the scale of the change for KNX News since it lost the FM frequency and went back solely to AM 1070.

July’s numbers show KNX with a 3.1 share and a cume of 582,400 — the total number of people who tuned in — according to Nielsen ratings reported by Barrett Media.

Those numbers mark another step down since the change on May 18. KNX’s cume has fallen each month since then, while its share has dropped from 3.6 to 3.1.

By contrast, KNX had a 4.6 share and a cume of 983,000 in July of last year, when it still had the FM signal.

A year later, KNX has suffered a nearly 41% decline in cume and lost a point and a half in share.

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What we can’t see in these topline 6+ numbers is how much of that decline is directly tied to losing the FM signal. But the timing certainly tells a story.

We also can’t see the numbers for the specific demos and audience KNX is built to reach. Those may tell a different story from the one we can see in the publicly released numbers.

Meanwhile, what’s happening at 97.1 FM?

Since launching the new sports format, 97.1 The Fan, in May, the station has posted a 0.2 share for two months in a row.

There is now a huge L.A. sports story The Fan can use to draw listeners into its analysis and conversations: Former Disney CEO Bob Iger and investor Josh Kushner have agreed to buy the Lakers in a deal valuing the team at $12.5 billion. The sale still needs NBA approval.

Of course, that story is also being covered on KNX and every other station carrying news. Not to mention iHeart’s sports station, AM 570 LA Sports, which has been on an upswing over the past few months — from a 1.3 share to 1.5 and then 1.7 in July.

AM 570 is growing while The Fan is still trying to find traction.

So what does all of this mean?

KNX News is a vitally important station in this market. It is L.A.’s only all-news station. It was indispensable during the January 2025 fires, and it will be again if — gods forbid — another major disaster strikes.

But KNX is also facing the headwinds of the overall media culture, where more and more people, especially in younger demos, are choosing to get their news from social media.

Then there are the changes inside the radio industry itself.

When I first arrived at KNX in 2015, there was a whole team of reporters spread across Los Angeles and Orange County. We had a regular Orange County reporter. Each daypart was hosted by two anchors.

Eventually, the reporting staff was whittled down…and down.

Two-anchor shifts became the domain of mornings. Middays became a solo shift. Afternoons, while still technically having two anchors, were split: One anchor would be on for an hour, then step away to write while the second anchor took over. Then they would trade places again.

That’s the way it was when I left last year.

KNX also once had a live, local anchor overnight. Now it carries a shared overnight newscast with its sister all-news station in San Francisco.

We’re left wondering about the future — what KNX will look like a year from now, what newsradio itself may look like a year from now, or whether all-news will simply become another format that’s too expensive to maintain.

We’ll just have to stay tuned.

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There’s a huge push right now to protect AM radio in cars. It’s a fight worth having because, in many places, an AM signal could be the last source of emergency information.

But keeping a radio receiver in the car isn’t enough if drivers can’t find it.

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It’s not just AM fighting for space on the dashboard. It’s FM, too.

If I want to listen to the radio in my car—say, tune in to KNX to hear how they’re doing without the dulcet tones and magnificent talent of yours truly—I have to drill down on my CarPlay screen, find the relevant app, navigate to the KNX icon and select it.

It’s even worse if I want to hear the actual over-the-air broadcast. I have to exit CarPlay, navigate to Ford’s audio system, select the AM band and then find KNX.

That’s a lot of work for a lazy person. It may be impossible while driving unless you’re an old hand at using voice controls.

How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop?

When broadcasters say this is one reason radio listening is declining, they have a point. There are other reasons, but I’ll save those complaints for another article.

The point is that two—and sometimes three—layers of technology now stand between me and my radio.

The fight over AM presents another hurdle.

Congress is considering the AM Radio for Every Vehicle Act. It would require new passenger vehicles to include equipment capable of receiving over-the-air AM broadcasts.

Electric vehicles make that more difficult.

AM carries sound by changing the strength—or amplitude—of the radio signal. Electrical noise can affect that amplitude, which makes AM vulnerable to interference. High-voltage electrical equipment inside an EV can create noise that produces static, buzzing or a weak signal.

That’s death for AM reception. But it isn’t an unsolvable problem.

A Congressional Research Service report found that automakers disagree about how serious the problem is. BMW and several other companies said electrical interference was one reason they removed AM from some EVs. On the other hand, Kia told Congress it wasn’t aware of AM interference problems in its electric vehicles. Ford initially moved away from AM and then changed its mind.

Possible solutions include better shielding, putting the receiver farther from the motor, and improving receiver technology.

But there’s an interesting line in the House version of the AM radio bill. It says AM must be provided in a way that is “easily accessible to drivers.”

There’s the rub.

Because you and I both know that if our cars are less than 10 years old, there ain’t much about the radio that’s “easily accessible” from the dashboard anymore.

Australia is beginning to deal with that problem. It started with television.

Connected television devices manufactured and supplied in Australia on or after January 10, 2026, must put local free-to-air television apps on the primary screen. Those apps must be visible without scrolling or clicking and displayed in a size and location comparable to other streaming apps.

They can’t be buried inside another menu.

A live television icon must also be visible on devices capable of receiving broadcast television. The manufacturer remains responsible even when another company supplies the operating system. Those rules are now in effect.

Australia has also considered a similar system for radio on smart speakers.

An Australian government paper warns that smart speakers aren’t passive receivers. They can steer listeners toward services that make more money for the platform. A voice assistant can decide which app or streaming company fulfills a request.

When my wife asks our Google device to play a podcast, it grabs the program from iHeart—not Spotify or Apple. Google’s system made the choice for her.

Australia’s proposal would require local stations to be found accurately, carried without a “prominence fee” and played without unauthorized advertising or other material being inserted into the stream. The government’s proposals paper says there is a reasonable case for regulating radio access on smart speakers.

Cars are the harder part.

Australia hasn’t adopted a dashboard rule. Its government says connected-car systems are more complicated and will take longer to figure out. During a February 2026 parliamentary hearing, an Australian official said car prominence might be considered later.

“Later” in the amorphous sense. No timetable was offered.

But let’s say we could work through those issues in the United States. What would a radio-prominence rule for American cars look like?

A clearly marked radio control would always be visible on the main audio screen.

Local AM and FM radio would be reachable with one action. One lick to get to the center of the Tootsie Pop.

The system would accurately carry out voice commands asking for a particular radio station.

Broadcasters wouldn’t have to pay for basic placement.

The system wouldn’t replace an available over-the-air signal with a data-dependent stream unless the listener chose it.

That would make radio a genuinely accessible choice again instead of burying it behind other apps like some stepchild the family is embarrassed by.

This isn’t only about ratings or protecting the radio business.

I’ve personally heard stories from people who made last-minute escapes from the Los Angeles fires in 2025. Some were getting KNX evacuation information through the station’s streaming app. But a stream could be as much as two minutes behind the live, over-the-air broadcast.

They couldn’t remember how to reach the actual radio. They hunted for it on the CarPlay screen, forgetting that the broadcast receiver wasn’t inside CarPlay in the first place.

Meanwhile, they were desperate for immediate evacuation information.

When seconds count, and the glow of the flames is in your rearview mirror, the last thing you should have to do is hunt through a dashboard menu to find the radio.

Let’s save radio in cars by cutting out the middlemen.

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The following is a hypothetical scenario where the major news networks no longer exist. CBS and CNN have closed down after the Paramount/Warner Bros. merger, deciding that news operations aren’t worth the financial burden or political risk anymore. Besides, the logic went, most people get their news from social media.

The dam has broken. The other networks no longer worry about shutting down theirs, too. ABC and NBC newscasts go online only, then shut down completely because no one watches. Entire news departments simply close. They’re not needed anymore.

The cable news networks, facing declining revenue and political attacks from the administration, also shut down. Tegna/Nexstar tries to create a new news network, but it goes nowhere. No viewers. No interest. Too expensive.

The mainstream news websites, New York Times, Washington Post, all fold because of the same pressure, declining subscriber numbers, and fewer readers.

All that’s left are the fringe sites, podcasters, and social media influencers who sell news as content, and the algorithms inform them what gets viewers and clicks and what doesn’t. Mainly, outrage is the only thing that makes money.

Here is what happens in that world when an earthquake strikes Los Angeles.

Tuesday, 10:17 a.m.

The earthquake begins beneath the city.

The shaking lasts for more than two minutes.

Downtown towers sway, and older apartment buildings collapse. Sections of freeways fall. Gas lines break, and fires start across the basin. Water mains burst, leading to bigger fires. Electricity disappears across wide parts of Los Angeles County.

Cellphones issue emergency alerts. The message says: EARTHQUAKE. DROP, COVER AND HOLD ON.

Then the phones lose service.

10:18 a.m.

The first videos appear online almost immediately. When scary things happen, people are trained to whip out their phones and livestream video. This is “news.”

A security camera shows the front of a building falling onto parked cars. A livestream shows people running from a grocery store in Koreatown. A driver records a section of freeway buckling in front of him.

Millions of people repost the videos without knowing who made them. Most social media accounts aren’t verified.

One clip is real. One comes from a movie. Another shows an earthquake in Turkey from several years earlier. All three spread together. They’re hard to tell apart, and certainly for people who are used to scrolling by.

10:20 a.m.

The shaking stops.

Los Angeles is filled with sirens, alarms and car horns, spreading from the basin into the valleys.

People stand in streets holding their phones in the air, hoping to find a signal. Parents try to reach children at school. Families call relatives again and again.

A self-described journalist with three million followers posts:

MASSIVE EARTHQUAKE DESTROYS LOS ANGELES. DEATH TOLL COULD BE 100,000.

But he’s sitting in Miami. His source is a message from an anonymous account. The post reaches ten million people in six minutes.

10:24 a.m.

A MAGA account posts a video of an undamaged street in Beverly Hills.

The media wants you to believe Los Angeles was destroyed. Looks fine to me.

There is no mainstream media left to make that claim. The phrase survives from an earlier time.

The post receives thousands of replies:

California is already begging for money.

Another Democrat scam.

They’ll give it all to illegals.

10:27 a.m.

A far-left account claims the earthquake came from a secret military test under the Mojave Desert.

The account provides a map filled with red circles and arrows. The map looks official. It carries the logo of a federal agency.

The logo was added that morning.

10:31 a.m.

A large account based in Russia posts that California officials got a warning three days earlier but kept it secret to protect wealthy donors.

Another Russian-backed account posts the opposite story. It says the federal government warned California, and the governor ignored it because he wanted the disaster to happen during Trump’s presidency.

The two accounts attack each other. Both stories spread. But both accounts are part of a government operation. The goal is to create confusion and turn Americans against one another.

10:36 a.m.

Los Angeles County posts its first official message, really the only way to get anything out anymore:

Major earthquake. Expect aftershocks. Avoid damaged buildings. Emergency response underway.

Local TV stations, in that aftermath of the national news infrastructure disappearing, have few or no reporters at all. Most have shut down their news departments. There are no all-news radio stations anymore. There are talk stations, and the talk hosts are the only ones relaying news. But they’re paid to have opinions, so what they relay must be colored by whatever narrative gets ratings and listeners in their particular demos.

The replies to the L.A. message fill with insults, demands, fake casualty numbers and claims that the account has been hacked.

Some people follow the instructions. Others decide the warning is part of a government plan to force people from their homes.

10:43 a.m.

A false tsunami warning begins circulating.

The message tells people in Santa Monica, Venice and Marina del Rey to drive inland immediately.

Thousands of people get into their cars. Traffic locks up, making travel for emergency vehicles much harder on the major routes.

The false warning appears on a page designed to look like an official government account. Most people can’t tell the difference.

10:51 a.m.

A second jolt hits. Another big one.

More buildings fall. The power goes out at two hospitals. Nurses move patients into hallways. Ambulances are stuck in traffic created by the false tsunami warning.

A video shows part of a hospital ceiling collapsing.

A popular account says it’s fake, that the hospital was already abandoned and the video was staged.

11:03 a.m.

The White House social media account posts an update that doesn’t mention Los Angeles or an earthquake:

President Trump has been fully briefed on the situation in California. The administration is monitoring the situation.

There is no photograph of the president. There is no video or audio statement in his voice.

Trump has rarely appeared in public for months. The White House has offered no reason.

One group says he is working around the clock. Another says he is seriously ill. Another says he died weeks ago and administration officials are using old photographs and artificial intelligence to hide it.

Every theory has its own pictures, experts and documents backing them up. AI is so advanced it’s nearly impossible to tell what’s real.

11:18 a.m.

The Los Angeles mayor posts a short video recorded outside City Hall.

