“It’s official. I’m running for Mayor of LA.”

After a year of calling out Democrat leadership for its handling of last year’s devastating Los Angeles wildfires, Spencer Pratt is offering Angelenos an alternative: himself.

Pratt, who shot to fame playing a villainous version of himself on hit MTV reality show “The Hills,” lost the Pacific Palisades house he shared with wife (and former castmate) Heidi Montag and their children in the January 7, 2025, conflagration. Since then, he has emerged as one of the most prominent critics of L.A. Mayor Karen Bass and California Governor Gavin Newsom, both Democrats.

‘Gavin Newsom and his state park policies actually literally dictated that we let the Palisades burn.’

Fired up

The Palisades native has accused Bass of bungling the response to the deadly blaze, which eventually spread to 23,448 acres, costing 12 lives and destroying almost 6,000 homes.

Pratt has also claimed that Newsom’s inadequate brush-clearance policy helped cause what was otherwise a preventable disaster.

Pratt kicked off his mayoral campaign on Wednesday with an impassioned speech to at least 1,000 attendees.

RELATED: ‘Reckoning day’ for Newsom: Trump DOT yanks $160 million over illegal trucker licenses

“It’s official. I’m running for Mayor of LA,” Pratt announced in a post sharing video of the speech. “I’ve waited a whole year for someone to step up and challenge Karen Bass, but I saw no fighters. Guess I’m gonna have to do this myself. Let’s make LA camera ready again!”

Brush-off

Pratt addressed the enthusiastic crowd with a mixture of defiance and sorrow.

“Standing here one year later, I have to tell you the most heartbreaking part of the past year wasn’t being displaced or losing everything I own. It was the realization that all of this was preventable,” he explained, fighting back tears.

The 42-year-old continued, “The state and local leaders let us burn. Gavin Newsom and the state of California let brush grow wild … no wildfire maintenance.”

RELATED: ‘Send in the next guy’: Nicki Minaj savages Newsom over his desire to ‘see trans kids’

Photo by Steve Granitz/WireImage

Policy pinch

Like many of the would-be constituents in attendance, Pratt faced the fires without standard homeowners’ insurance, after insurers declined to renew policies for thousands of homes in the Palisades, Altadena, and other designated fire-prone areas in recent years. Most notably, State Farm announced in 2024 that it would discontinue coverage for roughly 72,000 houses and apartments statewide.

Pratt’s sole coverage came from the state’s supplementary California FAIR Plan, which he has previously said did not provide enough money to rebuild.

In his speech, Pratt laid the blame squarely on Newsom, who he said “created an insurance market so hostile that every major carrier stopped writing policies” and thereby “dictated that we let the Palisades burn.”

The candidate also had harsh words for the Los Angeles Fire Department, which he blamed for “fail[ing] to deploy sufficient firefighters, fire engines, and firefighting resources, whether it be due to lack of budget, lack of knowledge, or simply DEI.”

Pratt concluded by touting his showbiz experience as something that made him uniquely attuned to the workings of power in the city. Singling out “NGOs, nonprofits, and unions,” he vowed to make it his “mission” to dismantle what he labeled a “machine designed to protect the people at the top.”

​Align, California, Los angeles, Hollywood, Spencer pratt, Mtv, Reality tv, Wild fires, Entertainment 

Across rural America, families are learning a hard lesson. The biggest threat to their local hospital or cancer clinic no longer comes from distance, workforce shortages, or regulation. It comes from private equity.

Over the past two decades, private equity firms have quietly bought hundreds of cancer clinics, oncology practices, and community hospitals. They promise efficiency and stability. Many communities experience something else: consolidation, higher costs, fewer doctors, and the slow erosion of care. When profit targets fall short, clinics close. Patients travel hours for treatment — or go without it altogether.

The same forces that hollowed out manufacturing towns and family farms are now targeting essential health care.

This shift reflects a deeper failure: treating health care as a financial asset rather than a public obligation.

Private equity follows a familiar playbook. Firms acquire medical practices with borrowed money, cut staffing, increase billing, extract profits, and sell within a few years. That model rewards investors. It fails patients who need long-term care and towns that depend on a single hospital or cancer center.

