The curious thoughts of Jaron Summers

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Blocking Culture

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A tall hat blocks my view of The New Yorker’s cover,
and suddenly I’m questioning modern culture, theater manners,
and whether my mind is slipping — or just paying attention.

The Summers Interview

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Rachel: I’m calling bullshit on what you just said. Have you ever had a relationship with a minor and are you and Epstein friends? Mr. Summers: Yes.

Bye Bye American Dream

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One carefully placed shot from a rooftop at Utah Valley University ended the life of Charlie Kirk, the conservative firebrand speaker, in front of hundreds of witnesses gathered for one of his signature “Prove Me Wrong” events.

Making a film is like raising a mule

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Expensive, stubborn, and guaranteed to embarrass you in public. Critics, meanwhile, scribble their “autobiographies” between popcorn refills, until they try making a film themselves and trip over the camera cable. In the end, filmmakers risk their souls, critics risk their egos—and both usually lose.

Coronation: A Century of Almost

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Toxic water, stealth bombers, drunk curlers, and dog trainers: Coronation’s secret recipe for 100 years of glorious obscurity.

Time Is a Flat Prune: The Chronological Smackdown

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An 83-year-old time-slowing guru battles a hyperactive teen in a cosmic showdown of clocks, studies, and rogue toasters—featuring caffeine, Csikszentmihalyi, and a spinning ceiling sundial. Time bends. Laughter stretches. Toaster speaks.

Billy Woodfield

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Billy Woodfield was 325 pounds of Hollywood legend—writer, hustler, and the man behind Sinatra’s best line. He knew everyone, conned Howard Hughes, and once spent a night in a closet with Marilyn Monroe. True story. He never wrote it. I’m writing it now.

Blame It On Baby

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Hans and Liesel, a poor but happy couple, make a wish for eternal love. When Liesel mysteriously conceives, fear consumes them. They brand their child a trickster, spreading dread. Rejected, the boy vanishes into the forest, leaving only sorrow in their home.

Billy Goat Jones

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I saw him hang by one finger, twist mid-air, and fling himself across a canyon like a steroidal bird. My job? Keep him alive between miracles. I was the brake pedal he never used.