She says the damage is severe. She asks people to stay off the roads. She says the city needs immediate federal help.

The video breaks up several times because of the weak connection. A MAGA account edits together the broken frames, and “proves” the mayor used artificial intelligence to fake her appearance.

A far-left account studies the shadows behind her and decides she is speaking from a military bunker, and accuses Trump of trying to hide what’s happening in L.A. from the rest of the country.

11:42 a.m.

FEMA posts that assessment teams are being sent to California.

Users ask where the teams are coming from, when they will arrive, and how much aid has been approved.

The account just repeats the original message.

A fake federal account announces that $50 billion has already been approved. Another fake account says Trump rejected California’s request. Both messages receive more attention than the one from FEMA.

12:15 p.m.

A social media personality in Texas begins a live broadcast called: THE LOS ANGELES EARTHQUAKE HOAX

He compares current videos with scenes from disaster movies. A few images are fake. He uses those images to dismiss the rest. One hundred thousand people watch live. He tells them California wants federal money because the state has gone broke.

12:47 p.m.

A left-wing livestream claims federal rescue teams have been ordered to avoid immigrant neighborhoods. The host displays a screenshot of what he says is a real email proving it.

People in several neighborhoods become afraid to visit emergency shelters. Rumors spread that immigration agents are waiting at the doors.

Shelters in those areas remain half empty. Families sleep outdoors beside damaged buildings.

1:30 p.m.

The Los Angeles Fire Department reports widespread fires and problems with the water system. The department’s account has fewer followers than several conspiracy accounts discussing the fires.

A viral post says the fires were started by looters. Another says police started them. Another says Jewish developers started them to clear valuable land. Another blames immigrants and “antifa.”

The fires keep burning.

2:12 p.m.

The White House account posts again:

The President will protect American taxpayers from fraud, waste and abuse as California evaluates its situation.

The message says nothing about an emergency declaration. The word “fraud” becomes the main subject of the national conversation.

On Trump’s Truth Social, there are AI images of him leading fire departments rescuing people from collapsed buildings. In one, he’s carrying a child in one hand and a cute puppy in the other, walking out of a fire. A slew of other images have no connection to disasters or L.A. One shows him inside a space suit planting a gigantic flag on the Moon.

Most of his feed is AI imagery. No real text updates, not for the last few months.

3:05 p.m.

California officials estimate that hundreds of people have died. Thousands are injured. Many more are missing.

A MAGA influencer points to the changing numbers as proof of a lie. A far-left influencer says officials are hiding tens of thousands of deaths.

The rescue crews continue pulling people from collapsed buildings.

4:40 p.m.

A photograph of a crying child beside a collapsed apartment building spreads around the world. The child is real. The location is Van Nuys.

Accounts begin arguing about the child’s citizenship.

Someone creates an image showing the same child holding a Mexican flag. Someone else creates one showing her wearing a Trump hat.

The original photographer has no large platform. His correction reaches a few thousand people. The altered images reach millions.

6:00 p.m.

Night begins to fall.

Much of L.A. is dark. Fires burn in several neighborhoods. People use car radios, battery radios and phones when service becomes available.

The major radio and television networks still exist as entertainment companies. Their stations carry sports, reruns and syndicated talk shows. Their news divisions closed years earlier.

Some local stations relay government emergency messages. They have no reporters to check them. The voices people once expected to hear during a national disaster are gone.

Residents begin posting about looting. But as the accounts aren’t verified, it’s hard to know what’s real. Far-right accounts magnify the reports, while far-left accounts say there’s no looting at all.

8:30 p.m.

The White House account announces that President Trump has spoken with California officials. But California officials say they only spoke with White House staff.

No one says who spoke directly with the president.

An old photograph of Trump in the Oval Office appears with the message. Internet users examine the clock, the curtains and the papers on his desk. Some say the photograph was taken that day. Others identify it as a photograph from two years earlier.

The White House offers no explanation and won’t answer any questions about it, condemning anyone who brings it up.

11:55 p.m.

Los Angeles enters its first night. Thousands sleep in parks, cars and parking lots. Aftershocks wake them every few minutes.

Across the country, people fall asleep believing completely different versions of the day.

Some believe Los Angeles has been destroyed.

Others believe the damage covers only a few blocks.

Some believe the earthquake was created by the military.

Others believe California created the story to steal money.

Some believe Trump is directing the largest rescue effort in American history.

Others believe Trump has disappeared and unelected aides are running the country through his social media accounts.

Meanwhile, there are survivors still trapped inside damaged and collapsed buildings, but they’re running out of time.

Wednesday: Day Two

6:00 a.m.

The official death toll from city officials reaches 1,100.

Several hospitals are full. Parts of Los Angeles have no water. Grocery stores are empty. Freeway damage has slowed the movement of food and fuel.

A government account says federal supplies are on the way, but they don’t say when. Questions about that are ignored.

8:15 a.m.

A convoy of trucks is filmed near Phoenix. MAGA accounts say it proves Trump has already saved Los Angeles. Left-wing accounts say the trucks are carrying soldiers who will place the city under military rule.

The trucks are carrying bottled water, portable toilets and medical supplies.

They reach the California border that afternoon. A false post that looks like it came from an official city account sends them to the wrong distribution center.

10:30 a.m.

The governor asks for a major disaster declaration.

The White House account says California must provide a full accounting of previous federal funds before additional money can be released.

The request begins moving through government offices.

Nobody hears from Trump.

1:00 p.m.

A video shows people looting food from a damaged supermarket. Right-wing accounts call it an organized immigrant riot. Left-wing accounts call it a police trap.

The video shows neighborhood residents carrying food outside before the damaged roof falls. Some people pay with cash left on the counter. Some steal.

The full video, some fifteen minutes long, receives little attention. The shortest and angriest version dominates the feeds. And that is only about 20 seconds.

5:00 p.m.

A celebrity posts that Los Angeles needs help. The message raises millions of dollars.

Fake accounts copy the celebrity’s name and photograph. They collect donations through cryptocurrency and payment apps.

The money disappears.

9:00 p.m.

A rumor says another, larger earthquake will strike at midnight. Scientists post that earthquakes cannot be predicted that way. Their replies fill with people calling them liars.

Thousands leave shelters and get into cars. Roads jam again. Families spend the night driving toward Las Vegas, Phoenix and San Diego.

Midnight arrives. An aftershock shakes the city at 12:07 a.m. Aftershocks have been rumbling ever since the first quake, but the rumor becomes a prophecy.

Thursday: Day Three

The president remains out of sight.

The White House account posts a message in Trump’s usual style:

California’s leaders have failed for years. We will help the great PEOPLE of California while making sure CROOKED POLITICIANS don’t steal a dime!

Some people believe Trump wrote it. Others say an aide wrote it. Others say a computer wrote it. The message becomes federal policy anyway.

On Trump’s Truth Social, his account posts an AI picture of a bulked-up muscular Trump beating up a skinny, frightened-looking California governor.

Aid is approved in small pieces. Each shipment requires new paperwork and new public arguments. The mayor says the delays are costing lives.

Trump administration and Republican congressional accounts say California is refusing to cooperate.

Screenshots of letters circulate. Dates are cropped out. Signatures are blurred. Entire documents are created from scratch. Every side has its own evidence.

Friday: Day Four

The national conversation turns toward blame.

Old videos of homeless camps are presented as earthquake shelters. Photographs of damaged buildings from the 1994 Northridge earthquake appear as current destruction. Images from Gaza and Ukraine are labeled Los Angeles.

Russian accounts push every version. One tells conservatives that California elites are stealing aid. Another tells progressives that federal agents are allowing people of color to die. Another tells Black residents that Latino residents are receiving special treatment. Another tells Latino residents that Black neighborhoods are taking all the supplies.

The goal is anger. And it works better than it ever did before.

Fights break out at two aid centers after rumors say the centers are running out of water. The rumors create the shortage they warned about.

Saturday: Day Five

A rescue crew pulls three people alive from an apartment building. The video should bring the country together. The feeds take it apart.

One group says the rescue was staged. Another says the crew waited because the victims were immigrants. Another studies the uniforms and says foreign troops are operating in Los Angeles.

The rescue workers stop reading the comments.

Sunday: Day Six

Churches, mosques, synagogues, neighborhood groups and ordinary residents build their own supply systems.

They write addresses and needs on pieces of cardboard. Amateur radio operators pass messages across the city. Bicycle riders carry medicine through blocked streets. Restaurants cook whatever food remains before it spoils.

These local systems begin saving lives.

They also create new rumors. One group is accused of favoring its own members. Another is accused of hiding weapons. A third is accused of collecting names for the government.

Trust survives mostly among people who can see one another face to face. Many people inside the disaster zone stop arguing online. Survival takes all their time. Their voices fade from the national feed.

Monday: Day Seven

One week has passed.

The official death toll is more than 6,000. Tens of thousands remain missing. Hundreds of thousands have left their homes.

Congress begins debating emergency aid. Members enter the debate with different casualty figures, different damage estimates and different stories about the federal response.

One side calls the package a bailout for Democratic leaders. Another calls the delay an attempt to punish a city filled with liberals and immigrants.

The proposed aid package gets smaller.

Conditions inside Los Angeles get worse.

Week Two

The fires are mostly under control. Water service remains broken in large parts of the city. Damaged hospitals move patients to other counties.

Insurance companies begin sending messages to homeowners. Claims are delayed while inspectors struggle to reach damaged areas.

A viral rumor says every undocumented resident will receive a free house before American citizens get help. Another says the federal government plans to seize damaged homes and sell them to Trump supporters.

Both stories spread faster than instructions explaining how to apply for aid.

Fraud appears. People submit fake claims. Contractors take deposits and vanish. Landlords collect relief money while tenants remain in damaged buildings. Each real case becomes proof that every victim is corrupt.

Week Three

The president still hasn’t made a public appearance.

The White House releases a short video showing Trump seated behind a desk. He speaks for 28 seconds about California fraud instead of the quake or its victims. His voice sounds flat. His face looks strange.

Experts argue over whether the video is real. Some find signs of computer generation. Others say the lighting and video compression created the odd look.

It’s a recorded video, with no one there to ask questions.

The question of Trump’s health begins to compete with the earthquake itself.

Week Four

Congress approves a limited relief package.

The money covers emergency work and part of the cleanup. The larger rebuilding plan remains tied up in investigations, lawsuits and political demands.

Federal accounts announce that Los Angeles has received everything it requested.

California accounts announce that Washington has abandoned the city.

Residents see checks that have not arrived, applications that will not load and phone numbers that place them on hold for hours.

Republican Senators and Representatives issue statements demanding that California must “turn over” all immigrants and all “antifa operatives” inside city and state government before they send any more relief money. But some of those statements aren’t real. They’re re-shares from influencers and podcasters.

The White House spokesperson says that due to the size of the disaster, elections in California should be postponed, but then seconds later, she implies that L.A. officials are inflating the scale of the damage, and that the quake wasn’t that bad.

A new industry grows online. Influencers charge people for help filling out relief forms. Some provide useful advice. Some steal identities.

Month Two

The rest of the country begins to lose interest.

A new scandal takes over the feeds. The earthquake appears mostly when someone wants to make a political point.

Los Angeles remains filled with damaged roads, closed schools and temporary shelters.

Wealthy neighborhoods hire private crews, private security and private water trucks. Large companies reopen office buildings with their own generators.

Working-class neighborhoods wait for public repairs.

Renters leave for Riverside, Bakersfield, Las Vegas and Phoenix. Families crowd into homes with relatives. Children change schools. Nurses, teachers, cooks, drivers and hotel workers leave the region.

Los Angeles begins losing the people who keep Los Angeles running. Whatever happens now, L.A. is on its way to losing its once-mighty status as the second-largest city in America.

Month Three

Property investors arrive.

They offer cash for damaged homes. Owners facing mortgages, repair bills and denied insurance claims accept low prices because they need money immediately. Whole blocks begin changing hands.

Social media accounts say the earthquake was planned to clear land for developers. The theory grows from a real wave of property buying.

City leaders promise protections. Their messages receive angry replies from every side.

Some residents believe the city is helping developers. Others believe the city is stopping the free market. Others believe the city government no longer exists and every official video is fake.

A viral video shows the mayor at a fancy party on a tropical island, whooping it up and drinking rum with the leaders of socialist countries. Is it real? Probably not. But the people sharing it endlessly don’t care, because it’s a story they enjoy spreading. It doesn’t matter if it’s true. And there’s really no one left to ask.