The collapse of 21st-century oncology shows how destructive this approach can be. After private equity took control, the company expanded rapidly across the Southeast while piling on debt. Pressure to generate revenue intensified. Federal investigators later uncovered widespread abuse, including unnecessary testing and illegal billing. The company paid more than $86 million in fraud settlements to the federal government and patients before filing for bankruptcy.

Entire regions lost access to cancer care with little warning. Investors exited. Patients were left to deal with the fallout.

Rural communities suffer the most. In cities, the loss of a clinic often means longer wait times. In rural America, it can mean the end of cancer care entirely. Patients face long drives, delayed treatment, or impossible choices between health and family obligations.

The same pattern appears in rural hospitals owned by Apollo Global Management through its control of LifePoint Health. After the acquisition, hospitals took on heavy debt. Executives sold real estate to raise cash, cut staffing, reduced services, and closed cancer centers. In New Mexico, state officials opened an investigation after reports that an Apollo-owned hospital denied or delayed cancer care for low-income patients.

RELATED: The hidden hospital scam driving up drug prices, coming to a state near you

amphotora / Getty Images

Defenders of private equity claim these firms rescue independent practices from hospital monopolies. In reality, they replace local control with corporate control.

Doctors lose authority to distant executives who never set foot in the affected communities. The language of independence disguises a transfer of power away from patients and physicians and toward investors.

Conservatives should recognize this for what it is. An elite financial class is extracting wealth from essential local institutions and leaving weaker communities behind. The same forces that hollowed out manufacturing towns and family farms are now targeting essential health care.

Cancer care should not function as a short-term investment. Rural hospitals should not exist to satisfy quarterly return targets. A system that allows this will continue to fail the people who rely on it most.

The answer is accountability, not a government takeover of medicine. Regulators must enforce antitrust laws. Policymakers should strengthen protections that preserve medical judgment from corporate interference. Communities deserve transparency about who owns their hospitals and who controls decisions about their care.

Health care depends on trust and continuity. When financialization dominates cancer care, rural Americans lose both. And once these institutions disappear, rebuilding them proves far harder than protecting them in the first place.

​Cancer, Cancer treatment, Private equity, Rural hospitals, Cancer care, Drug prices, Opinion & analysis 

The Rush reunion announcement landed like a Neil Peart cymbal crash heard from two continents away.

For some, it was a benediction. For others, a blasphemy. In America especially, Rush has always been a band that splits the room in two. On one side: devotion bordering on reverence. On the other: a curled lip, a sigh, a muttered word like “soulless” or “show-off.”

Rush endured because they never chased cool. Cool is perishable, but craft is not.

Few great bands inspire such loyalty and such irritation at the same time. Even fewer manage it without changing who they are.

A Farewell to Kings

The power trio we know as Rush formed in 1974 in Toronto, three young men chasing something bigger than barroom rock. They were loud, fast, and committed to mastery. As the years passed, they grew tighter, more disciplined, more deliberate. While other bands burned out or sold out, Rush stayed true.

That mindset carried them for four decades. Album after album. Tour after tour. By the time they bowed out in 2015, Rush had become one of the most reliable live acts in rock history. No scandals (despite a well-documented affection for Bolivian marching powder). The farewell felt final, especially as drummer Peart’s health declined. When he died in 2020, the door seemed closed for good.

Which is why this reunion lands so satisfyingly. It doesn’t feel forced. It doesn’t feel desperate. It feels natural. Two old friends picking up guitars, laughing through familiar songs, and realizing the music still matters to millions.

To others, it matters in the way a neighbor’s power drill matters — piercing, relentless, and likely to trigger a migraine.

Working Man

Rush has never fit comfortably into the American rock myth. The band wasn’t blues-rooted, booze-soaked, or born of Southern swag. Geddy Lee sang like a caffeinated banshee. Alex Lifeson mixed power with precision. And Neil Peart — the irreplaceable center — treated drums like an Olympic event.

To rock traditionalists, however, something about this just felt off. Rock, to them, was meant to feel dark and dangerous. Think Black Sabbath, Led Zeppelin, the Who, AC/DC. Part of the gig was bringing chaos — both on and off stage. Treating hotel rooms like demolition sites and sanity as optional. Consider the late, great Ozzy Osbourne: a man who built a Hall of Fame career out of conduct that would have ended most working lives in a padded room.

