Author: Kyle Hayes

  • On Uniforms, Crime, and the Price of Safety

    On Uniforms, Crime, and the Price of Safety

    By Kyle J. Hayes

    They’re calling in the National Guard.

    To Albuquerque, my city.

    Not for a natural disaster, Not to deliver food or clear debris after a storm.

    But to stand beside police officers—in full uniform, rifles slung, boots planted—to “assist” with crime.

    I understand the impulse.

    People are scared.

    They want safety, order, and something that feels like control in a city that has often felt like it’s slipping through the cracks.

    And yes, crime must be stopped.

    Yes, the police need help.

    But at what cost?

    Because when I hear the words National Guard deployed, I don’t think of peace.

    I don’t think of protection.

    I see troops on every corner, unmoving, impersonal.

    I see uniforms that don’t distinguish between law and war.

    I hear the crackle of radios and the soft click of rifles being adjusted in the early morning light.

    I imagine being stopped—not once, not twice, but every day—and asked to present identification to prove who I am, why I’m here, and where I’m going.

    And maybe you don’t see it that way.

    Maybe you see strength.

    Reassurance.

    But I’m a Black man in America.

    And I know—in my bones—that safety is a relative thing.

    What brings comfort to one community often brings fear to mine.

    I’m not romanticizing crime.

    I don’t dismiss what it means to be a victim, to lose your car, your wallet, your home, or worse—your life—to senseless violence.

    We have a problem here.

    We have judges who release the same people over and over, courts that cycle through the mentally ill like it’s just another box to check, another body to process.

    People clearly incapable of caring for themselves are handed bus passes and court dates like it’s a solution.

    And it’s not.

    But what I wonder—what keeps me up at night—is what exactly the troops are going to do about that.

    Will they post up outside the emergency room and intercept the man having a psychotic break before he steps into traffic?

    Will they appear in housing court and argue for more beds, doctors, and treatment?

    Will they stop a broken system from returning the same suffering people onto the same unforgiving streets?

    Or will they patrol the corners?

    Will they monitor “suspicious activity,” which too often means me—or someone who looks like me—walking, talking, breathing in the wrong place at the wrong time?

    Will they demand proof that I belong here?

    Because even if I have the right answers, even if I’ve done nothing wrong,

    I know from experience that sometimes that isn’t enough.

    Where does this end?

    How many steps from here to a society of passes, papers, checkpoints, and curfews?

    How many more emergencies before we normalize soldiers walking through our neighborhoods, not to help, but to enforce?

    To watch.

    To decide.

    And when they leave—if they leave—what have we lost in the meantime?

    Because there’s a difference between order and freedom.

    There’s a difference between law and justice.

    And we’ve walked this road before.

    We’ve seen what happens when we blur those lines too far.

    The uniforms and flags change, but the outcome stays the same.

    So yes, I want safety.

    But not if it means giving up the right to live without fear of my government.

    Not if it means turning my city into something that looks less like a community and more like a checkpoint.

    Because you can’t enforce peace at the barrel of a gun.

    You can only try to build it—patiently, painfully, imperfectly—until the ground beneath your feet feels like home again.

    And that’s what I want for Albuquerque.

    Not a fortress.

    But a home.

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  • Does Listening to Superfly Make You Cool?

    Does Listening to Superfly Make You Cool?

    By Kyle J. Hayes

    Some albums sound cool. And then some albums are cool.

    Albums so effortlessly smooth, so drenched in style and swagger, that just pressing play feels like stepping into another world. Albums that don’t just make you nod your head but make you walk differently. Makes you feel different.

    And Superfly?

    Man. Superfly is one of those albums.

    Curtis Mayfield didn’t just create a soundtrack—he created a mood. A statement. A soul-funk symphony that floats, struts, and glides with a kind of self-assuredness that cannot be faked. The grooves are deep, the horns are sharp, and the basslines carry themselves with the quiet confidence of a man who knows exactly who he is and what he’s about.

