This was taken from Ethan Hawke’s documentary, The Last Movie Stars. It chronicled the careers and marriage of actors Joanne Woodward and Paul Newman. It did so by taking the discovered transcripts of interviews Newman, Woodward, and friends recorded for a memoir that was never supposed to be written. Before his passing, Newman destroyed the actual recordings, fearing it was far too self-obsessed. Uninteresting. As only Paul Newman would believe the life of Paul Newman was not of endless fascination. Yet the transcripts were found and given to Ethan Hawke, who called up his friends, including George Clooney, to recite Newman’s own accounts over zoom during the COVID-19 Worldwide Global Pandemic. And then Hawke recruited indie rock falsetto god Hamilton Leithauser to provide some tasty acoustic licks for it all. Finally, Hawke layered the recordings and licks over clips from the vast, half-century spanning film library of Newman and Woodward. The result is was a story of two artists, grappling with marriage, fame, loss and a rapidly changing country. Most importantly, how it all bled into their work on screen. It also, somehow, resulted in my clip above. A clip that, in context, floored me. A clip that out of context, I hope at least slightly floored you.

It’s a clip of many other clips. A clip from the 1969 movie Winning, over an audio clip from George Clooney’s recordings of the transcripts of a destroyed Paul Newman recording. Then add a live recorded clip from the Carlyle Hotel of Hamilton Leithauser covering Panda Bear’s Dolphin. All of these ingredients have no order. No business knowing each other. No rhyme or reason for amassing into something I find absolutely beautiful. But goddamn, tell me each of these players didn’t absolutely take it to the lane and finish with contact.

That’s what it’s all about. Why we must live to clip another day. There is no rhyme or reason, no linear equation to the creation or amalgamation of the clips…the art…or the summation of moments that stick with us. Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward made a movie in 1969. Then lived almost 40 more years of a life together. Recorded tapes for a memoir. Burned said tapes for this memoir. Hamilton Leitherhauser covered an electronic track in 2019 with an acoustic guitar. George Clooney recited these recollections in 2021. Then known creative shaman Ethan Hawke colored between the fucken lines in 2022. All so I, The Pioneer, could clip it down for this newsletter. Nobody knew the part they were playing. They couldn’t foresee the end result of their output. None of us ever really can.

The beautiful clip reminds me of this. We are all just a small part in how the sausage gets made. I’m not exactly sure what the sausage is in this circumstance. But I do know in art, life, newsletter and everything in between - we gotta just keep the trains moving. Putting it all out there. Taking a bicycle kick to the dome like that English defender at The Azteca. No half-assin. Whatever it is. Whoever that’s for. Staying honest. Recollecting. Reflecting. Moving downfield however we can. We owe it to whatever that may result in. If the idea of results ever even existed. Just like Newman said, there are no absolutes. No finalities. It’s all relative. We just never know what’s around the corner or who will clip it next.

Guy made a dank balsamic. I’d take his word for it.

Pioneer Newsletter is back. See you next Friday.

Pioneer Big Fit of The Week

Mexico.

Brimless lid.

Longs and flops.

Sonvos HQ.

Recs

None.

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Oh and skip right past it if you wanna see my Pioneering Fit of the Week™.

Our Coffee Shop Has Couches

Sometime in 2025, my friend Marco asked me to meet him at a new coffee shop on Venice Boulevard. After inevitably walking into Saby’s, our next door neighbor and sacred keeper of the breakfast burrito secrets, I stepped into Saba for the first time. Marco was at the front of the shop. He was sitting on a couch….A piece of furniture which was the first of many features that threw me off my axis. Saba lacked the minimalistic monotony of where I was accustomed to pairing a cold brew/splash of cream with the false promise of laptop work. It was not, as Kyle Chayka describes in his excellent 2024 book Filterworld: How Algorithms Flattened Culture, a stock and scaled cafe with “plentiful daylight through large storefront windows; industrial-size wood tables for accessible seating; a bright interior with walls painted white or covered in subway tiles; and wifi available for writing or procrastinating.” Chayka theorizes this millennial milieu is one of the many products of algorithms shaping the world around us. If say, Instagram or Yelp favors a Kubrick-spaceship-looking coffee house in Park Slope, it will most likely recommend one similar in Sydney. The look is then replicated by a new shop owner in Reykjavik, and so on.

But back to my morning with Marco. Back to Saba. The supposedly new coffee shop on Venice Boulevard that looked as if it had been there for 25 years. To Mr. Chayka’s credit, there was some tiling. And of course, wifi was available for said procrastinating. But nothing about Saba felt…minimalistic, dystopian, or robotically efficient (if I’m allowed to go there without taking a shot at the wait time for a Breakwater). The tiles were an earthy maroon and clearly placed by hand. The wifi password was written in sharpie and taped to the wall. Surfboards hung from the ceiling along with merchandise, draped across slats of unfinished wood. Most importantly, Marco was stationed on a rather large brown leather couch. It was one of three that sat in the shop, atop rugs and behind tables covered with old surf magazines. But is that all it took to separate this new shop from the copy and paste world we live in? What about this plush leather could have tickled my local fancy?

I knew it wasn’t just Saba’s “surfy aesthetic”. I don’t even surf. Nor do I use the word “aesthetic”. But I have read one surf memoir, Barbarian Days by William Finnegan (book rec number two…come at me). And from what I can surmise, surfing is all about presence. Dialing in. Understanding out in Big Blue, no two waves are the same. Local to the here and the now, one’s mission might never be to strive for volume, but instead catch the ultimate ride (alright that’s from Point Break). Not to be dramatic, but that’s how I felt sippin’ my naughty little cold brew and sitting on that damn couch.

In Filterworld, Chayka references the work of French philosopher Marc Augé, who similarly studied how larger spaces such as airports, highways, and hotels began to look similar across the world by the end of the 20th Century. Augé coined these environments as Non-Spaces. Places where “people are always, and never, at home.” It’s no longer just airports and hotels. Suddenly everything in our neighborhoods feels as if it was built for the entire world. But breaking from the norms of non-spaces requires a leap of faith into the unknown abyss of taste and instincts. Does a new shop on the street have it? Or would it have been better to rely on what hasn’t failed before? A good place to start is focusing on the neighborhood it serves.

Maybe that’s why this couch warred against a world flattened by Yelp (but snake us a thumbs up when you’ve got the chance). It is not ergonomic, efficient in space, or easily replicated. It’s loud and obese. It takes up the room of 8 linebackers while only seating two. But most importantly, a couch like a wave (I’m only assuming), favors presence over purpose. Marco and I were in no such non-space. No longer in a coffee shop built for the universe and the screens through which we view it. Saba was built for Venice, the beachside neighborhood it resides in. The neighborhood Marco and I live in (Marco’s in Palms but just go with it). It lacks skylights, white brick, and rows upon rows of hard stone benches. Instead, there are couches.

Or maybe this whole thing’s just cyclical. After all, they sat on a couch in Friends…

Regardless, throughout this newsletter, you’ll hear more stories about our neighborhood, your fellow regulars, and those just passing through town. Like the tote bag you bought with your flat white, we hope these stories stay with you long after the foam settles. Some are already calling this the couch of newsletters. Just what I’m hearing.

So until then, keep taking note of what makes the world around you your own. We will too. One Breakwater at a time.

Saba Surf and Coffee

From the journal of Saba...

Pioneering Fit of the Week™

Target flops. Gap 11" inchers. Maggie Rogers/Knicks concert shirt. Shades from a convenience store in Rome.

Pls discuss. Ciao for now.

