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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What’s your relationship status with the damn socials? Is TikTok both your melatonin and alarm clock? If the world sets on fire or Elordi puts that shit on, do you turn to Twitter? DO YOU HOP ON THREADS???

I, myself am not a TikTok-fiend, X-head, or Threads thottie, but I do have a dramatic will they/won’t they love affair with Instagram. I’ll go months with it deactivated. Then, a few more as a browser-god exclusively. Finally, for largely professional intentions, such as promoting this newsletter, my Academy Award ineligible short Will Makes Rice, or my Webby eligible podcast Elevator Pitch, I find myself back on the app store, holding a boom box above my head. You’d never believe it, but Instagram always takes me back. It’s not long before I’m twelve reels deep into Cillian Murphy press junkets.

Recently, I’ve returned to browser-god status. A conscious uncoupling with the app became necessary after a few too many hours with Cillian. But luckily, every time I delete the Instagram, I miss it a little less. It might be due to the app’s weakening hold on those around me. I believe, with absolutely no statistical proof to lean on, that there is a growing age disparity between it’s highly addicted users. Its perceived necessity in the structures of high school and college still exists for those younger. And many of our parents, who 10 years ago were figuring out their phones’ flashlights, are now being manipulated by the very apps they once lectured us on. But between these two demographics are us 22-35 year olds. We remember dial-up internet but also held an iPhone in 2007 and knew exactly how to use it. Having been alive but young during a time of such emerging technology has possibly resulted in a certain level of awareness. While still manipulated and addicted, many of us are far more conscious of the damaging effects. The social smokers of the internet. This awareness is starting to show itself as I now know many other browser-gods and even a few Christopher McCandless-type motherfuckers who’ve dipped off the digital map altogether. Far fewer of us tweet or snap as Twitter is purely for information gathering and Snapchat is simply a digital yearbook. On Instagram, stories and posts are increasingly less concerned with the current moment and instead far more concerned with the curation of images over an extended period of time - many of which are taken without specific intention or context. I’d say this is generally a good sign. The less we use these apps for serious communication and look where I am posting, the less we feel the need to check up on them. This is not to say the we are all on our way to a harmonious age of digital sobriety. After all, most of our feeds aren’t populated by friends but instead everything ever to exist. And some of that shit is pretty funny. Probably funnier than any “From the guys who brought you” comedies of the last fifteen years. So many of us, in this pseudo-generation I’ve just made up, find ourselves deleting and then once again retreating - wanting to lead 7 billion into an era of enlightenment only to trip up on a hungover Sunday morning and spend 3 hours watching recipes for roasted Brussels sprouts.

Will this perpetual cycle end? No idea. But I generally try to stay away from buying into extremes. I don’t think we’ll ever revert to using our phones again as simply a phone, calculator, and flashlight. I also don’t believe we’re all destined to become the humans on the Buy-N-Large ship in Wall-E (shoutout to a friend and reader who once confided to me that he’s got a thing for Eve). Instead, there might just be a compromise. One that is slightly dark yet oddly hopeful. A compromise for the many of us who feel the incessant need for connection while also constantly finding this connection veering towards addiction.

Fringe social media.

I’m not referring to subreddits for that slept-on J.J. Abrams show, Fringe. Instead, fringe social media refers to any platform that is built around the very framework of social media without containing the algorithms engineered to suck you in and harvest your deepest and darkest interests (Cillian Murphy press junkets). Fringe social media is not vast but instead quite concentrated. These platforms are hyper-focused on one specific interest and in turn, can build communities that do not argue but instead encourage. Why?

Because it’s 11 of your friends IRL. As McConaughey puts it…a place where you can localize and customize.

For example, some of you might be on Strava - an app for running, biking, or pretending to do either. With a few photos, a map, and a brief description (possibly of your audiobook on said run) you can share the shvitz with your following. I have a whopping 4 followers on Strava and unsurprisingly, I know each and every one of them personally. At a bar one Saturday night, I ran into 25% of my Strava audience. We hadn’t seen each other in months but he immediately shouted over the noisy crowd, “Great run today brother”. I then asked about his. Two pedestrian-level friends, connected through a shared hobby, and able to bond through the power of technology. Fringe social media at its finest.

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You already know where I’m goin’ next. Fuggin Letterboxd.