    And so, the question becomes—does listening to one of the coolest albums ever make you cooler by default?

    I wish it did.

    I wish just spending time with Superfly was enough to give you that Curtis Mayfield grace, that effortless style, that ability to turn the act of being into something cinematic. But cool isn’t just about what you hear—it’s about how you carry it.

    And Superfly carries itself differently than most.

    Because, yes, it’s funky. Yes, it’s soulful. Yes, it moves. But listen closely, and you’ll realize Mayfield wasn’t just making a soundtrack to a blaxploitation film—he was challenging it. At a time when Hollywood was painting drug dealers and hustlers as heroic figures, Mayfield turned the mirror back. Songs like Pusherman and Freddie’s Dead aren’t glorifications but indictments. They’re warnings wrapped in some of the most infectious grooves ever recorded.

    That’s what makes this album deserving of its place on the list.

    Because it’s not just a great soundtrack. It’s not just a collection of songs. It is commentary, art, and a document of its time that still feels as relevant now as it did then.

    So, no, just listening to Superfly won’t make you cool.

    But understanding it? Feeling it? Letting it seep into your bones until you carry yourself with that same quiet confidence, that same unshakable awareness of self?

    That just might.

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  • Go Rin No Sho

    Daily writing prompt
    What book could you read over and over again?
    View all responses

    I read a book in Highschool that mentioned it, read it once, read it again much later, then again , then again, each time learning something different.

  • Hearing Born in the U.S.A. for the First Time—Again

    Hearing Born in the U.S.A. for the First Time—Again

    By Kyle J. Hayes

    In 1984, Born in the U.S.A. was everywhere.

    It was the sound of shopping malls, car stereos, and bars with televisions blasting MTV. It was a staple, a part of the background noise of America, a song that seemed as inescapable as the country it was named after. And back then, I heard it only on the surface—just another piece of pop culture, another anthem.

    And, to be honest, I never thought Bruce Springsteen could sing.

    My friends used to joke about it—Bruce Can’t Singsteen. That ragged, gravelly voice, more of a shout than a melody, seemed to lack the polish of the pop stars ruling the airwaves. And so, I didn’t give him much thought.

    But the years have a way of changing the way you hear things.

    Because Born in the U.S.A. isn’t just an anthem. It isn’t just a fist-pumping, stadium-shaking chant. And I still wonder how many people who blasted it from their radios ever actually listened—truly listened—to what Springsteen was saying. Because beneath the massive drums and the stadium-filling chorus, there is a story. A deeply American story, but not the one that blind patriotism wants to claim.

    This is an album of struggle, disillusionment, lost dreams, and broken promises. Born in the U.S.A.—the song, not just the album, is not a celebration but a lament. The story of a Vietnam veteran, discarded by the same country that sent him to war, returning home to nothing. It is anger wrapped in a fist-pumping rhythm, a song of protest mistaken for a declaration of pride.

    And that, in many ways, is the brilliance of this album.

    Springsteen tells stories—real ones—the kind that don’t make it into history books, the kind that plays out in the quiet corners of small-town bars and kitchen tables stacked with unpaid bills. Downbound Train aches with heartbreak. I’m on Fire burns with restrained longing. My Hometown is a reflection of a place that no longer exists, a memory slipping further into the past with each passing day.

    And then there is Glory Days.

    I didn’t think much of it when I was younger. But now? Now, I hear it differently. Now I understand the weight of nostalgia, the way time slips away before you even realize it is moving. Now I know what it feels like to sit across from an old friend, talking about how things used to be, knowing—deep down—that those days aren’t coming back.

    That’s the power of this album. It isn’t just about America. It’s about the people who live in it, struggle in it, and survive. It is about time, regret, and resilience. And that is why it belongs on this list—because it is not just great music but greatstorytelling.

    I hear it now.

