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Beautiful tribute to the late Wendell Berry by the great @PatrickDeneen https://t.co/py3F7iQIdJ

— Frank Filocomo (@FilocomoFrank) Sep 3, 2026

September 2, 2026 at 09:49PM

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RIP Wendell Berry. A great man.

— Frank Filocomo (@FilocomoFrank) Sep 1, 2026

August 31, 2026 at 09:51PM

'I'm sorry Dave, I'm afraid I can't do that'

 

By Frank Filocomo

For all the usefulness of AI, it can never replicate the inimitable qualities of humanness. 

AI scares the crap out of me.

HAL 9000 from Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey was the first "AI" I can remember seeing depicted in a movie. Though, when I saw it as a kid in the 2010s, AI stood for Adobe Illustrator, not Artificial Intelligence. 

HAL, in other words, was AI before we knew what AI was. 

You don't need to see the movie in full to appreciate the creepiness of this scene:

For all the usefulness of AI, it can never replicate the inimitable qualities of humanness. 

AI spits things back at you; it does not have feeling or original thought. 

While a handy tool, it is not a replacement for real life social connection. 

Some, however, while knowing full well that AI is not a being with a soul, confide in AI chatbots.

In a recent episode of The Frank Forum podcast, I told my co-host Troy Olson about the tragic case of Sewell Setzer, a 14-year-old boy who, dealing with depression, fell in love with his AI chatbot and subsequently took his own life. 

Below is a screen grab from Sewell's correspondence with the AI chatbot. Sewell used the moniker "Daenero," while his chatbot's name, "Daenerys Targaryen," was apparently a Game of Thrones reference.

The chatbot encourages Sewell to "come home." Sadly, we know what that means. 

Sewell's story will likely not be the last of its kind. 

Gen Z, better than any other generation, understands the dangers of AI. In fact, a new report from Pew finds that "younger adults are largely pessimistic that chatbots can help people who use them for social and mental health support."

From Pew Survey on Aug. 25 2026

According to the survey:

About half of adults under 30 (49%) say chatbots do more to hurt people who use them for loneliness, and 41% say the same for depression. Far fewer say chatbots do more to help people with loneliness and depression (23% each).

Still, younger adults are "more likely than older adults to say they use chatbots for emotional support."

So, while it's good that Gen Z understands the dangers of relying too much on AI for emotional support, it's troubling that they still find themselves doing so.

It's kind of like a chain smoker that knows that smoking causes lung cancer, but still puffs away regardless. 

Young people need to curtail their AI use. Totally eliminating AI use isn't practical. It's ubiquitous now. But it can be scaled back.

My advice: Do what the students at my former high school Edward R. Murrow did. Form a luddite club. You don't need to trade in your smart phone for a dumb phone, but you can take steps to limit screen time. 

Marco Canora, chef and owner of the Manhattan restaurant Hearth, has placed boxes on each of the tables, encouraging diners to put their phones inside for the duration of their meal. 

That's smart thinking. 

And those with depression or feelings of loneliness should, aside from leaning on their friends, seek professional help. 

AI, in excess, is not good for you. 

It is not human. It does not get you, nor does it know anything. It cannot help you because it is an it. 

People help people. 

The subtitle of Sherry Turkle's book Alone Together is Why We Expect More from Technology and Less from Each Other.

Well, we should expect more from each other. A lot more. 

What's More American Than a 24-Hour Diner?

By Frank Filocomo

Looks like the 24-hour diner is going the way of the drive-in movie theater. 

In the New York Post, Teresa Mull writes that these little greasy spoons - which often serve as community-hubs - are declining in number nationwide. 

From the article:

Yelp data released in 2025 showed that 24/7 restaurants are experiencing upheaval nationwide. The number of restaurants offering 24-hour service in the U.S. fell 11% between January 2020 and January 2025.

The 24-hour Fort Hamilton Diner in Bay Ridge has been a staple of the community for, what seems like, forever. 

I've lived in Bay Ridge since I was 8-years-old, and let me tell you: that diner has always been there for me.

Once, when I was a teenager, I was returning from the emergency room with my father at around 1:00AM. When we got to our front door, we realized that my mother - who, like me, is a remarkably deep sleeper - latched the door with the chain lock from the inside.

After myriad attempts at knocking and ringing the door bell, we realized that we weren't getting in anytime soon. 

Our next move? We went to the Fort Hamilton Diner. 