For anyone who’s either trapped under a rock or simply not a member of the coastal elite, this is the movie review app. Every day, I check in to see what films my vast and all-encompassing army of 18 followers has logged and reviewed. Sometimes, later that day, I see a follower in person and ask what prompted their watch of Liar Liar last night. They in turn ask me why the hell I rewatched Burnt for the fifth time this year. I have no answers of course. But we end up talking Cooper Scooper for a good 20 which really makes my day.

What about Pinterest? That surely qualifies as FRINGE. Similarly to Strava, my circle is small. That’s for the best. My interests are quite narrow and I’m very selective on my pinboards. “Olympiad of Fit” is for menswear, “Ur Pad is Dope” is for home design, “Olympiad of Wrist” is for well…PATEKS, and my newest board, “I Now Pronounce You Fitted” takes a spin on Olympiad of Fit to instead focus on celeb couple fits such as this OG Bacon/Sedgwick look.

My Pinterest use might sound all about ME but don’t worry, I’m an engaged follower as well. For example, a friend of mine has a board similarly titled “Fit Olympics”. It’s safe to say we both cross streams and duel swords on occasion.

If none of this fringe sounds at all intriguing, I encourage you to seek further and dig deeper. Are you drinking an Ithaca-based IPA on your way to Dead and Company? You might need to tap into Untappd. Wanna tweet but feel romantic? Get back on Tumblr’s linear timeline. Are you a terrible neighbor and interested in arguing with other terrible neighbors about noise at 9 PM, carjackings four blocks away, and Ron DeSantis? If so, please get on Nextdoor and promptly delete my number.

Oh and Substack doesn’t count. This is algo hunting country…

So next time you’re bored and pick up that piece of metal glued to glass - consider spending a little more time self-archiving instead of self-promoting. Consider withholding from Zuck and Wardo’s Kirkland Window algorithm of tailored suggestions and scroll through another feed so directly personalized - no equation could’ve possibly created it. This is where the good stuff lies. Where you’ll find an honest reflection of those you choose to surround yourself with. Where you’ll find information you can more profoundly engage with. Where you may just find a friend’s personal best in the 5k or their three and half star review of Jim Carrey’s Liar Liar. This, my dear friends, is fringe social media.

Keanu and Sophia in ’91. I’m out.

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You be the judge…

Fit #1 - The Magnificent Levitating Camo Hat

Always be wary of a power lifter in a crisp pair of vans. Especially if his hat levitates above his faux hawk like a helium balloon.

Fit #2 - The Voice Season 3 Runner-Up

Skinny Jeans, boots, and a Tahiti tank. He’d get a chair turn from me.

Fit #3 - The Unlimited Sweatpant

My chief Asia correspondent tells me these sweatpants dig down through Earth’s core and were found emerging from the ground in mainland China.

Fit #4 - The Madewell Messiah

Absolutely nobody is hitting the Madewell Cyber Monday sale harder. He returns to Brentwood on the 7th day. The Lord’s Day. And for that we say, Amen.

A White (Credenza) Lie

How honest should we be at the marketplace?

No, not the farmer’s market. We’re done with that. The Facebook Marketplace…The grand bazaar of the internet where we peruse for lamps with our profile pictures from 2016. It will forever be the final iteration of the Harvard student directory that slowly took over the world. While we grow addicted to its acquired offspring, Instagram and TheWhatsUpApp, at least I hold onto my Facebook account, all for the sake of these lamps, couches, and or a mid century modern credenza I’d rather just not leave out on the curb.

So I listed it. My credenza, that is.

The asking price was $300. I thought it could at least get 2. But my flatmates, Parad and Tyler The Facilitator, were dubious. Even sharing a good belly laugh as I hunched over with my Method spray and cloth, going full-on Olympic curler. And yes, that is the dumbest possible way to say I cleaned it. Within the hour, I got nibbles. Within days, I got full on BITES. But none prevailed. So I dropped it to 200. Radio silence. Fine…How about 150?

Bang. Sold. His name was Actor. All I had to do was be up by 10 on a Saturday morning to meet him.

Fast forward to 10:20 AM on Saturday morning. I’m awoken by a text. It’s Actor…

“Are you sleeping?”

