For a long time, I thought it was a festival. Then a podcast. Then a zine. Then a YouTube channel. Now it’s becoming a place for my own artwork.

But looking back over nearly 25 years, I realize Guerilladelphia has always been the same thing.

I want to help people who deserve an audience find one.

That’s the thread I somehow kept following, even when I didn’t realize I was following it.

It started with a film festival

In 2003, I created the Philadelphia Video Festival.

At the time, film festivals were packed with movies made by people who could afford to shoot on film. There were also plenty of so-called “independent” films that were actually produced by major studios through their independent labels.

That pissed me off.

I wanted to see what actually independent filmmakers were making.

So I created a festival with one stupidly simple rule:

If you didn’t shoot it on video, you couldn’t enter.

I held the festival at the Bristol Riverside Theatre in Bucks County, Pennsylvania. It was a huge success.

And then I gave the theater the profits.

Not because I had some brilliant nonprofit business model. I just wanted independent filmmakers to have a place to show their work.

That has pretty much been my problem for the next 25 years.

I care more about the thing than I care about making money from the thing.

I am not naturally good at business. I’m not particularly good with money. I have spent a ridiculous amount of my life trying to figure out how to make creative projects sustainable without turning them into something I don’t recognize.

That is still the problem I’m trying to solve.

I haven’t figured that out yet.

Then Guerilladelphia was born

Around the same time, I was going through a divorce and my life was generally falling apart.

The guy who had helped me with the Philadelphia Video Festival wanted to keep the name and continue the festival.

I wasn’t thrilled.

I had created the festival. I had come up with the idea. I didn’t really want to hand over the name.

But I was going through enough shit that eventually I said, essentially, whatever.

So I decided I’d start another festival.

I called it Guerilladelphia.

The name was a stupid little mashup of guerrilla filmmakers and Philadelphia.

The festival never happened.

But the name stuck.

And eventually I realized that maybe the festival wasn’t really the point anyway.

Guerilladelphia became the name I put on projects that tried to do the same thing:

Give independent creators a place to be seen.

Then came podcasts

Podcasting was still this weird new technology.

I started a show called This Is Some Scene, where I interviewed independent filmmakers and, whenever I could, people whose names were considerably bigger than mine.

I had a theory.

If I could get someone interesting or famous onto the podcast, maybe people would show up for them.

And while they were there, maybe they’d discover somebody they had never heard of.

I don’t know if it ever worked.

But I still love the idea.

People are usually more impressed when I tell them I interviewed Crispin Glover, Joe Dante, Zoe Bell, Nick Hornby, or that I interviewed Tommy Wiseau from The Room ridiculously early in the podcasting era.

And, sure, those things are cool.

But honestly?

The interviews I remember most are the ones where I found somebody before anybody knew who they were.

That’s the part that still gets me.

I met R. Saint Claire through that world.

More on her in a minute.

I eventually quit This Is Some Scene, and that’s one of my creative regrets.

It was taking a toll on me, though, and I needed to stop.

Sometimes I wonder where it would be today if I hadn’t.

That’s the problem with being alive. You don’t get to see the alternate versions.

I went on to do other podcasts, trying to recreate the same basic idea: independent artists, interesting people, different kinds of creators.

None of them lasted very long.

But I kept trying to find the thing.

Then came Book Worms

Eventually, R. Saint Claire came to me with an idea.

An old-school horror zine.

Analog only.

Paper. Ink. Short stories. Comics. Games. Weird stuff.

No digital edition.

No pretending we’re a giant publishing company.

Just a physical object that somebody could actually hold.

And suddenly I recognized the idea immediately.

Book Worms Horror Zine became another version of the same thing I’ve been trying to do since 2003.

Give people a platform.

We publish established writers when we can.

But we’re especially interested in the person who might be sitting beside them.

That’s the dream.

Someone picks up Book Worms because there’s a story by Grady Hendrix.

And while they’re reading it, they discover Cat Delani.

Or somebody picks up an issue because of a writer they’ve heard of and walks away remembering somebody whose name they had never seen before.

We’re still trying to make that happen.

Getting the bigger names isn’t easy.

But we don’t stop asking.

My current ridiculous goal is to get Joe Hill into Book Worms.

I’d love to create a limited-edition Book Worms Horror Zine issue with one Joe Hill story buried inside it, alongside writers who haven’t yet reached that level of recognition.

Imagine being a horror fan and finding out there’s one Joe Hill story hidden inside a tiny, analog-only zine that only 100 or 150 people own.

That’s the kind of thing I think is cool.

Not because Joe Hill needs Book Worms.

He doesn’t.

The unknown writer sitting beside him does.

Then I started The Scroll Stopper Club

Now I’ve got The Scroll Stopper Club.

The idea is pretty simple:

Every day, thousands of songs get thrown into the algorithm.

Most of them disappear.

Occasionally, something makes me stop scrolling.

That’s a Scroll Stopper.

And most of the time, the songs stopping my scroll aren’t from enormous artists.

They’re from people I’ve never heard of.

That still gives me a little thrill.

I love discovering somebody before everybody else does.

The Scroll Stopper Club is my attempt to push those artists back into the world instead of letting them disappear underneath another thousand posts.

And now I’ve started drawing them.

Which brings me to where Guerilladelphia is today.

Maybe this is what Guerilladelphia was always supposed to become

I’ve spent most of my career working with creative technology.

Pixels. Computers. Video. Social media. Digital design. Teaching people how to make things with machines.

And now, weirdly, I’m going back to paper.

I’m drawing musicians.

I’m making gig posters.

I’m experimenting with illustrations and strange promotional ideas.

I’m trying to figure out how to make something that can compete for someone’s attention without looking like everything else in their feed.

And I keep coming back to the same question:

Can a drawing stop the scroll?

I don’t think my artwork is there yet.

I’m getting better.

But that’s the goal.

I want to make a hand-drawn image that makes somebody stop and think:

Who the hell is this band?

And if that question leads them to a song they love, then the drawing has done its job.

That’s Guerilladelphia.

It was never really about the festival.

Or the podcast.

Or the zine.

Or the YouTube channel.

Or even my drawings.

Those are just different tools I’ve picked up along the way.

The mission has stayed remarkably consistent:

Find people making something interesting. Give them a little more attention than the algorithm gave them. Put them in front of somebody who might love what they’re doing.

That’s it.

And maybe that’s why AI has made me think so much about what I’m doing now.

I’m not anti-AI.

I’m interested in technology. I’ve spent decades working with it.

But I also think we’re going to reach a point where the fact that something was actually made by somebody becomes meaningful.

A crooked line.

Ink on paper.

A strange little zine that only exists in physical form.

A drawing that isn’t perfectly rendered.

A story from a writer you’ve never heard of.

Something rare.

Something you can’t generate a thousand versions of with a button.

Something that leaves evidence behind.

Proof that somebody was here.

Maybe that’s what Guerilladelphia has been chasing for 25 years.