Fort Hamilton Diner in Bay Ridge

For hours, we chatted, noshed on french fries, and observed the eclectic clientele meander in and out.

Fair warning: If you're hanging around the diner at 4 or 5:00AM, you're going to see some sketchy folks. I kind of like that, though. Gives the place personality.

Most, however, are blue-collar workers getting off of their graveyard shifts. Lots of MTA workers, too. Good, hardworking people. 

My buddies and I go to local pubs on the weekends. When the bars start to close, that diner is a godsend. Cheese burgers, fries, scrambled eggs, pancakes. Forget it. You can't beat it.

The waiters know us, too. It feels like home.

I love it all: the flickering neon sign, 99-cent ATM machine, duct-taped vinyl booths. 

Zoomers, however, are drinking less, so they don't need a 3:00AM bacon egg and cheese and Coke to sober up. They're fine with DoorDashing Taco Bell to their studio apartments. To be fair, I've done this... What can I say, it's convenient! Plus, you mean someone can just bring a Baja Blast and Crunchwrap to my front door? Sign me up!

What's More, COVID really messed things up. Lots of once-24-hour diners scaled back their hours during the pandemic, and never went back. 

Let's stop this trend. If you live by a 24-hour diner, GO TO IT. Patronize these places. Tip the waiters well. Stay for a while. Engage in conversations about dating, health issues, and America's declining status as a global hegemon. All of it. Practice your oratorical skills. Embrace conversation. But don't talk too much. Listen, too. 

As the song goes: "You only know you love her when you let her go."

The same will apply to 24-hour diners if we stop patronizing them: We'll only know we love them once we let them go. 

LASTLY: If you read this far, leave a comment here. Tell me about your diner experiences. Were you broken up with at a diner? Did you have celebratory meals there when your little league team won as a kid? What do you usually order? COMMENTS HELP THIS SITE GROW.

All the best, 

Frank

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RT @nypost: The 24-hour American diner is vanishing - here's what's driving the decline https://t.co/7uH2VeQUH4 https://t.co/kQyqmIp1dl

— Frank Filocomo (@FilocomoFrank) Aug 22, 2026

August 22, 2026 at 11:55AM

Bumblin' On

 

By Frank Filocomo

I predicted Bumble's downfall. 

On a July 22nd episode of The Frank Forum podcast, I explained to my co-host Troy Olson what made Bumble different from other dating apps:

"Bumble is an app where the woman messages you first, meaning that no one meets."

That latter part of the description was meant to be a joke. Well, turns out it was quite the prescient remark, if I do say so myself.

Writing for The Independent, Helen Coffey explained that "as of 11 August, Bumble has axed the one feature that distinguished it from its peers, and is now enabling either men or women to contact a match first."

Would you look at that. Turns out that women are not interested in initiating romantic conversation with men. They have willingly relinquished the power that Bumble granted them.

From the article:

The biggest issue seems to be that, for all that we think we’ve come a long way in terms of challenging gender stereotypes, some stubbornly persist regarding heterosexual relationships. “Women don’t make the first move very often; even when they’re explicitly told they can do it, it’s so entrenched in our society and culture that they’d rather not,” says Blears.

Though her male clients are very open to being approached, “the reality is that, for a lot of women, they would still prefer it if a man made that initial contact”.

This is backed up by Bumble’s own data – hence the app’s sudden pivot to allowing messaging from either party – which found that nearly two-thirds of women globally (66 per cent) surveyed said they prefer men to send the first message.

This checks out. 

Way back when - a few years ago, that is - I, too, was on Bumble, and let me tell you: It was a barren wasteland of an app. You could practically see tumbleweeds roll by as your matches would remain reticent to make the first move. 

On the rare occasions that they would message you, it was usually something along the lines of "hey," or maybe, if you were lucky, "how's your day been?"

Minimal effort, in other words. 

Not to sound like a manosphere mouth-breather - I can't stand those guys - but the fact of the matter is that men are expected to put in a lot more effort than women when it comes to those introductory messages. A simple "hey" will never work for a man, unless he looks like Fabio, or whomever the current heartthrob is these days.

Women soon learned that their perfunctory opening lines were being met with a deafening silence, and they hated it. Then again, no one likes the taste of their own medicine. 

Users' responses to the news have been entertaining:

"Should rebrand to fumble," wrote a commentor on Reddit. 

"Back when I tried bumble most women's initiations were either 'hi' or liking a photo, rarely had conversations that I didn't do the work to start," wrote another Redditor. 