This might be when you’d guess the white (credenza) lie comes into play. Nope. I looked Actor in the eye and told him yes, I did almost sleep through this transaction. He laughed and I knew I saved the sale with some corn fed honesty. I even dropped the price to 150. Why? Because I’m a nice guy and so was he. He was an (obviously) an actor about town and we even used to work at the same stomping grounds. But before a deal was made and a credenza was flipped, Actor asked me where I got it from.? Without blinking, I told him it was left behind in our new apartment. Just needed it gone.

Then, a handshake and Venmo later, I was a liquid man with a mid-century credenza out of my living room and off my conscious. As with any actor, I immediately googled him. The man wasn’t kidding. He had some damn CREDITS. If you’re wondering what blue collar acting work means in Tinsel Town, even TV regulars pull up and buy credenzas off Facebook marketplace. And one TV credit stood out. He regularly puts up shots on a show that friend of the newsletter, Industry Guy, works on too. So I told Industry, whenever he sees him around, to apologize on my behalf to Actor for sleeping on the clock. Oh and also…ask him how he’s liking his new credenza.

Friday night, I got a beer with Industry Guy amongst others, and reminded Industry of this whole Six Degrees of Credenza Bacon situation. Turns out, he asked Actor all about it. And Actor’s response? Apparently I was too honest. Too honest on Facebook Marketplace?

Apparently I should’ve stopped at admitting I slept past the snooze button, because Actor didn’t appreciate hearing that I got the credenza for free. Admitting that it was left behind in our new apartment was too much information. He even found it offensive that I was asking him to pay for it. Industry Guy shockingly agreed. It would’ve been good man procedure to let that one go for free. Actor even suggested to him that if I was dead set on selling it, I should’ve LIED to his face and say I got it from Ikea…Sure, bud.

I took a sip of my Guinness and considered how I’d reply. Should I have given this thing away? Am I cheap? A potion seller? Spinster? Corrupted by my own entrepreneurial spirit? But above all else…why was this man, Actor, specifically asking me to lie for his customer satisfaction? And that’s when I remembered, I already did lie. I was just too deep in the sale to realize it.

So I calmly put down my pint and came clean. I admitted to Industry that I didn’t exactly tell Actor the whole truth. This credenza wasn’t forgotten in the living room or even in my building at all. I just preferred not to leave it out on the curb. Everyone leaned in as I paused dramatically. The curb…THE CURB? Yes. That’s right. The damn curb.

I found that thing on the street and flipped it.

Sike.

This newsletter actually costs me money (if you factor in the domain and stickers). But Glen Powell has a new movie coming out and I’m still sorta dubious about his CHOICES. It reminded me of a few words I put down after seeing Twisters last summer. This piece is for nobody. Actually a few people have written it already. And I apologize for that. But please enjoy…

I’m in no way the first, second, or millionth person to be up in arms about the final seconds of Twisters. I’ve seen the director and cast’s rebuttal to the scene’s lack of tongue via quotes in The Hollywood Reporter. I’ve heard the screams of bloggers over at Gentleman’s Quarterly. But still, since my viewing of Twisters at the Burbank 16, I’m consumed more and more by the fact that Tyler Owens (Glen Powell) and Kate Carter (Daisy Edgar Yobez) didn’t get it on in the domestic terminal after Owens straight up corkscrewed his truck into an illegal parking spot. If you haven’t heard, apparently it was a Spielberg note. Absolutely rich, coming from the guy who made me believe that bioengineered dinosaurs, the Holy Grail, and Abraham Lincoln were real but found it HIGHLY unrealistic that these two 12s would suck face after surviving a fucking E-5 tornado. Thankfully, one extra snuck her phone on set and recorded this Zapruder-level alternate take.

But let’s not harp on the disastrous creative decision of an otherwise crowd pleasing (yet overstuffed) movie. Let’s instead join arms and demand that movies have to get more horny in general.

Our current dearth of heat is nothing new in the history of film. I’d argue the medium’s relationship with getting its freak on has always been cyclical. Go all the way back to pre-studio filmmaking in the late 1800s. Some of the earliest scenes put to film was nog (porNOGraphy…seriously keep up). But as the federal government cracked down on the illicit behavior of Hollywood screen stars (give the name Fatty Arbuckle a Google), Irving Thalberg’s famed code of standards set a precedent for squeaky clean mainstream entertainment.