Month Four

The federal government announces that the emergency phase is over. Los Angeles officials say hundreds of thousands of people still need help.

The White House account posts charts showing billions of dollars sent to California. California accounts post photographs of neighborhoods where little has arrived. Both sets of information contain pieces of the truth.

Official messages appear under Trump’s name every day. Orders are issued. People are fired. Policies change. No one outside a small circle can say who is making the decisions.

The country is used to it. It hardly matters anymore. Without anyone to ask questions, the questions lose importance, and people focus on other things.

Month Five

Los Angeles divides into separate worlds.

The strongest parts of the economy return. Some film studios reopen, but the industry will change irrevocably. Sports arenas hold a few games. Some tourists come back to areas that look familiar, but not nearly in the numbers that came before.

Several miles away, families live in trailers beside the remains of their homes.

Insurance disappears from more neighborhoods. Banks become cautious about mortgages. Small businesses close. Public schools lose students and money. The city’s tax base falls as its needs rise.

Online, people post videos of movie premieres and crowded restaurants as proof that Los Angeles recovered.

Other people post endless blocks of damaged apartments as proof that the whole city is still in ruins.

And both Los Angeleses are real.

Month Six

The official investigation into the federal response releases a report. Hardly anyone reads it.

Right-wing accounts call it a California cover-up. Left-wing accounts call it a White House cover-up. Conspiracy accounts say every person named in the report belongs to the same secret organization. Russian accounts turn selected paragraphs into thousands of angry posts.

The report becomes one more object in the fight.

By now, the country has several different memories of the earthquake.

In one version, Trump saved Los Angeles from corrupt California politicians. In another, Trump allowed thousands to die because he hated the city. In another, the earthquake was a hoax used to steal federal money. In another, the government caused it with new technology that can make earthquakes. In yet another, Trump had vanished before the earthquake, and unknown people used his accounts to run the country.

Each version has videos, witnesses, charts and documents. Each has millions of believers.

What happens to Los Angeles?

Los Angeles survives.

The richest parts rebuild first. Private money brings back studios, office towers, shopping districts and expensive neighborhoods.

Working families carry the heaviest burden. Many leave. Others stay in damaged homes because they have nowhere to go. There is a severe dichotomy to the city now. Some parts look like the aftermath of a war. A few miles away, the rich are still holding parties.

Some neighborhoods spend years waiting for repairs. Temporary housing becomes permanent. Investors buy land from desperate owners. The cost of living rises again as the supply of safe housing falls. The city becomes smaller, older, poorer and more divided.

It also becomes more local.

Neighborhoods build their own emergency networks. Residents learn which voices nearby have earned trust. Amateur radio returns. Someone is printing newsletters and handing them out. Community groups create lists of elderly residents, medical needs, water supplies and safe buildings.

People begin rebuilding trust one block at a time.

But the national wound is still open and bleeding. In fact, it’s just another gaping wound to add to the list.

Americans once watched the same pictures during a disaster. Reporters stood in the wreckage. Officials answered questions. There were live news conferences. The facts changed as rescue workers learned more, and the country could see why they changed.

But in this newsless America, the pictures come without reporters. Claims arrive without questions. Government orders arrive without a president. Every correction looks like a cover-up. Every mistake becomes proof of a plot.

Los Angeles needs water, food, doctors, shelter, and billions of dollars. The country only sends arguments.

Los Angeles is first because it is easy for some people to hate. It’s filled with Democrats, immigrants, movie stars and every other target that can be turned into ragebait. The next city could be Houston after a hurricane, Miami after a flood, or St. Louis after a tornado. Once Americans must prove their political worth before receiving disaster aid, every city is one election away from being left behind.

The earthquake destroyed buildings in less than two minutes. The feeds spend the next six months destroying the idea that Americans owe one another any help at all.

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The Federal Communications Commission has voted 2–1 to eliminate the rule that kept any one company from owning TV stations reaching more than 39 percent of U.S. households.

The FCC will replace that limit with a case-by-case review of broadcast deals. Chairman Brendan Carr says the new system will allow the FCC to approve deals that serve the public interest and reject those that do not.

But who’s deciding what “the public interest” means? Right now, with Brendan Carr clearly accepting marching orders from one source, that decision rests in the hands of one man: Donald Trump.

Looking at ownership caps on a case-by-case basis smacks of, “If Trump is okay with it, you’re golden. If he doesn’t like you, no deal.”

“Public interest” as code for political favoritism.

That’s a dangerous amount of power to place in the hands of any administration, especially one that repeatedly attacks news organizations and broadcasters over coverage it doesn’t like. Sometimes over jokes. And it’s just as dangerous whether the big man on campus is a Democrat or a Republican.

As with so many actions taken at the behest of the Trump administration, there’s also a major legal question. Congress set the 39 percent figure in 2004, and opponents argue that the FCC cannot erase it without Congress acting first.

Court challenges are sure to follow, along with possible action from state AGs like California’s Rob Bonta, who seems to be making his living suing the Trump administration.

Welcome back, my friends, to the show that never ends.

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Cumulus has surrendered the FCC license for 560 KZAC in San Francisco, part of a growing trend affecting radio stations across the country.

We’re not talking about some small-market station here.

The station originally signed on as 1390 KTAB Oakland in 1925. After several frequency changes, it landed at 560 in 1929. For decades, that frequency was the home of KSFO.

KZAC had been silent since March 2025. During that time, Cumulus told the FCC it was negotiating to sell it. A sale never happened. I presume that means nobody offered enough money to make it worthwhile.

A full-market San Francisco signal couldn’t attract a buyer willing to take on the transmitter, land or lease, engineering, insurance, utilities and regulatory costs. The license was no longer valuable enough for Cumulus to keep carrying it.

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In September, Cumulus surrendered four other AM licenses after taking the stations silent and considering possible sales.

Now the company is going through another round of layoffs. Cuts have hit New York, central Illinois, Detroit, Columbia, Mobile and Shreveport, with more expected.

Cumulus is also reorganizing under Chapter 11 for the second time in less than a decade. A bankruptcy court approved its restructuring plan in April, but the company is still waiting for FCC approval before it can complete the process.

If that’s not a sign of a spiral in the radio business, I don’t know what is. And it’s picking up speed.

Last year, Cumulus let nearly 20 stations go dark in markets including Birmingham, Beaumont and Melbourne. Most were AM stations or weaker FM signals that the company concluded were no longer worth operating.

Townsquare took the same route, blaming “economic conditions.” It managed to sell a few stations, but at fire-sale prices. The WDLA AM-FM combination in Walton, New York, went for just $50,000.

iHeart and other owners have also shut down or surrendered AM facilities. In some cases, a tower lease ended. In others, the land was sold or the programming was moved to an FM translator or HD channel.

How many of you have HD radios? That’s not even available in my 2025 Ford.

Once the programming survives somewhere else, keeping an expensive AM transmitter running becomes harder to justify.

The FCC’s own numbers confirm the direction. The country had 4,551 licensed AM stations at the end of 2020. By March 31 of this year, the number had fallen to 4,310.

That’s a loss of 241 stations, or about 5.3 percent, in a little more than five years.

Radio’s not in wholesale collapse. At least, not yet. Many stations still make money, and good FM signals continue to attract buyers, although, for a bit less money than they used to.

But distressed stations are even worse off. Some aren’t attracting any buyers at all. Owners show a lot more willingness to shut off the transmitter, sell the land and walk away from a license that once would have been considered too valuable to lose.

San Francisco’s 560, in one of America’s biggest markets, has disappeared without a buyer. That’s another mile-marker on a road that’s not leading to the Emerald City.

The real tipping point will come when owners start surrendering standalone AM and FM licenses that still have meaningful audiences.

I think that’s still a ways off. But we’re headed in that direction. What do you think?

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Radio is changing quickly. Subscribe to Archer’s Line for independent reporting and commentary on what the industry is becoming—and what it is leaving behind. If you value this work, consider becoming a paid subscriber. Your support keeps Archer’s Line independent.

KCBS traffic reporter Kim Vestal retired Friday, ending a radio career that spanned 47 years.

I thought: How lucky!

I’ve been in radio for 46 years now, and I really thought my position with KNX would be my last. I thought I’d retire from there.

I could see the finish line. It was still a few years down the road, sure, but it was within sight. I’d been steady. I’d been there more than 10 years. I thought the rest of the way would be smooth.

But, alas, there were ownership changes. Management shuffling. News directors and colleagues being shown the door.

Then the flying fickle finger of fate finally focused firmly on Yours Truly.

One Monday morning, before I headed to work, a Zoom invitation appeared. A Zoom call with the boss. I’d been around long enough to know what that would be about.

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I’d already seen a few people retire from KNX, which had been oddly comforting. Here was a gig you could last long enough to retire from. Tom Haule. Mark Austin Thomas. Dick Helton. Vicky Moore. I really thought I’d make it, too.

But these days, opportunities to retire from a radio station come few and far between.

So congratulations, Kim Vestal. You made it.

I’m still doing radio work of a sort. Some voice-over work. Some podcasting. Some news anchoring for Remote News Service. As always, I’m still talking into a microphone, often with a cat sitting on the desk directly in front of me.

But I probably won’t ever get to retire from a radio station.

Instead, my career has included the inevitable string of sudden meetings, sudden calls into the boss’s office, and sudden yawning trap doors opening beneath me.

The conversation usually begins with some variation of: “We’re moving into the future, and unfortunately, it will be a Rob-less future. Good luck!”

To be fair, there were also a few times when I left of my own accord.

The first time wasn’t a layoff. It was a firing. An honest-to-gods, “Get out of here. You’re gone!”

It was my first radio job. I was still a teenager, and I had kicked a hole in a wall. That’s not a metaphor. I kicked a hole in the wall. I don’t even remember what had pissed me off.

The station hired me back not long afterward, when I went to the boss and offered to pay for the damage. It was more like a family at that small-town station, and that’s how things were done then. This was when lots of small companies still owned most of the radio stations.

The next time, it was me quitting. I left that station and went to Stuart, Florida, where I moved from nights to afternoons and finally to mornings.

I left that one, too, along with my first marriage, which had blown up because of my own stupidity. That’s a story for my memoirs.

Career-wise, though, the flying fickle finger of fate had taken a fortunate turn. A consultant heard one of my airchecks and contacted a program director in Orlando.

This was the big time for me. A real radio market. An actual city to live in.

I had a good, long run at an adult-contemporary station, but that one ended with a layoff. A new program director arrived with a new direction he wanted to take the station. That direction was away from me.

Well, I should say that was the end of Part One.

I landed a part-time shift at the competitor across town. You could do that in radio back then, in the Before Times. Then another new program director showed up at my old station. He heard me and called. He wanted to know if I’d be willing to come back.

Why, sure. I never believed in burning bridges.

A few weeks later, the damn station announced it was changing formats, from adult contemporary to rock. And I thought, “Gods dammit, here we go again.”

I was seen as an A/C guy. There wasn’t much confidence that I could make the move to rock. But I begged. I made several demo tapes. I fought for the job.

I wound up being the only full-time air personality to survive the format change.

That was the beginning of who I became on the radio. It was where I found myself and my real voice. I was finally being me instead of somebody else’s idea of what a radio personality should be.

A few years later, guess what? I was shown the door.

But I handled myself like a professional and apparently impressed the bosses, along with a couple of other people at the company. They offered me an opportunity in Miami.

It was a brand-new station with a brand-new format, something they explained to me as “alternative rock for women.” I would be the only male jock on a staff of women. The idea was that I’d be the squeaky wheel, the personality who caused trouble.

I was in absolute heaven. If Orlando was where I found my voice, Miami was where “Archer” came to be. I could be myself. Unfiltered. The boss and the consultant loved what I did. I had more fun than I’d ever thought possible.

Then the station was bought by one of those companies gobbling up properties after the Telecommunications Act of 1996.

Uh-oh. Here we go again. Again.

A new program director walked in the door. But guess what? He liked me as much as the other guys had. We became very good friends over the next couple of years.

Then I met a woman, and she wanted to move to Los Angeles. So I quit.

The company tried to keep me. They offered me the chance to program one of their other stations. They guaranteed me employment for at least two years.

I turned it down because I thought love was more valuable.

Turns out I was wrong.

I moved to Los Angeles anyway, driving across the country with my soon-to-be new wife and no job lined up. Nothing at all, except for a former program director I’d worked with who told me: “I don’t really have anything, but give me a call when you hit town.”

I spent a week with white knuckles on the steering wheel. That was 1999. And that’s how I came to Los Angeles.

That marriage didn’t last, but the move to L.A. took me to heights in radio I had never expected to reach.