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Madison Square Garden. 1968. My father was lacing up his chucks in the locker room of the New York Knicks. No, he was not a member of their ’70 or ’73 championship runs. Also no, he was not up for a cup of coffee after being dealt by the Flint Tropics for their washing machine. He was a high school junior about to play a very high school basketball game in the world’s most famous arena. An hour before the Knicks played a very professional one against the Philadelphia 76ers.

But it was 1968. There were no hospitality suites. No James Dolan surveillance cameras. The Flatbush Yeshiva Falcons would get ready for this game in the locker room of the team who’d drench it with champagne two years later. So there he was, lacing them up, when number 19 walked through the door. Willis Reed.

The room fell silent. Reed towered over not just these teenagers but the entire city of New York. He was the captain. Rookie of the year, three years prior. He’d soon go on to win the MVP, two rings, and two finals MVPs along with them. During the first of which, he’d famously hobble out from the tunnel to knock down the first two buckets of game 7 and guard Wilt Chamberlain on one leg.

My father and his teammates waited as Reed stood there, I’m assuming confused as to why there were 13 kids sitting in the Knicks locker room. Had someone told him the Yeshiva boys called first game on court? We’ll never know. Because all Reed told them was simply…good luck out there.

Admittedly, I’ve only seen a few games of Willis Reed. Such as my father’s high school mixtape, I’m assuming most footage was either not televised or destroyed. Yet I’d still hear tall tales of when the Garden was Eden. When giants such as Reed, Bradley, Monroe, and Clyde Frazier ruled the basketball world in a city crazed by it. How years later, such fervor was recaptured by Pat Ewing. How John Starks went from bagging groceries to dunking on Jordan. And how Jordan, then Hakeem, and then Tim Duncan and of course Reggie Miller, in between, would will these Knicks back down to earth.

The importance of a father passing the memories and trauma of sports onto his kids is far too obvious. Yet clichés are clichés for a reason. While many did not meet Reed in the locker room, plenty have recounted a time long ago at the Garden. When the basketball, like a New Yorker on his way to the office, moved with purpose. It’s how I learned to hold my nose whilst rooting for the ball stopping brilliance of Stephon Marbury (sometimes) or Carmelo Anthony (more often). Lament about how they traded away the only fun team I knew (Danilo Gallinari) to acquire Anthony. Understand the significance of those two weeks when Jeremy Lin recaptured the selfless, hard-nosed, and freewheeling spirit of such tall tales. His pick and roll with Tyson Chandler. His telepathic finds for Landry Fields in the air and Steve Novak in the corner. His 38 on Kobe. His buzzer beater in Toronto. Each and every blitzing drive through the lane and poetic finish with contact reminded us of the secret I instinctively knew all along. The Knicks are no Yankees. No 27 rings. But they are no Jets or Mets either. Instead, tortured in a way far more elitist and alluring, with the shared but distant memory of sustained excellence.

But now, I am no longer watching mediocrity interrupted by the occasional flash of brilliance. No brief mimicry of my father’s stories. I am watching what I was promised. The manifest destiny any Knick fan absurdly believes in.

It happened during game one of the Conference Finals. The fourth quarter, obviously. As I witnessed Jalen Brunson suck the soul from James Harden, possession after possession. Bucket after bucket. I was seeing what my dad saw in that locker room. Reed was not yet a champion, but maybe the embodiment of belief. Belief that now this captain, like number 19 himself, is the tip of a spear that is continually sharpened by the roaring Garden - collectively recognizing the suffocating, harmonic, and chaotic brand of basketball played before them.

This recognition must be that of Darwinian instinct. Or at least the product of all the stories. I never witnessed Willis and Frazier. Ewing and Starks. I only saw Allan Houston collect DNPs. But suddenly I know what Knicks basketball was and could be, in the form of a Brunson finish, Hart board, OG putback, and good god…a no looker from Towns at the top of the key. This is the belief I was promised at birth. The promised Knicks of years before. This belief is what I will remember and pass on to my own.

And against Victor Wembanyama, such belief might be all one could ask for.

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“That thing’s got good springs on it”

Fuck a silicon chip. Or a large language machine. We used to build real machines. With gears and springs, I’m sure. Friend and Pioneer contributor, Caniac Kemba knew it. That’s why he mixed this one in mid-hat-discussion. Read below:

Me: Wadupmyboi….Took a visit to the pro shop and acquired this twill-ass Smathers and Branson lid.

Caniac: Say act…Lemme see that?

*Grabs hat by the bill and inspects…*

Caniac: This thing’s got good springs on it.

“His golf pro, his analyst, and me…”

Another Caniac contribution. Maybe a play on the whole rabbi and a priest walk into a bar, but instead just start your story with…“His golf pro, his analyst, and me” if describing a real rag tag crew of roosters.

Me: Who pulled up to the func?

Caniac: Steve, his golf pro, his analyst, and me. The usual roosters, I guess.

Roosters…backdoor mix-in.

“Closing bell”

A friend of mine was in town last weekend. We inevitably made some plans. Here’s how it all went down:

Me: Yo yo what’s ur avail.

Spango: I’m en route to our place for tonight rn. Should we grab some cervezas after the closing bell?

Me: Fuckin great use of closing bell.

Gonna start getting this one in the mix, no doubt. When exactly is closing bell? We going by NASDAQ rules? The Nikkei 225 far out East? Who gives. When the timing is right…closing bell shall ring across the land.

“Make a word on her”

Aggressive at first, but after further inspection, quite cordial. Picture this. You’re in Boston. It’s 1997. You’re a brilliant psychologist, still grieving from the passing of your late wife. But then a genius from Southie becomes your new patient. Let’s call him Will Hunting. At first, he raw dogs your sessions, waiting for the clock to run out. But then you finally connect. Over baseball. You tell him a story about skipping the 1975 World Series to meet a woman you saw across the bar. You missed Pudge Fisk’s walk off homer and Will Hunting can’t believe it. He asks you how the hell your buddies let you get away with that? And that’s when you tell Matt Da—-I mean Will Hunting…

I slid my ticket across the bar and said I’m sorry fellas…I’ve gotta go make on word her.

Months later, Will Hunting skips town to chase a nice British lady across the country. He leaves you a note.

Tell the professor I’m sorry…I had to go make a word on her.

“Live arm”

Call it the City Connect of got good springs, here’s an alternative way to provide just about anything its flowers. But save this saying for something a little unexpected. Whenever you’ve got live arms in the bullpen and whatever that bullpen might be. Need help? Take this one out for a walk around the block:

Me: What’s your second date plan with Lisa?

Jimmy: Prob just invite her over for a meal. Maybe wrestle up some Cacio e pepe.

Me: Damn. You cook?

Jimmy: Of course. I’ve got a real live arm in the kitchen.

Me: Great use.

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A 2024 story for context…

Industry Season 3 solidified a trend I was only marginally aware of at the time…Vintage finance swag (ideally from banks taken out by the ‘08 crash) goes pretty crazy if worn correctly. A Lehman Brothers dad hat or AIG Bi-Annual Retreat ‘04 golf polo. Really anything with a good serif font and solid embroidery. I love the audience for this thread, as well. Not the old heads that buried the bodies and built the sub-prime tranches. It’s the 28 year old creative directors. The fashion mfs that punched a Mamdani ticket against the very machine behind such hats, shirts, and gym bags.

That’s just tension. And tension is at the core of just about anything that becomes popular. We war with the morality of such steez. Ponder over the why. But such as anything beautiful, we cannot simply hold onto it. It’s fleeting. All I can be sure of is this Cresta Run ‘09 St Moritz hat goes crazy. And that ain’t even a bank.

But enough about other people. Let’s make this about me. Oh and the frat shirts.