Not fame.

Not even necessarily success.

Discovery.

The feeling of finding somebody before everyone else does and saying:

Hey. Look at this.

So here’s to another 25 years of Guerilladelphia.

Maybe this time I’ll finally figure out how to turn it into an actual business.

I’m still working on that part.

But I’m not willing to lose the reason for doing it.

Peace.

What warmed my heart was seeing so many mothers bringing their daughters to the show. I watched them walk in together, and I couldn’t help imagining those mothers 30 years ago, standing in a crowd of their own. Girls to the front.

Now they were bringing their daughters.

It wasn’t just mothers, either. I watched a father drop off his daughter and her friends at the show. Kudos to the dad for getting them there. Although, judging by the way he immediately drove away, I’m guessing he wasn’t sticking around for Bikini Kill.

Lame.

But seeing all those young women there made me think about how important the riot grrrl movement was in the ‘90s—and how much I think something like it is still needed in 2026.

Because Bikini Kill isn’t just a band from someone’s parents’ record collection. For a young woman seeing them for the first time, there’s still something powerful about watching women take the stage, take up space, be loud, be angry, be funny, be unapologetic, and refuse to ask permission.

And maybe that matters even more now.

The Boys Had Rock. The Grrrls Had Something to Say.

When I think about the early ‘90s, a time when I was active in the music scene with my own band, I think about the big grunge bands: Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Soundgarden, Alice in Chains.

I love those bands. They changed rock music.

They took rock from the world of spandex and hair metal and replaced it with flannel, distortion and a much darker aesthetic. But when I think about what was actually changing the conversation, I think about something else.

I think about riot grrrl.

Bikini Kill. Sleater-Kinney. Team Dresch. Bratmobile. Huggy Bear. And all the other women who were creating a movement around music while challenging sexism, misogyny, sexual violence, inequality and the male-dominated culture surrounding them.

While some of the biggest male rock bands of the era were romanticizing drugs, addiction and the mythology of the tortured male rock star, riot grrrl was putting feminism and women’s experiences directly in the middle of the conversation.

That’s what made it feel different to me.

The music wasn’t just entertainment. It was a statement.

And somewhere along the way, even the language of riot grrrl got absorbed by the mainstream.

“GRRRL Power” became “Girl Power.”

And then came the Spice Girls.

Suddenly, something that had grown out of an underground feminist punk movement became a corporate pop slogan. “Girl Power” was being packaged, marketed and sold back to girls.

There is something almost absurd about taking a movement that was challenging the power structures around women and turning it into something you could put on a T-shirt and sell at the mall.

I’m not saying the Spice Girls weren’t important to their audience. They obviously were.

But riot grrrl wasn’t created to sell girls a product.

It was created by girls who were trying to change the culture around them.

That’s a very different kind of power.

The Grrrls Are Still Making Noise

Which brings me to today.

Recently, I was putting together an Instagram carousel featuring all of the artists who have become members of the Scroll Stopper Club since I started the YouTube channel.

And I noticed something.

The list leaned heavily toward women.

I thought about that for a while, because I hadn’t set out to make it that way.

I just kept finding women making music that grabbed me.

And I’ve come to a conclusion that is entirely subjective, but one I can’t ignore:

In my experience, women are making some of the most compelling music right now.

Look at Local News Legend, writing songs filled with pain and vulnerability and telling stories with an honesty that hits you in the gut.

Kilynn Lunsford, pushing songwriting into strange and compelling places with fascinating lyrics and soundscapes.

Mei Semones, moving between Japanese and English while combining jazz with something that sounds completely and unmistakably like her.

Joanna Wang, making music with the kind of imagination and eccentricity that reminds me of what made artists like Frank Zappa so fascinating.

I’m not saying there aren’t men making great music. There absolutely are.

The Dodies. Who Shot Scott. XComm. And, as it happens, my next Scroll Stopper is a male artist.

But when I look at the music that has genuinely excited me lately, the balance is heavily tilted toward women.

And I’m starting to wonder if there’s a reason for that.

Maybe I’m responding to the same thing I responded to in riot grrrl.

Artists who aren’t afraid to bring something personal into the music.

Artists who aren’t simply trying to sound cool.

Artists who have something to say.

The Grrrls Are Still Here

Last night, I watched Kilynn Lunsford open for Bikini Kill

.And she was proof that the grrrls are still making noise.

Whether she knows it, or even wants the responsibility, I’m sure there were young women in that room who walked away feeling a little more empowered than when they walked in.

That’s what music can do.

A woman gets onstage and says, essentially:

This is who I am. I’m not going to make myself smaller for you.

And another woman in the audience hears it and thinks:

Maybe I don’t have to either.

That matters.

Especially now.

We need women who are willing to speak honestly. We need women who challenge sexism. We need men who are willing to challenge sexism within their own circles. We need young women to see women taking up space—not because they’re being given permission, but because they don’t need it.

That’s what I saw last night.

Not just a legendary punk band playing songs from 30 years ago.

I saw a mother bringing her daughter.

I saw young women watching other women stand on a stage and completely own it.

And I thought about those mothers.

Maybe some of them were standing in a crowd just like this one 30 years ago.

Girls to the front.

And now they’re bringing their daughters.

That’s a pretty incredible legacy.

And maybe that’s the real gift of GRRRL Power.

And if we’re all guilty of it, maybe when it eventually becomes our turn, what we’re experiencing isn’t exactly instant karma—but it’s karma nonetheless.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately.

Even during my 13-plus years at Apple, a company that prides itself on inclusion and diversity, the everyday ageism I experienced was pretty rampant.

Luckily for everyone around me, I don’t get offended easily.

If you ask me what it was like living during the Revolutionary War, I’ll probably laugh.

But there is a difference between a joke and someone genuinely not seeing you as a contemporary.

Just this past week, a coworker honestly thought I had seen The Beatles play live.

The Beatles.

A band that broke up the year I was born.

He wasn’t joking.

He was serious.

I looked at him and said:

“HOW OLD DO YOU THINK I AM?”

And that’s the weird thing about getting older. Eventually, other people start making assumptions about you based on a number rather than the person standing in front of them.

Try Finding a Job When You’re Older

Job hunting is probably one of the hardest things for an older person to do.

Ageism is rampant in the job market, and there isn’t always much you can do about it.

I try not to put the years I graduated from college on my resume.

Why would I?

You don’t need to know when I graduated. You need to know that I have a degree and that I know how to do the job.

But the moment you put certain dates on a resume, you’ve potentially given someone a reason to decide you’re “too old” before they ever meet you.

I’ve even been tempted to dye my hair when I’m job hunting.

Think about how ridiculous that is.

I’m considering changing my appearance because I know someone might look at me and decide that my age makes me less valuable.

And that’s not really about experience.

It’s about assumptions.

But Music Is Where I Feel It the Most

Maybe some of this is in my head.

I’m willing to admit that.

But I don’t feel like the stereotypical older person.