It also brought several more layoffs, some serious gut punches, and a few more trap doors opening beneath my feet.

But those are stories for Part Two.

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Barrett Media recently asked whether CBS News and CNN can survive. But a bigger question is what happens if major media companies decide that news is no longer worth the cost or the hassle?

Maybe CBS decides that its news division isn’t worth it anymore. Maybe they shut it down like they shut down CBS News Radio.

If one network concludes it’s better off without a news division, the others will eventually ask the same question.

So here’s my hypothetical scenario: Here’s what happens if mainstream news media goes the way of Blockbuster Video. If the big broadcasting and cable companies decide that no one’s getting their news from them anyway, why waste the money?

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The end of CBS News would happen a little at a time.

First, the foreign bureaus would close. They were getting cut to the bone already.

Then the investigative teams would be sent home. The big names would get payouts, severance deals. The rest a hearty, “Thanks for all your work!”

They really want to do away with “60 Minutes.” They’re still smarting from all the pushback. Canceling the show would really show them. Ah, but not yet. There’s still a little money to be made. So “60” becomes a podcast. The staff is whittled down to five or six people.

Executives at ABC and NBC start to ask the same questions. Is it worth maintaining foreign bureaus? Why take political heat when sports and entertainment are more profitable and generate fewer headaches?

They see how much money CBS is saving, and their mouths are watering. Now that CBS has broken the dam, no one will care that much if ABC and NBC shut down their news departments. Cable still has news channels, after all.

For a while, anyway. Since broadcasters broke the dam, now the cable owners are doing some quick math in their heads. “How much do we spend to keep CNN on? And how much hassle does it make for us?”

They look at selling the asset, but with news departments being shuttered in places no one ever thought they would, no one’s interested. They don’t want the expense and the hassle, either. Besides, putting all the news on streaming can be done for a lot less money.

News divisions have always had an uneasy relationship with the entertainment companies that own them. Journalism is expensive. It makes powerful people angry, and its value doesn’t really fit into a quarterly earnings report.

In the Before Times, networks accepted the financial burden because news brought prestige and public trust. It was a civic responsibility. It was considered part of the community service it had to do in exchange for its broadcast license. But those arguments don’t carry weight in a boardroom focused on profit.

Government was already adding more pressure. Now that the broadcasters and cable operators are folding, it’s open season on the rest.

Donald Trump didn’t invent hostility toward the press, but he turned it into a governing strategy. Media owners learned that lawsuits, regulatory fights, and merger approvals could carry real consequences.

And here’s a dirty little secret you’re going to hate me for telling: Those tactics don’t disappear when Trump eventually leaves office.

Future presidents, Republican or Democrat, won’t have to invent new ways to pressure the media because the playbook is already there: Reward friendly outlets and punish hostile ones. Use regulation, access, or corporate leverage to shape coverage.

Formal censorship isn’t necessary if media companies censor themselves.

And now that “big news” is dead, independent journalists start feeling the heat. News websites are also just about dead. Who reads a news story anymore when someone on social media can yell it at you?

Americans were already changing the way they consume news. Now, it accelerates.

The primary source of information is now TikTok, YouTube, Instagram, and podcasts. Headlines are mixed with jokes, family photos, product pitches, and conspiracy theories. And the algorithm will decide if you see it.

Those algorithms change the meaning of news.

Back in the olden days, traditional newspapers and broadcasts forced editors to make choices. Every day they told readers and viewers, “These are the stories that matter most.” People can disagree with those choices, but everyone starts from roughly the same place.

Social media doesn’t work that way. Everyone gets the news they want. You think immigrants are causing all the crime? The only news you get now is about that. You think all Democrats are communists? Those are the only stories you get to see. You think MAGA is nothing more than a zombified Nazi Party? Guess what pops up in your feed all the time.

Influencers replace anchors. The person delivering today’s political story is also selling nutritional supplements, promoting a candidate, and asking followers for monthly donations.

Some of those influencers are encouraged and paid by people and governments that benefit from keeping Americans divided and distrustful of their institutions. Those shady state actors are giddy at how easy it was to kill the free press, something they’d never allowed in their own countries.

There are still a few brave, independent journalists doing remarkable work. But the problem is that careful reporting and complete fiction now compete on exactly the same screen, with no way to tell them apart.

A democratic republic depends on citizens agreeing on basic facts before they argue about what those facts mean. Courts require evidence. Legislatures require informed voters. Corruption has to be uncovered before it can be punished.

A free press doesn’t guarantee democracy, but it does give democracy a chance to correct itself. It’s as important a self-correcting mechanism as elections.

The basic dystopian assumption is that when open, free journalism fails, government becomes more powerful. That’s only one result. The other is that government becomes harder to see. Harder to track. To hold accountable.

And that’s what’s happening, now that all mainstream news outlets are dead.

Agencies change rules without explanation. Contracts flow to political allies with no oversight. Military action begins with no independent scrutiny. Official claims aren’t challenged.

Government communicates directly to the public while fewer independent institutions remain to test what it’s saying.

That’s the path to dictatorship—and something even messier: a country that can no longer agree on what happened.

In Orwell’s 1984, Big Brother controlled all information, and it was constantly rewriting history to maintain whatever narrative it needed in the moment. There was no source to go back to for anyone who remembered differently.

But now that institutional news media are gone, that’s no longer necessary. You can rewrite history by flooding the zone with alternative histories. There’s no way to tell which one is right.

Everyone with an opinion can live in their own reality. Billionaires finance news outlets that serve their interests. Every election, court ruling, natural disaster, or mass shooting becomes another fight over whether the underlying facts are even real.

The end result is a country that’s impossible to govern.

The broadcast networks themselves survive only a little longer than their news divisions.

Live sports remain valuable because people want to watch in real time. Major entertainment events will continue drawing audiences. Everything else is streamed whenever viewers want.

Without news, the traditional network becomes little more than a collection of programming rights.

CBS, NBC, and ABC only survive as brands inside streaming platforms. Local stations are just weather, sports, and advertising outlets. No need for news departments. They couldn’t compete with social media anyway, especially since the media infrastructure that supported local news is gone.

American media fragments into a million alternate realities, the way Marvel and DC movies take the lazy way out and just create alternate timelines.

There is more video, more commentary, and more voices than ever before, but fewer reporters sitting through city council meetings, reviewing court records, cultivating sources inside government agencies, or asking questions that powerful people would rather avoid.

We all drown in content while starving for news.

Sometimes I think that’s happening now, and not hypothetically.

The old networks helped create some of this problem. Their journalistic focus shifted from what people needed to know toward whatever they were most likely to watch. Algorithms and ad dollars were all.

Nonprofit newsrooms, universities, independent reporters, and public broadcast still exist, but only as a small shadow, more vulnerable to bullying, corporate and political, than ever before.

They’re still operating in a country dominated by corporations with a lot more money, lawyers, lobbyists, and political influence than any nonprofit newsroom could ever hope to match.

When a company doesn’t like a story, an investigation, or reporting on something it did wrong, they sue. They bury reporters in legal fees, they pressure donors, they lean on the regulators. Eventually, that hapless journalist or newsroom runs out of money, or can’t stand up anymore to the threats.

Who’s there to speak up for them anyway? News is dead. News is only what your particular social media feed tells you it is.

Corporations may talk about free speech, a free press, civil rights, and the public interest when those ideas are useful to them. But corporations are not citizens, neighbors, or public servants. Their legal duty and practical purpose are to protect the business and produce bigger profits. Everything else is negotiable.

But humans are irascible. They’re always willing to be a pain in the ass. I have no doubt there will be a few who’ll keep doing journalism as best they can with the resources they have, in this new news-less America where no one remembers institutional journalism, and can’t even imagine something called an “evening newscast.”

Someone will still be attending the meeting. Reading the court filing. Checking the claim. Asking the question. But they’re badly outgunned by the people they are trying to expose.

Freedom of the press still exists on parchment, but it’s too expensive to use. And most of the social media consumers don’t even remember what the word “press” means.

If all the major media news outlets die, do you think this is how things would play out? I’d love to know what you think.

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Another radio station goes lifeless.

Anaheim Broadcasting says KCAL 96.7 in Riverside-San Bernardino is “expanding its musical focus” with a broader classic rock playlist. The new “All Music, All The Time” format starts tomorrow (Saturday).

The official announcement leaves out something very important: All of the station’s local personalities are gone.

KCAL let its entire on-air staff go today, including morning host Patrick Tish, midday host Nikki Preston, afternoon host Daryl Norsell, night host John DeSantis, and morning weather and production personality Eve Hart. Several production employees and members of the street team were also laid off.

The company’s bloodless statement leans on the usual language.

“KCAL has a longstanding history in the Inland Empire, and this next chapter builds on the station’s strong rock heritage,” COO Kelly Sanders said. The release also promises listeners and advertisers a “focused, consistent listening experience.”

Translated into radio: fewer payroll checks. Fewer humans.

It’s easy to see why companies make these decisions. Live talent costs money. And that’s what it’s all about, not the product.

But every time another station does this, radio gives up more of what made it different. Local personalities know the streets, talk about what’s happening around town, and build relationships that don’t come from a playlist. Things AI can’t fully replicate (yet), and things a streaming music service doesn’t offer.

Take them away, and KCAL is just another station playing songs people can hear anywhere.

Which leads us back to the same question: if radio is offering the same music as every streaming service, only with more commercials, why would listeners choose it? Especially when they can control their own playlists?

We’ll update this story if Anaheim Broadcasting gives us more information or makes any statement at all about staffing changes.

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UPDATE: ABC has responded to the FCC. See below.

More than 145,000 comments have now been filed in the FCC’s case against eight Disney-owned ABC television stations. Most support the stations and oppose the FCC’s investigation. The public comment period ended Wednesday.

The response has been unusually large. Most open FCC proceedings attract only a few hundred comments. Many of these criticize President Trump and FCC Chairman Brendan Carr. Others simply defend their local stations, praising their news coverage and arguing they’re serving the public interest.

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ABC promoted the issue on the air, and the campaign clearly worked. An earlier effort involving The View generated nearly 80,000 comments. This one has drawn almost twice that.

Carr is still expected to move the case forward, possibly sending it to a formal hearing in August. Carr doesn't seem concerned about public comments. He has taken his cues from Trump, who has repeatedly called for ABC to be punished.

A previous pressure campaign almost worked. Jimmy Kimmel briefly disappeared from the air after Disney reportedly became concerned Carr might open an investigation. Kimmel's offense was saying things Trump didn't like.

Why this is a local issue

TV networks don’t hold FCC licenses. Local stations do.

Disney owns the eight ABC stations now under review, while most ABC affiliates are owned by other companies.

That’s what makes this fight personal for viewers. In Philadelphia, for example, people have a deep connection to 6abc and Action News, regardless of what they think about ABC as a network.

But the threat can result in capitulation. See above. Some other locally-owned affiliates may decide to play it safe, protect the budget, and avoid showing The View.

These are the times we live in. Free speech and a free press are still right there at the top of the Bill of Rights. But intimidation can be just as effective as censorship.

Carr faces criticism from both sides

Former FCC officials from both Democratic and Republican administrations say the case threatens free speech. They argue it could pressure broadcasters to avoid coverage the government doesn’t like.

Fourteen conservative and free-market organizations have also urged Carr to back away. While they generally support the Trump FCC, they worry the same authority could eventually be used against conservative broadcasters.

Just as a side note: imagine the uproar—the torches and pitchforks—if President Obama had tried to use the FCC against Fox News the way Trump has targeted media outlets and personalities that annoy him.

The FCC has traditionally challenged a station’s license only in serious cases involving misconduct or an inability to serve the public. Those groups argue that keeping the bar that high prevents the government from deciding what broadcasters are allowed to say.

Carr claims he’s protecting the public interest; judging by more than 145,000 public comments, a lot of people disagree.

One question keeps coming back to me: if this becomes the new normal, what happens when the next president decides to use the same playbook against broadcasters they don't like? I'd like to hear where you think that line should be.

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UPDATE: ABC Fires Back

Disney and ABC have now formally responded.

In a 109-page filing with the FCC, the company accuses the commission of retaliating against ABC over news coverage the Trump administration doesn’t like. ABC argues the unprecedented decision to force early license renewals for its eight owned-and-operated stations isn’t about routine regulation. It’s about intimidation.

“The retaliation against ABC is a signal to every media company in the country,” the filing says. “Accommodate the administration’s view of what news coverage should look like or pay the price.” ABC argues the real objective is to create “a media industry too fearful of official reprisal to report the news freely.”