If you, like me, am wondering why I’m not famous yet…my famous lack of tension is most likely the problem. The Pioneer is a working man’s newsletter. Salt of the algorithm stuff. What you see is what you get. But I’m looking to track some mud on the carpet.

So here’s a trend I’m about to start…Frat shirts. Yes. The ones with Greek letters and Spring Rush 2018. Thinking I might start repping them again. I’ve still got a few from my days in Sigma Chi. And yes, I did just get these 11 inch cargo shorts on clearance from Gap. A little ΣΧ action could go absolutely mental with the pockets.

Why? I think it follows the same rules as finance drip. It screams institutional money. It celebrates a culture that, at best, could be described as checkered. And most importantly…you’re not supposed to wear frat shirts after college. Well when the bankers boxes were flying out the doors of Goldman in ‘08…you weren’t supposed to be wearing their shit too.

Greek Life might be on its last legs in America but that’s great news for the vintage market. It’s also great news for The Pioneer. It’s about damn time I track some much needed mud. Do some shit that has y’all sayin…

Am I sure this is cool?

Tension. Conflict. Subversion. False Flag operations…That’s all this is at the end of the day. That and spring rush, of course.

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So without overheating your phone just in the damn intro, here are three photos from the camera roll that spoke to me this week.

Photo #1: The Target Purchase

Five buck flip flops and a single sweet potato. No bag.

I challenge anyone to name a more heinous Target purchase. This is what Bezos is trying to take away from us. But I won’t let him. I needed a starch for dinner. Needed some flops for the weekend. Here I am, six dollars later, a changed man.

Thank you Target.

Photo #2: Knicks in 6

Here I am, repping a new shirt. You might recognize the design on it. It’s the same Josh Hart/Grateful Dead art that appeared in my Partiful Paradox newsletter a few months ago. My friend Nick (of Moods Radio fame) and I made some shirts out of it. Deadstock vintage. Cause we move like that. There’s five left, too. Email me if you want one. Bring 20 bucks too.

As for the Knicks, they about ready to run a damn 2-3 zone to get Brunson some help on D. Holy fuck. Mike Brown playin checkers against Quinn Snyder’s Warby Parker frames and ghost of James Naismith. But Snyder’s been that guy in April. The Robert J. Oppenheimer of first round hoops. And where McCollum been hiding? I guess four years of tank ball in Nola and DC can make a casual league associate forget about a shotmaker. I think he’s been at the Four Seasons Jamaica this time of year since Terry Stotts had him coming off bubble screens up in Rip City.

So I’m worried. Not too worried though. Jose Alvarado full court press game 4. Brunson goes for 40. Mike Brown does absolutely nothing. Knicks in 6.

Photo #3: The Space Between Logic and Reason

Take a drink of this. My roommate’s car just absolutely breathing down the neck of a concrete wall. I wonder if he slammed on the brakes real quick or this was a slow roll. Regardless…good stuff by him. Let’s all harness this Mazda CX-5’s relentless positioning and bring such chutzpa into the weekend. Test your limits. Find new boundaries. Take yourself to the space between logic and reason. Find a concrete wall and run right through it.

Unless you’re in your whip. Then stop like, right before it.

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Guys, I did that thing. I chopped it up with my seatmate. But did it matter?

Hours prior to takeoff, I was assigned a new seat like a troublemaker in Algebra I. Back row…Of the entire 77 row plane. Luckily this row was just a two-seater. Pioneer Business Select as I like to call it. And I wasn’t sitting next to…(fill in the blank with your nightmare seatmate so I don’t get canceled for it). I was sitting next to Payton. It’s not Payton. But let’s just go with Payton.

Payton was intriguing. She looked like she had just stepped out of a Pacifico ad. Her rather rustic presence at war with the confines of a United flight. I shared no such energy, slowly coming to terms with an incoming illness. A common cold turned violently uncommon days later. A virus so furious, it debilitated my newslettering abilities all week. And Payton didn’t seem to be in the mood to go airpods out either. She was locked into a playlist, firing off texts in multiple groupers. (I spy on all my seatmates phones for national security.)

However, even in my weakened state, I was tempted to meet this stranger. I had yet to receive my complimentary pair of noise de-canceling ear buds, glued together by the pilot’s spit and recycled Reynolds wrap. Ears exposed, I was vulnerable to unexpected conversation. But something needed to happen. Just one small miracle that could change the trajectory of this entire flight.

Luckily there were three.

Miracle #1: Upon boarding I was gifted a wet wipe by the flight attendant. These are designed for your hands. But in the throes of illness anxiety, I went full Howie Mandel. Started with my hands then flirted with some forearms before taking that wet wipe to the armrests and the seat-back entertainment system. If regret didn’t immediately follow, it surely crept up moments later, once the cabin smelled like a damn Vodka factory.

Miracle #2: I believe my wipe-down move short circuited the seat-back screen. I couldn’t start DWP if Simon Baker's life depended on it. I did take the free United buds just in case, but that shatterproof glass was DOA.

Miracle #3: After 10,000 feet of sky climbing, Payton pulled out her laptop. She had some work to do. But after having little issue taking her credit card info, the onboard Wifi decided to skip over her seat. Mine worked. Even if I only opted for free messaging (I don’t fly and scroll). But I kept to myself. Afraid to utter a word after my disinfecting disaster.

These might not sound like miracles. More like setbacks. But I had what she needed. Wifi access. She had what I wanted. The Devil Wears Prada. And that’s what Shakespeare called dramatic conflict. That’s what I call a damn good newsletter.

Finally, Payton turned to me and politely asked if my Wifi was cooking. With gas, I told her. I asked if her seat-back screen was firing. With velocity, she advised me. So I flagged down the flight attendant. Slipped him a drink voucher and asked if he’d look into the situation. But no system reset could stop what had begun. An airborne connection. And before I get ahead of my keys, let’s get one thing out of the way.

It couldn’t be romantic.

And I was content with that…Sure, Payton was quite striking. Ethereal even. And sure, she was a competitive collegian surfer moving into a finance career, who at points during school, lived out of a van in Iceland then spent another semester in the Netherlands. And sure, she’s currently a waiter at a high end sushi restaurant that might or might not rhyme with Yobu, meaning unparalleled access to salmon nigiri. I totally was okay with it being buddy buddy. Because I didn’t know any of these details yet. Within the first few minutes of our conversation, all I knew was she took the weekend to visit her LDB (long distance boyf). That and she thought I was the Unabomber after disinfecting our entire row. So my field positioning wasn’t great. Neither was my timing. It took two small miracles to overcome the first. Flight friends is all I could hope for.

But over the course of 5 hours, each of these details was revealed through historically effortless conversation. Conversation that would stop then start again. Sometimes after I nailed a Tucci zinger, word for word, as she watched Devil Wears Prada on her (operational) seat back screen. Other times during the constant interruptions of air travel. Each micro-conversation easier than the last. Constantly re-gauging how much is safe or appropriate to reveal about our past. Our baggage. Our present doubts. Our fears for the future. I told her about this writing. The past setbacks. The creeping failure I’m terrified of. And she told me about her hesitant future. An oncoming finance job that would take up more time than most. Having to move across the country to a new city to do so. Then there were the travel stories we traded. That’s where it got good. So I’ll skip ahead. Up to the moment I asked how many cigs she blasted in Amsterdam. Payton rolled her eyes.

“Last year didn’t count.” She said.

Goddamn…What a concept. What an absolute statement on presence. An antidote to regret. A recognition of the past void of determining the future. Payton found it funny that I was floored by her excuse for engaging in the dart arts. But it didn’t matter why she said it. Her words hung in the air like the Purell bomb I set off upon takeoff. Stuck with me too. Till landing. On the Jetway. And even during our obligatory will they/won’t they half-silent walk to baggage claim.