I don’t need to sing “Sweet Caroline” at a bar.

I don’t need to hear “Hotel California” one more time.

And I don’t want to spend my evenings sitting at a bar while some dude with an acoustic guitar plays Cat Stevens covers.

I love discovering new music.

Most of the new music I discover is made by young people.

And, naturally, most of the audiences at those shows trend young too.

So when I go to these events, I sometimes feel completely out of place.

And I wonder if I make the artist uncomfortable when I introduce myself.

Maybe that’s entirely in my head.

Maybe it isn’t.

But there is this strange feeling of being an older person in a space that doesn’t seem designed for you.

And I understand why.

I’m a white, middle-aged man.

Probably the worst thing you can be in 2026.

But here’s the thing:

I can’t stop getting older.

Just like other characteristics people are born with or can’t simply change, aging isn’t something I can opt out of.

I’m going to keep getting older until I stop getting older.

And I think sometimes younger generations look at older people and see them as useless at best and trouble at worst.

I get some of that.

I’m Gen X, and I am certainly not a fan of Boomers.

And I get irrationally annoyed when someone calls me a Boomer.

But my problem with Boomers isn’t their age.

It’s their ignorance.

That’s an important distinction.

Getting Older Doesn’t Mean Becoming Someone Else

Maybe that’s the thing we forget.

We talk about generations as though people magically transform when they cross some invisible age line.

You’re young.

Then you’re middle-aged.

Then you’re old.

And apparently, somewhere along the way, your interests are supposed to disappear.

Your curiosity is supposed to disappear.

Your sense of humor is supposed to disappear.

Your desire to discover new things is supposed to disappear.

But it doesn’t.

I’m still me.

I still want to discover a band I’ve never heard before.

I still want to draw.

I still want to make things.

I still want to go to shows.

I still want to meet interesting people.

I still get excited about discovering something new.

The number attached to my age doesn’t change any of that.

So If You’re Younger, Give Us a Chance

I’m not asking younger people to suddenly become best friends with every middle-aged guy they encounter.

I’m asking for a little openness.

When you meet someone older, see the person before you see the age.

You might find someone with a lot of youth left in them.

You might learn something from them.

You might discover that you have more in common than you expected.

And if they say something ignorant?

You have my permission to walk away.

Seriously.

But don’t assume someone is irrelevant because they’ve been alive longer than you.

Because eventually, if you’re lucky, you’re going to be that person.

And maybe you’ll discover what I have:

Getting older doesn’t necessarily make you feel old.

Sometimes it just makes you realize how quickly everyone else has decided you are.

We all end up here.

It sucks.

I’m just asking for a little more humanity when we do.

We’re not dead.

Yet.

That’s a story for another time.

What saved me was live music.

At the end of the workday on Friday, I made my way to Princeton, New Jersey, for Mei Semones’ sold-out show at McCarter Theatre. I arrived about 15 minutes late and was escorted to my seat.

I bought the tickets the day they went on sale, which was many months ago. I didn’t realize at the time that I had probably bought some of the best seats in the house.

Third row. Center.

It was awesome.

What wasn’t awesome was that I had to pee.

I enjoyed the hell out of the show, but when it ended, I was very thankful to be able to rush to the bathroom. After that, I bought some merch, met Mei again, and headed home.

I was so completely into the show, and I think I know why.

The minute I sat down, I shut down my phone and locked in.

I needed that.

I needed to forget about the week I had just had and let someone else’s music take over for a couple of hours.

I didn’t take a single photo or video.

And why do I need them?

You can go online and find more live photos and videos of Mei Semones than you’ll ever need. The only reason I would have been taking them would have been to prove that I was there or to create content—which is normally why I’m taking photos and videos at shows anyway.

Even then, I try to keep it short and sweet.

Sometimes you should just watch the fucking show.

Anyway, I’ve gotten off track.

The reason I’m writing this is because Mei played some new material that’s coming soon, and there is something incredibly exciting about hearing songs before they’re officially released.

Mei Semones - Bandcamp

It got me thinking:

Who else am I excited to hear new music from?

So here are a few artists already in the Scroll Stopper Club who I’m keeping a very close eye on.

Ashy Finn

Ashy Finn first came onto my radar with her song “Joyless,” and she was officially inducted into the Scroll Stopper Club. Since then, she’s been teasing new music, and some of what I’ve heard sounds simply incredible.

Great bass lines. Jazzy vibes. Just the kind of stuff I can’t get enough of.

I’ve been paying attention to her sneak peeks, and every time she posts something new, I’m thinking, Yep. I need to hear this.

She’s also moving to my area, so I’m really hoping I get a chance to see her live in the Philadelphia area.

Ashy also introduced me to Eleanor on Earth, who plays in the Ashy Finn band but has her own fantastic music as well.

Ashy Finn - Bandcamp

Eleanor on Earth — Bandcamp

Pay attention to Ashy Finn.

I predict great things.

Castle Rat

Anyone who knows me knows that I’ve been following Castle Rat since the beginning. You can read about that here.

Castle Rat keeps getting bigger, but I think their third album could be their biggest yet.

Why?

Because I’ve already seen some incredible growth between the first and second albums, particularly in the guitar work.

The first record established the world. The second pushed it further.

So I’m expecting them to push themselves even harder on album number three.

And honestly, that’s what makes me excited.

I don’t want another Castle Rat record that simply sounds like the last one.

I want them to get weirder. Bigger. Heavier. More ambitious.

That’s what I think we’re going to get.

Castle Rat — Bandcamp

Kilynn Lunsford

I’ll be seeing Kilynn Lunsford opening for Bikini Kill this month, and I have a feeling that show is going to be one of the highlights of September—a month where I’ll also be seeing Angine de Poitrine.

Kilynn is probably the most creatively unpredictable artist on this list.

She’s fearless.

She’s willing to take chances.

And that’s exactly what makes me excited about whatever she does next.

Some artists give you a pretty good idea of what you’re going to get from them.

Kilynn makes me wonder what the hell she’s going to do next.

I like that.

A lot.

Kilynn Lunsford — Bandcamp

Angine de Poitrine

This band has gotten so much bigger since I first discovered them that it almost sickens me.

I kid.

But there is something weird that happens when you discover an artist who feels completely unique. You get attached to that feeling of having found something before everyone else.

Then other people catch on.

And part of you wants to yell:

“I WAS HERE FIRST!”

It’s like when liking Star Wars was nerdy enough that you almost kept it a secret.

Now it’s trendy.

And, honestly, I hate a lot of what comes out under the Star Wars name these days.

So let’s hope the next Angine de Poitrine release isn’t Jar Jar Binks bad.

Because these guys are way too good for that.

Angine de Poitrine — Bandcamp

So What’s the Point?

There’s a reason all of these artists are in the Scroll Stopper Club.

I think they’re doing something interesting now, but more importantly, I think they’re artists who are capable of surprising us with what comes next.

That’s what makes following an artist exciting.