The company also points out just how unusual the FCC’s action is. Its station licenses weren’t scheduled to come up for renewal for another several years, and the FCC has rarely, if ever, ordered an accelerated review like this in modern times. ABC argues the commission has no authority to deny license renewals based on complaints about political bias or editorial decisions and says none of the petitions identify the kind of serious misconduct that has traditionally justified license action.

The filing echoes what more than 145,000 public comments have already suggested: this has become about much more than eight television stations. It’s become a test of whether the federal government can use the licensing process to pressure broadcasters over the content of their news coverage.

In my endless Archer’s Line quest to cover the media, my eyes tend to stay focused on my own field: radio and broadcasting. But I’m also a lover of movies. And among my favorites is just about anything that comes from the mind of Christopher Nolan.

We finally had the pleasure of taking in The Odyssey at the Television Academy.

There’s no doubt the film is a monumental achievement. And it’s hard not to laugh at the conservative hand-wringing over “woke.”

But at its heart is a very, very old concept: the idea that you should be kind to strangers and beggars because they may be gods in disguise.

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It was found in many of the old religions and later made its way into the Old Testament of the Bible, with admonishments to treat the strangers among us as family—to be kind to them and treat them well—“because you were once strangers in the land of Egypt.”

It appears again in the New Testament: Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, because they might be “angels in disguise.”

In The Odyssey, it’s referred to as Zeus’s law. It seems that empathy, once upon a time, long, long ago, was seen as a good and godly thing—not, as members of the modern elite like Charlie Kirk and Elon Musk would have it, an evil thing, something that will kill us.

Kirk once said he couldn’t stand the word “empathy,” calling it a “made-up, New Age term” and claiming it does damage compared with sympathy. Musk has referred to “excessive” empathy during podcast appearances as a fundamental weakness that risks leading to civilizational decline.

What a subversion it is to denounce one of the oldest divine admonishments—and one of the most important in the Bible.

There are other themes in the film. There’s the idea that the cost of endless conquest and the expansion of power will consume us. That it destroys the soul to convince yourself you’re the hero, that you’re on the side of goodness and right, even as you conquer and destroy others without an ounce of empathy.

Nolan’s Odysseus and the Greeks weren’t the good guys. Ultimately, the “hero” needed to confess his sins. This was the final act, the culmination of everything that came before.

As such, the film is a condemnation of our times and our culture of dehumanization: the “othering” of minorities, trans people, immigrants—our “strangers”—so that they become easier to dispose of, to send away, to imprison, to put into camps.

It is also a condemnation of our modern “influencer” and celebrity culture, and its semi-religious belief that “I’m special, I’m the best, so how dare you disrespect me!”

So the reality may be that the Elon Musks and Stephen Millers of the world aren’t as exercised about “woke actors” as they are about a story that presents empathy and kindness toward strangers as necessary for civilization to endure.

Even as they claim to be “saving Western civilization,” they are subverting the very thing that holds civilization together—in fact, the thing that may have created civilization in the first place:

“We’re in this together.”

The message of Nolan’s Odyssey is that we are judged by how we treat those we think are lesser than us. And we should be careful, because those we consider lesser may, in fact, be greater.

Do unto others as you’d have them do unto you.

This may have been among the earliest—perhaps the very first—messages of goodness that turned wandering groups of early humans into civilized societies. We owe everything to that message.

And whenever we forget it, we fall back into barbarism.

Have you seen The Odyssey? What was your take?

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One more thing before I go. The new episode of Archer & Feldman is available. Our guest is Garrett Searight from Barrett Media. We’re talking about radio moves in Los Angeles, more deregulation is on the way, and what’s going on with AM radio. Check us out on YouTube and wherever you get your podcasts.

If I hadn’t come down with the flu, I never would’ve found out I was the Antichrist.

But there I was—puking, sweating, and broke—waiting four hours at a free clinic sandwiched between a guy coughing up blood and a woman reading a conspiracy blog out loud. I was between radio gigs again, which meant no insurance, no backup plan, and no wifi.

Radio jobs had dried up faster than my throat after a Sunday shift. Stations were getting swallowed by hedge funds or replaced by automation, or they just went dark. Every week, someone I knew was replaced by an AI. Everyone listened to podcasts or streamed music anyway. Didn’t matter.

So yeah, I was miserable. But I wasn’t evil.

Or so I thought.

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The doctor looked tired. One of those guys who seemed like he used to care, back before the country gave up on healthcare and he gave up on shaving. He looked at my bloodwork, then at my scalp, then back at the paper. His mouth twitched like a bug was crawling across his tongue.

“Wait here,” he said, backing out of the room.

I waited a long time.

Then the lights cut out.

The hum of the fluorescent tubes disappeared, and everything inside the clinic felt like it had gotten five degrees colder. I thought I heard something whisper my name—but maybe that was the fever talking.

Next thing I knew, two people in gray suits and surgical masks came in. No badges. No words. Just gloved hands and an air of quiet authority that screamed: We’re not with the hospital.

“Is this a joke?” I asked as they ushered me into a nondescript van out back.

Nobody answered. The windows were blacked out. My phone was taken.

We drove for hours. Could’ve been the desert, could’ve been a Costco parking lot for all I could see. I passed out twice. Once from the fever. Once from whatever they injected me with halfway through the ride.

When I woke up, I was in what looked like an upscale rehab center crossed with a Cold War bunker. The walls were thick. The lights were soft. The air smelled like lavender and formaldehyde.

And there she was. Striking like a hot slap. Jeanine Itch.

She stood in the doorway like she’d been waiting centuries for me to wake up. Tall, slender, black hair that shimmered like polished obsidian, piercing eyes that didn’t just look through you—they cataloged every inch of your soul. A mouth to die for. And a look of total sex... cold, icy sex. Dressed in a business-like top and skirt, but a business out of a porn video. And with a silver cross in the most enticing place that caught the light a little too easily. Her voice was smooth, like a court summons wrapped in velvet.

“Welcome,” she said. “You’ve been chosen.”

I tried to sit up, but everything hurt—my arms, my back, my soul, if that’s still a thing.

“Chosen for what?” I croaked.

She didn’t blink. “You’re the fulfillment of prophecy. The tipping point. The final act in a story older than time.”

“So... a prophet?”

She smiled politely, like I’d flubbed an answer on a game show. “No. You’re the Antichrist.”

I laughed—mostly to keep from vomiting. “Wrong guy. I flunked out of youth group. I play Toto deep cuts on request. That’s it.”

Jeanine stepped into the room, set a thick binder on the table beside me, and opened it to a page marked IDENTIFYING CHARACTERISTICS: CANDIDATE 666-1A.

There was a photo of my scalp. Zoomed in. Highlighted.

A birthmark. Three perfect curves. Twisting into each other.

A six. Then another. Then a third.

I stared at it, then at her. “No. Nope. That could be anything. Coffee spill. Ink smudge. Psoriasis.”

“It’s fate,” she said. “And fate doesn’t care if you’re ready.”

Then she touched my hand with hers—ice-cold—and whispered, deep and breathy, tickling me in places I forgot I had, but ice-cold—“This will all make more sense... after orientation.”

Sleep came like a sedative administered by force. Or maybe I wasn’t sleeping. Maybe I’d never actually woken up since the clinic.

The room was dark. Heavy. Buzzing with some low frequency that made my stomach clench.

In the dream, I was strapped to a table made of bone. The restraints weren’t leather—they were fingers. Bony, pale, and twitching with anticipation. My chest was open. Peeled.

A figure leaned over me. Shapeless and vast. It hummed with pleasure as it reached into my ribcage and pulled out my liver, taking a thoughtful bite.

Another pulled out my heart and licked it like a lollipop. It was pleasurable—the tasting, the biting, the licking—but at the same time, dreadful. Agonizing. A cannibal’s victim still alive. Aroused and horrified at once.

I saw my own face on a screen above me—smiling, confident, delivering a political speech with a charisma I’d never had, even in my wildest dreams.

Then that version of me winked and said, “We’re ready to heal the world.”

Everything melted into screaming.

Awake. I was given clothes. Dark blue suit. Red tie. The kind of outfit designed by a committee that had never met a human being but had a lot of opinions about “likability metrics.”

Jeanine led me into what looked like a high-tech TV studio. Cameras in all corners. Rows of empty seats. A podium with a glowing symbol pulsing faintly beneath the surface.

“We’d like to get a feel for your tone,” she said. “Just a quick run-through.”

There was a teleprompter. I walked up, throat dry. The lights were too bright. Or maybe the walls were too dark. Every instinct screamed this wasn’t a room — it was a cage.

The script started simple:

“My name is—”

I froze. I didn’t say my name.

I didn’t want to.

I tried again. Nothing came out.

Jeanine smiled from the shadows. Watching. Like a scientist who wanted to see which way the rat would run.

I forced myself to keep reading.

“We must unite… under a single truth… for peace, progress, and planetary renewal…”

My voice cracked on “planetary.” I coughed. Started over. Tripped again.

The screen showed my own face with graphics beneath: WORLD CHANGER. PEACEBRINGER. FINAL WORD.

I stared at it. At me.

Who was this person? Who was I supposed to be?

And why did it feel like if I did well — if I nailed this — I would never be allowed to leave?

My hands shook. Sweat pooled in my collar. I imagined Jeanine taking notes, or worse — uploading the footage straight into some cosmic marketing algorithm.

Halfway through, I stopped. Stepped back. “I don’t want this,” I said out loud.

But no one answered. Just silence. Thick and condemning. Like I’d failed a test I didn’t agree to take.

Then they sent me to bed.

And the second nightmare came.

I was back in that beige conference room, but it looked like a high-end hotel suite now. Soft lighting, silk sheets, the distant throb of ambient jazz.

Jeanine sat on the edge of the bed. She was smiling. That same practiced smile—Toothpaste ad meets predator drone. But this time it was softer. Her voice, lower.

“I know you’re scared,” she said, as she slipped her heels off with a slow grace that looked a little rehearsed. “But this can be easy.” Once again, her voice tickled deep, in places you don’t talk about in public.

Then she kissed me. Only it wasn’t a kiss. It was a taste.

Her tongue flicked my neck—thin, forked, dry. Her lips retracted. No longer human. Her eyes grew faceted, black, compound. Her arms twisted the wrong way.

She was a fly. A monstrous, glistening thing towering over me.

Then her mouth opened wider than her face. Mandibles unfolded. Legs multiplied. Wings tore the ceiling open.

And suddenly she wasn’t a fly anymore. She was something worse.

Something without edges. Without name. A thing from between atoms.

Tentacles of light. Teeth made of memory. Voices—including mine—echoing through every fold of her ever-growing mass.

I saw people I’d known. Faces in the folds. My mother. My first boss. The teacher I had a crush on in 9th grade. All of them whispering the same word:

“Accept.”

I screamed until I couldn’t remember how to stop screaming. And I knew. They were doing things to me in my nightmares.

I woke up mid-shout, face pressed to the cold floor of the orientation suite. The lights were on. Jeanine stood in the corner, calm as a librarian.

“Rough night?” she asked.

“I’m done,” I rasped.

“No, you’re—”

“I said I’m DONE!”

I stood up. Shaking. Raving. Eyes wild.

“I don’t care what you say I am. I don’t care if you kill me. I will not do another speech, I will not read your script, I will not wear your suit. I will not become your talking-point Messiah!”

Jeanine didn’t blink.

The walls began to hum. The lights dimmed. The air changed. Something entered the room.

It wasn’t a sound, exactly—more like a pressure in the skull. Something that turned your thoughts sideways and made your teeth feel loose.

Then—the door opened. And he walked in.

Eight feet tall. Horns slick and sharp. Impeccably dressed in a deep gray suit with a crimson tie that shimmered like muscle and glowed like radiation. In one hand, a jar of Vicks. In the other, nothing—but you got the sense it could be anything. I mean, if one hand had Vicks, the other...

His face changed as he walked: Bill O’Reilly. Bill Clinton. Bill Shatner. Back again. All Bills. All wrong.

He grinned with every step.

Jeanine straightened.

The Devil—the actual Devil—looked at her, smirked.

“Nice!” he said, then turned to me and winked. “You’ve got excellent taste. Twisted, sure. But excellent.”

He clapped me on the shoulder. “You think she picked that form? No. You picked her. Somewhere deep in that moist little brain of yours, you had a folder labeled ‘Inappropriately Hot Demon Women.’ And she crawled right out of it.”

He leaned close. “Could’ve been anything. A man. A cat. A meat tower with fifty eyes and a coupon for chicken wings. But you picked this. You’re deeply misogynistic, by the way.”

