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But let me back up.

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

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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…

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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

Before Alice was having tea with the Mad Hatter, Sir John Tenniel was skewering the politics of Victorian England with his satirical drawings in Punch magazine.

Although Tenniel had formal art training, he wasn’t a fan of how it was taught—so he taught himself. He was rumored to have a photographic memory and preferred to draw entirely from memory. Remarkably, he did all of this after losing the sight in one eye from a fencing accident in his youth, though he rarely mentioned it. It wasn’t long before he landed a job at Punch magazine, which you can think of as the internet of the Victorian era. His sharp, often biting cartoons gained widespread recognition and helped shape public opinion for decades.

What I found fascinating while learning about Tenniel is the evolution of the word cartoon. Originally, it referred to a preliminary sketch on paper—coming from the Italian cartone, meaning “paper.” But it wasn’t until Tenniel and Punch (and the satirical drawings of Victorian England) that the word took on its now-humorous meaning. By the 20th century, the term expanded again to include animation.

Although Tenniel is best known today as the illustrator for Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass, it’s important to remember that he was already famous in his own time as the lead political cartoonist for Punch—essentially the visual voice of 19th-century satire. Over his fifty years at Punch, he produced more than 2,000 cartoons.

That’s why, when Lewis Carroll was told his own drawings for Alice weren’t up to snuff, he was advised to hire a professional. Carroll, being an avid Punch reader, immediately thought of Tenniel.

My research shows that Tenniel found Carroll to be… well, a bit of a nuisance. Carroll had something to say about nearly every drawing Tenniel produced—except for Humpty Dumpty, for some reason. The constant revisions drove Tenniel nuts. One argument even centered on Alice’s hair color: Carroll wanted brown, Tenniel insisted on blonde. We all know who won that one. It’s safe to say Tenniel defined the visual identity of Alice in Wonderland as we know it.

The art process for Alice was meticulous. Tenniel began with rough sketches, refined them, then traced and transferred the final design onto a wood block, where he redrew it carefully. From there, it went to the engravers—the Brothers Dalziel. Their company, which employed a team of artisans, would cut Tenniel’s lines into the wood block. It was an incredibly tedious process. Once completed, the wood was used as a master to create electrotype plates—metal copies used for printing. (Fun fact: those original wood blocks were thought lost to time until they were rediscovered in a bank vault in 1985.)

In 1893, Tenniel became the first cartoonist ever to be knighted. And while I think modern knighthood is a little silly, it’s still nice to see a cartoonist get that level of recognition. Tenniel’s work on Alice continues to be printed today, and his legacy at Punch runs deep—it’s in the DNA of modern satire and political cartoons. Maybe even in the DNA of Bud, Nick, and Joe.

If you enjoyed learning about John Tenniel, please subscribe. I’ll be sharing more stories about cartoonists and illustrators from history—because honestly, I just love learning about them.

A Related Thrift Store Find

While working on my short story, Malice in Wonderland, I found the centennial edition of Alice in Wonderland at the thrift store. These include Tenniel’s 92 drawings for Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass. It is one of my cherished book possessions.

Take it easy,

James

Trump has called Portland a warzone; he claims it’s burning to the ground.

Spoiler: it’s not.

A quick fact check shows his “the city is on fire!” routine is nothing but theatrics. Do your own digging, but I’m sure you’ll land where I did—he’s trying to paint the left, and protesters in general, as violent extremists. Some folks think he’s inching toward using the Insurrection Act. Who knows.

What is clear is that we all need to stay sharp—do the homework, question the noise, and keep our critical thinking tuned up.

That kind of political exaggeration inspired my latest Bud, Nick, and Joe comic. In it, Bud’s dressed for war. Nick’s confused—because they’re just going to the bookstore. Bud can’t believe Nick hasn’t heard: according to the president, Portland’s a combat zone!

Then they see three people across the street dressed in inflatable frog costumes, leading to Nick’s (hopefully) funny punchline.

If you’ve caught the footage, you know what I’m talking about. It started with one person and turned into an entire army of inflatable animals at the protests—mocking the “warzone” narrative. And honestly? It’s brilliant. I laughed out loud.

It reminded me of that perfect John Lennon quote:

When it gets down to having to use violence, then you are playing the system’s game. The establishment will irritate you – pull your beard, flick your face – to make you fight. Because once they’ve got you violent, then they know how to handle you. The only thing they don’t know how to handle is non-violence and humor.

I recently saw a video of inflatable animals—including a unicorn—marching in lockstep behind a MAGA guy. It’s so silly, I have to laugh.