It’s not just:

“I like this song.”

It’s:

“Holy shit. What are they going to do next?”

That’s how I felt sitting in the third row watching Mei Semones play songs I hadn’t heard before.

And that’s how I feel about all of these artists.

So if you haven’t already, go listen to them.

Follow them.

Buy something from them if you can.

Go see them live.

And maybe you’ll get lucky enough to hear the next great song before everyone else does.

That’s kind of the whole point of the Scroll Stopper Club.

Keep scrolling. Keep discovering. And when something stops you, pay attention.

That’s when I realized I must have pulled something doing the Hippie Shake.

The show in question was The Babe Rainbow at The Foundry at the Fillmore in Philadelphia.

Their music was so intoxicating that I spent most of the night dancing, swaying, and occasionally jumping up and down—not exactly recommended exercise for a man whose fitness routine consists primarily of walking to the deli for a cheesesteak.

To make matters worse, this show came immediately after a week-long work trip to Las Vegas. I landed back in Philly the night before, went to work the next day, then headed straight to the venue after work, finally getting home around midnight.

I regret nothing.

The evening opened with Sam Blasucci, a singer-songwriter who put on a really enjoyable set. Later in the night, I realized he was also The Babe Rainbow’s drummer.

So this guy can sing, play guitar, play drums...

...and he looks like Zach Braff…

I hated him.

Just kidding.

He closed his set with a cover of “Linger” by The Cranberries, joined by The Babe Rainbow’s lead singer on drums and their bass player. As my friend Jake said in the moment, it was an absolute crowd-pleaser.

Next up was Sam & Louise Sullivan, an indie folk-pop sibling duo from Philadelphia.

Two Sams in one night?

A Sam-tastic evening?

At the merch table, I ended up talking with Sam’s wife—the Sullivan Sam, who confirmed that Sam and Louise are, in fact, brother and sister.

They have this look that, if you squint just a little, starts to resemble Greg and Marcia Brady. Honestly, they should just lean into it and add “Sunshine Day” to the setlist.

I enjoyed their set. The songwriting was strong. Sam has a wonderfully awkward stage dance that somehow becomes part of the charm, but the real standout for me was the harmony between Louise and Emily, the keyboard player. Every time those two sang together, the songs seemed to lift off the stage.

Then came The Babe Rainbow.

The guitarist looks like Thor.

The singer looks like Kurt Cobain if Kurt had embraced falsetto vocals and oversized sunglasses.

And, as promised, Sam was now behind the drum kit.

These guys might be the coolest people I’ve ever seen on a stage.

They’re effortlessly cool—not the kind of cool that feels manufactured, but the kind that makes you think maybe wearing a rainbow shirt really is a personality trait.

More importantly, they write the kind of music that makes standing still feel like the wrong decision.

By the second song, people all over the room were dancing with the same joyful lack of coordination as Sam Sullivan.

It was impossible not to smile.

On the drive to Philadelphia, I listened to The Babe Rainbow’s newest album, Acid and Honey. My early favorites were “Mangoes,” “Horizon,” and “Camouflage.” On the flight home from Vegas, I went even deeper into their catalog.

If you’ve never listened to The Babe Rainbow before, do yourself a favor. Their music is mellow without being sleepy, psychedelic without trying too hard, and somehow manages to make everything feel like a warm summer afternoon.

My only disappointment of the night was the merch table.

The Babe Rainbow had a shirt I desperately wanted so my friend Jake from 4th Cone Dyes could work his tie-dye magic on it.

Unfortunately, they only had an extra small.

I briefly considered buying it anyway, having Jake dye it, and giving it away. Jake quickly pointed out that an extra-small giveaway probably wasn’t going to attract the masses.

Fair point.

So... no shirt.

I also would’ve picked up one of their records, but they packed up the merch table before the show ended. I always like buying merch after the show so I don’t have to hold a record all night long.

Sam & Louise were selling CDs.

I don’t buy CDs.

Give me vinyl.

Give me cassettes.

I’ll even buy a cassette before a CD just because it scratches that nostalgia itch.

Of course, my kids would probably do the exact opposite.

To them, CDs are vintage.

That sentence physically hurts me.

I also wasn’t crazy about the Sam & Louise shirts. Personally, I’d rather wear a cool piece of artwork than a shirt that’s mostly just the band’s name.

Overall, it was a fantastic night.

I left with a pulled muscle, a few new favorite songs, and a reminder that the best concerts don’t just entertain you.

They move you.

Sometimes...

...a little too literally.

And someday, I still hope to grow up to be as cool as the lead singer of The Babe Rainbow.

As I continue building Scroll Stopper Club, there’s a fear sitting quietly in the back of my mind.

It isn’t that AI is going to write better songs than people.

It isn’t that musicians are going to disappear.

It’s something much more personal.

I’m afraid I’ll accidentally induct an AI band into the Scroll Stopper Club.

That might sound dramatic.

But it would shake the foundation of everything I’m trying to build.

Over the years, I’ve noticed something about myself.

I keep finding artists early.

Die Spitz.

KatzPascale.

Angine De Poitrine.

Mei Semones.

When I first stumbled across Mei Semones, she was playing tiny rooms. Now she’s opening arena shows for Vulfpeck.

I don’t say that because I think I have some magical ability to predict the future.

I don’t.

What I’ve learned is something much simpler.

When a song stops my scroll… I’ve learned to trust that feeling.

Not because I’m always right.

But because every time I’ve ignored that feeling, I’ve wondered if I just missed the next great artist.

That’s why Scroll Stopper Club exists.

Every episode begins the same way.

A song stops my scroll.

Then the investigation begins.

Why this song?

What grabbed me?

What is this artist doing that I haven’t heard before?

And maybe most importantly…

Is there really something here?

If the answer is yes, I don’t just want to share the song.

I want to understand it.

Because I think every great artist has something to teach the rest of us about making better art.

Lately, though, that investigation has become more complicated.

There have been several songs that stopped my scroll.

The hooks were catchy.

The production was polished.

Everything sounded… right.

Then I started looking for the band.

And something felt off.

I don’t know for certain whether these artists were AI-generated, and I’m not interested in accusing anyone of something I can’t prove.

But I’ve started noticing patterns.

The musicians are almost impossibly attractive.

Every video looks expensive.

The catalog grows at an unbelievable pace.

Every song sounds professionally finished.

But I never see them simply being musicians.

No rehearsal clips.

No phone videos.

No messing around between takes.

No trying to figure out a chorus.

No tiny club dates.

No upcoming shows.

The music exists.

The musicians… almost don’t.

Maybe there’s an explanation for every one of those things.

Maybe they’re just private people.

Maybe they’re new.

Maybe I’m completely wrong.

But the fact that I even have to ask the question tells me something has changed.

My investigations started with one question:

Why did this song stop my scroll?

Now there’s a second one.

Who’s behind it?

That bothers me more than I expected.

Because I’m not trying to discover the best algorithm.