Rush never subscribed to that model. And for a certain kind of American critic, that alone was enough to raise suspicion.

Rock wasn’t supposed to sound so organized. It wasn’t supposed to sound like the band had talked things through. So the complaints piled up. Too clean. Too lame. “Cheesy” and “corny” became the easy shortcuts, a way to dismiss what they didn’t want to engage with.

RELATED: Exclusive: Former Toto bassist recalls 2019 breakup: It got a little ‘Lord of the Flies’

NurPhoto/Getty Images

Limelight

Take “Tom Sawyer,” still my personal favorite. Purists love to pick it apart. The synth line is too bright. The lyrics are too earnest. The chorus too triumphant. It doesn’t brood.

But that’s the point. “Tom Sawyer” isn’t trying to sound dangerous. The aim isn’t menace but momentum. It captures motion, confidence, and propulsion — three qualities rock critics often mistake for shallowness. Look past the childish nitpicking, and what’s left is undeniable. A song that still fills arenas, still hits hard, still makes people feel 10 feet tall.

For some critics, Rush was the band you loved if you owned graph paper and color-coded your homework. Rush’s music was for the kids who finished the test early and then checked their answers. Not rebels, not wreckers, but students of the thing itself. In rock culture, that kind of seriousness was treated like a social crime.

Subdivisions

Rush is hardly alone in this. Steely Dan took the same beating, dismissed as music for dental offices, waiting rooms, and people who alphabetize their spice racks, despite writing some of the sharpest, most venomous songs of the era. Yes was mocked as bloated and indulgent. Genesis, especially after Peter Gabriel left, got the same treatment.

America has always had a complicated relationship with genuine greatness. It celebrates brilliance, but only when it looks accidental. Genius is best received if it arrives late, drunk, and a little out of control.

You see this pattern everywhere. Adam Sandler spent decades being treated like a joke because his films made money and audiences laughed until they nearly lost bladder control. Jim Carrey wasn’t taken seriously until he stopped being funny and started looking permanently unwell. Rush refused that trade and paid the cultural price.

Headlong Flight

What the reunion clarifies — especially now, in an age of irony fatigue — is that Rush endured because they never chased cool. Cool is perishable, but craft is not. When Lee and Lifeson talk about laughing while jamming, about the music “dispelling dark clouds,” they’re describing something purists often forget. Music is allowed to be joyful. It’s allowed to be exhilarating without being mystical. It can be thrilling without pretending to be profound every second.

The dark humor is that Rush’s biggest sin may have been optimism. In an era increasingly allergic to it, they believed in improvement — musical, personal, even societal. That’s unfashionable.

Cynicism sells. Rage Against the Machine built an entire brand on permanent fury, screaming about “the system” while cashing checks from it. Nine Inch Nails turned self-loathing into an aesthetic. Nirvana mattered because they captured the feeling that nothing worked and no one was coming to fix it. Misery read as honesty. Anger read as depth. Enjoyment, by contrast, looks unserious.

But why? We’re here for a good time, not a long one. Rush understood that early.

Music doesn’t always need to diagnose the human condition. Sometimes it just needs to move, lift, and hit you square in the chest. Half a century on, they’re back. Not to win over the skeptics, who never wanted convincing anyway. But to reward the faithful and quietly remind everyone else that having a good time isn’t a crime.

​Rush, Tom sawyer, Music, Culture, Rush reunion, Classic rock, Geddy lee, Alex lifeson, Neil peart, Review, His mind is not for rent 

It’s the $1.2 trillion question.

The United States spends roughly $1.2 trillion every year on means-tested welfare programs — cash aid, food assistance, housing subsidies, and medical care. The list runs through a thicket of acronyms: SNAP, TANF, SSI, EITC, ACTC, WIC, CHIP, ACA subsidies, and CCDBG, plus school meals, Medicaid, and Section 8 housing.

States that eliminate fraud can afford to provide better aid to real residents in need — creating a race to the top in administration rather than a race to exploit Washington.