Up until the late 60s, when the studio system collapsed. Deepthroat (nog) then sweeps the nation and suddenly we’re so back. The 70s and early 80s unprecedented run of sultry is seen in all styles and perspectives. The naturalistic intimacy of Claudia Weill’s Girlfriends, Donald Sutherland and Julie Christie straight up grief-boning on camera in Don’t Look Now, and Richard Gere eating Debra Winger’s face off in An Officer and a Gentleman. Sex coursed through just about every story in Hollywood and led characters down roads their brains alone would not.

But we all know what happened. AIDS. It took Michael Douglas and his historical 90s heater to remind us that people make a ton of decisions solely to sleep with one another. Fatal Attraction. Basic Instinct. Disclosure. You couldn’t keep this guy’s cheeks off screen if you tried. Douglas played the leader of the free world in The American President and the goddamn plot of that movie was him making a go at a lobbyist. Truly incredible stuff. But perhaps we went too far. Or internet nog changed it all.

The late 90s and early 2000s were marred by an over-indulgence in sexually angry bro-humor. Sure it was hilarious when Jason Biggs took it missionary to a pie or when Freddie got fingered but our sexual themes on screen began to feel incredibly one-sided, and that side was specifically a 16 year old dude jacked up on Mountain Dew and Limp Bizkit. Thus resulted in an inversion later in the decade, from the sick and twisted mind of Judd Apatow. Sarah Marshall clipped a flaccid and crying Jason Segal (followed by an onscreen fruit bowl) and Lena Dunham porked Adam Driver while The National played on Girls (TV, sue me). It all came in stark contrast to the early aughts bro-fest. Interesting, nonetheless.

The intimacy coordinators would soon follow. And with them, the clickbaiting headlines about who did and didn’t use an intimacy coordinator would follow that. It seems we’re in a world of extremes now. Movies will now either investigate sexual politics head-on in a dark and expository fashion like Poor Thangs or simply side-step the notion that anyone has sex as seen in Tom Cruise and Jennifer Connelly’s strange but kinda rewatchable smile montage in Top Gun: Maverick.

We’ve lost all ability to find to find middle ground for popular entertainment. It’s Poor Things or nothing. But simply being human on screen shouldn’t have to be brave or the performance of a lifetime and that’s exactly what Twisters is lacking. The film’s director Lee Isaac Chung defended the decision, saying it wasn’t her story to end up with him. Ending it on that would cheapen her personal journey. With all due respect to Chung, I just think that’s horse shit. We can’t run away from the fact our personal journeys are entirely wrapped up in freakiness. We either throw all logic out the window entirely or do what Michael Douglas did so well - war with ourselves over whether or not we should’ve done that thing we wanted to do. This isn’t rocket science. Glen Powell would not have cheapened Daisy Edgar’s business by sealing the deal. They instead would’ve taken part in a cinematic tradition as old as the medium itself…

Hot people sucking face on screen.

Gotten into the habit of reading over old Pioneers. Sort of like how Kanye bumped his own music at the cirb in that Aziz joke. I started to realize something deep. Something dark. Something you all might be aware of. I’m a broken record. I go to the same places. Get pissed off at the same things over and over. Listen to the same music. I REC’D STEELY DAN TWO WEEKS IN A ROW. WENT BACK, JACK, AND DID IT AGAIN. So it’s time for a few zags. Some pineapple on my pizza. Not because I know it suits me…but instead because I have no idea if it doesn’t. Join me, won’t you?

Zag #1: Get buckled with your colleagues

As far as I see it, we fall into two camps. Either A. we move to a new city and exclusively hang out with work friends, or B. avoid those work friends socially, not out of spite…but instead because they still think Cabo Cantina is fun. Severance is popular for a reason. And that reason is most of y’all don’t wanna see what Jared, a senior coordinator who played club rugby at Tulane, will do after a fishbowl of margarita. Personally, I know too many people outside of work to ever need to find out how this goes down. But college bud and upstairs neighbor, Mark Mollner, just told me he’s out of commish tonight. Preeging and bar hopping with his colleagues. Been promising them FOR A WHILE. So you know what? This town is lonely enough. That might just be a good zag. It’ll probably go as we imagine it. Not too fun. But then again…1993 Meg Ryan could be there. There’s just no way of knowing.