I’m trying to discover the next great artist.

Those aren’t necessarily the same thing.

Ironically, I think AI is teaching me to appreciate something I used to overlook.

The rough demo.

The rehearsal.

The songwriter forgetting the second verse.

The guitarist searching for the right chord.

The little imperfections that remind you there are actual people behind the music.

Maybe that’s what authenticity is becoming.

Not perfection.

Evidence.

Evidence that another human being made this.

So if you’re an independent artist, here’s my advice.

Don’t hide the process.

Show us the first draft.

Show us the demo.

Show us the rehearsal.

Show us the mistakes.

Because the polished version tells me what you’ve made.

The messy version tells me who you are.

And in a world where machines can imitate almost anything…

That humanity may become the thing that stops my scroll.

P.S. This fear unexpectedly led me to one of the most interesting investigations I’ve worked on for Scroll Stopper Club. You’ll see what I mean in the next episode.

I’m going to Chicago.

Not to escape.

To investigate.

For years, discovering new music felt like an adventure. Before algorithms knew my taste. Before playlists predicted what I’d like next. Before social media decided what deserved my attention.

You’d hear about a band from a friend. Flip through records at a local shop. Take a chance on an opening act. Sometimes you’d spend money on an album that turned out to be terrible. Sometimes you’d discover your new favorite band.

Either way, the discovery belonged to you.

Today? I can discover a band while sitting on the toilet.

That’s convenient.

I’m not convinced it’s better.

Don’t get me wrong. The internet has introduced me to artists I never would have found otherwise. Scroll Stopper Club wouldn’t even exist without it. But somewhere along the way, I stopped wandering.

So this trip isn’t really an experiment.

It’s a return.

The truth is, this whole idea started somewhere completely unexpected.

In the shower.

I was thinking about something I try not to think about very often.

My own mortality.

I found myself asking a question:

When I die, what will I wish I’d done more of?

The answer wasn’t “make more money.”

It wasn’t “buy more stuff.”

It was simple.

Travel.

But not travel just to say I’d been somewhere.

I want to travel because every city has its own music scene.

I’ve spent years discovering bands from New York and Philadelphia. Now I want to know what I’m missing.

What’s happening in Chicago?

Los Angeles?

Seattle?

Austin?

Who are the bands that everyone in those cities knows… but the rest of us haven’t discovered yet?

The Rat Utopia Experiment is a perfect example.

They’re building something really exciting in Los Angeles. Because of where they are in their career—and because they’re still so young—there’s a good chance they won’t be touring the East Coast anytime soon.

If I want to experience what they’re creating… I have to go to them.

And that’s when it clicked.

Maybe Scroll Stopper Club shouldn’t wait for music to come to me.

Maybe it’s time for me to go where the music is.

That’s how these Field Reports were born.

I’m flying to Chicago because I want to spend a few days saying yes to curiosity again.

I’m going to wander through record stores, browse bookstore shelves, walk neighborhoods with no destination, see bands I’ve never heard of, and spend one day at Riot Fest.

Maybe I’ll discover tomorrow’s favorite band.

Maybe I won’t.

That’s not really the point.

The point is to put myself back into a world where discovery requires showing up.

Over the past few months, something unexpected has happened. Scroll Stopper Club has stopped being a YouTube channel where I review music.

It’s becoming a place where I investigate creativity.

Why did this song stop my scroll?

Can atmosphere survive outside the recording?

How do you recognize a great song before it’s finished?

Those questions can’t always be answered from behind a screen.

Some questions can only be answered by showing up.

So that’s what I’m doing.

This is the first in what I hope becomes a long series of Field Reports.

Not reviews.

Investigations.

I’ll come home with stories.

Observations.

Questions.

Evidence.

And if I’m lucky…

I’ll hear a band that makes me write three words in my notebook.

There’s something here.

Can KatzPascale create an atmosphere so vivid that it survives outside the recording?

Back in March of 2026 I inducted KatzPascale’s song GBTC into the Scroll Stopper Club.

In that episode, I described the music as film noir.

Whiskey.

Cigarette smoke.

Late-night conversations.

A soundtrack for a world that only exists after midnight.

But recordings can lie.

Production can create an illusion that disappears the moment musicians step onto a stage.

So I came to New York with one question.

Could KatzPascale create that same atmosphere in a room full of strangers?

That was the investigation.

I wasn’t trying to decide whether KatzPascale was good live. I already suspected they would be. I wanted to know whether the atmosphere I heard through my headphones actually existed… or whether my imagination had filled in the blanks.

Le Poisson Rouge turned out to be the perfect laboratory.

Small tables.

People close enough to become part of the performance instead of simply watching it.

I ended up sharing a table with a 17-year-old from Queens. We discovered KatzPascale the same way—through Instagram. Somehow, the algorithm had delivered the same music to two people nearly forty years apart in age, and on this night, it delivered us to the same table.

It’s one of my favorite things about going to concerts alone.

You never really go alone.

The evening began with DJ Carmen Elektra. Or more accurately… the evening began with music. That distinction turned out to matter. When the lights first dimmed, the room naturally became quiet. Everyone expected someone to walk onto the stage.

No one did.

The music continued, but the stage stayed empty. The show was advertised as featuring special guests DJ Melody English and DJ Carmen Elektra, yet without anyone visible performing, it never quite felt like the show had begun.

That’s when I noticed something interesting. As the minutes passed, conversations slowly returned. People weren’t being disrespectful—they were responding to what they were seeing. Or, more accurately, what they weren’t seeing. Without someone visibly creating the music, it gradually stopped feeling like a performance and started feeling like a loud radio playing in the background.

By around 8:30, I think most of the room—including me—was ready for whatever came next. Without realizing it, the DJ had become the control group for my experiment.

When KatzPascale walked on stage, the room changed instantly. Conversations stopped.

People leaned forward. Some simply stared. The audience wasn’t just quiet. They were in a trance

Throughout the performance something fascinating kept happening.

Applause would arrive a second or two late.

Not because people weren’t impressed. Because nobody wanted to be the first person to break whatever spell had settled over the room.

I’ve experienced silence at concerts before.

This wasn’t silence.

It was surrender.

Somewhere around the third song, I stopped taking mental notes and simply let the music happen. That’s usually a good sign.

Then came the moment that completely confirmed my hypothesis. Near the end of the set, KatzPascale announced they had one song left.

The room collectively gasped.

Not metaphorically.

Actually gasped.

It was immediately followed by disappointed groans.

I’ve heard audiences cheer for encores. I’ve heard people yell “One more!”

This wasn’t that.

It sounded like people realizing they had to leave a dream before they were ready.

After the show I had one question left. “How much of tonight was improvised?”

I wanted to know: was everything carefully rehearsed, or were they making it up as they went?

Jenna Pascale smiled and said it was a mixture of both. Some sections are carefully planned. Others are improvised.

That suddenly explained something I’d been watching all night. I wasn’t just watching two musicians.