Maybe that flight didn’t count (see what I did there). Five hours in complete isolation from our lives down below (aight…I’ll quit stroking it). Payton and I might never speak again. Some real Ethan Hawke shit if you ask me. And if we do, who knows if the Wifi will be cooking. If the screens will be firing. We could just be strangers to each other once again. Because last year didn’t count. This year doesn’t either. Next year is up for debate too. Guess all we can do is take the airpods out when we want. Maybe write a newsletter two weeks later when it means something.

But one day it might count. Whenever that may be.

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So here are three more.

Zags for the weekend that is.

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Give a dog the cold shoulder

Human are no longer capable of expressing emotions to one another without emojis, the heart reaction on iMessage, or therapy speak. It is why we’ve dedicated an inappropriate amount of companionship to another mammal that doesn’t possess the ability to speak English.

I don’t hate dogs. I just know too many of you have one. I know this because every public space is now a damn Petsmart. And with this unprecedented access, we’ve enabled dogs just a little too much. I shouldn’t be expected to stop my conversation, get on the ground, and start talking like a five year old any time your doodle walks in the room. Not this weekend. This weekend I’m giving your dog the cold shoulder. Or knee…(cause they’re short).

I’m not a serial killer. I’ll give Ralph a stern pet on the head if he’s a good guy. But then I’ll teach him a lesson in humility. Know your place, dogs. Go chase a fucking stick. The humans are talking.

Reply to Sarcasm With Earnestness

President Parad was about to leave our apartment last night when I asked him where he was going. He told me he was meeting Dane at Q’s for the Arkansas/Arizona bloodbath. I replied with a cold “Thanks for the invite bro…” Then Parad, without missing a beat, said “yeah dude…of course.”

Safe to say this broke my brain. He went down to the mat and put my sarcasm in a triangle hold of earnestness. Respected it so much I didn’t even mind that he forgot to invite me.

Try it out this weekend.

Capri Pants

Last summer I was with my dawg E out in Antwerp. We were doing some thrifting when a pair of Kappa capri pants caught my eye. E found a pair of Diadora capris soon after. We both tried ‘em on. It’s when I realized those capris fucking found E. And mine? Found the rack, once again. But the idea never died. It just simmered until last week when I watched a doc about Rafa Nadal. This was him on clay in Paris…Consider the idea reignited.

My shins and ankles are barking. My knees are begging to take cover.

Capris. This weekend. I’m finding my pair.

and finally…

One Fit For the Weekend

Duh.

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A few years back, friend of the newslett Brockwell put a Google Flights alert on my desk. Ireland. One week. 400 bucks. Roundtrip. Turns out Scandinavian Air had some open seats. Even three months later, upon boarding, I had the entire damn row of four to myself. A Pioneer lie-flat as they refer to it in the commercial airline industry.

Ireland fucking rocked. Guinness on Guinness. We hit The Gravediggers in Dublin. A 150 year old pub next to a cemetery with a sign that reads “NO DRINKING AT THE CEMETERY” and a 5 PM afterwork crowd drinking Guinness all across the cemetery. We hit Galway. Pub hopped and Guinness slugged with new friends on most nights. Took it easy with a pint or two on the off days. I witnessed Brockwell cry during a trad tune about the famine. I sipped another G at sea, as I sailed by the Cliffs to Inishmore. Did some other cultural (tourist) stuff too. Like hit the Guinness Factory (and skybar). It’s one of the most popular beers in Africa. Who knew.

My trip to Ireland was understandably the apex of personal Guinness appreciation in my lifetime. It was also a time that it felt a little less insufferable to say things like…

“If it shares a tap with Bud Light, I’ll probably just do the Bud Light. The temperature is all off.”

Or other declarations like…

“The thing about Gravediggers is Bourdain didn’t put it on his show because the pint was too good there.”

But this past year, Guinness has gone the way of brown liquor. Another prop or hobby associated with a very modern phenomenon I’ll coin as soft masculinity. A delicate dance for the modern left of center man hoping to simultaneously swoon art chicks and be the absolute boy. It’s like soft diplomacy but replace the American Red Cross with G splitting. A counter measure to all out ally posturing as well as redneckerism that somehow has turned into posturing itself.

And for a moment, I was the Henry Kissinger of soft masculinity. I, of course, drank Guinness but didn’t care for matcha. Watched Industry for Yaz but also for its exploration of sexual fluidity. Could indulge in a Clairo track at the kickback and a Morgan Wallen slappper in the car alone. Liked Scott Galloway but deeply respected Kara Swisher. Would say things like “If I’m drunk enough, you can pierce my ear,” yet never seemed to get that ear pierced. There were two words you’d never hear out my mouth. The first was “problematic”. The second? “Freedom.”

Soft masculinity is a cowboy with stick and poke tattoos. The stock broker who wears Bostons and sips rosé on the weekend. A man wise enough to avoid bookstore tote bags but also the UFC at all costs.

And most of all, a MAN who can stomach a full bodied Guinness. Split the G. Boys only. But ladies? This ain’t no boring ass patriarchal Bud Light sipped through the male gaze. It’s a cultural exchange. A playful drinking competition. It looks cool on Portra 800 low light film. It’s cheap enough to have a few.

Guinness was the calling card for soft masculinity. So much so that it has become…uninspired?

Yet a cold pint does sound pretty damn crispy come Saturday.

Fine. This St. Patricks Day(ish) I’m still drinking Guinness. But I’m splitting no Gs. I’m also gonna do shrooms. That’s also something I do on St. Patricks Day.

Gooms…Low key kinda soft masculinity rising.

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One Fit For the Weekend

DDL was Irish in this, right?

I saw this photo during a bedtime scroll. It’s one of my favorite bands, The Belair Lip Bombs. They’re pretty cool. Their music’s pretty good. And here they are, making fun of a PSA to stop scrolling…by performatively scrolling. It’s a joke. I know that. But then again, maybe one day it won’t be.

I also watch Mad Men. A lot of Mad Men. Too much Mad Men. And anyone who’s seen Mad Men knows smoking is undeniably cool in Mad Men. Until it’s not. Every morning, Don Draper wakes up like he’s been to hell and back. Because his lungs, liver, and heart most likely has. Then 25 minutes and one 1960s Alka-Seltzer later, he rips a Lucky Strike like God herself begged him to and becomes really really cool again.

Fast forward to the present. 4 out of 5 surgeons lied to us. Smoking will most definitely kill you. But in a world that did its best to rid the filthy practice, a crowd still emerges outside of bars. On balconies and fire escapes. At cafe tables in the 9^th arrondissement. Doing the thing we’re not supposed to. Grasping onto a far more dangerous time. Friend of the newsletter, , said it best in the New York Times in a 2022 piece about the comeback of hobby smoking.

But what if that thing changes? Overexsmokesure could be fast approaching. Such as splitting the G or anything else perceived to be cool, fun, and community cultivating - the weak and desperate use it as a steez crutch. Abuse it as a substitute for personality. This might happen to smoking. And as the xynsurrection fully conquers nicotine, smoking could be rendered uncool again. So we’ll need a new thing to signal rebellion. Something dangerous, obviously. That thing will be scrolling.

We all scroll. A lot. All day. While eating. Drinking. After waking up. Before going to sleep. And for now, scrolling is uncool. We’re all trying to quit. Suddenly aware of just how detrimental it is. But it’s also dangerous.