Zag #2: Overalls

I was out in Antwerp this August (more on that later) with my mate E. Cool town. You bike around. Vibe. Drink a triple IPA. Bike around some more. One night, we biked to a real sneaky watering hole (Korsokov). Found this wildcat in overalls. Just an Antwerp thing? Yes. Most likely it is. But that can only mean one thing…It’s a hometown zag.

Rules: Tarpless underneath. Boots and darts required.

Zag #3: Neg Zohran

Mamdani’s mayor. Of New York, that is.

Top five mayors. Go….Can’t think of any? Probably cause it’s the friggin mayor. I went to Idyllwild this year. Their mayor’s a golden retriever. His name’s Max.

See what I did there? Sneaky zagged. Negged Zohran Mamdani.

But goddamn if Zohran ain’t having his moment. Been hittin’ the algos from the front and back all year. Now, looking through the final polling (on Twitter), he pulled a DJT and performed staggeringly well with dudes who watch The League (18-35 guys, AKA me). Performative Young Male ain’t just a damn Halloween costume. The Clairo-fication of the late 20s male must finally be complete. Time for a zag, I say. No, don’t go full Aaron Rodgers mode. But next time you’re tryna lay some municipal politics chum, neg our guy Mamdani. Question a few specifics of that free bus program. Maybe do a little more digging. Find a dubious vote or two from his time up in Albany. Others will be scared. But then, maybe a little intrigued. Because no politician’s more popular than after winning their election (or killing Osama Bin Laden). So here’s a political zag…hedge the hype and neg Zo. He’s only a mayor. Boom. Negged again.

Zag #4: Buy a pipe

Speaking of the performative young male, AKA our current moment’s Karen, let’s reclaim what has become the laziest joke out there. We are all performing, virtue signaling, and hotmaxxing any moment we step out the door. And if you aren’t? I don’t believe you. So if the tote bag, matcha, and biting literature on the female experience is wrong and problematic (favorite word ever), time for us to zag in performance. Buy a damn pipe. Smoke this pipe performatively at a coffee shop. Sip on a black coffee from a thermos. Read a Hunter S Thompson novel. Do this on the Today Show.

Zag #5: Scottish Hello

Here’s the problem with a well executed Irish Goodbye. Anyone stealth/brave enough to pull it off does so because they do this every weekend. Its effect wanes. It comes to be expected. The Irish Goodbyer is not pulling a fast one anymore but instead leaves just how everyone expects of them. Want to really throw off a crowd? Pull up unannounced. It’s the Irish Goodbye’s naughty Protestant cousin, the Scottish Hello. A zag that really zags in today’s Find My Friends dystopian society. What’s my ETA? Bitch, you’ll here a knock on the door. Bang. I’m here. Scottish hello. Make it a thing.

There are a few pieces of personal history that I’d rather not admit to you. Yes…I did exclusively wear Under Armor when I was 8 years old. Yes…after the New Girl Season 4 finale, I did believe Rivers and Roads by The Head and The Heart was a profound piece of music. And most importantly to this piece of weekend revelry, yes…I did take an improv class at The Groundlings. I don’t mention these truths as some sort of shame exercise. No sir. Well, the first two, yes. That feels like a few monkeys off my back. But my introductory education in improv?

I learned a new form of it this weekend.

I found myself in downtown Culver Friday evening, after drinks with friends of the newsletter, Kyle and Jenna. Public School was the destination. An upscale chain put on earth to celebrats 34 year olds’ birthdays. This night though, it was just about the only joint willing to sacrifice one Dodgers World Series television for the Knick game. Knicks won behind the court vision of floor general, Tyler Kolek. Dodgers, on the other hand, were getting bent over a barrel and shown the Niagara (Canadian side). Prior to such beating, I’d intended to make my way from Public School over to Venice for a small viewing party with only the most insufferable Dodger fans I know. But post-grand slam, I knew the vibes wouldn’t be to my liking. So I found myself, instead, without plans in downtown Culver City. The baby monitor capital of Los Angeles.

Luckily, friends of the program, Brockwell and Marco, didn’t have anything going on either. We met up at their Culver 4 bed and fired off some ideas. I’m told there are no bad ideas in a brainstorm, but we had a few. Namely, just about every bar west of the 405. So Marco sent himself to bed. But Brockwell and I dragged ourselves to a bar that I’m as tired as going to as you are reading about. Chucho.