I was watching two best friends.

After the show, while talking to Jenna, she joked that sometimes she’ll look over at Sammi and worry she’d burst out laughing—the way close friends do at exactly the wrong moment.

That tiny confession explained everything.

The music never felt mechanical.

It felt lived in.

The rehearsed moments gave them somewhere to stand.

The improvised sections gave them somewhere to wander.

Maybe that’s why every performance feels different—not because they’re trying to reinvent the music every night…

but because they’re leaving room for surprise.

And surprise only works when you trust the person standing next to you.

You can hear that trust.

One thing I’ve realized since starting Scroll Stopper Club is that recordings tell you what a band sounds like.

Live shows tell you who they are.

Sometimes those are the same thing.

Sometimes they aren’t.

KatzPascale passed the test.

The mysterious atmosphere I heard through my headphones wasn’t something created in the studio.

The recording wasn’t creating the atmosphere.

It was documenting it.

CASE STATUS

☑ Hypothesis Confirmed

Findings

KatzPascale doesn’t simply perform songs.

They transform the room.

I’ve spent years thinking about atmosphere as something that happens after the music is finished. Production. Reverb. Lighting. Smoke machines. But KatzPascale reminded me that atmosphere isn’t something you add. It’s something you earn. It comes from trust, restraint, and leaving enough space for the audience to step inside the music. That’s a lesson I don’t think only musicians can use. I think every creative person can.

Some questions can only be answered by showing up.

New Question

How many other artists am I only half understanding because I’ve never seen them live?

The first video was uploaded to YouTube sixteen years ago.

A seven-year-old girl sitting behind a drum kit, playing a Hannah Montana song.

From that moment on, the internet watched three sisters learn to play music, perform, write songs, record albums, and tour the world. Millions of people literally watched them grow up.

Today, The Warning has over a million subscribers on YouTube and one of the most devoted fanbases in rock.

You would think I would have been one of the people watching that journey.

I wasn’t.

I didn’t even know who The Warning were until I released my recent Scroll Stopper Club episode on Ellen Alaverdyan, the child bass prodigy many of us have also watched grow up on YouTube.

The video has done incredibly well, and my comment section filled up with people saying the same thing:

“You need to check out The Warning.”

So I did.

And here is where I may lose some of you.

I think The Warning’s music is boring.

The songs don’t move me emotionally. The recordings feel overproduced. I’ve heard bands make this kind of music before, and I don’t hear anything that makes me stop what I’m doing and think, Wait… what was that?

That doesn’t mean they’re bad musicians.

They’re obviously talented.

It means something different.

It means they didn’t stop my scroll.

Which immediately made me ask another question.

If we had never watched these sisters grow up online—if they released this exact music today with no sixteen-year YouTube history behind it—would they be as popular?

I honestly don’t think so.

And I don’t mean that as an insult.

I think it’s one of the most fascinating things the internet has ever created.

People didn’t simply discover a band.

They watched children become adults.

They celebrated birthdays, milestones, victories, disappointments, and everything in between. Somewhere along the way, the audience stopped following the music and started following the people.

It became less like discovering a new band…

…and more like watching the latest season of a television show you’ve been invested in for years.

That’s powerful.

It’s also incredibly rare.

It’s a good gig if you can get it.

Imagine building an audience before you’ve made your defining artistic statement. By the time your albums arrive, millions of people already care about what happens next.

That’s exactly what I saw happening in my comment section.

People weren’t just recommending songs.

They were introducing me to people they felt like they knew.

The reason why Ellen ended up in Scroll Stopper Club and The Warning didn’t was not because Ellen grew up on YouTube, but because 13 Town stopped my scroll.

If Ellen had released a song that didn’t move me, she wouldn’t have been inducted either.

Scroll Stopper Club has never been about biographies.

It has never been about fanbases.

It has never been about technical ability.

It’s about one thing.

A song.

One moment.

One question I can’t stop thinking about.

Now, could The Warning eventually end up in the club?

Absolutely.

Artists change.

Sometimes dramatically.

They’re still young, and I hope they continue taking risks. Maybe one day they’ll release a song that completely blindsides me.

I would love that.

Because this isn’t about defending my opinion.

It’s about following my curiosity wherever it leads.

They may be wonderful people.

I have no reason to think otherwise.

And this isn’t a judgment of who they are.

I don’t know them.

Many of their fans feel like they do, and that’s exactly what makes this phenomenon so interesting.

YouTube didn’t just give us another way to discover music.

It gave us a way to grow up alongside the people making it.

Sometimes that relationship becomes part of the art itself.

Whether that’s a good thing or not…

…I’m still investigating.

So now I’m curious.

Is there an artist you love partly because you’ve watched their journey?

Or…

Do you think the music should always stand on its own?

I’d love to hear where you land.

I had a ticket to see Panic Shack at PhilaMOCA in Philadelphia, but I spent a good chunk of the evening staring at my ceiling,…

Read more

Read more

But let me back up.

On March 23, 2025, I went with friends to see Orions Belte at Johnny Brenda’s,…

Read more

Read more

Read more

I grew up in MAGA country before MAGA had merch. Back when it didn’t need a slogan because it was just the air. White-bread suburbia. Perfect lawns. Flags on porches. And a dead silence around anything that challenged the story. I was surrounded by white people and systematically trained—quietly, casually, relentlessly—to fear everyone else.

No one said the words out loud. That’s how you know it was real. There was a code. You didn’t say, “Black people go there.” You said, “I don’t go to Sesame Place. They bus them in.” Everyone knew exactly who “they” were. If a Black person walked down my street, it wasn’t curiosity—it was panic. Why were they here? They didn’t belong. And if they didn’t belong, the only explanation was crime. That was the logic. That was the lesson.

I was fed statistics like weapons—13% of the population, 37% of the prison system—stripped of history, stripped of context, presented as proof that the fear was justified. I heard a Philadelphia police officer say Black people “live like animals.” No one gasped. No one pushed back. It landed like a weather report. Just information. This was how African Americans were discussed. Every other minority got their own folder of warnings, stereotypes, and horror stories. The message was always the same: us versus them. And “us” was under siege.

I wasn’t raised with guns, but growing up in Pennsylvania I was absolutely gun-adjacent. Friends had rifles. We all had BB guns. Guns were normal. Fear was normal. Being gay was the worst thing you could be called. Worse than stupid. Worse than cruel. And everyone—everyone—was trying to take something from you. Your job. Your neighborhood. Your country. Fear wasn’t an accident. It was the soundtrack.

This is how you make a MAGA voter.

So when people ask how someone raised inside that system ends up on the far left, they act like it’s a mystery. It’s not.

I did the work.