This one was quite good: "Bumble in its prime was so validating because women are as cringe as men when making the first move."

I don't know, perhaps some things are better left alone...

Frank's Latest on X

RT @FilocomoFrank: The Piker Left and Fuentes Right should not be dismissed; their followers are, in large part, not cranks, but discontent…

— Frank Filocomo (@FilocomoFrank) Aug 20, 2026

August 20, 2026 at 02:56PM

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ICYMI: Read my review of Chris Murphy's Crisis of the Common Good in @RealClearBooks https://t.co/Nt2w7sFkCN

— Frank Filocomo (@FilocomoFrank) Aug 19, 2026

August 18, 2026 at 09:06PM

On Empty Chairs

 

By Frank Filocomo

I'm not sure who first said, "be the change you want to see in the world," but Dean Perryman is doing just that with his Empty Chairs project. 

According to the website:

In late 2025, Dean lost his best mate Rob. Grief can be isolating - and it can also make you notice how many people are quietly carrying their own things alone.

Empty Chairs exists to create low-pressure spaces where real human connection can happen. No big speeches. No awkward icebreakers. Just a seat at the table.

We all have felt grief at one point or another. But going through the loss of a loved one need not be a solo journey. There's no reason our friends, neighbors, and fellow community members can't help us through hard times. 

Social connection makes everything easier. 

Sara Haynes, in a CBS News interview about Empty Chairs, remarked that "the worst thing is feeling like you're dealing with something all alone."

In a comment responding to the CBS News segment, one commenter wrote: "If you put the phone down, magic happens."

So true. 

The format for Empty Chairs events is quite simple: A host, wearing a conspicuous and easy-to-find orange T-shirt, sits at a pub table and welcomes attendees to join him for however long they like. 

In less than a year, Perryman's project has gone global: there are Empty Chairs events happening in over 20 countries.

There are 260 upcoming events listed on the website, including one in Astoria, NY.

This is a movement. 

Loneliness is a universal affliction; no matter where in the world you are, we all know the feeling and how devastating it can be.

Similarly, we all have the tools at our disposal to combat loneliness. I'm glad to see people are using them.

If you're interested in hosting an Empty Chairs event, click here. 

One Small Town's Ultimate Sacrifice

By Troy M. Olson

Bedford sent its citizen-soldiers to the Second World War just like my hometown did and many towns like it did. But what sets Bedford apart from them all is the sheer magnitude of their community pain.

Last week I finished The Bedford Boys by Alex Kershaw while on my 5th (6th?) plane over the course of eight days. While we ran into just about every conceivable airport issue on our family vacation, I couldn't help but come to the conclusion that my oldest walked away with a core memory. It was here that he discovered his love for swimming pools.

Alex Kershaw's The Bedford Boys

For myself, when I wasn't trying to finish Masters of the Air, a WWII miniseries featuring the likes of Austin Butler (still not done yet!), I was finishing this beautiful book originally published in 2001. 

2001 was just a few short years after Saving Private Ryan and was the release year for Band of Brothers, essential viewing for any American patriot, veteran, or WWII enthusiast. And, as a member of all three of those groups, I have unpacked just about everything I can get my hands on. So, why am I doing a quasi-book review 25 years later? I think precisely because The Bedford Boys made me look at it in a new way. 

Bedford, VA is the site of the National D-Day Memorial, and is, in part, home to one of the true stories that inspired Saving Private Ryan. I now know why Spielberg chose to fictionalize his account of D-Day and its aftermath. You have to. You have to reach for "story truth" because the total truth is just too painful. Bedford had a population of just under 4,000 people in the 1940 census. I grew up in a town larger than that but not much larger. Everyone knows everyone, or knows someone who knows everyone. Especially if you stick around for a few decades, and most people do. Because these are great places to live and raise a family. Bedford sent its citizen-soldiers to the Second World War just like my hometown did and many towns like it did. But what sets Bedford apart from them all is the sheer magnitude of their community pain. 

In the morning hours of June 6, 1944, in a matter of minutes, Bedford lost nineteen of its sons on Omaha Beach. This was the highest proportional loss for D-Day in the nation. Much of the town would not put together the magnitude of the loss. It took weeks, months, for the information to come into full view for the town's people and the many, many families who were affected. Some of the families had more than one son fighting. In one gut-wrenching account, Kershaw relates the story of a young man who lost his twin brother shortly after refusing to shake his hand (because he did not want to be fatalistic), saying he'd shake his hand after their mission was complete. Fifty years later, when visiting Normandy in his third act of life, he would reach out and shake his brother's hand up on the road where he said they would. 