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  • The Beat That Won’t Be Denied: Saturday Night Fever and the Sound of an Era

    The Beat That Won’t Be Denied: Saturday Night Fever and the Sound of an Era

    By Kyle J. Hayes

    Some albums exist within their time. Others are their time.

    You cannot think of the late ’70s—its fashion, excess, and nightlife—without thinking of Saturday Night Fever. You cannot think of Saturday Night Fever without thinking of the Bee Gees. And you cannot listen to this soundtrack without feeling the irresistible pull to move somewhere deep in your bones.

    I knew what was coming before I even hit play. I’ve heard these songs before—many, many times. But there is something about experiencing them again, consciously, with the intent to really listen.

    And within seconds, I was gone.

    If not for the fact that I was driving, I would have been doing a terrible impression of John Travolta’s dance scene, pointing my fingers in the air and gliding across an imaginary light-up floor. Instead, I smiled. I sang along. I let myself be taken.

    And that is the thing about this album—it takes you.

    The moment Stayin’ Alive begins that walking bassline strutting forward like it owns the room, you are in it. The world outside fades, and for a little while, you exist somewhere else—somewhere electric, somewhere vibrant, somewhere that smells of sweat and spilled drinks and neon light.

    And for those who scoff at disco, I have to ask—why?

    Is it because they couldn’t dance? Because it became cool to dismiss it without ever giving it a chance? Because they never understood that the truly cool people who walked onto the dancefloor without hesitation never cared what anyone thought in the first place?

    Disco was more than music. It was movement. It was freedom. It was a moment when the dancefloor became a sanctuary, where rhythm could shake off the weight of the world and where, for just a few hours, the music was all that mattered.

    And this album? It captures that perfectly.

    I cannot stress enough how much it has earned its place on this list. If you doubt it or feel a little blah, put it on. Let the bass hit, the falsettos soar, and the groove take over.

    And then, let’s see those moves.

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  • What Happened to the Food Network?

    What Happened to the Food Network?

    By Kyle J. Hayes

    This has been on my mind for quite some time now.

    I didn’t want to write it. Honestly, I didn’t.

    Because this is something I loved. I still do, somewhere deep beneath the mess it’s become.

    There was a time—not that long ago—when the Food Network was sacred ground.

    A place where you learned, and recipes weren’t just entertainment—they were an invitation.

    An onion wasn’t a punchline or a mystery basket twist. It was the start of something real.

    You’d sit down, flip it on, and suddenly, you’d be guided through the slow, patient beauty of roasting a chicken or building a béchamel.

    The chefs were teachers.

    The food was possible.

    It wasn’t about flash or drama or who could sculpt the tallest cake while blindfolded in a wind tunnel.

    It was about cooking.

    It was about learning to feed yourself and the people you love.

    And now?

    Now, it’s wall-to-wall competitions.

    Cupcakes and sabotage.

    Holiday-themed cage matches.

    The kind of shows where you never see how anything is made—just the fast-forwarded montage of panic, plating, and dramatic cuts to commercial.

    And somewhere in all of this noise, the food got lost.

    Don’t get me wrong—Guy Fieri has his lane. And he’s damn good at it.

    Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives have become the eternal rerun of American comfort food. It’s cotton candy television. You know precisely what you’re getting—grease, cheese pulls, and one man losing his mind over chili dogs in sunglasses.

    But when that’s the backbone of your programming?

    When every show is a variation of a bake-off, cook-off, or kitchen showdown, what are you actually feeding people?

    We Used to Cook

    This is where I get personal.

    Because I learned to cook by watching the Food Network.

    I mean, really cook.

    Not sprinkle herbs on a plate and call it rustic.

    I mean, stand in the kitchen, follow the steps, make mistakes, burn the garlic, and try again.

    Dinner parties came back—not because we suddenly became gourmet, but because the shows made it seem doable.

    There was something radical about it—the idea that good food didn’t have to come from a restaurant.