I asked questions. Not the safe ones. Not the whisper-it-in-the-basement questions white people ask each other. I asked the ones you’re not supposed to ask—out loud—to the people who actually live with the consequences. At Sears, I once asked a Black coworker why there needed to be a Black Entertainment Network. “We don’t have a White Entertainment Network.” He laughed in my face. I deserved it. Then he explained, patiently, that almost every channel already was the White Entertainment Network. He pointed out that we even had Country Music Television—white identity with a fiddle—long before Beyoncé ever released Cowboy Carter.

When it came to LGBTQ people, I was clueless and cruel in the way ignorance always is. In college there was a group—I think it was called the Open Door Club—and even though friends supported it, I treated it like something shameful. I casually used the F-slur in a song I wrote. Didn’t blink. Didn’t care. My brother had to sing those words in public. I only felt shame years later. It took my sister telling me the word was offensive for it to even register. I honestly thought it just meant “gay.” And even then, I still believed gay was wrong—religion, culture, and nonstop homophobia drilling it into my head.

Work blew the whole thing apart. Suddenly I was surrounded by people who didn’t look like me, didn’t live like me, and didn’t have the luxury of ignorance. I kept asking stupid questions. Those led to more questions. Then books. Then more books. Then history. Then the unavoidable truth: racism in America isn’t a glitch. It’s the operating system. Designed. Maintained. Enforced around white supremacist ideas.

These weren’t theories anymore. These were my friends. I heard their stories. I saw the damage up close. This isn’t about being “soft.” You don’t radicalize left by being fragile. You radicalize left by seeing the truth and refusing to unsee it. And even then, the programming never fully leaves. That fear still hums in the background. That bias still whispers. Fighting it is labor. Constant labor. Labor MAGA people refuse to do. They call that strength. It’s not. It’s cowardice.

Here’s what really makes people uncomfortable: as a white man, I never had to change. I could have stayed exactly where I was. I could have kept believing Black people were criminals, gay people were sinners, Muslims were evil. And my life would’ve been fine. Better than fine.

I remember thinking Rodney King deserved what happened to him if he broke the law. In my white suburban brain, cops were heroes. You comply, you live. End of story. I didn’t know what police were doing. The Black community knew. I didn’t—because I didn’t have to. Until I chose to learn.

If I hadn’t, I’d be MAGA. Easily. Effortlessly. I’d be saying Renée Good and Alex Pretti “crossed a line.” I’d be saying ICE is just doing its job. If someone gets hurt—or killed—that’s on them. I wouldn’t care about deportations. I wouldn’t care if citizens got swept up. They wouldn’t be coming for me. Minneapolis could burn to the ground tomorrow and my life wouldn’t change one inch. Every immigrant could be deported and in that alternate universe I’d probably think America was finally “fixed.”

Nothing Trump does hurts me as a white, heterosexual, Christian man. Nothing. (Don’t tell them I’m an atheist.)

That’s the point.

In that version of my life, I’d be flying Trump flags and wearing a MAGA hat proudly—because everything I was taught growing up was whispered. Trump didn’t invent the hatred. He just gave it a microphone and told people they were brave for using it.

What still breaks my brain is this: I was raised on Indiana Jones and punk rock. Both were crystal clear about one thing—Nazis are bad. Full stop. And yet here we are, watching January 6 rioters throw Nazi salutes, pardoned by Trump, and suddenly we’re pretending that line was never there.

I was naïve to think my upbringing wasn’t already soaked in Nazi logic. I didn’t even touch the antisemitism that floated around like background noise when I was a kid. Today, people feel safe being Nazis in public. And if you resist them, you’re the problem.

Most people never escape the world I grew up in. They stay in white bubbles. They don’t question. They don’t read. They don’t listen. And they don’t change.

People love to quote Niemöller, but they miss the point. That poem assumes a villain who comes from the outside. MAGA is the villain. MAGA is the “they.” Why would they speak out? They’re building the country they want. You can’t scare them with “you’re next.” They’re not next. Everyone else is.

So you can’t educate them. You can’t shame them. You can’t scare them into empathy. What’s left?

Outnumbering them. And that’s where the dread sets in. Protests feel symbolic. The actions that matter—voting, organizing, relentless pressure—barely happen. There have to be more of us. Right? So how did we end up here? Are we not showing up? Or are there just more of them than we’re willing to admit?

That’s what scares me.

I’m grateful I escaped that alternate universe. Even though it would be easier not to care. Even though I could sit back and let it all collapse without my life changing much at all.

If it comes down to it, I’d rather die protecting the people I love than live comfortably inside a MAGA America.

Take it easy,

James

“What I love most about rivers is / You can’t step in the same river twice / The water’s always changing, always flowing.” — Just Around the Riverbend, Pocahontas

People like to romanticize change. Growth. Becoming. But rivers don’t just flow gently forward—they flood, they carve things away until nothing recognizable is left.

There’s a quote that’s followed me for years:

Standing water is dangerous. But so is water that never stops moving.

Some people never change. Same haircut, same stories, same opinions locked in amber. They call it being “true to themselves,” but it looks more like fear. I used to smoke, but I never thought of it as who I was. It was an addiction I wanted to beat. I did. But I know people who’ve wrapped their identity around it so tightly that quitting would mean cracking themselves open. Easier to keep destroying yourself than to give up the identity built around it.

Other people can’t stop changing. Always reinventing, always sanding themselves down, chasing some better version that never arrives. Most of us end up somewhere in the middle—reshaped not by choice, but by erosion. Life happens. The river doesn’t ask permission.

An old photo came up on Facebook the other day. Early twenties. I stared at it and felt nothing. That guy is dead. I remember being him, but I don’t recognize him. I remember that version of me thinking how far I’d come since eighteen, how different I already was. Now I see the pattern: every version of me was convinced it was the true self, and every one was wrong.

I’m not the man I was ten years ago. I’m not even sure I like the man I am now. Will I like whoever comes next? I don’t know. Some of this change comes from learning, from trying to be better. But some of it feels involuntary. My brain is changing. My emotions are mutating. My reactions feel unfamiliar. I didn’t sign off on any of this. I’m just watching it happen from inside the current.

Losing my job sped all of this up. Any major life event bends the river—sometimes sharply, sometimes violently—splitting it into unfamiliar branches. When that happens, you lose track of who you are. You hope to drift into some calm lake of awareness where you can drop anchor and rest for a while.

Identity is an anchor in the chaos of life. When you lose it—or don’t know where it is—you’re adrift in a sea of unknowns. It’s terrifying.

I’ve had too much time alone with my thoughts. That’s how you poison a well. So I’ve turned to music—listening, playing, standing in packed rooms where nobody knows me and nobody cares. Music doesn’t ask me to explain myself. It just fills the space so the silence doesn’t kill me.

I started a YouTube channel focused on new music. It wasn’t a strategy. It just happened. I like discovering bands that haven’t been frozen in time yet. I never need to hear “Stairway to Heaven” or “Hotel California” again. That music is finished. I’m more interested in things that still feel unresolved.

I think this channel is me trying to convince myself I’m still moving. Still alive. Trying to write the next chapter in a world that feels increasingly hostile and indifferent.