Then he turned to Jeanine.

She finally spoke. “He had the mark! On his scalp. Three perfect curves!”

The Devil pointed a claw at me. My hair fell out.

He bent to look. Straightened. “That’s not three sixes. That’s three nines.”

“But—the prophecy—”

“The prophecy was a quiz, not an answer key!” The voice grew impossibly loud. ‘YOU ARE A PAPERWEIGHT COVERED IN SKIN!”

She collapsed to her knees. Her body warped, shrank. Hooves. Fork. Red skin. A cartoon devil, complete with black lipstick smeared like a grin.

“I didn’t understand!” she howled.

The Devil raised both arms. And exploded.

Light. Color. Screams.

Then nothing.

I woke up in my old apartment. Same water stains on the ceiling. Same busted headphones. Same dead wifi. Like none of it had happened.

I applied for a sales job at a big-box electronics store. The interview went bad. On the way out, I saw a crowd gathered around the TVs.

Trevor Day. The kind of name a demonic focus group would come up with if you asked it to engineer obedience. Or sleep.

Perfect face. Perfect suit. Same height as me. Same voice. Well, better.

“I’m stepping away from my work in media,” he said, “because the world is ready to unite.”

Behind him, something with horns stood in the shadows.

TREVOR DAY: A VOICE YOU CAN TRUST

I left.

And because evil never sleeps, I went back into radio.

Small station. Unrated market. Easy favorites. Soft talk. Whatever. Dying signal.

I sleep through most of my shifts now. And I wait. Wait for the moment when the world starts listening to Trevor Day.

Rob Archer, Los Angeles 2025, and Miami 1998

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On one side, broadcasters are asking the FCC to let them own more stations because today’s ownership limits no longer make sense in a world of Spotify, podcasts, YouTube, streaming, and AI. Beasley Media Group and Connoisseur Media recently made that case directly to FCC officials, arguing that radio isn’t competing against other radio stations anymore. It’s competing against everything.

On the other side, companies are simply walking away from stations they already own.

Saga, Cumulus, and Townsquare are surrendering licenses rather than selling some properties because buyers aren’t willing to pay enough to make a sale worthwhile. Other stations are disappearing because they stayed silent for more than a year, automatically triggering the loss of their licenses.

So which is it?

Is radio starving for scale? Or does it already have more stations than the industry can support?

If the FCC loosens ownership caps, who’s going to buy? Where’s the money coming from? Even iHeartMedia, the country’s largest radio owner, has spent the past several years laying off so many employees that some small and medium market stations now operate with no local staff.

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I’m no financial genius, but I remember what happened after the Telecommunications Act of 1996.

Consolidation was sold as efficiency. I remember being told that it would create jobs. Even then, I knew that wasn’t true. What it produced was fewer local owners, local voices, salespeople, engineers, newsrooms, and DJs.

Companies bought stations, took on debt, cut payroll to service it, then bought more stations and repeated the cycle. All the while, the top executives got eye-popping salaries and bonuses that were so big, they had to start finding more eyes to pop.

Now the industry wants another round of consolidation.

Television is following the same path. Mergers create duplicate jobs. Duplicate jobs disappear. Newsrooms combine. Master control moves somewhere else.

The same pattern is playing out across American business.

Companies get bigger. Payrolls get smaller. Debt grows. Another merger is announced. More jobs disappear.

Eventually you start wondering whether the system has become self-consuming.

Fewer workers mean fewer people with money to spend. Slower consumer spending pushes companies to cut costs again. Those cuts lead to more mergers, more layoffs, and another round of cost-cutting.

It’s a loop that feeds on itself.

On the latest episode of Archer & Feldman, I told Bill Handel of KFI that I still dream about radio becoming small and local again. Communities served by people who actually live there.

Bill poured a little cold water on that dream.

Even if ownership rules changed tomorrow, radio still has to compete with Spotify, Apple Music, YouTube, podcasts, satellite radio, AI, and dozens of other choices that didn’t exist when local broadcasters thrived.

He’s right.

Maybe my dream is just grasping at straws, trying to find some way to keep radio alive. But I don’t think what I’m mourning is just radio anymore.

Watching radio slowly disappear feels like watching something much bigger disappear with it.

Maybe radio is simply one of the flock of canaries in the coal mine. Maybe we’re watching an economic model that’s stopped making sense.

Before I'm accused of preaching Communism, or Marxism, or whatever else is the persona non grata in our permissible political discussion these days, let me be clear.

I still believe in capitalism.

I just don’t believe capitalism is supposed to eat itself.

One more thing before I go.

Nielsen’s June Los Angeles ratings are another reminder of how difficult the transition has been since Audacy moved KNX back to AM only and launched The Fan on 97.1 FM.

KNX has slipped again, falling from a 4.1 share in March to 3.2 in June among listeners six and older. Meanwhile, The Fan is barely registering in the overall ratings, posting just a 0.2 share. Even combined, the two stations are well below where KNX was before the split.

Those are only the broad 6+ numbers. The demographic breakouts that actually drive advertising could tell a different story, particularly if The Fan is attracting younger male listeners. But the overall trend is hard to ignore. The audience that once found KNX on FM hasn’t simply migrated intact to AM, and it hasn’t shown up in large numbers for sports, either.

Who benefited? Based on the overall numbers, KFI appears to have. It jumped from a 3.9 share in May to 4.5 in June, numbers it hasn’t seen in a while.

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A federal judge has temporarily blocked Paramount and Warner Bros Discovery from closing the deal while she considers whether to issue a preliminary injunction. The immediate delay is only two weeks, with the next hearing scheduled for August 3.

If the court decides the merger should remain on hold while the states’ antitrust lawsuit proceeds, the calendar starts to matter.

The merger agreement calls for Paramount to begin paying Warner Bros. Discovery shareholders a “ticking fee” if the deal remains unfinished beyond September 30. That’s about $7 million every day the transaction remains in limbo.

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What happens now? One possibility is that Paramount simply wins in court. Another is that the companies convince the judge the states haven’t met the standard for a preliminary injunction.

But there’s a third possibility that suddenly looks more attractive than it did a week ago: Settlement.

When delays start carrying a price tag measured in millions of dollars a day, companies often become more flexible. Even for a billionaire, that starts to add up.

California Attorney General Rob Bonta argues the merger combines too much power in film distribution, cable programming and television production into one company.

If that’s the concern, structural changes become one possible path. The most discussed candidate is CNN.

There’s been speculation that David Ellison would prefer not to own the network long-term anyway. CNN has been viewed inside Wall Street as a business that could eventually be spun off or sold after closing. A court fight that threatens hundreds of millions of dollars in delay costs could accelerate that conversation.

And it’s doable. Comcast spun off MSNBC into a separate company. So it’s not unprecedented for a major cable news network to stand on its own.

Would selling CNN satisfy the states? Probably not by itself.

The lawsuit reaches well beyond news. It focuses heavily on movie studios, cable programming and bargaining power throughout the entertainment business. CNN is only one piece of Warner Bros. Discovery.

But if Paramount decides that giving up one asset saves billions in delay costs and preserves the rest of a $110 billion deal, that calculation starts looking a little different.

On the other hand, Ellison may decide the company can win outright and refuse to negotiate anything. After all, he’s got the Trump administration on his side, and it has shown it’s willing to push people around to get what it wants.

Looks like I’ll be buying lots more popcorn.

If this is your kind of rabbit hole, check out the latest Archer & Feldman podcast. Our guest is Los Angeles radio legend Bill Handel of KFI. We spend an hour talking about Paramount, iHeart, radio, mergers, layoffs, and where the media business goes from here.

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SUNDAY

It happened at 12:04 p.m. Pacific time.

The sky went white. Absolute white. A blinding light that filled everything, every shadow erased, every edge softened until the world became a silhouette inside its own brightness.

We didn’t know what it was.

It lasted about six seconds, just long enough to feel your mind split between awe and terror. Then it faded, like a light switch turned off too fast, and everything looked normal again.

Ronnie was outside when it happened. She was in the backyard, looking up. She said she’d just noticed a bird flying overhead—something graceful, gliding in a slow arc above the avocado tree. She came inside a few minutes later, squinting and rubbing her eyes. Her pupils were blown wide, and her hands were shaking.

She said it felt like someone had turned the sun inside out.

Since then, she’s had a headache that won’t quit. Her eyes are red, and she winces at the dimmest light. We’re keeping the room dark.

I tried looking it up online. Was this some kind of weird solar flare? What kind of solar flare could do this? But no one knows anything. Hard to find a needle of real news in the haystack of conspiracy theory media.

The news has already started calling it The Flash. Scientists are scrambling, but there’s no consensus. Some are saying it wasn’t from the sun at all. That it came from behind it. A cosmic lensing event? A gamma-ray burst? But that makes no sense—gamma rays wouldn’t leave visible light like this.

There’s something else. I don’t know if it’s just in my head, but the daylight outside seems wrong now. Duller. Grayer. Like it’s coming through a screen. I held my hand out in the sunlight just before writing this, and the shadow it cast felt softer. Less defined.

I was thinking that maybe it just seems duller because the flash was so bright… But no, everything was bathed in a light as if it were a cloudy day… except there weren’t any clouds.

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I keep thinking about Ronnie’s bird. She teaches—taught—photography at the community college, so she notices light the way a musician notices pitch. If she says the sun looked wrong even before The Flash, I believe her. She said the bird seemed to hesitate in mid-flight, like it wanted to change direction but suddenly couldn’t decide, like it felt something coming.

Maybe animals know things we don’t. Maybe that bird was trying to warn us.

I don’t know. Maybe I’m just shaken.

I’m going to keep writing each night, for as long as it makes sense. If we lose power or the internet goes down, I want a record. I don’t know why. Maybe because no one else will. Maybe because I want to believe someone, someday, will read this.

If this is the beginning of something, I want to watch it all the way through.

She’s asleep now, or pretending to be. Her breathing is shallow.

The sun set like normal.

MONDAY

The sun rose late today.

Only by a few minutes, but I noticed. The light was... faded. Not just overcast, not morning haze—weak. I checked the weather webcams from across the state. Same thing everywhere: a washed-out sky, like sunlight trying to pass through fog that isn’t there.

Ronnie can’t see the light anymore. She says everything’s gray. Her eyes are worse today—veins like tiny rivers. She winces at sound now, too. We talked about going to urgent care, but there’s no point. We’re hearing reports from around the world—people with similar symptoms after The Flash. Headaches, vision problems, some going blind. Some seem to be losing their minds. One anchor on the BBC said it felt like a lens burned into the back of his eye. He was crying as he said it.

Power’s still on. Internet still up. The news is calling this a “low solar output event,” but that doesn’t make any sense. The sun doesn’t dim. It can flare, fluctuate slightly over cycles, but drop off like this? In one day? After that bright flash?

I spent the morning diving deep into astrophysics papers, forums, anything I could find. My background in engineering helps me parse some of the technical language, but most of this is beyond me. Still, I found disturbing discussions on academic sites. Theoretical physicists are quietly floating ideas that don’t make it to the news: spontaneous stellar collapse, dimensional rifts, even weaponized gravity waves. One post mentioned something called “induced stellar hibernation”—artificially triggering a star’s transition to a lower energy state.

The idea that someone could do this intentionally is starting to form in my mind, though I can’t say it out loud yet. It’s too crazy.

Somebody leaked audio from an emergency meeting at NASA. I listened to the clip three times. One voice says, “We’re not just losing light. We’re losing mass.” Another responds: “No known mechanism. No warning signs. The models don’t work anymore.”

Losing mass. If that’s true...

The trees look wrong in this light. Like photographs from an old film reel—too flat, too still. I watched a squirrel stop halfway across the fence this morning and just sit there, as if waiting for something. Ronnie used to photograph wildlife in this kind of diffused light—she called it “liminal illumination.” Now she can’t see it at all.

She keeps rubbing her eyes. She hasn’t opened them all day.

I can’t tell if it’s cold because I’m scared, or if it’s actually colder outside.

TUESDAY

It’s colder today.

Even inside, I can feel it on the backs of my hands, in the air between breaths. We’ve sealed off the hallway with blankets and tape. Ronnie can still feel the chill even through her thickest sweater. I let her sleep in this morning—though “morning” isn’t the right word anymore. The sun came up again, but barely. A dull disk behind a veil of nothing. You can look right at it now. Stare at it.

She’s stopped trying to open her eyes.

She says it feels like there are sparks behind them. Bright ones. Flashing in the dark.