That’s the kind of protest spirit we need more of—non-violence, humor, and a little creative chaos. If Bud, Nick, and Joe can deliver even a sliver of that, I’m doing my job.

Oh, and Joe? He’s not in this comic… or is he? Maybe he’s one of the protesters in costume—or maybe he’s already inside Powell’s Books (a bucket-list stop for me).

My Thrift Store Find

Today’s find: an opium pipe. Yep, at a thrift store. You don’t see that every day.

After a little Googling, I’m not even sure it’s legal to sell—depends on how you label it. Opium pipe? Water pipe? “Decorative conversation piece”? Who knows.

It looks like jade, it’s got some heft, and it definitely doesn’t feel cheap. I’ll get it appraised and report back once I know its age and material.

Stay tuned.

Take it easy,

James

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It was the early ’90s. Sea Isle City, New Jersey. 3:00 AM.

Sean, Joe, and I decided to take our six-pack of Killian’s Irish Red down to the beach and drink until sunrise. We were already flying high, but it was a manageable drunk—the kind that makes you feel like everything is right in the world. My future felt wide open, and I was celebrating life with good friends. We were young, away from the real world, and I was in a band with real potential. I was writing songs nonstop. Sitting there on the sand in the middle of the night, just talking—it felt perfect.

Then Joe decided to go into the ocean. It didn’t matter that the fog was so thick we could barely see in front of us. It also didn’t matter that Joe was in no condition to swim. Sean and I waved him off and went back to our Killian’s. A little sand got on the bottles, but I drank mine anyway. Only the first sip had that crunch. After that, it went down smooth. I don’t remember what Sean and I talked about—probably life, or one of those “I love you, man” conversations that became a Bud Light commercial later that decade.

What I do remember is that mid-sentence, Sean held up a finger—the universal “hold on a sec”—turned his head, puked in the sand, and then went right back to talking as if nothing had happened. I wasn’t even concerned. That’s just what you did back then: you drank, you puked, you kept drinking.

An hour or so later, we realized Joe hadn’t come back. We didn’t panic or even call out. We just looked at the water and wondered where he was. Not long after, he came staggering out of the fog—soaked, out of breath, and grinning. “The waves were great,” he said. We sat together and watched the sunrise before heading back to the beach house. (You can read more about that place here.)

This whole thing became a cartoon idea I’d been sitting on for a while. I wanted to draw it the way it still exists in my mind. Most memories aren’t movies—they’re snapshots. Unless it’s something monumental, like Kennedy’s assassination or 9/11, we remember in flashes. These three panels are my flashes: the beer on the beach, Sean puking, and Joe emerging from the sea.

I didn’t want dialogue or exposition in the comic. This post is the explanation. Maybe the strip wouldn’t make sense without it. Perhaps that makes it a failure. But I drew exactly what I wanted, and that makes it a success to me.

It’s also the first time I’ve used ink washes to create shades of gray. I might do more like this.

That’s all I got.

Take it easy,

James

Discovering new music in the mid-’90s wasn’t something that happened without substantial effort. You hunted. You stalked sound the way crate-diggers stalk obscure vinyl—through static, mixtapes, and chance.

For me, the chase often started with WPRB Princeton, the college radio stati…

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The other night, I watched a video of a cat being pulled over by the police. Sirens blaring, flashing lights, and an officer questioning the cat about catnip. The cat quickly puts the car in drive and suddenly takes off.

As someone trained in video, my first thought was: how the hell did they shoot that? Then it hit me—it wasn’t shot. It was generated.

AI.

Now, I’ll admit it—I was entertained. These ridiculous videos of animals getting pulled over crack me up. But lately, they’ve evolved into something less absurd and more… unnerving. I’ve seen clips of a toddler almost eaten by an alligator before a frantic mom swoops in to save him. Another of an elderly man attacked by a tiger—rescued by a bear. None of it real. All of it convincing.

And now we have Tilly Norwood, the AI “actress” who looks as real as anyone walking down Sunset Boulevard. Hollywood isn’t happy. I’m reminded of those early computer-generated actors that once had everyone worried—but we got used to them. Maybe that’s because they were still powered by people: human voice actors, animators, and artists who breathed life into them. The difference now is that the new AI “actors” won’t need any of that. No animators. No voice actors. No heartbeat behind the pixels.

Tilly doesn’t need them. Tilly doesn’t need anyone.

A friend of mine has this wild theory: that the government is letting AI get too good on purpose. His idea is that people will stop believing what they see online and start leaving the internet entirely—no more social media.