Therefore it will become cool. In 20 years, once scrolling is legislatively shamed, reformed, taxed, and marooned to designated sections of parking lots and glass cubes at the Vegas airport, it will become countercultural. Mark my newsletter. And that is the day some kid, born during the third term of the Baron Trump administration, will grow up to look like Elordi. Or Dua. This kid will want to explore the space. Toe the line of rebellion. Do some serious Icarusing. As Ryan says, assert their flamboyant death wish on the rest of us. Then they will step outside the bar, pull out their iPhone 37, and pay $13 to scroll for 5 minutes. Scott Galloway. AI Charlie Kirk. Gwyneth Paltrow using 15 cast iron pans to make a damn boyfriend breakfast. The dopamine will hit unbelievably different. The forbidden dopa always does. But most importantly, their scrolling will look really really cool. And hot. And also did I mention cool. Others will want to be like them. Do what they do to signal that they are also hot and cool. Then I’ll collect $200 cause we’re back to square one. Known doomscroller and occasional writer Mark Twain said it best…

History doesn’t repeat itself, but it often rhymes.

So I’ll see you outside of The Thirsty Crow in 2046. Getting a quick scroll in between glasses of vino.

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I turn 27 on Tuesday.

All I see on my phone is that guy playing John F Kennedy Jr. and American figure skating champion Alysa Liu. They’re different. But the same. But also super different. I’m there for the Junioraissance A preppy slice of 90s nostalgia reimagined and dramatized into 10 hours of steamy TV. The Calvin Klein suits, backwards kangol, big khakis, and headbands are of a generation I was not a part of but surely one that anyone my age likes, pins, and lionizes.

And then there’s Alysa Liu. She’s 20. She wears Von Dutch. Skates to PinkPantheress. Dyes her hair with bleach blonde halos and blings her smile with ice I was previously unfamiliar with. Peppered in with some world class skating, Liu’s steez has captured the nation in ways not seen since the historic team up of Jimmy MacElroy and Chazz Michael Michaels. I’m there for this as well. She’s a certified individual. Cool if we’d like simmer down and reduce it. But the Liuaissance also makes me feel generationally cooked. She’s nostalgic for a time I am not. It’s a cool anchored by 2004 instead of 1994. The earliest digital age instead of the last gasps of analog. Her Paris Hilton Simple Life vs. my Real World. JFK Jr drip is once again having its time in the algorithmic sun. Sure. But in the same way a 45 year old still thinks it’s a vibe to dress like they’re at Woodstock. The real moment is Alysa Liu’s. As Shohei says in that New Balance ad…she’s got now. That’s a sobering realization. I am no longer on the cutting edge. Part of the mercurial and sought after 18-24 demographic. I’m pre-9/11 cooked. Predisposed to hold tightly on the good old days of 1994, when I was negative 5 years old and everyone apparently looked unbelievable at airports. I guess the nostalgia cycle has run its course. The new good old days are ‘04. A steez pool I’d feel wrong dipping my drip into. Here I' am still thinking about repping a suit/kangol combo and take my 12 speed through the West Village.

So to any college kids popping their boots to Stateside, charging their Motorola Razr, and pre-ripping their American Eagle cargos, I have sobering news for you.

Someone born in 2010 just bought their first pair of skinny jeans. A North Face zip-up fleece might follow. Maybe they’ll even learn about Foster The People. Or the great Friends With Benefits/No Strings Attached war of 2011.

Unfortunately, the nostalgia cycle comes for us all.

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More on Friends With benefits this week on Elevator Pitch…

One Fit For the Weekend

A friend sent me this photo of Gyllenhaal from Presumed Innocent. The fit is nothing to newsletter home about…but check out the glasses. Gyllenhaal puts them bottom shelf. A few buttons from the top. Ground floor. Below sea level.

Might try it out with my riderz this weekend . Thanks Chuck.

For a moment, if you will, imagine you’re Amish. You’re approaching your 30s and looking to settle down. After all, without phones, popular entertainment, or even cars, there’s not much else to do. You’ve grown close to a beautiful woman you’ve known since childhood. Let’s refer to her as Rachel. But alas, Rachel is married and with a child. This is until her husband tragically passes. Maybe it was a vicious butter churning accident or possibly an unseemly mule. Regardless, as you walk around the wake following her husband’s funeral, you see everyone looking right at you. They know what you know. You’re fuggin #NEXTUP. But before you begin your traditional Amish courting process, Rachel must go visit her sister in Baltimore. You take Rachel and her 8 year old boy Samuel to the Lancaster train station (on a horse obviously) and bid them farewell. You give Samuel a small gift you crafted in the shed. A gift that will remind him of home on his journey. A gift that will surely get you some ankle action with Rachel. But just a few days later, you receive word from an elder in town that Rachel and Samuel have returned already. With an outside guest! You see, Samuel witnessed a cop murder another cop in the bathroom of Union Station in Philadelphia. He’s the sole witness of a homicide that can take down the entire department. The detective assigned to the case relays the information to his sergeant only to learn that serg is just as dirty as the rest of ‘em. Now Rachel, Samuel, and the detective have returned to the place where the powers of the Philadelphia Police Department cannot trace them due to a lack of records and communication…YOUR Amish village. You decide to pay Rachel a visit to find out just what’s going on for yourself. As you approach Rachel’s house, you see the detective hunched over in the front yard. He’s working up a sweat in the field, surely to repay her for the hospitality she’s shown him. Then you see Rachel step out the front door with a glass of lemonade for the detective. She smiles at him. He stands up fully now and smiles back at her. Now clearly in view, you notice the detective is wearing a white button up shirt. Suddenly it hits you. Nobody has ever looked that good in a white shirt. Sorta like Han Solo in a henley, Indiana Jones in linen, Jack Ryan in a classic, or most importantly Dr. Richard Kimble in some French cuffs and a cummerbund fighting the one armed man. It’s an incredibly dominant run for such a plain piece of clothing. And that’s when you realize your worst nightmare has come true. You’ve waited all your life for your one true love to become tragically single. It was all finally going your way. Then…Harrison Ford showed up in YOUR Amish village.

I’ve just described to you the first 30 minutes of Witness. I can’t think of a worse spot to be in than Daniel Hochleitner, the man who’s shoes I’ve asked you to step in. His world is small to say the least. But there’s a beautiful woman he finally can confess his true love for and just by some odd chance, a 45 year old primetime Harrison Ford shows up. Now, your true love is willing to literally risk banishment from her son and community just to sleep with him. For a community so small, this is disastrous for Daniel. He’s possibly in one of the worst positions I’ve seen when it comes to triangles of love. I won’t spoil the ending of Witness for anyone but I will ask you once more…

What would you do if Harrison Ford came to your Amish Village?

Anyway…I did a little camera roll therapy today. Checked in on pappa icloud to see what he was up to. Wanted to see what my lens was capturing. What my screen was shotting. What struck my eye at this moment here on earth. At first, I wasn’t impressed. Nothing too aesthetically pleasing or mysteriously bespoke.. But that’s okay. I don’t go in for that much. I beat to the sound of my own horn. Sorta like poet laureate William Joel.

That wasn’t from my camera roll. But here are three photos from last week that were. I think they say it all.

Photo #1

Been crushing toast lately. Actually, crushing is an understatement. I’m single-handedly keeping the charred bread industry afloat. But I can’t take too much credit for my snack pivot. In many ways, I was inspired by friend of the newsletter Tanner, who brilliantly dramatized one’s toast era in an always pointed Could Be The Move vignette. Sometimes I’ll throw a preserve on there. Other times I’ll pivot to peanut butter. If it’s late at night and nobody’s watching, I’ll take it down naked.

The toast, that is.

Photo(s) #2

Bending the rules for the sake of cinematography.

I was watching Billy Friedkin’s To Live and Die in LA a couple nights ago for Elevator Pitch. A real slick one if you ask me. And this scene hit close to home…William Petersen (pictured above) has a certain performance style that I can only describe as guy who’s 100% aware he’s in a movie. Here he is aggressively sapping a High Life. Sapping it a little too hard. And anyone who knows Pioneerball knows this is a classic folly of mine.