    You could make risotto or bake a roast and have people over, sit down, and just be human together.

    It was empowering.

    It gave people ownership of their kitchens again.

    But then the Network changed.

    Because they didn’t want you cooking at home.

    They didn’t want you making pasta with your grandmother’s rolling pin or searing steaks in a cast iron pan you inherited.

    They wanted you to watch.

    And when you were done watching, they wanted you to go out—to one of the restaurants owned by the judges, the hosts, the celebrity chefs.

    Make no mistake—this was never about the love of food.

    Not anymore.

    This is about building brands, selling tickets, and spinning off frozen meals with a famous face on the box.

    The Food Network doesn’t teach you how to cook anymore.

    It teaches you how to consume.

    What We’ve Lost

    And look, I get it.

    Entertainment wins. Drama sells.

    People love a good showdown, a time crunch, a last-minute twist.

    But for those of us who still believe food is more than that—who believe it’s culture, memory, and connection—we’re left flipping channels, wondering where the real food went.

    And maybe it’s still out there.

    It could be on YouTube channels, in cookbooks, or in the weekend classes in the back of indie bookstores.

    Maybe it’s in our kitchens, waiting for us to come back.

    All I know is this:

    There was a time when the Food Network made us better cooks.

    And now, it just wants to make us better customers.

    And I miss the food.

    I miss the quiet.

    I miss the why.

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  • The Genius, The Legend, Purple Rain

    The Genius, The Legend, Purple Rain

    By Kyle J. Hayes

    There are artists, and then there are forces of nature.

    Prince was not just a musician. He was not just an entertainer. He was a movement, a singularity, a being so untethered to convention that he could wear lace and leather, heels and chains, and still walk into a room with more raw power than any rock god before or after him.

    But this list is about albums, not just artists.

    And Purple Rain—like its creator—is undeniable.

    It is impossible to talk about this album without the movie of the same name, a film now preserved in the National Film Registry for being “culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant.” But this is not just a soundtrack to a film. This album is the experience. It is the sound of Prince reaching his peak, of an artist so in control of his vision, that he turned his pain, passion, and genius into something bigger than music. Something timeless.

    The emotional range on this record is staggering. Purple Rain is not just pop, rock, R&B, soul, or gospel. It is all of it, a fusion of sound and spirit that only Prince could have created. The slow-burn ache of The Beautiful Ones, the raw, lust-fueled charge of Darling Nikki, and the anthemic, church-meets-stadium explosion of Let’s Go Crazy. Every track pulls from something deeper than genre—it pulls from feeling.

    And then, there is the title track.

    If you have never listened to Purple Rain in the Dark, with nothing but the weight of the world on your shoulders and that guitar wailing like it knows all your secrets, then I don’t know if you’ve heard it. That song is not just a closing track. It is a moment, a baptism, an ascension. It is a man pouring every note, word, and last drop of himself into the music until nothing is left.

    It is, simply put, a masterpiece.

    This album belongs here among the greatest. Not just because of what it accomplished but because of what it still does. Because decades later, you can play it, and it will still move you. Still, change you. It still reminds you that Prince was not just a man but an artist.

    He was a legend.

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  • The Family Table

    The Family Table

    By Kyle J. Hayes

    Family-style food.

    Most people hear that, and they think of big tables, long benches, and a group of people laughing too loud over plates passed back and forth. But that’s not what I’m talking about. Not today.

    I’m talking about restaurants run by families.

    It is not some faceless corporate chain where recipes are born in a test kitchen, engineered by marketing teams to maximize shelf life and “mouthfeel.”

    I’m talking about food with history, with bloodlines, with stories.

    Food where the recipe doesn’t come from a corporate memo but from someone’s grandmother.

    Food brought over from the old country—whether that country is Mexico, Korea, Vietnam, or somewhere in between—served with the kind of pride you can taste in every bite.

    Albuquerque happens to be one of the best cities in America for this.