Not a bad crowd, though. Even a few Iknowyoufromsomewhere’s. Good Iknowyoufromsomewheres too. But yes…Groundlings. Improv. The first paragraph. Here’s where that comes into play. Brockwell met this guy. We can call him Theodore. A name I’d imagine he wishes his parents had chosen based on the faux-intellectual khakis he thrifted two sizes too large and his circular framed glasses, I really hope are blue light. Theodore seemed nice enough at first. Out of the corner of my right eye, Brockwell struck up the conversation. A friend of a friend, or so I’m told. So, I ventured over from my IKYFSWs, and hoped my night of conversational pinball would keep going. Theodore, unfortunately, had other plans. He studied an evil form of improv. It’s called Yes and…Go Fuck Yourself.

Brockwell sniped and labeled it immediately. An iteration on the yes and… rule of improv that instead of celebrating world building, character construction, and positive conversation…pushes forward an attitude of passive aggression. A yes and go fuck yourself artist will not at all ignore you. In fact, Theodore’s eye contact never broke. His questions never stopped. He had no interest, to my knowledge, in speaking to anyone else. But say…I ask him what type of music he’s listening to…Theodore couldn’t name just one band. In fact, he couldn’t name any. Too many good ones out there, I guess. Not a very good yes and. Then he’d ask me the same. “Well…I went to a Father John concert at The Greek. Been throwing him in the rotation lately.” Theodore would nod. Even agree. But follow this acknowledgment with a good ol’ “Dude…that’s so cool you’re getting into him.”

Yes…and go fuck yourself.

Try asking Theodore where he went to school. Let’s just say Southern New Hampshire University for the sake of anonymity. “Hell, I know a few buds who were Penmen (actual mascot)…”

“Yeah…Brockwell and I already went over that. Don’t know em…that’s so cool you went to State though. I thought about it.”

Yes and…go fuck yourself.

I tried one more on my new friend Theo. Something basic. Complimented his hat. I didn’t really like his hat, though. Just trying to yes and as any good man would. He appreciated the compliment. I think. Maybe? I actually don’t remember. All I know is he said something about this damn hat that pissed me off enough to jump on the exit ramp, aka the line for the pisser. So instead of lying to you for the sake of story, let’s all do a little yes and go fuck yourself’ing ourselves. A little Groundlings class right here in the damn newsletter. Comment or reply to this newsletter with a passive aggressive, subtly insulting, but technically polite response to the prompt below:

The Pioneer: I like your hat.

Theodore: ________________________ (your reply)

Leave a comment

After we’re all finished with the exercise, let’s put the skill to bed. And this Halloween Weekend, whether we’re talking to Tarzan, Tinker Bell, or even the 8^th dude in a red bathrobe sipping a Modelo (it will be quite hard not to subtly insult this man’s lack of creativity) - be pleasant in conversation. If you’re unable to? Just say no.

Don’t start yes and go fuck yourself’ing.

Oh and check out this very newsletter friend on Elevator Pitch this week…

Last Friday night, I made my long awaited return to the cursed Jameson’s Pub on Main Street. I’m guessing this is what Chris Paul must’ve felt like putting on a Clippers jersey once again. I didn’t exactly loathe my time there, but surely felt way way way too aware of it. Absolutely bored by my own past, I spent my time looking for land mines instead of tripping over good conversation. It was a zero chum game. So I sipped away the couple hours with a couple sneaky nips of Woodford in a $4 ginger ale. I was there that night for a friend’s birthday. I could make up a name for him, but you know what? Not very important to the story. Instead, I’d like to make up a name for my other friend. Hector. A friend of mine who reminded me that even God herself still exists at Jameson’s Pub on Main Street.

Hector’s a man of emotional contradiction. A qualified chum artist with a broken past. He dates a good amount, more than myself or most single people I know, but never with enough motivation to materialize into more than just drinks, dinner, and whatever might follow. Hector is the product of a COVID college breakup. Like many others, upon his reemergence into public life and single adulthood all at once, a more individualistic mindset felt like the best path forward. But now, a few years down the road into his non-monogamous ways, contradictory answers arise whenever we discuss what Hector wants for his romantic near-future. Sometimes, Hector expresses a growing need for romance. Other times, it feels like we’re outside of a parking garage at 2 AM, in minute 166 of a Michael Mann flick. But as Friday became Saturday at Jameson’s, Hector’s desires were of neither the it’s so over camp nor the we’re so back variety. Instead…Hector felt like he wasn’t getting in the game at all recently.

