Foundational Weapons For A Modern War
Vince Guerra is a writer, homeschool father, and author of modern war books. He also writes on movies, nerd stuff, and about the foundational truths needed to confront our current battles.
It appears I’ve reached the stage of parenting when children begin asking hard questions. I’ve gotten some doozies over the years, but the one I’m currently wrestling with is a question my oldest daughter asked two weeks ago. She didn’t actually ask me the question outright. She authored a contemplative essay on
“You disparage Scully?” “Who?” my wife asked. “Gillian Anderson, she was Scully on The X Files,” I said. “You mean that gross show?” My wife is not wrong, The X Files was often gross. In fact, it was downright disturbing at times. In retrospect it was also pretty badly produced, often poorly
My wife and I rarely argue anymore. When we were younger we did it more frequently, and had some whoppers. Some of the topics we fought about: The existence of God The innocence of Bill Clinton Whether country music is good or bad Whether or not our future children would wear bike
Where does this book go? This is a problem that rears its head a few times every year. It’s always an issue in January, but also in September, and usually in May…or even June. Heck, we have a book problem most months. A friend ours once called us “homeschool preppers.” It’s true.
I hate to admit this, but MacGyver is not good. I’m not referring to the unwatchable reboot currently withering away on CBS. No, I mean the original Richard Dean Anderson vehicle of awesomeness which aired from 1985-1992. Dat dat dat dat dat dat daaaaa, dat dat daaaaa. The theme song gets you
I find Rubik’s cubes relaxing. I suppose the opposite is true for some people, considering how they can frustrate the dickens out of you, but I see them differently. A scrambled Rubik’s cube is a chaotic mess. It’s literally a puzzle to solve; a single-sitting challenge where one mistake takes you back
I am the world’s worst baseball player. Let me prove it: As the sun dipped below the treeline on a cool California evening in 1985, a young man stood kicking at the clover in right field, his mouth watering as he savored the aroma of chili-cheese Fritos that emanated from the concession