Dwight Lewis is a useless columnist

In a recent column, Dwight Lewis wrote about how people mourn death. He should know a lot about that. His people, black people such as himself, are dying by the droves on Nashville streets and dark alleys. Black on black murder is rampant.

Lewis, the philosopher, however, sits in his Fat Cat chair at the Tennessean, wherein he has a job that he could mail in -- a convenience of being black himself in a liberal-run newspaper that can feel good about itself for having him on its payroll as show -- and contemplates his biggest decision of the day -- in which establishment will he be served his steak on this day.

What should he do? I have no idea. That's not my job to decide. It's my job to criticize the obvious. If he is going to pass himself off as a writer-philosopher, he needs to can the flowery prose, sick liberal agendas and entitlement program cheerleading, and, more importantly, to stop ignoring the elephant in the room, and join the real world, the one in which it is a fight every day for a majority of his fellow blacks.

In short, he needs to be somebody, somebody for those who should matter the most to himself.

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