It’d been a few months since we hit the dumpster fire of the Santa Monica bar scene together, and Hector was ready to reemerge. Unpause the Hinge. Dust off the Common Projects. Put a standing reservation at Companion on Lincoln. Not with any goals in mind. Just some conversation and maybe a phone number to get the ball rolling. And so, I was ready to help. Now, Jameson’s isn’t going in the first round of the meet-cute location draft. But Hector let me know by this time of the night, it’d be perfect for something else (no, not that).

“I need to practice rejection” he told me. Slightly insane, but I was intrigued. Then what came next concerned me. “I’m going to politely ask out 19 waitresses for the sole purpose of rejection.”

I laughed. (Cris Collinsworth voice) Now here’s a guy who’s ready to put his older brother’s shoulder pads on and run into fucking telephone poles. The Cam Skattebo approach to conversation. I told Hector I’d advise against it. This was their place of work, and as a part-time member of the service industry, crossing the 49^th parallel can be just taxing on a waitress. Especially one whose credit card tips are already being taxed. But I guess that was sort of the point. Hector wanted to be ignored. This was exposure therapy covered by the deductible of just a bar tab. And so, I let him rock. Thought it’d make for a good newsletter, at least. But I’ll leave that for you to decide, then promptly make viral.

Hector knew who he wanted to strike up a conversation with first. She was his immediate waitress and we’d soon learn that she had the craziest Dutch name ever. When her family got to Ellis Island, they must’ve added more syllables. Therefore, I’m just going to refer to her as…Sally Syllables. Hector approached Sally S. as she brought a few empty glasses to the bussing station. They chatted. But I noticed immediately upon approach and lay, she didn’t get the rejection memo. There was no look of disdain. No eye roll in sight. Instead, even a little smile. Then, in the blink of an eye, Sally Syllables was off. Hector returned, with the look of a man who’d just proved himself wrong. Rejection practice was canceled that night. It was a quick yes, people. But no number, just yet.

She told him she had to clock out first. So we waited. And waited a little longer. Still no sight of Sally Syllables. Hector began to fear she’d run a lay action on him and slipped out the kitchen door. It’d be a far more twisted version of rejection practice no human should take to the gut for the sake of reps. But I kept the faith. Decided to venture back into the crowd and scour the dance floor (respectfully) for Sally Syllables. It took a couple of laps, but she emerged like Sonny Hayes on race day at Abu Dhabi. That’s an F1 joke for anyone keeping score. Sally even had a Tupperware of brownies she offered us. They weren’t very good. But I’ll let that slide.

So no rejection practice, after all. Instead, maybe a lesson in land mines. We can tell ourselves that the worst will surely happen but I’m starting to believe that both the best and worst are beyond our control. And while a couple of no’s can ease the sting of the next one…I’d say we’ve got all the practice we need to take a step forward and introduce ourselves. The result? Even at Jamesons…I now know to expect the unexpected.

From The Archives

(originally published in The Pioneer Newsletter #15)

This is a picture of Diane Keaton exiting a tennis club in Annie Hall. Her fit has been discussed, written about, and pinned on many occasions since the film’s release in 1973. But I first watched Annie Hall in 2018, which anyone with a calculator knows, is 45 years after 1973. So any opinions I may have about how cool she looks will inevitably be conventional or trite. But this week, she’s still my hero. Because I rewatched Annie Hall over the weekend. For anyone who still has their calculator out, that’s 6 years after my first watch in 2018. I completely forgot Diane Keaton exited a tennis club in a goddamn tie. What a move. Why don’t I wear ties? Why am I not part of a tennis club? The latter requires membership or at least reciprocity. But a tie? I’ve got a few right in my closet. I had plans that night at the High Low Bar in Los Feliz and I knew how much the neighborhood of Los Feliz would appreciate A CHOICE. So I consulted with a trusted third party who endorsed said choice and for the first time in a long time - put on a tie. Just like Diane Keaton in Annie Hall, I was met with widespread critical acclaim. So readers, I really don’t care how old the Diane Keaton Looks Cool in Annie Hall opinion is now [get your calculators out again] 51 years after she first exited that tennis club. Just like the necktie itself, the opinion is timeless.