Three finger grab at the neck of the bottle. Violent tipping action towards the lips. Tomahawk dunk back on the table.

Please refer to the second slide for the chaos that follows…A little Miller High Life cappuccino. A bottle that foams at the mouth. Unable to be sapped for the next 5 minutes.

This habit used to be a real insecurity of mine. Not anymore. Now I’m just like this guy. To live and sap in LA…ain’t that the damn truth.

Photo #3

At an old haunt last weekend. Sean Connery shootin’ 8 ball in the top right corner should be a dead giveaway…Que’s. But move your gaze down to the circle I’ve drawn out. Within it is and a new friend of his. Uber was outside. 5 minutes were on the clock. But Caniac took his time here at the bar. Seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the word he was having with this cat. A few minutes later I asked what was discussed.

“I showed him my new scheme…” he told me. “Triple left to X right connect, indy long level drag tight end leak.”

Just a good reminder to go Brian Grazer mode this weekend. Have a curiosity conversation. Might just talk scheme if you’re lucky.

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One Fit For the Weekend

Caught this during a Titanic rewatch…Bill Paxton’s nautical drip should be illegal. Luckily he’s out on international waters.

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Recs

To Live and Die in LA (MOVIE) - Whole damn movie’s pretty good while we’re at it. Dafoe is truly a sick puppy in this one.

The Trading Desk (ARTICLE) - This piece came across my desk the other week. Michael Lewis’s original Moneyball piece for New York Times Magazine. Sometimes you gotta go back to the source. This is that time. Earn it.

I’d like to state up top that this hasn’t happened. It ain’t Argo - not based nor inspired by a true story. That being said, I’m told Argo took a number of liberties. Good. Argo fucking rips. But this? Hasn’t happened…Not yet at least. It also has absolutely nothing to do with Argo. Bummer. As I stated before….Argo fucking rips.

This is instead about the future. Tonight, in fact. Just about 3-4 hours from now I could be living what you’re reading. Art reflects life and life reflects art…and so on. A classic chicken vs the newsletter situation. So as I do often here at The Pioneer, I’d like to speak in hypotheticals. Why? I’m going on a date for the ages. Or is it?

I’ve recently dipped my swiping thumb back in the Hinge waters. It happened quick. One night, Parad and Mark Molner began a classic groupswipe™ and I wanted in. Prompts were parried, replies were firing, and matches hit like oil out the Permian Basin. It’s why The App That’s Meant To Be Deleted™ is actually quite hard to delete. A dopamine funnel like anything else. So Hinge sat there on the home screen for the next month. Checked it regularly. Engaged in said likes and held serve. Before I knew it, I’m chit chatting with a match. I’m even getting out the Apple Cal and putting something on the damn books. That’s a lie. I’ve never put a date on Apple Cal.

But here’s the rub…There’s no a date at all. She suggested we meet up at a wine bar where she’d have some friends in tow. So would I. Some might call this a backdoor get together. A rendezvous. A kicker, even. I was slightly offended at first. It seemed frivolous. Another misused exclamation point on the lower case society that plagues us all. Are we in a post-plans empire? A Find My Friends purgatory of zone coverage? Does anyone who’s anyone ever drop into man and formerly meet these days? This is starting to sound like a bad Sex And The City spec script so I’ll just get to the damn point.

Argo really really fucking rips. Wait no…that’s not the point. The point is that SHE, my match, might have a point.

Historically, I’ve been Hinge-adverse. Consistently disappointed by the screen to small plates pipeline. It’s not that I’m let down by the match across the table. That’s just dating. I’m let down by myself. For fictionalizing and hypothesizing up a person who does not exist. What I value on the screen can be inconsistent with what I want in the world away from it. This becomes quite clear during a 90 minute 1v1 first (actual) encounter. But tonight my match played a different card. A reverse engineering of the chance encounter. Simulated serendipity. I’m with friends. She’s with hers. We both know the where but maybe not even the when. We both know the face but maybe not the function. And this ain’t a “let’s meet on top of the Empire State Building at midnight” situation. Tom Hanks ain’t pulling up with Jonah. Jonah ain’t forgetting his Seattle Mariners backpack at the observation deck. It’s an “I’ll see you when I see you.” Maybe I won’t even see you at all. But if it does go swimmingly, maybe we put something on the books for a couple hours across the booth this Thursday. The metaphorical books, of course. I’ve never put a date on Apple Cal.

So tonight I rage against the Hinge machine. Cross paths with a match how the gods intend. “Accidentally”. At a sidewalk bar. With an entrance play as easy as the exfll. For both of us, of course. I could really bore her, too. After all, I do co-host a movie podcast with a new episode this week you should check out. She could be wishing Tony Mendez were there instead. The exfil god. The man who reminded me, when it comes to Hinge, there are only bad options. Tonight, maybe I’ll find the best one.

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One Fit For The Weekend

This guy might’ve been born in the darkness but at least he had a mirror.

Other Recs

Racing Mount Pleasant (BAND) - This Chicago group opened for Geese a few months back. Tanner, Chuck, and I attended but missed their entire set. Never heard of ‘em. Then on the way out, we caught a glimpse of their excellent tees. Ended up chopping it up for 15 at the merch table and acquiring a shirt of the band we hadn’t seen. Turns out we were chopping it up with the band themself. The violinist rang us up. They were running their own merch table. I liked that. Solid music too.

The Belair Lip Bombs: 'Happiness' for Like A Version (COVER) - The BLPs did the impossible job of making me like The 1975. Seeing them in April at Zebulon. Will be wearing Carhartt.

About a year and some change ago, I called my good buddy and podcast co-host, Will Peters, over to my apartment to film me shaving my poor excuse for a mustache. I had a half-baked idea. What if look real sad in the mirror, shave it off, then later, I’ll go in and voice the mustache? It’ll be real mean to me. I’ll have a real toxic relationship with the whiskers. It’ll try to convince me I couldn’t live without it. So Will stood in the tiny shower behind my bathroom mirror and recorded.

The footage looked good. But it didn’t matter. I hated it.

It wasn’t funny to me. It also wasn’t serious. I didn’t know what it was. But $0 in the hole, I didn’t care too much.

Then a year and some change later, I fired up Premiere Pro again, and watched it back. Something had changed. The little short was still the same. Yes. But maybe (take a deep breath) I changed.

It reminded me of me. But not right now me. It reminded me of a year and some change ago me. A version of me that did not dread the most likely outcome of trying. This version of me just started anything. Began without expecting what should be expected. And what might I expect now? Exactly what happened, a few days ago, upon finally releasing it on the cursed Instagram reels. A retention rate of 20% after the first 10 seconds. An all together skip rate of 67.2%. Essentially, a few laughs for the real 1s and absolutely nothing to anyone else with a working internet connection.

But that’s okay. I still finished it. I owed it to a year and some change ago me. A man who didn’t really think about all that. I miss him. Because 2025 will go down as the year the internet turned me kind of rotten. Pessimistic based on probability. It is, still unfortunately the only vehicle to put work on. Bummer. I’m no good at it. But I think this mustache thing is good. And I’m happy to show it to the only audience that really matters. So here’s to finishing more stuff that’s just good. No great. Not viral. Just good. For the only audience that matters. Me. I’m kidding. It’s you. Well, both of us. And if you were part of the few, the proud, the 20% retention rate…thank you for your service. I’ll send you a whisker in the mail .