    A city that has kept its soul intact, where authentic New Mexican cuisine still sits at the center of the table, smothered in red and green chile. Where you can find Mexican food served out of family-run spots that have no PR teams, no focus groups—just a sign out front and a kitchen that runs out of beef tongue tacos because they’re that good.

    Places that don’t need Instagram filters or foodie influencers because their customers already know.

    And don’t even get me started on the Asian spots—Orchid Thai, my quiet little secret I hate to share because I know what happens when the wrong people find out.

    I’ve seen it before.

    Take Coda Bakery, my go-to for an excellent banh mi. I always order the #1. It used to be a hidden gem until the word got out.

    Then came the food bloggers.

    Then came the Food Network.

    Now, I stand in line with tourists, waiting for something that once felt like mine alone.

    But that’s how it goes.

    The best things, once discovered, never stay secret.

    And in a way, that’s okay.

    The beauty of family-run restaurants isn’t just that they make the best food you’ve ever had—they make it proudly, and they’ll make it for everyone.

    The recipe doesn’t change when the line gets longer.

    The taste doesn’t shift to accommodate Yelp stars or branded merch.

    What you’re eating is still the same dish someone’s auntie made years ago, the same soup someone’s father learned to perfect, the same bread someone’s mother kneaded in the early morning hours.

    It’s real.

    And real food leaves a mark.

    Most of the time, I’m not one to go out. I don’t care much for the noise, the scene, the crowd.

    I get my food to-go, bring it home, eat in peace.

    But occasionally, when I need to remind myself why it matters, I’ll go.

    I’ll sit.

    Order a beer.

    And try to guess what I should get.

    Yes, it helps that I know the owners.

    But friendship only gets you so far.

    The food does the rest.

    That’s family style.

    Not the furniture.

    Not the gimmick.

    But the food—and the love—you’ll never find in a chain.

    And the family that keeps serving it anyway.

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  • Bon Jovi, Casey Kasem, and the Accidental Education of a Generation

    Bon Jovi, Casey Kasem, and the Accidental Education of a Generation

    By Kyle J. Hayes

    I come from a time before algorithms.

    Before curated playlists and “for you” feeds.

    Before, the machines learned what you liked and fed you more of it, spoonful by spoonful until your world was a neat, predictable echo chamber of your own taste.

    Back then, we had Casey Kasem.

    We had America’s Top 40 rolling through the airwaves every Sunday, and if you wanted to get to the music you liked—your music—you had to sit through all of it.

    The bubblegum pop. The power ballads. The hair metal anthems.

    Genres you wouldn’t claim in public, songs you swore you didn’t like.

    But you listened anyway.

    And somehow, without realizing it, you learned.

    That’s how I found Bon Jovi.

    Specifically, Slippery When Wet.

    I didn’t go looking for it.

    It wasn’t a calculated choice.

    It came on between something else—something I was waiting for—and I was already caught by the time Livin’ on a Prayer hit that chorus, by the time Jon Bon Jovi’s voice cracked just enough to sound human beneath all that glam.

    It takes me back.

    To shopping malls, back when they weren’t dead spaces but living, breathing social ecosystems.

    To high school parking lots where kids smoked Marlboros like it was a personality trait.

    To a sea of hairspray and acid-washed denim, jeans so tight they cut off circulation and the unspoken understanding that this was our soundtrack.

    And then there’s Wanted Dead or Alive.

    A song that, even now, carries the same weight as Desperado by The Eagles—that same lonesome, drifting vibe, the ballad of someone both admired and misunderstood. The sound of freedom and regret is tangled up in a few guitar licks and a worn voice.

    It’s bravado, but it’s also vulnerability.

    And that’s what always stayed with me.

    Slippery When Wet isn’t just a relic of an era.

    It’s not just an artifact from the time of neon and big hair.

    It’s a reminder of a moment when music was messy and genre-blind when you couldn’t ignore the things that didn’t fit neatly into your world.