When I asked him what the government gets out of that, he said: “Control. No more organizing, no more protests, no more public squares.”

Now, I don’t buy the puppet master part—but I do think he’s right about the exodus.

There will come a point when the internet becomes so full of lies, filters, and synthetic everything that no one will believe anything they see. The web will eat itself. And when that happens, the smart ones will log off. People will seek reality again.

If there’s any real conspiracy, it’s that the powers that be don’t want us to wake up. They feed us the endless scroll, hungry for our attention, our data, our time. They want us staring down, not looking up.

The problem I have with my friend’s theory is that the internet isn’t really causing change for the masses. Social media gives us a false sense of activism. You share a post, you feel morally satisfied. Outrage becomes performance art. We’ve mistaken expression for action.

Real change takes work. It’s not going to come from a hashtag or a TikTok. Even these massive “million-person marches” barely ripple anymore. Maybe they don’t work because too many of us are just showing up for the post.

If you want real change, you have to get off your phone. You have to talk to people who disagree with you. You have to meet your neighbors. You have to rebuild the third places—cafés, bars, libraries, zine fairs—where we actually connect, laugh, and argue face-to-face. I recently wrote a post about third places. You can read it here.

The future isn’t online. The future is analog. It’s in the room you’re standing in.

The more realistic AI becomes, the more people will crave the unrealistic beauty of human imperfection. The handmade. The unfiltered. The flawed.

When everything is fake, even the worst hand-drawn sketch will feel like truth.

AI will find its place in entertainment, sure. Some creators will use it well. But the rest of us—the ones who want something real—will tune it out. We’ll find each other offline. We’ll trade art, stories, music, and ideas. We’ll build a new creative underground powered by imperfection and curiosity.

And the others? The ones who stay glued to their screens, believing every pixel and post? They’ll drown in the digital noise.

Only the stupid will remain.

So start early. Step away from the feed. Touch the world. Create something. Meet someone. Read a real zine. Listen to a real band. Sit with a real friend.

The future of being human is happening offline.

Join us.

Take it easy,

James

For me and Regina, Book Worms Horror isn’t just a zine—it’s a mission. We believe real things matter. In a world that’s gone almost entirely digital, we wanted to create something you can hold in your hands. Something that exists off-screen, that smells like ink and paper, that doesn’t buzz, blink, or beg for your attention.

That’s why Book Worms is analog only and limited to only one print run. When you sit down with one of our zines, you’re taking a break from the constant noise of your devices—and science says that’s one of the healthiest things you can do for your brain.

Research shows that heavy screen time is linked to increased anxiety, depression, and shorter attention spans. One large study of more than 40,000 kids and teens found that each extra hour of daily screen time led to worse psychological well-being—more stress, less focus, and higher emotional instability. Another review of nearly 200 studies confirmed the same pattern: more screen time equals worse mental health, especially when it replaces time outdoors or unplugged.

Screens also mess with your sleep. The blue light from your phone or tablet literally suppresses melatonin—the hormone that helps you fall asleep. Reading a physical book or zine, on the other hand, helps calm your brain and lets your body wind down naturally. One study even found that reading just six minutes can reduce stress by up to 68%, more than listening to music or going for a walk.

So yes—reading Book Worms might actually be good for your brain chemistry.

Beyond the mental health perks, there’s a deeper kind of connection that only comes from print. Studies show that people comprehend, focus, and retain more when they read from paper rather than a screen. You’re less distracted, more immersed, and you actually remember what you read. When you sit with Book Worms, you’re engaging in the kind of slow, focused reading that’s disappearing in the digital age—and that’s exactly what helps protect long-term brain health.

But Book Worms isn’t just about saving your sanity—it’s about supporting real art and real people. Every time you buy an issue, you’re helping us pay writers at a professional rate. You’re putting your money directly into the hands of humans, not algorithms or the rich billionaires that design them. For many of our contributors, Book Worms was their first-ever acceptance letter—and that matters. We’re proud to discover and champion new voices who might otherwise never be heard.

And while Book Worms is a horror zine, it’s also drenched in nostalgia. Our biggest inspiration is Mad Magazine—that beautiful mix of satire, chaos, and creativity that defined an era. We wanted to bring that same spirit back, but through a lens of horror, humor, and weirdness that feels both timeless and fresh.

So if you want to be part of a community that celebrates real things, supports writers and artists, and believes that unplugging is good for your soul, we’d love for you to join us.