This guaranteed-income architecture now fuels a destructive cycle. Federal spending drives debt. Debt fuels inflation. Inflation expands dependence. And Washington responds by printing more money and sending it back to the states — without demanding serious accountability.

The result is a bottomless pit of spending, fraud, and inflation, with states handed endless federal funds and almost no incentive to police abuse.

Minnesota’s massive Somali-linked fraud scandal exposes this system in its most grotesque form. The question is whether President Trump will use it to force states to reclaim ownership — and responsibility — over welfare.

The day-care, nutrition, and medical fraud uncovered in Minneapolis is not an aberration. It is the predictable outcome of an open-ended entitlement state. Fraud networks thrive wherever federal money flows without limits or consequences. While the Minneapolis cases involved tight-knit ethnic networks, the underlying problem is national and structural. As long as states do not have to pay their own way, fraud will remain rational behavior.

California offers a parallel example. A report last summer found that roughly one-third of all community college applications in the state were fake — submitted solely to extract federal financial aid. That scam could not survive if California had to pick up the tab.

It isn’t just a blue-state problem, either. As Alex Berenson has reported, Indiana’s Medicaid spending on “autism behavioral therapy” exploded thirtyfold in just six years, reaching $75,000 per child for a few hours a week of unproven playtime therapy. When federal dollars cover the bill, discipline evaporates.

RELATED: Government fraud meets its worst enemy: Some dude with a phone

Wanlee Prachyapanaprai via iStock/Getty Images

Many Americans ask how Minnesota allowed the Feeding Our Future scandal to persist for years. The answer is simple: Washington supplied unlimited money, and the state faced no budgetary consequence for ignoring warning signs.

Over 200 day-care and medical providers allegedly siphoned billions across Medicaid, child care, and nutrition programs. That scale of fraud does not occur without political indifference — or worse.

States have every incentive under this system to look away. Federal money enables a closed loop of special interests, dependency, and electoral protection. Oversight threatens the flow.

Devolving welfare programs to the states — using fixed block grants rather than open-ended federal matches — would cut this dynamic off at the knees. States must balance their budgets. They do not have a printing press. When fraud costs real money, enforcement follows.

This is the moment for Trump to make that case. Either states raise taxes to fund welfare programs themselves, or they reform and prioritize them. That choice restores democratic accountability.

Consider the contrast. The United States spends roughly $1 trillion on national defense — protecting everyone. Yet we now spend even more on means-tested welfare that serves narrower populations while distorting the economy for all. Open-ended welfare spending drives inflation, which then forces more people onto welfare. End the money-printing, and fewer people will need subsidies in the first place.

RELATED: The insane little story that failed to warn America about the depth of Somali fraud

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In response to the Minnesota scandal, Trump’s Office of Management and Budget froze $10 billion in funding for TANF and the Child Care Development Fund across several states. That is a start. But temporary freezes will not survive the next Democrat administration.

The durable fix is statutory restructuring — through budget reconciliation — to force states to assume full financial responsibility for welfare programs. Without unlimited federal backstopping, abuse becomes politically and fiscally intolerable.

Critics warn that block grants spark a “race to the bottom.” The 1996 welfare reform suggests the opposite. When states gained ownership, many innovated — emphasizing work, child-care support, and fraud reduction. Accountability improved because incentives changed.

Yes, benefits should be limited to the truly needy. Open-ended entitlements allowed 250 “meal sites” to appear almost overnight in Minnesota, claiming to feed 120,000 children a day.

Force states to balance their books, and they will treat taxpayer money with respect. States that eliminate fraud can afford to provide better aid to real residents in need — creating a race to the top in administration rather than a race to exploit Washington.

The real way to “feed our future” is to end inflationary money-printing and dismantle the infinite entitlement state — so families can afford food on their own again.

​Opinion & analysis, Welfare reform, Inflation, Fraud, Federalism, Donald trump, Snap benefits, Tanf, Families, Feeding our future, Scandal, Medicaid, Supplemental nutrition assistance program, Section 8 housing, National debt, Taxes and spending, Minnesota fraud, Somali fraud, Minneapolis, Alex berenson, California, Community college