    You had to listen.

    You had to sit with it.

    And in the process, you discovered more than you thought you would.

    That’s why this album doesn’t just deserve to be on the list—it demands to be there.

    Not because it’s technically perfect.

    But because it captures something real, something loud, something undeniably ours.

    And because some songs don’t just belong to a decade—they belong to anyone who remembers what it felt like to be young, restless, and waiting to find their place.

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  • The Great Pizza Debate: A Slice of America

    By Kyle J. Hayes

    We’ve all been there.

    Sitting around a table, maybe a few drinks deep, maybe already two slices in, when someone—loud, confident, maybe even a little too sure of themselves—declares who has the best pizza.

    And just like that, the debate begins.

    It’s a ritual, really. An argument older than most friendships.

    But when it comes down to it, the big three have always stood tall: Chicago. New York. Detroit.

    And yes, there are others—those small regional legends and local spots that are too niche or strange to be included in the national conversation.

    And by strange, I do mean you, California.

    I’ll get to you in a minute.

    The Titans: New York, Chicago, Detroit

    New York.

    The king of portability. The slice you fold in half, dripping grease onto the paper plate, eaten on the move, city horns blaring in the distance.

    New York pizza is unapologetically simple: thin crust, crisp but chewy, sauce lightly spread, mozzarella bubbling. It’s not meant to be analyzed—it’s meant to be devoured.

    And that’s part of its brilliance. No frills, no fuss. It’s the street food of dreams.

    But simplicity is a double-edged sword—one bad step, one lazy ingredient, and the whole thing falls apart. New York pizza is as good as the hands making it, no better, no worse.

    Chicago.

    Now, Chicago doesn’t want you eating on the move.

    With your fork and knife in hand, Chicago wants you seated, ready to commit.

    Some say the deep dish is an experience—a casserole pretending to be a pizza. Still, it forces you to slow down and let the sauce, cheese, and thick buttery crust remind you that pizza can be hearty, indulgent, or even excessive.

    But it’s not an everyday slice. It’s the heavyweight champ that demands respect, but maybe not the guy you want in your corner every single night.

    Detroit.

    The underdog that’s climbed its way into the big leagues.

    Rectangular, caramelized cheese edges, a thick but airy crust, sauce ladled on top after baking.

    Detroit is blue-collar pizza—born in auto factories, unapologetically square, sharp-edged, and strong.

    It feels like the kind of pie made for people who work with their hands.

    And the first bite hits you hard—the crunch, the chew, the sweet-savory punch of sauce.

    It’s everything you didn’t know you wanted from pizza.

    The Outlier: California

    And then there’s California.

    California walks in wearing flip-flops, kale on the crust, maybe figs, goat cheese, a drizzle of something organic and local.

    They didn’t come to play by the rules.

    Is it still pizza?

    Technically, yes.

    But is it trying too hard?

    Absolutely.

    California pizza isn’t about comfort; it’s about reinvention. And depending on who you are, that’s either refreshing—or an insult to everything sacred about a pie.

    But Let’s Be Honest…

    I could weigh the merits of each all day long.

    But the truth is, 

      The best pizza I’ve ever had wasn’t about the zip code.

    It was at Dion’s in Albuquerque, where the crust is seasoned just right, and every bite feels like someone cared about what they were doing.

    Or Happy Joe’s in Rock Island, Illinois—home of the greatest Taco Pizza in the world, and yes, I’ll stand on that hill until the day I die.

    They don’t compete by numbers.

    They don’t have the same recognition.

    But they don’t have to.

    Because what makes pizza great isn’t the city.

    It’s the hands that made it. The people behind the oven.

    The memory attached to that first bite.

    So argue all you want—New York, Chicago, Detroit, or California.

    But the honest answer?

    It’s wherever you sat down, took a bite, and thought:

    This is exactly where I’m supposed to be.

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