Gladys Palast 1921 – 2018
My mom died Monday night. 96 years old. She lived a fierce and happy life in a horrible century. She said
Asides
Robert Parry RIP
A Reporter Outcast In His Own Land
Bob Parry has died. He was a giant. The reporter who uncovered the Iran-Contra scandal
Dad’s Last Erection
Just before his eighty-ninth birthday, my father was watching a Viagra commercial on TV. It ends with the warning
My Father's Victory in the Pacific
In 1995, in Chicago, veterans of Silver Post No. 282 celebrated the fiftieth anniversary of their victory over Japan, marching around a catering hall wearing their old service caps, pins, ribbons and medals. My father sat at his table, silent. He did not wear his medals
Danny Schechter (1942-2015)
Today, we lost a journalist’s journalist, the moral commander of investigative reporters from New York to Johannesburg
Selma, secretly
In 1930, when my father was an eight-year-old kid in Chicago, he asked his older brother why people were outside in the cold snow waiting in a long line. His brother Harold said, “It’s a bread line. They don’t have anything to eat
Cartoonist Ted Rall Joins Palast Investigations Team
With the blood of cartoonists still fresh on the walls of Charlie Hebdo in France, I thought
A Tale of Two Cuomos: The Tragic End of the Inspired Voice and the Duplicitous Pol
I knew Mario Cuomo well. Too well. I helped write talking points for speeches that got him elected Governor
Robin Williams and the Happiness Industry
I can’t help feeling that Robin Williams was a victim of his industry: the happiness industry
"Inside an Investigative Reporter" Greg Palast gives the full Monty
Palast tells tales of undercover investigations, poetry, honey traps and why you stay the hell out of journalism school to Danny Schechter
Don't Leave Without Saying Good-ByeA personal note from Greg Palast
I am pleased to announce my new association with Al Jazeera for a series of in-depth globe-spanning investigative reports. It is a great honor to join with journalists whose inestimable courage
Oscar, We Know Where You Lunch
By the age of fifteen, Rick Rowley was doomed – born in the middle of Nowhere, Michigan, a wasteland of rust and snow so awful we let autoworkers have it