Our latest issue is folk horror–themed, featuring some amazing writers and plenty of fun, eerie content to keep you company this spooky season.

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Take it easy,
James

Before I begin, I need to tell you that issue #9 of Book Worms Horror Zine is out now. The theme: FOLK HORROR.Limited. Analog only.

Get your copy today

Show 1: Shonen Knife — September 27th, Sellersville Theater, Sellersville, PA

Show 2: Castle Rat — October 5th, Music Hall of Williamsburg, Brooklyn, NY

Before we get started, let me give you a quick introduction to the two bands.

First, we have Shonen Knife — a Japanese pop-punk band formed in Osaka in 1981 by sisters Naoko and Atsuko Yamano. They’re known for their upbeat, Ramones-style sound mixed with bubblegum pop melodies and lyrics about food, animals, and everyday fun — think songs like “Banana Chips” and “Riding on the Rocket.” Their cheerful, DIY energy stood out in contrast to the darker punk scene of the time. Kurt Cobain was a huge fan — Nirvana even had them open for their 1991 U.S. tour — which helped Shonen Knife gain cult status internationally. They’re basically the most joyful band to ever come out of punk.

Then there’s Castle Rat, a fantasy-themed doom metal band from New York City, formed in 2019. They blend heavy riffs with medieval theatrics and are fronted by The Rat Queen (Riley Pinkerton). The band performs as mythic characters — complete with armor, swords, and ritual battles — creating a world where metal meets myth. Their music channels classic doom and traditional heavy metal in the spirit of Black Sabbath and Judas Priest. A Castle Rat show feels like part concert, part dark fantasy play. They’ve built a cult following, had a viral Kickstarter, and are masters of world-building. Castle Rat isn’t just a band — they’re a full-blown metal saga brought to life.

So there you have it. The common denominator? Fun.

I originally had tickets to see Shonen Knife in Brooklyn, but when I saw they were playing just 45 minutes from home, I sold the Brooklyn ticket and bought one for Sellersville instead. That turned out to be a wise move — especially considering it took me two and a half hours to get to Brooklyn for Castle Rat a week later. Totally my fault. I should’ve left earlier, but life got in the way.

Sellersville is one of those small Pennsylvania towns where you half expect to see an old general store still selling penny candy and raccoon hats. The drive gets more wooded as you go—like you’re entering a Grimm Brothers GPS dead zone. My phone was dying, my charger wasn’t cooperating, and I started mentally preparing for the possibility of living the rest of my life with a family of squirrels.

The Sellersville Theater has just under 300 seats — intimate, cozy, and lovingly restored.

When I walked in, the merch table was to the right. I grabbed an autographed copy of Shonen Knife’s latest album on vinyl for $30 — a steal. The crowd skewed older, which is when I first started feeling my own age creeping up on me. I was 21 when Shonen Knife was opening for Nirvana. I was in a band myself back then. You walk in expecting to feel that youthful energy again — then you see old punks struggling up the aisle with canes. It was more like punk matinee energy.

Still, everyone was polite, seated, and there to have a good time — no moshing, no chaos, just vibes. Except for the people glued to their phones. I’ll never understand that. If you pay to see a live show, watch the show. Don’t scroll through Instagram while a legendary band is right in front of you.

Despite the existential dread creeping in, Shonen Knife’s performance was pure joy. They were energetic, funny, and somehow felt younger than the audience. It was an absolute blast — even if it came with a side of mortality.

I went alone, which I usually prefer. I like being able to move at my own pace — especially in museums or places where I don’t want to rush. But concerts are better with a friend. Still, no regrets.

The opening act, The Pack A.D., was… awkward. They’re a duo — singer/guitarist Becky Black and drummer Maya Miller. The drummer did all the talking, but it felt forced, like they’d just had a fight before walking onstage. The music didn’t help either. Let’s just say, if you’re going to play sloppy punk, it better be fun sloppy. This was not.

Shonen Knife ended their set with “Top of the World” by The Carpenters — a song that hits me right in the nostalgia. Their version was as joyful as ever, and it sent everyone out smiling. I drove home through the dark, tree-lined roads of Bucks County feeling happy — and just a little haunted by the passage of time.

From Quiet Streets to Chainmail and Chaos

Now let’s talk about Castle Rat.

The drive to Brooklyn took 2.5 hours — expected, but still brutal. I listened to Castle Rat’s entire discography on the way, twice through, to get in the mood. I met my friend Jake at the venue — the Music Hall of Williamsburg — where the doors opened at 7. I even found free street parking, which felt like a Brooklyn miracle.