In all, nineteen of the thirty-four Virginia National Guard soldiers from Bedford - who were in Company A, 116th Infantry Regiment, 29th Infantry Division - were killed on D-Day, and four more died during the rest of the Normandy campaign, two of them from other 116th Infantry Regiment companies. 

The pain of this loss never has left Bedford, only the passage of time and living memory could for those who directly endured it. I think this story resonated so much for me because my hometown lost three (and the overall county area even more) in the Global War on Terror conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan. And those losses were excruciating for the town. The pain sticks around because remembering and honoring the war dead means it doesn't actually leave you. It's the most difficult for family, close friends, and perhaps worst of all for the tremendous survivor's guilt that befalls the living veterans. As I was reading the story of this town and its lost sons, I connected so much of what I have observed myself in others these past few decades. This is especially relevant because WWII is "the good war." And my era and Vietnam were "the complicated ones." 

For Bedford, VA, even the good war meant mostly pain. I hope in the years to come to pay a visit to the National D-Day Memorial in Bedford, VA. 

Troy M. Olson is an Army Veteran, lawyer by training, and co-author of 'The Emerging Populist Majority' available at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Target. He is the Sergeant-at-Arms of the New York Young Republican Club and co-founder of its Veterans Caucus. He has appeared on CNN, CBS, and OAN. He lives in New York City with his wife and two children, and is the 3rd Vice Commander ("Americanism" pillar) of the first new American Legion Post in the city in years, Post 917. You can follow him on X/Twitter and Substack at @TroyMOlson

Ephemeral Panic, Ephemeral Community

Earlier today, Verizon went down. 

Tens of thousands of users across the country - myself included - were unable to make or receive phone calls. 

Panic ensued. 

Thinking this was an issue specific to my Android phone, I began to frantically scour the internet for answers. 

Google's AI - which is a hit-or-miss - suggested I restart my phone, remove and re-insert my SIM card, and make some tweaks in the settings menu. 

Nothing worked. 

Then I began to wonder: "Maybe there's an outage in the area..." 

That turned out to be the case. 

On PhoneArena, an online tech blog, self-proclaimed "smartphone fanatic" Alan Friedman reported that there were Verizon outages throughout the country: "If you're a Verizon customer and all of a sudden you see the SOS icon on your iPhone, or you can't make or take calls, it is because Verizon is suffering an outage."

From Friedman's article, I was directed to Downdetector, a site that "reports about service issues from around the world."

I quickly learned that I wasn't alone. Within a few hours, well over a hundred messages filled the site's comment section.

"Can't make mobile calls in Western Ma. Data works fine."

"Hitting Michigan too"

"Can't make or receive calls or texts im in Northern Neck of VA"

"Cant make or receive calls in Houston tx but texts work"

I, too, left a comment about Brooklyn's outage. 

For a moment, it kind of felt like we were all in this together. Like a little digital community was starting to build around this shared problem. There was something genuinely fascinating about being instantaneously connected to people around the country, all of whom were in the same metaphorical boat. 

That moment, however, was fleeting.

Just minutes after I left my comment, my connection was restored. 

I promptly called my girlfriend, friends, and parents, assuring them that service was back up and running. 

When I looked back at the Downdetector comment section, I saw that it had quickly dried up. Everyone's service came back, so there was no longer a need to leave a comment with your name and state. 

Kristin from Alabama and Steve from Western Massachusetts had moved on with their lives. 

So long, old friends. 

From this brief, and ultimately trivial, disruption, I extrapolated something that I wanted to share: Community is often ephemeral. That is, when a crisis occurs, our natural reflex is to band together. This is an instinct that is hardwired in us. 

Once, however, the crisis is no more, we also, unfortunately, have a reflex to retreat inward and abandon those with whom we suffered. 

The purpose of community is not temporary expediency; it is long-term trust and reciprocity. 

Now, obviously, there was never a chance to form any kind or enduring ties with these folks on the message board. That would be silly. 

That said, those who commented weren't just looking for answers; they wanted to know that they weren't alone. 

Though fleeting, that nation-wide digital connection was something. 

When more remarkable crises occur - and they always do - let us stay connected with those who helped us get through it. 

-Frank