“A Friend of Dorothy”

A few of us hit Night Market on Lincoln for some hot noodle and spicy conversation. It’s packed as always but we got a rez (actual plan tomorrow night). We’re seated by a waitress I’d surely ask out, if this was a Season 2 episode of How I Met Your Mother and a Neutral Milk Hotel banger was somehow swelling up in the background. But alas, this is real life so I say nothing. We lock eyes again. I think I might know her…I rack my brain but can’t for the life of me figure out how. We discuss at the table. No answers. Instagram is checked. No dice there as well…Who the hell is she? Then in between a bite of Moo Sadoong and a sip of orange wine it hits me. “Guys, I know who our waiter is.” Everyone leans in. “She’s from Hinge…Dorothy.” A few knuckles. The more spiritual at the table cross their chest. But then I show them Dorothy’s profile and there’s our waitress…next to Dorothy. My first text? Is there a polite way to ask for your friend’s number? Dorothy’s response? No. (Now that’s what we call a backdoor match) “So she’s not Dorothy?” they ask me. I shake my head in acceptance…“Nope.”

“A friend of Dorothy.”

“Jane Austen’s Period Drama”

Best I don’t go there.

“Butcher’s Stain”

I could see myself getting in a real sticky situation Saturday night involving some poorly packaged ribeye stakes. Perhaps I’m inspired to action some meat and dry-ass martinis for dinner. God forbid a white boy gets the cast iron and vermouth in motion. And perhaps I’m also inspired for a little mischief. So I go shoplift a Whole Foods and stick some USDA prime beef down my trousers. It goes swimmingly. I’m in the clear, pinning it on outta there in the Volvo XC-70. I get back to the pad. The co-conspirators are ready to feast. But then they look down…”Hey man…you get your grind on with Jane Austen tonight?” Confused, I look down at my trousers, as well. Hell, I forgot the steaks were still stuffed down there.

“Nah man…That’s just a butcher’s stain.”

“The Singers”

It’s 8 PM. A brave soul among us stands up. “Wanna go to K-Town for karaoke? It’s [insert pedestrian friend]’s birthday.” Hard no from me almost immediately. “Why? You avoiding anyone going?” he then asks.

“Yeah. The singers.”

“Two People Exchanging Saliva”

I run into my friend Hallie at the park on Sunday. I’m there failing to make a dent in my comically sized hard cover copy of Bonfire of the Vanities. Hallie’s there taking use of this January sunshine for some color. We’ve always had a complicated thing. A real will they/she won’t relationship. But this Sunday…I guess you can say we’re really hitting it off. Time flies by. The sun is setting and we realize we’ve been there for hours. Hallie leans in. So do I. “Wanna know something?” she asks me with a laughs. “Tell me.” I whisper.

“My boyfriend Jacob Elordi and I just watched this Oscar nominated live action short called Two People Exchanging Saliva”

I jump off a bridge.

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One Fit For The Weekend

Can’t get my head around the swag duality of Sir Henry Muck…All I know is I wouldn’t mind crashing out in a long blouse.

Industry. Gettin’ wild.

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The photo above…

Just a few Saturdays ago. Buffalo, New York. Swords v. Bruins. A crisp 22 outside with a windchill of 15 (but a Labatt Blue humidity of 35). I’d flown into town on Southwest Airlines mere days before their assigned seats castration took hold. Just as Subway restaurants bent the knee to the ruthless pressure of capitalism years prior, eliminating the 5 dollar footlong, Southwest would soon follow suit. Bags no longer fly free in tomorrow’s brave new world. Seats no longer open.

But luckily that night in Buffalo, I still found my way to the Blue Zone.

I was in town on the invitation of dear friend of the newslett and Western New York Native, Willbon. The good man who convinced me 7 years prior to buy low on the worst team in hockey. Finally, here I was on home ice. And by the grace of God and Lord Stanley himself, the Buffalo Sabres were on a 7 game heater. Good riddance, I say.

We entered the the Key Bank Center just before puck drop. A modest arena in a town known for chill over thrill. You may remember I wrote about Severance Arena (Intuit Dome) around this time last year. A dystopian data harboring center masquerading as a home court for The Los Angeles Aspirations. A Windows Vista hellscape built on the promise never needing to leave your seat but delivering only on the abject failure of refinement culture. The Key Bank Center was none of such. A blue collar field house with the essentials and nothing more…A friendly face to scan a ticket. Ample urinals. A score board. Your fucking seat. And an American Indian casino across the street. But lest not forget…The Blue Zone.

It’s what you see behind me. The best bar in town. A second deck watering hole where Willbon, hometown Matt, Becs, and I spent some time in the second period. And then a few more minutes in the third. There was the tenured barkeep who kept the stiffys flowing. Some TVs incase we missed the action (we did in fact miss a critical Ryan McLeod equalizer). And some high tops to cross our own swords with good conversation. I found exactly what I needed. Nothing more. Nothing less. Not pushing on the fast break for luxury or backing up on my heels, fearing whatever comes my way. Instead, a glacial Labatt hit the lips and I thought I was gonna live in the void between vibe and space forever. I found my blue zone in The Blue Zone.

Let’s rewind. Athens, Greece. My dawg E, my sister Mollie, and I hit some Olympic Qualifying hoops at The Peace and Friendship. Greece vs Macedonia. A 12 round, tables, ladders, and chairs match between Thanasis Antetokounmpo and Nikola Vučević. And I’ll ya, European hoops are a different animal. This arena was barely lit. Graffiti sprawled across the plexiglass guarding the hometown hooligan section from away fans looking for some off court action. We bought warm beer from an outdoor cat on the stairwell, filling us up from a keg in between his smoke breaks. Far more bare bones than the Key Bank? Yes. But exactly what we never knew was RIGHT? I think you know the answer. I was in the Blue Zone even before I knew The Blue Zone existed.

You might be guessing what I’ll tell you next. Time to find yours. But that’d be a fools errand. Don’t try and chase it. Don’t even fear what it’s not. Sit back and let vinyasa come your way. Just make sure it’s a domain surrounded by those you’d surely go to battle with, if you weren’t exactly where you needed to be.

Tonight, I’ll be at Casablanca on Lincoln. Another round of margaritas and wet burritos with my Group Dinner vets. Will it be a return to form with the company I keep? Who’s to say.

Only one way to find out. Your turn too.

So keep rubbing elbows and dippin your toe in the Labatt when it’s cold. Exist between thought and execution. Toe the line of luxury between Groupon and ClassPass. Most importantly, stay in the mix this weekend with those you love. I’m pretty sure it’s how those ladies in Okinawa live till 107.

Don’t find your beach. Discover your friggin Blue Zone.

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Recs for the weekend

Between Thought And Expression (BLOG PIECE) - Inspiration to not only this piece but The Pioneer as a whole. Read here. (Did I rec this before??)

Getdown Services (BAND) - Check out this live piece possibly while you’re experimenting with fits tomorrow evening.

Elevator Pitch (MY POD) - We pitched fake award shows this week. It was real flavorful podcasting.

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Fit for the weekend

With all due apologies to those out East…It’s flops and longs weather here in LA.

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Happy New Year. Here are a few more words just tapping their paws at the cage, waiting to be adopted, and maybe one day unleashed.

Trousers

It’s hard to even know what pants are these days. Know what I mean? We used to have slacks, denim, and even britches. But now it’s all (Drunk Uncle voice) can you Aura Ring me some Vuori? Not on my watch (or finger [or legs]). Maybe we’ll begin unconsolidating what matters most in this world (pants) if we treat them with a little esteem. So next time I refer to my bottoms, you’ll hear the word trousers.