She’s started asking me to describe things. The window. The trees. Her mug. Our hands. I do. I hold her hands in mine and talk about their shape. The way the light falls, even though it doesn’t. It’s like giving her photographs made of words. She taught me to see light as texture, weight, emotion—now I’m trying to give that back to her through language.

It’s only been two days.

The news is turning. Less certainty now, more guesses. The word “cosmological” came up three times in one segment. They’re talking about an event horizon—not metaphorically. One physicist suggested a kind of micro black hole forming inside the sun. Or one that somehow tunneled into it like a drain punched through the core. But why wouldn’t astronomers have noticed it before? Unless there were already gravity anomalies that they somehow missed.

Another said maybe it’s a wormhole. A tear. Something that’s leaking the sun’s mass and light into another place. Or time. Or alternate reality. Maybe there’s some universe with a darker sun that’s suddenly brightening.

I watched a simulation—gravity lines curling in on themselves, the sun’s field weakening, the earth’s orbit beginning to slip.

They said, if this is true, we’re already moving.

It didn’t feel real until I looked up at the sky this evening and noticed the moon had shifted. It’s a few degrees higher than it should be. And I’m not sure, but it looks like it’s tilted a bit. Or maybe it’s us that moved. Doesn’t matter.

Something’s changed.

Ronnie didn’t speak much today. When she did, she asked if birds know when the sky breaks.

I didn’t have an answer.

But tonight, I started thinking: what if this wasn’t natural? What if someone did this?

We always assume extinction will be violent. Fire, flood, war. But what if it’s not? What if someone just decided humanity wasn’t going anywhere good and turned out the light?

TUESDAY NIGHT

I can’t sleep. Ronnie’s been unconscious for hours—not sleeping, something deeper. Her breathing is so shallow I have to put my hand near her mouth to feel it.

I’ve been online for the past four hours, falling down rabbit holes I didn’t know existed. The official channels are still pushing the “solar anomaly” narrative, but the real discussions are happening in encrypted forums, academic back-channels, places where people with security clearances whisper about things they’re not supposed to know.

Someone posted a thread claiming to work at SETI. They said the radio telescopes detected something in the seconds before The Flash—a structured signal, geometric, impossible to decode but clearly artificial. The post was deleted within minutes, but I took a screenshot. The signal apparently came from the direction of the galactic center, traveled at exactly the speed of light, and arrived precisely when our sun began to dim.

If so, someone made a decision to kill us about 26,000 years ago.

I found another thread discussing “stellar engineering” from a throwaway account that claimed to be a theoretical physicist at Caltech. The math was beyond me, but the conclusion was clear: what we’re seeing is consistent with an artificially induced stellar transition. Someone or something with technology we can’t comprehend reached across the galaxy and switched off our star like a light bulb.

The thread was titled: “We are not alone, and they are not friendly.”

But that’s crazy. It has to be crazy. Conspiracy theory loons.

I’ve started making lists. Canned food, water, batteries, anything that might help us survive what’s coming. But survive for what? If we’re truly drifting out of orbit, if the sun is actually dying, then we’re just postponing the inevitable.

Ronnie stirred around midnight and whispered something I couldn’t catch. When I asked her to repeat it, she said, “The light people are coming home.” I asked what she meant, but she’d already drifted away again.

Light people. What did she see in those last moments before her vision went dark?

The temperature has dropped another few degrees. Our breath is starting to fog indoors. I can hear the house settling differently, wood contracting, pipes groaning. Everything is pulling inward, like the whole world is hunching its shoulders against the cold.

Tomorrow I’ll seal the windows completely. We’ll retreat to the bedroom and wait.

For what, I don’t know.

WEDNESDAY

The sun didn’t rise this morning.

It climbed, yes, but like it didn’t want to. Nothing more than a weak glow. Dimmer than any dawn I’ve ever seen. A glowing bruise behind the clouds.

I think today is the day I stopped believing this is just physics.

I’ve been watching archived footage of the sun from three days ago, side-by-side with today’s feed from the last functioning solar observatory. The change is unmistakable. It’s withdrawing. Retreating. Like it’s being pulled away from us. Or pulled inward. Like it’s collapsing.

But there’s no radiation spike. No explosion. No flares.

The more I think about it, the more sense some of the conspiracy theories make, that someone or something decided we weren’t worth it anymore, or we’re some kind of threat, and they’ve decided to turn the sun off.

Maybe they’re so advanced and have been watching us for so long they could tell where we’re headed, and decided that this corner of the galaxy can’t afford the danger.

We’ve been broadcasting our presence into space for over a century. Radio, television, radar—all of it propagating outward at light speed, announcing ourselves to anyone listening. Maybe someone finally heard us. Maybe they didn’t like what they heard.

A species that wages war on itself, that poisons its own planet, that builds weapons capable of ending all life and points them at each other—would we pass judgment on a civilization like that? Maybe those old science fiction movies were predictions.

I haven’t said this out loud. Not even to Ronnie.

She spoke for the first time in hours today. Whispered, really. I had to lean in close.

She said, “The light behind my eyes is growing.” And then she laughed. Quietly. Like a child who was tickled by the secret she just told.

I asked what she meant, but she just smiled and turned her head toward the window, even though the curtains were drawn and she couldn’t see anymore.

I held her hand until she fell asleep. It’s colder again today. Our breaths come out in little clouds now, even inside the bedroom.

The moon was missing tonight. The stars looked... wrong. I thought I saw Orion’s Belt turned on its side. Maybe the sky’s moving. Maybe we are.

Or maybe I’m losing it.

But if I am, I’m not alone.

THURSDAY

The power grids are beginning to fail.

I heard it on the radio. They also said we’ve lost contact with most of our satellites. Somehow, they’ve been disrupted. Many will fall back to Earth. There was a disturbing report about the International Space Station... they’ve lost attitude control, something’s wrong with their orbit. They were escaping in the Soyuz lifeboat but couldn’t work out proper reentry trajectories. Then the news stopped reporting on it.

The radio stations still broadcasting are all emergency programming now. They’re saying substations are freezing, natural gas lines are locking up, solar fields are dead, and hydro plants are icing over. People in northern states are already without heat. Some cities have lost all power. Backup systems running on fuel are rationing what little they have.

We still had light this morning—what passes for it—but it was barely enough to cast a shadow. Just a dull silver smear across the sky. The sun is a phantom now. No warmth, no color. Just a presence that’s disappearing. Nighttime that doesn’t end.

I spent the morning moving supplies into the bedroom. Canned soup, crackers, the last of our bottled water. I found Ronnie’s old camping gear in the garage—sleeping bags rated for subzero temperatures, a portable camping stove, chemical hand warmers. Things I never thought we’d need in Southern California.

She asked about her camera equipment while I was organizing. All those lenses, all those years of capturing light. “What’s the point now?” she said.

I’ve been listening to the radio more, for Ronnie’s sake. She says the voices help. The static doesn’t bother her anymore. She says it sounds like snow.

She’s not making much sense now. She asked if the stars are whispering, and then said the bird she saw last Sunday might have been an angel. She asked me to describe its wings again, even though I never saw it. Then she said the bird ate the sun.

At around six tonight, our power went out.

Just a soft click. Then stillness. No hum. No refrigerator buzz. The house went silent.

I stepped outside. The cold hit me like a wall. No lights from the city. No streetlamps. No houses. No signs. Just patches of moonless dark between clouds growing thick and fast. Dark everywhere.

The sky is closing in. The wind is picking up.

I stood in the yard for a minute, thinking maybe I’d see the moon. I didn’t. Just clouds. And beyond them—nothing. I couldn’t take the cold anymore, so I went back in.

We lit candles, then put them out to save what little wax we have. I’ve got the last lantern by the bed now. Ronnie’s asleep, or maybe dreaming with her eyes open. She asked me if the Earth is crying. I told her yes.

And maybe it is.

THURSDAY NIGHT

I can hear them out there. Our neighbors. Voices carrying across the cold air, some calling for help, others just calling names. The Garcias next door are fighting—I can hear Alex shouting about the car not starting, about how they should have left yesterday. Mary’s crying. Their kids are silent.

Earlier, I heard breaking glass three houses down. Then screaming. Then nothing.

People are realizing that there’s nowhere to go. The highways are clogged with cars that ran out of gas or broke down in the cold. The airports shut down when the control towers went dark. Even if you could fly somewhere, where would you go? This is planetary. There is no escape.

We’re raging against the dying of the light. Literally. I just laughed when I wrote that. It’s a joke.

I tried to reach my sister in Denver, but the phones are dead. Cell towers must be down. We’re cut off now, each family isolated in their own small pocket of warmth, burning whatever they can find, waiting for the inevitable.

Ronnie woke up around midnight and asked me to tell her about colors. I described the blue of her eyes, the green of spring leaves, the gold of sunset. She listened like someone memorizing directions to a place she’d never see again. When I finished, she said, “Thank you for being my light.”

I started crying then. Quietly, so she wouldn’t hear. But she reached over and touched my face, found the tears, and smiled.

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “We had good days.”

The wind is getting stronger. I can hear it testing the roof, probing for weaknesses. Something crashed down the street—a tree, maybe, or a power line. The sound echoed in the empty darkness like a gunshot.

I keep thinking about the bird she saw. That moment of grace before everything went wrong. Maybe that’s what we are now—something briefly beautiful arcing through space, captured in the moment before the light goes out.

I’m going to try to sleep. Tomorrow will be worse.

FRIDAY

We were awakened by the shaking.

A low groan, then a jolt hard enough to rattle the bedframe and knock a picture off the wall in the hallway. Ronnie screamed. I grabbed her before she could fall out of bed. We sat there in the dark, holding onto each other as the floor rolled beneath us like a wave.

It lasted maybe twenty seconds. Then silence again. No sirens. No lights. Just silence.

I looked around, terrified our house would split open, and we’d die in the cold with no shelter.

One of the emergency networks was still up—shortwave, maybe. They confirmed it wasn’t just us. Fault lines all over the western U.S. have started to rupture. Quakes in California, Nevada, Utah. Fires from gas mains. Cracks in highways. A small tsunami off the coast near San Diego.

They said the quakes are a symptom—we’re leaving orbit.

If Earth is breaking free of the sun’s gravity, then the balance that kept our crust in check is falling apart. The rotation, the moon, the tides, the pressure of the core—all of it finely tuned by our place in orbit. And now it’s unraveling.

Ronnie didn’t say much today. She just kept asking where “the light people” went. I don’t know what she means. I didn’t ask.

I tried to go outside again this evening to check the sky, see if the moon had reappeared, but the wind nearly knocked me over. I saw tree branches bending like bows and a line of clouds so thick they looked like stone. The air smells like copper and ice. And the cold is a rabid beast running right at me.

And the ground... it doesn’t feel still anymore. There’s a vibration I can’t quite explain. Not a sound, exactly, but a sensation—like something deep inside the Earth has started to stir.

The temperature inside dropped again. We’ve stopped bothering with the rest of the house. Just the bedroom now. I’ve begun stuffing towels under the door and hanging blankets along the walls. We wear everything we own and still our breath fogs the air.

There’s a crack in the ceiling above the fireplace. I noticed it around noon. It’s grown wider.

Tomorrow we seal ourselves in completely.

SATURDAY

A real crack split the living room wall today, wide enough to lay a finger in. I heard it before I saw it, a sharp pop, like knuckles cracking too hard. When I stepped into the living room, the air felt colder than it should have.

We’re not using the living room anymore. We’ve moved everything into the bedroom—mattresses, blankets, food, and what little water we have left. Every window is sealed, every inch insulated. The whole house feels like it’s folding inward.

The wind hasn’t stopped since yesterday. It howls at night like it’s calling something. Or warning about something. It rattles the siding and screams under the eaves. Snow—or ice, or ash, I can’t tell anymore—blows sideways past the windows. I tried opening the front door a few inches this morning and it wouldn’t budge. Frozen shut.

We’re sealed in now. The house has become a cocoon. I don’t know if it will protect us or bury us.

Ronnie hasn’t spoken since late last night. She’s awake, but far away. She keeps turning her head as if listening to voices I can’t hear. Her hands twitch under the blankets, sometimes grasping at nothing. I hold them when I can.

She said something in her sleep that I’ll never forget.

“The stars are moving like fish.”

I looked through the skylight, and she’s right. The thick clouds had moved on. The constellations aren’t where they should be. Orion is slumped over. Cassiopeia’s rotated.

We are no longer in orbit.

There was a time when that idea would have broken me. Now it just confirms what I’ve already felt in my bones. We are no longer bound. We’re drifting. Falling through a deep silence.

We’re not part of the solar system anymore.

We are something else now.