Inside, I scoped out the merch table. They had autographed vinyl for $100. Compared to Shonen Knife’s $30 signed album, that was a hard pass. Jake convinced me to wait on buying anything anyway, and we grabbed a great spot to watch. Standing room only — no seats, no assigned rows. Just a floor and a crowd.

The first opener was GUHTS (yes, with an H). Jake suspected that GUTS was already taken. GUHTS was sludgy — and not in a good way. Their sound was so muddy it felt like wading through a swamp. The singer screamed better than she sang, but the whole thing felt off.

Next up: Heavy Temple, from Philly, was better but uneven. The bassist/vocalist had some cool moments, but the guitar player never stopped soloing long enough to let her breathe. When they got into instrumental jams, though, they were killer.

Then came Castle Rat — and the place exploded. The crowd was young, wild, and fully committed. Some were dressed in chainmail. Some were barely dressed, with a few women going topless. It was some scene.

For the first few songs, I felt young again — until the heat, the crowd, and my lungs reminded me otherwise. Claustrophobia hit fast. I fought my way out, bought an absurdly expensive bottle of water, and watched the rest of the show from the back. Honestly, there wasn’t a bad spot in the small venue, and the sound was even better where I ended up. Bonus: I could breathe.

Castle Rat put on one hell of a show — swords, smoke, and pure theater. They’re young, fearless, and full of ambition. I’m thrilled to have discovered them this early in their career. Their new album is fantastic, and their live show is worth every penny. I’ll take a $25 ticket to a band like Castle Rat over paying $300 to see Sting any day of the week.

Jake ended up in the mosh pit during “Dagger Dragger,” while I stayed in the back nursing my dignity (and my water). We met back up to catch the encore together, and I grabbed the vinyl for $30 on my way out. I am happy to report that it was a quick, smooth drive home.

More shows are coming up — and I’ll write about those soon.

Take it easy,

James

In the movie Heathers, J.D. says, “We scare people into not being assholes.” But fear doesn’t really change people—I believe it pushes them even further in the direction of assholery. In that same movie, Veronica writes in her journal that suicide gave Heather depth, Kurt a soul, and Ram a brain. Death, in other words, created a false nobility.

And that’s exactly what happens when someone resorts to violence in the real world. Take Charlie Kirk. I barely knew who he was. I’d scrolled past his posts, disagreed, and moved on. But when someone decided to murder him, suddenly, he was elevated. Overnight, he was given a status he never would have had if people had just let his words stand on their own.

It reminded me of a quote from The X-Files: “Killing him, you risk turning one man’s religion into a crusade.” That’s the truth. Killing doesn’t win arguments—it silences discussion. And if you want to change minds, you don’t do it with a bullet. You do it with better ideas, sharper debate, and the courage to challenge someone in the open.

Right now, we’re living in a world where “canceling” has become a weapon for both the left and the right. First, people were punished for saying the “wrong” thing. Now, people are punished for saying anything against someone considered untouchable. It’s out of control. The result? We are losing the very freedom of speech that makes debate possible.

Here’s the hard truth: lowering flags and placing someone on a pedestal doesn’t erase the terrible things they’ve said. You can oppose murder and still call out harmful ideas. You can respect life while refusing to romanticize a person’s rhetoric. That’s not hate—it’s honesty.

The answer isn’t violence. The answer isn’t silencing. The answer is courage: the courage to debate, to disagree openly, to break down bad ideas with logic and integrity. You won’t convince everyone, but you will plant seeds of thought. And you can do it without tearing the country further apart.

We’ve lost the art of disagreeing without destroying. Of being rivals in thought, but still neighbors in life. That’s where we need to return. If we want a healthier society, we need to argue like adults and live together like citizens.

Take the recent uproar with Jimmy Kimmel. Not long ago, the left wanted to cancel anyone who crossed a certain line. Now, the right is doing the same thing, going after Kimmel for speaking his mind. Both sides are guilty of the same reflex: punish instead of debate, silence instead of challenge. And while people cheer when it’s their “opponent” being canceled, no one seems to realize we’re all losing the same freedom.

And that’s exactly what inspired my latest comic. It comes from this frustration—that we can’t seem to say anything anymore without someone trying to silence or punish it. My comic is my way of reminding people that free speech only matters if it protects the voices we don’t agree with. It’s a call to calm down, to listen, to understand, and maybe even laugh at the absurdity of how far we’ve taken things.