Cats

Gotta start calling people NOT in your direct periphery cats again. In the present tense, it’ll add some slick to your sentence. Yeah there’s some cats in the other room making mojitos if you want action. In the past tense, it’ll add a little Sriracha to your storytelling…I was over in Los Feliz and ran into a couple cats from work at Ye Rustic. Got faced. Left my car in the parking lot. 150 buck Uber back to Brentwood.

Outdoor cat

Real simple variation. Using cat holds no judgment on the cats at hand. But outdoor cat surely does. An outdoor cat is a little wild. Possibly dangerous. Maybe it’s your boy’s BFH (boy from home) who just opened a beer bottle with his mouth when the bottle opener was right next to him. An outdoor cat ain’t your emergency contact. But they always land on their feet.

You: Anyone see Ricky after we left Hinano?

Ur Boy: Nah…but he’ll be fine. Guy’s a real outdoor cat.

Haunts

Seems like there’s more and more spots in town I can’t seem to bring myself to. The walls of the Westside (the space between the 405 and the Pacific Ocean) are closing in on me. But maybe it’s just time for a fresh coat of paint. A recharacterization of my destinations. So they’re no longer spots…I’ve got ghosts at all the spots. They’re haunts now.

Them: Where should go this weekend?….

You: I’ve got a couple haunts we could try.

Sound

Tuck the puffa in fellas cause HBO’s Industry is back. Unfortunately without our goat, Lisan al’Cuck-ib…Robert Spearing. But I was thinking back to a classic Season 1 Rob moment. Episode 1. After Rob goes clubbing and makes sure the sun comes up, he heads to the Pierpoint gym for a shower just before his morning meeting. He then steps in front of the mirror, hanging dong, and hits the purest “ya sound” you’ll ever witness on screen. He was not, in fact, sound. Instead, still on quite a lot of K. But holy fuck Rob was really the guy. And I’m damn pissed that q-zip with a heart of gold won’t be having a chat with Yaz no more.

But where was I? Oh Right…sound.

Ironically, this isn’t how I suggest you use the word sound. You definitely can use it like Rob does. A classier, more reassuring way to reference focus or sobriety. But instead, sound can be utilized as a real compliment. Replace the word good with sound and see how far that takes you.

You: We got paired with a 5th on Saturday.

Them: Did he ruin the round?

You: Not really. Actually a pretty sound fella.

Or…

Waiter: How’s the steak?

You: It’s a sound piece of meat. Potatoes are sound as well.

I don’t know. I’m thinking, maybe it could be something around what’s known in many places as a possible move. Or at least…

Another word to mix in this weekend.

See ya next week. And tell another sound cat to subscribe while ya at it. Even if they outdoor.

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By the way, if 100 readers take my survey I’ll put out an acoustic cover of White Flag by Dido next week.

Click here to take the Year End Survey

Newsletter Party…who’s down?

I’m down. That’s one. You reading this? That could be two. Hell, who’s to say we won’t get three? But how might one assemble a crowd these days? We all know the answer. It hurts to say and it pains me even more to feel the buzz in my pocket when its ghastly notification arrives.

Like a congressional candidate just 5 dollars away from the finish line or your bank’s two factor authentication…the automated 39781 number breaks through the great wall of iMessage like a rodent you thought you exterminated. It is an invitation yet somehow it feels uninviting. Invading. And unlike the vibe I hope to curate at a gathering of mine…slightly anonymous. There is no date to this invitation. No location or time. For that, we must follow the blue linked road. And it leads to a landing page like no other. A smiley face for going. A frowny face for can’t go. A Rain Man face for maybe. Below it, a blurred list of those pretending to go. Another redacted list of emotional assassins, who I imagine laid off an entire division of Salesforce before breakfast, who immediately know they can’t. Then there’s the small but mighty group of maybe three, who feel that life is like a box of chocolates, and reply maybe. Would you like to know who’s on each of these lists? Well, you’re going to have to commit and punch that phone number in to find out. And don’t worry, you’ll never forget when this thing is ever again. 39781 will make sure of it.

Goddamn if Partiful ain’t clever.

Therein lies the Partiful Paradox. Or the Paradox of Partiful (A/B testing those, let’s see what sticks). I’m just not sure how I feel about the rage planning software of our time….

You know what? That’s a lie to sound philosophical. I’m actually very sure how I feel about it. I think Partiful is deeply lame. An invite weapon that prioritizes prying on our boredom and desperation instead of providing information. An invitation highway that has taken my phone number and will not let go. Text blasts. Reminders. 2 weeks away. 1 week. 1 day. Today. What happened to the separation of my inbox church from the state of my schedule? It didn’t used to be this way. And hell, I used to party more.

But those were the good ol’ days. When a river ran through it. Loyola Marymount University. 2018. Das Wüd and Trop, two dank party houses in the Sigma Chi fraternity rotation, were able to throw down through meticulous planning on Facebook Events. And yes, I say that with reverence as it’s not 4 years but instead 4 life. I mentioned last week that my only current use for Facebook is Marketplace. As I’m sure yours is too. But for any readers old enough to remember where you were when Obama wore a tan suit, you must also remember Events was our other use on the already post-empire social media app. It had a complete stronghold on the collegiate social scene. You changed your profile banner to a Spring Rush poster. You removed any childhood posts that conflicted with the tales you spun during the Fall rush prior. You removed any ironic family connections you made with friends from middle school. And you did all of this because you knew that once invited to a bash, you were on the list. And that list was taken seriously. Who’s going? Who’s not? Facebook Events truly did, as Eisenberg said in SoNet…put the entire social experience of college on the internet. And a few years later, it was all gone. The generation below didn’t have those dormant Facebook accounts lying around and they wouldn’t dare make one just to rage. A gap in the market…and Partiful rose like a phoenix from the inbox.

In many ways, Partiful is just the natural progression. Maybe even the first to tie your phone number to an invitation. But this ingenious idea might finally cross an important efficiency line in the sand. Unlike an old fashioned letter, flyer, phone call, or my beloved Facebook event - Partiful eliminates any space between my invitation and me. And through its automated pings and prods, it might just create more division between the actual host and me as that damn 39781 number arrives like a brick through the window.

Even if it’s never been easier to invite or be invited, I’m in no ways not fatigued by socializing. No sir. But I am fatigued by the way I’m invited as any event feels absolutely cheapened by Partiful’s convenience. I’ve accepted this recurring fact of modernity when it comes to grocery delivery. I’ve embraced it when it comes to Venmo. I’ve even started a collection when it comes to hyper niche emojis. But a party is quite literally a human gathering. To use such an automated and invasive method to invite those you hope to attend feels deeply uncool and…

incredibly fucking wack?

I’m sure of of it. I also realize some of you might not want to admit it because you just sent out a 25^th birthday party Partiful with this meme on it…

It’s a top suggestion Partiful will provide. Another cookie cutter shortcut in place of thoughtful graphic design or at least a proper search on Google Images. Here is a poster a friend of mine made for a Knicks watch party recently. He texted it to me individually, I responded promptly, and put it in my calendar (incorrectly) accordingly.

I know a Newsletter bash, Pioneer style, demands this type of intention. It will force me to be the change I’d like to see in the world. Stationary sounds cool but I can’t trust any of you, including myself, to check the mail. I’m not even sure if I have a mailbox key. So maybe I’ll have to call 100 people. Then send a dank digital flyer, like that above, immediately after. Surely some people might forget to show up. But maybe, enough will be charmed by that smooth and silky touch of human effort. And in turn, take the hard earned time to enter this bash into the Google Cal manually, on dial up internet of course.

The hard way is hard for a reason and it’s up to all of us to decide when it might be worth it. So maybe I should be thankful for the Paradox of Partiful (The Partiful Paradox). Such as the void it filled in a Facebookless world, there’s now suddenly room to stand out again.

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