Am I the river? Or am I just debris in it—bouncing off rocks, pulled under, occasionally breaking the surface long enough to breathe?

I don’t know.

What I do know is this: I don’t know who I am anymore. I don’t know who I’m becoming. And I’m not sure I’m going to like that guy when he finally washes up.

And for no reason except that this blog has used a river analogy, here is The River by King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard.

Enjoy,
James

Being unemployed has given me more time to create, which sounds great in theory. In reality, it means I’m drawing little cartoons for my videos, practicing guitar and bass constantly, and spending a lot of time staring at my own work thinking, this is trash. I’ve been playing music for most of my life—over forty years. It’s the one thing I actually know how to be good at. And because of that, I never get discouraged with music. I know exactly what it takes: you play the same damn thing a thousand times. Then you play it a thousand more. You repeat it so much a reasonable person would quit and take up hiking.

The difference is, I’ve seen what’s on the other side of that kind of repetition. I’ve lived it. I know the ugly part works if you stick with it.

That doesn’t mean repetition is perfect. I recently realized I’ve been holding a guitar pick wrong my entire life. It never mattered for the music I was playing, but now that I’m teaching myself faster, shreddier stuff, it suddenly does. I looked it up and—surprise—I’ve built a bad habit that now needs to be unlearned. That’s the risk of doing anything the same way for decades. Luckily, this one’s an easy fix. You just hold the pick correctly and move on. Still annoying, but fixable.

That kind of calm confidence does not come naturally to me in other creative areas.

Drawing, for example. I haven’t put anywhere near the hours into it that I have into music, and I get discouraged fast when what’s on the page doesn’t match what’s in my head. Intellectually, I know it’s the same deal: do it a thousand times, then a thousand more. Emotionally, my brain starts yelling that I’m running out of time. I worry about forming bad habits that won’t be as easy to fix as a guitar pick grip. I’m older now. I’m impatient. I want to be good now. I don’t have another forty years to sort this out—unless my long-shot plan of becoming a cyborg really comes together.

That’s when I have to let my musician brain sit down and have a talk with whatever other brain is panicking. I have to accept where I am, keep improving with the time I have, and trust that the same ugly process that works in music works everywhere else too.

Which brings me to making videos for YouTube.

I’ve been making videos almost as long as I’ve been making music, but unlike a bass guitar—which hasn’t fundamentally changed since I first picked one up at twelve—the tools for video have mutated nonstop. As a kid, my friends and I shot Super 8 film. Then tape. I went to school for film and worked with 16mm, cutting it the old-fashioned way. Then computers showed up and flipped everything. Now AI is rolling in, and whether that’s good or bad, it’s easily the biggest shift since sound was introduced.

I’m not here to debate AI. My point is that while the rules of visual storytelling stay mostly the same, the tools change so fast it’s exhausting just trying to keep up. It takes me hours—hours—to make a three-minute video. The whole time I’m questioning everything: Is this right? Is this any good? How do I even do this part? Let me Google that. Again. It’s chaotic. It’s inefficient. It’s ugly.

But that’s the process.

So now I’m trying to simplify the goal. Make three minutes of something I’m proud of using the tools I have today. Then make the next video just a little bit better. That’s it. That’s the whole job.

You trust the process. Even when it looks bad. Especially when it looks bad. Because the process is ugly—and that’s how you know it’s working.

Take it easy,

James

Friday night I went into New York City to see Susanna Hoffs at LPR in Greenwich Village. If you’re young—or have lived under a rock your entire life—Susanna Hoffs was a member of the 1980s hit band The Bangles. Manic Monday, In Your Room, Walk Like an Egyptian, Eternal Flame, Hazy Shade of Winter—these songs were unavoidable on ’80…

Read more

Me? I’m a weirdo. No tattoos. Not what makes me weird. I’m weird because I speak the truth, I can’t stomach bullshit, I don’t fit in, and I hunt for the strange in the world—friends, art, music, the stranger the better. But authenticity is expensive. My humor causes chaos. My honesty ends friendships. My insistence on being myself? It breeds loneliness.

All my life I wanted to create. To live by creating. Authenticity wasn’t optional—it was survival. In the ’80s, being called a “poser” in a music circle was a death sentence. Fake musicians, camera-ready but talent-light, you didn’t want that label.

In the real world, though? Most people are posers. They show up at jobs they tolerate, pretend to love them, follow rules that make no sense, hide their thoughts, swallow their originality. It makes me physically sick. But it works. You get a nice midlife resume and a quiet life of mediocrity.

Or, you can just be yourself and end up at 55 with a resume that reads like chaos. A little of everything, nothing linear, a life littered with craters from refusing to play along. Following the rules would’ve made things easier. But no—you had to do you. And you wait, thinking someday being yourself will pay off.

Spoiler: maybe it won’t. “Just be yourself” is a stupid poster, like that cat dangling from a branch: hang in there. We know the cat is going to fall. Humans? We don’t land on our feet. We break. We bleed. We get one fragile life to figure out this absurd world.

No lesson here. Just a warning: be yourself… if yourself doesn’t wreck things for everyone else. But if you’re weird, like me… strap in and proceed with caution.

Take it easy,

James

For a long time, people came to me with their questions, their tech drama, their “which iPhone should I buy?” moments. I taught Apple products every day. And honestly? I wanted to see Apple take responsibility for the rising anxiety and depression tied to the devices we all carry. Especially for younger people. There was (and still is) such a massive need for real education around tech addiction. But the truth is simple: these devices are designed to keep you hooked. You don’t fix the thing that makes you money.

So here I am, asking not only “Who am I?” but “Who do I want to be next?” Job hunting forces you to imagine yourself in roles you haven’t stepped into yet, while also remembering you’re not defined by any of those roles—no matter how much you feel pressured to convince interviewers otherwise.

That’s why, if you’re going to anchor your identity to anything, let it be your own work. And even that gets messy when it grows. Look at Dan Harris—the journalist who had a panic attack on live TV, discovered meditation, and co-founded the 10% Happier app. When he split from the company, it shook him to his core. Or Steve Jobs—booted from the very company he built. Luckily he came back and saved Apple once…but he’s not here to save them from themselves now.

So how do you protect yourself? I think the trick is tying your identity to your values, not your job. If I know I’m a creative person at my core, then I’ll bring that creativity to any job—whether I’m hired for it, doing my own thing, or in between gigs entirely. Losing a job doesn’t take your values away. You’re still you.

Because let’s be honest: corporations love to tell you you’re “family,” that you “matter,” that they “care.” It’s all marketing. If they were truly a family, if they were truly empathetic or enlightened, forgiveness and humanity wouldn’t be conditional. But corporations don’t have empathy. They have profit margins.

So this holiday season, try not to get crushed by the chaos. Give yourself the gift of figuring out your core values. Write them down. Keep them close. In those hard moments—job loss, change, uncertainty—they’re the anchor that reminds you who you actually are.

Take it easy,

James