SATURDAY NIGHT

The last night.

I know it’s the last night because Ronnie told me. She woke up an hour ago, opened her eyes for the first time in days. She looked directly at me, and she was seeing something.

“Tomorrow there won’t be a sun,” she said, as simply as if she were telling me it might rain.

I asked her how she knew.

“The light people told me.”

I want to dismiss this as delirium, but I can’t. Maybe she’s just closer to whatever’s happening. Maybe she just happened to be looking in the right direction. Maybe The Flash left her with something—a sensitivity, a connection to whatever force is unmaking our star.

“Did they say why?” I asked.

She didn’t answer.

I helped her sit up. “It’s so quiet now,” she finally said. “Even the Earth is holding its breath.”

She’s right. The wind has stopped. The house has stopped settling. Even the crack in the ceiling seems to have paused in its spreading. Everything is waiting.

I told her about the first photograph she ever showed me—a sunrise over the mountains, all gold and pink and impossibly beautiful. She laughed and said she remembered. “I was trying to catch time standing still,” she said. “Turns out I got my wish.”

We sat together in the dark, her head on my shoulder, sharing whatever warmth we had left. She told me she wasn’t afraid. That the light behind her eyes was warm and welcoming, like coming home after a long journey.

“Stay with me.” A command and a question.

“Always,” I said. “Where else could I ever be?”

She smiled and closed her eyes. Her breathing steadied. I think she’s sleeping.

In a few hours, there will be no sunrise. The sun will not appear because there is no sun to appear. We are alone with the stars now, falling through the vast emptiness between them, carrying love and memory and the fading warmth of what we used to be.

This is our last night as inhabitants of the solar system.

SUN DAY

No sunrise.

I waited. We both did. I pulled a corner of the old mattress I’d put over the window and looked. Nothing. At first, I thought maybe I’d misjudged the time, but we’ve been measuring it carefully, rationing power from the little we had left.

There is no sun anymore.

I’m writing this by the last dim battery lantern, bundled in so many clothes I can hardly feel the pen in my hand. My wife is asleep—or unconscious, it’s hard to tell which, now.

The house is cold. Colder than anything I’ve ever known. We keep the bedroom sealed, stacked with insulation and plastic, but the frost crept in days ago. Our breath hangs in the air like ghosts. Soon, even this ink will freeze. That’s why I’m writing now—before everything locks.

Most of the neighbors are gone. They left sometime midweek. Suitcases, headlights, panic. I watched one family load their dog into the back seat and drive off into the dark. But where could they go? The whole planet is spinning into the void. There’s no refuge. No equator warm enough. No coast untouched. No flight high enough to leave the Earth behind.

They’ll freeze—as we will.

Frozen where they fell. In cars pulled over on dead highways. In stairwells. In living rooms. At dinner tables. With televisions dark and ovens cold. There will be families, lovers, loners, everyone—locked in place, surrounded by the remains of their lives. Computers. Phones. Shoes. Toys. Highway signs. Skyscrapers. Billboards. All of it preserved. A flash-frozen museum.

Turns out Robert Frost’s second choice for the end of the world was the right one. Oh, and that Twilight Zone episode where you thought the Earth was falling into the sun, but it turned out to be the opposite.

And the freezing has only just begun.

The oceans will keep sloshing for a while, but they’ll lock over eventually. Ice will spread from the poles to the equator, crusting over until the seas are sealed beneath miles of frozen cap. Some warmth might remain deep below—in the black trenches, near volcanic vents—where extremophile life has always clung to the heat of the Earth’s core. Maybe they’ll survive for a time. Maybe longer than us. But even that heat will fade. The planet will cool from the outside in. The last warmth will flicker, then die.

And the air will fall.

It’s already beginning. The colder it gets, the more our atmosphere will condense. Carbon dioxide will freeze first, drifting down like chemical snow. Water vapor will vanish into frost. Then, eventually, oxygen. Even nitrogen. Everything that once surrounded us will settle onto the ground in delicate crystals. Earth will suffocate in icy silence.

One day, if anyone looks down at this planet, they won’t see blue oceans or green continents. Just a smooth, gleaming sphere of ice, rimmed with the ghosts of an atmosphere, spinning soundlessly through the dark between stars.

Maybe a ship will pass close enough to scan the surface. Maybe an alien intelligence will send down a probe and wonder who we were, and why we vanished in silence.

And maybe it will find this room. This notebook. These words.

I’ve decided to stop here. There’s nothing more to record. The world is gone. The light is gone. The sky is an empty vault. The moon has vanished—not that we’d see it even if it were still there. Who knows where it’s headed. We’ve left our orbit. Earth is falling through deep space, a frozen casket tumbling blind.

But maybe someone will find this. One day. In ten thousand years. In a million. Maybe another star will catch us in its pull and melt the ice. Maybe this room will thaw, and this notebook will still be here, sealed in the cold. A message from one of the orphans.

Maybe someone will see this, unable to understand the writing, but know we were here.

We were here.

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Friday morning, we'll get our first indication of whether a federal judge intends to slow down Paramount's takeover of Warner Bros. Discovery.

The hearing isn’t expected to decide whether the merger succeeds or fails. Instead, California and a coalition of other states are asking for a temporary restraining order that would prevent Paramount from completing the deal while their antitrust lawsuit moves forward.

People close to the companies say they expect the judge to grant that request. If that happens, the merger would likely be delayed for a few weeks. If it doesn't, Paramount could move toward closing the deal within days.

But at this point, the timing may be the least interesting part of the story.

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The merger has evolved far beyond a fight over market share in Hollywood. It's becoming a broader test of how politics, regulation, and journalism collide.

Perhaps the biggest change over the past few days is that CNN is no longer the elephant in the room.

When I first wrote about this merger, the concern was that what happened at CBS News could eventually happen at CNN. That was largely an industry conversation. Now California Attorney General Rob Bonta is saying it publicly.

In an interview with Oliver Darcy, Bonta said he’s concerned that the editorial changes already taking place at CBS could be part of an effort to curry favor with President Trump, and that similar pressure could eventually be brought to bear on CNN. He even suggested that forcing Paramount to divest CNN could become part of the negotiations surrounding the merger.

That doesn’t mean it’s likely to happen.

CNN isn’t a stand-alone asset sitting on a shelf waiting to be sold. It’s deeply intertwined with Warner Bros. Discovery’s cable business through distribution agreements and revenue streams. Analysts have pointed out that CNN’s profits will be important if the combined company hopes to pay down the debt created by the merger. Spinning it off would be far more complicated than it might sound.

Still, the fact that a state attorney general is openly talking about CNN’s future marks a significant shift. The discussion has moved out of boardrooms and into the courtroom.

At the same time, another story has added to the scrutiny surrounding Paramount.

ProPublica reported this week that FCC officials accepted expensive gifts from Paramount while the company had major matters pending before the commission. The report doesn’t establish that the gifts influenced any official decisions, but it raises some questions about appearances at a time when every regulator connected to this merger is already under a microscope.

Now another lawsuit has added to that scrutiny. A shareholder has sued Oracle founder Larry Ellison and his son, Paramount CEO David Ellison, claiming they had an illegal arrangement with President Trump to help clear the way for the acquisition. The Ellisons have not been found liable, and the allegations remain unproven, but the lawsuit shows how questions about politics and influence are becoming intertwined with what began as a corporate merger.

And while all of this is happening, the FCC has signaled that it's ready to eliminate the national television ownership cap, removing the rule that prevents any one company from owning stations reaching more than 39 percent of U.S. households. If that happens, it would clear the way for Nexstar to pursue a blockbuster acquisition of Tegna, potentially reshaping local television news across much of the country.

Standing alone, the proposal is a significant regulatory change. Viewed alongside the Paramount merger, however, it suggests something bigger may be underway. The companies poised to benefit tend to have one thing in common: they're viewed as friendlier to the Trump administration than the media organizations that have made the president fire off threatening social media posts.

Taken together, these stories are evidence that the merger is no longer being viewed solely through the lens of business strategy.

A few weeks ago, this looked like a straightforward corporate merger between two struggling media companies trying to gain enough scale to compete with Netflix and other streaming giants.

Today, the courtroom is filling up. States, writers, and shareholders are suing. Regulators are facing scrutiny. And attorneys general are openly talking about CNN's future.

Now it has become a debate about antitrust law, political influence, editorial independence, regulatory oversight, and the future of one of the world’s best-known news organizations.

The judge probably won’t answer the biggest questions. A temporary restraining order would simply buy time while the case proceeds. Even if the request is denied, the legal fight is far from over.

But by Friday afternoon, we’ll have our first real indication of whether the courts are prepared to slow one of the most consequential media mergers in decades.

And that may tell us as much about CNN's future as it does Paramount's.

If you enjoy this kind of reporting and analysis, you can support my work by becoming a paid subscriber. Also, I’d love to know what you think.

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A coalition of 12 state attorneys general, led by California Attorney General Rob Bonta, filed an antitrust lawsuit Monday seeking to block the $110 billion merger, setting up what could become the biggest media antitrust case in decades.

The lawsuit doesn’t merely ask the court to review the merger. The states say they want to stop Paramount from closing the deal before the legal challenge is resolved. If the companies refuse to wait voluntarily, the coalition says it will ask for a temporary restraining order.

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What Bonta says

At Monday’s announcement, Bonta argued the merger would combine two of Hollywood’s five major movie studios and two of the five largest basic cable programmers into a single company with outsized control over both industries.

His office says the combined company would control nearly one-third of theatrical film distribution and nearly one-third of basic cable programming in the U.S. The lawsuit argues that would reduce competition, raise prices, lower quality, and ultimately leave consumers with fewer choices.

What’s missing in the discussion? CNN. The attorneys general are mostly focused on Hollywood. That makes sense for Bonta, with Hollywood being a major economic driver for California.

But most of us following this story have been watching it through the lens of journalism.

It’s not that CNN isn’t an important part of this situation. But the attorneys general have to argue the case the courts are more likely to consider, and right now, that’s monopoly concerns

Politics is everywhere

Of course, politics is impossible to ignore. The coalition consists of Democratic attorneys general. The Trump administration cleared the merger.

Supporters of the deal say the lawsuit is election-year political theater designed to energize Democratic voters.

Opponents argue the merger itself has been shaped by politics, given David Ellison’s close ties to President Trump and the administration’s unusually swift approval of the transaction.

Then Trump said something revealing

Just one day before the lawsuit was filed, President Trump made his first televised appearance on CNN since returning to office. Near the end of his conversation with Jake Tapper, Trump said:

“We’re trying to have CNN go on a normal path.”

Tapper immediately replied:

“Well, I’m on a normal path right here, sir.”

Trump answered:

“Good. You are.”

That exchange lasted only a few seconds.

It may end up being remembered much longer.

When Trump says “we’re trying to have CNN go on a normal path,” the obvious question is:

Who exactly is “we”?

Presidents don’t normally speak about independent news organizations as if they’re participants in managing them. Even if Trump intended nothing more than political bravado, the remark reinforces concerns that have surrounded this merger from the beginning.

It echoes another comment he made months ago when he declared it was “imperative” that CNN be sold.

Sometimes politicians say the quiet part out loud. Trump has a habit of doing exactly that when he's speaking off the cuff.

The road ahead

This lawsuit doesn’t automatically stop the merger.

Paramount has already promised to fight aggressively, calling the transaction lawful and necessary to compete against much larger streaming and technology companies.

The company also faces a financial clock. If the merger isn’t completed by the end of September, additional payments to Warner Bros. Discovery shareholders begin kicking in, increasing pressure to resolve this quickly.

Now the questions become legal ones. Will a judge issue an injunction? Will Paramount, as it did in Europe, offer concessions? Or does this end up going to trial?

The popcorn is popping.

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If artificial intelligence really is going to change the world, are we asking the right questions about it?

Most of the conversation swings between two extremes: AI is either humanity’s greatest invention or the beginning of our extinction. But what if both sides are missing something?

On the newest episode of Archer & Feldman, Charles Feldman and I are joined by legendary science fiction writer David Gerrold for one of the most thought-provoking conversations we’ve had.

David has spent a lifetime imagining the future. Long before ChatGPT and large language models, science fiction writers were exploring what it would mean to create intelligence that wasn’t human. Now that we’re living through that future, his perspective is both fascinating and surprisingly reassuring.

We talk about what AI really is, what it isn’t, whether writers should fear it, and why our biggest challenge may not be AI itself—but how humans choose to use it.

If you’re tired of the usual AI hype and doomscrolling, I think you’ll enjoy this conversation.

Watch here:

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