So here’s my takeaway: you don’t have to agree with everyone. You don’t even have to like them. But don’t kill them, and don’t cheer when they’re gone. If your vision is better, then speak it boldly. Debate hard. Stand firm. And if your ideas are truly stronger, people will follow.

That’s how you change the world—not by silencing, not by killing, but by proving your voice is worth hearing.

If you found this post worth reading, please share it with someone who you think would enjoy it as well.

Take it easy,

James

Fall just got a whole lot better. Issue 9 of Book Worms Horror Zine lands in early October—just in time to curl up with some scares while sharpening your pencil for Pencilween. The theme? Folk Horror. Expect everything you love from us: chilling fiction, eerie poetry, clever articles, sharp reviews, plus comics, puzzles, games, and artwork that makes you laugh, squirm, and maybe sleep with the lights on.

But this issue isn’t just another Halloween special—it comes with a secret. Subscribers (our beloved Grub Club Members) will find a coded message tucked inside, along with your very own decoder wheel to crack it.

Think spooky cereal-box prize, but grown-up and cooler. If you’ve been thinking about subscribing, this is the time.

Subscribe to Book Worms & Save

🎃 And of course, October also means Pencilween—our third annual drawing challenge.

Whether you’re a doodler, a pro, or someone who just likes to draw goofy pumpkins, Pencilween is for you. Each day has a prompt: grab a pencil, scratch it out, and share online with #pencilween2025. The fun part? People take it in every direction—ink, paint, markers, collage, even face art. The point isn’t perfection. It’s about stepping away from the screens, making something real, and joining the weird little community that forms around it.

So if you’re not already following Book Worms Horror Zine on Instagram, now’s the time. Between Folk Horror chills, decoder-wheel thrills, and Pencilween creativity, this October is officially the best thing to happen to autumn since pumpkin spice.

This Week’s Online Delight: Dev Lemons

Lately, I’ve been obsessed with Dev Lemons. I first stumbled on her videos, not even realizing she was a musical artist. Her videos look like a glitchy ’90s video game fever dream: silly, strange, and ridiculously fun. The character she is playing is serious about “doing long term” with the viewer. Upset her and she will probably bop you on the head, causing the screen to flash red.

Of course, I had to try to figure out how she makes them. I went down the rabbit hole, searching online for tutorials—nothing. Zero. Zilch. My current theory is it’s some unholy mix of stitched-together photos, weird frame rates, and graphics that look like they crawled out of an old PlayStation. Whatever sorcery it is, I can’t crack it, and honestly, that makes them even cooler. If you have an idea how these videos were created, please leave a comment.

She’s clever, she’s weird, and it’s authentically her. The kicker? Because she’s so original, I ended up discovering her new album—something I probably wouldn’t have found if she had just been posting videos saying, “Check out my new release.” Lesson to creators: entertain first, be yourself, and people will find your art.

Watch Dev Lemons Here

🛒 Thrift Store Find of the Week:

This week, I went to a church rummage sale. Thrifting tip: church sales are the best. Whether they call it a rummage sale, yard sale, or flea market, it doesn’t matter—this is where you’ll find the rare gems (mixed in with plenty of junk). The church folks see it as supporting their congregation, and it’s also a chance for Barbara and Edith to drink coffee and compare knitting notes. They practically give everything away just to make a few bucks for the church.

Here’s why it works: older people don’t want to deal with yard sales, dragging boxes to thrift stores, or figuring out eBay. So they donate vintage treasures that just get tossed in a box and hauled to the church. They don’t know the value—and honestly, they don’t care. It’s basically a modern-day “selling of indulgences”: hand over your old stuff, drop a box at the church, and maybe score a fast pass to heaven.

That said, if the church in question preaches against what you believe, you might want to skip that particular rummage sale. No reason to give money to charities that go against your values.

Now, onto this week’s score. Normally, this sale delivers, but it was a little light this time. Still, I walked out with something special: two Battlestar Galactica puzzles from 1978. That’s not easy to find. They were 50 cents each, and I’m happy to report that the first one I built has all its pieces. You might laugh at the 170-piece count, but lately I’ve switched from building 500–1000-piece puzzles to smaller ones. Why?

1. I like the challenge of trying to finish a puzzle quickly.

2. They don’t eat up too much of my time.

3. My cats usually destroy puzzles that sit out for a few days.

With these smaller sets, I can finish in one sitting, get that sweet dopamine hit, and move on to the next one. Plus, I get to share the builds with my ten-year-old son, whom I just introduced to the 1978 Galactica show. So yeah, this was a pleasant find.

Take it easy,

James