About a year or so ago, I was crushing a set of lateral pull downs at the gym, when an anecdote hit the airpods and floored me. It was from Derek Thompson’s 2017 book, Hit Makers: The Science of Popularity in an Age of Distraction. You see, jamming out to intellectuals while catching a shvitz is sorta my thing. I bench to Malcom Gladwell, row to Atomic Habits, and as you now know, toss around the free weights to Derek Thompson. But back to the anecdote. It shows up right in the introduction. Thompson tells the tale of a German (maybe Austrian) lullaby. Generation after generation, this lullaby was passed down from mother to child and so on. But this lullaby was only sung in a few German (maybe Austrian) towns and concert halls. Nobody else knew it existed. That was until the late 1800s when immigrants set sail for America. The lullaby was then sung to babies on the decks of crowded passenger ships and in bunks of lower Manhattan tenement houses. By the turn the of the century, this German lullaby might as well have gone platinum. You couldn’t find a baby who didn’t bop to that shit.

Why? It was simple.

While the lullaby was a banger, it was a certified put-your-crying-baby-to-sleep-no-brainer that had absolutely no chance of ever making its way to more than a few thousand people…until it was broadcast to immigrants from Ireland, Italy, and Greece, all packed together and hearing this German tune putting little Klaus to sleep. Many would adopt it. Some would even venture west, This Land is Your Land style, spreading this narcoleptic anthem across the nation. It took over a century for a good idea to become…viral.

And because of that, Thompson argues that viral is a misleading term. Nothing becomes popular from a game of 1 to 1 telephone like the worldwide COVID-19 global pandemic. Movements instead need a turbo charged 1 to 1,000,000 broadcast for any chance of popularity. This German (maybe Austrian) lullaby was nothing for years. But suddenly, it bacame a 13-year-old Canadian on YouTube named Justin. The overcrowded ships and tenement houses filled with immigrants in search of the American Dream? I guess we’ll call that Usher.

Terrifying. Why? Because this was supposed to go viral. I believed that one of you would forward it to someone and then they would forward it to someone else, and then all of the sudden, it would turn into one of those email chains of dirty golf jokes you get from your uncle. But Thompson’s lullaby anecdote damn near convinced me that it would never happen. It never has happened. So what the hell have I been working toward?

It’s a question not just internet men like myself ask but seemingly now…just about everyone. Even if you don’t want to go viral, you want to go viral. There might not be another choice. I’d imagine there’s a failing plumber somewhere in Secaucus, New Jersey, whose daughter has convinced him the key to booking more clog jobs is short form content. The greatest bagel shop in Madison, Wisconsin is like a tree falling in the woods without some well leavened socials. We might not want the attention or fame but we sure as hell want what only virality seems to provide in the absence of old instituion. Legitimacy. And don’t we all want to be taken seriously at what we do? I do. I bet you do, too. You and me…why the hell aren’t we viral?

Even if this 1 to 1 game of email forward telephone won’t occur. Fine. Then how the hell do we find our way to such Usher-esque gatekeepers? Is that 1 to 1,000,000 (adjusted for inflation) megaphone really the only way? I used to believe in true gatekeepers. Ones with gates that were right in front of us. I used to believe in apprenticeships. Someone or somewhere I bring such a body of work to and say “here’s what I can do for you, big dog.” But big dog ain’t listening to just you. Big dog is now layers of algorithmic Kabbalah, controlled by Zuck, Role Model, and PFT Commenter. Algos that are telling us one thing. Market then master. Pray to go viral, then figure out the rest later.

And knowing it hurts the writing. It hurts whatever you’re putting honest work into. Puts a few of those free weights I’d prefer to keep at the gym, on top of my chest. The Pioneer ain’t no Tik Tok sketch. It’s a 1000 words on the weekend and who the hell gonna share that? Even if they do…how many people will even escape such an all-encompassing social feed to read 1000 words on some guy’s weekend they’ve never even met?

Big dog…that simply ain’t viral.

So what is? Recipes? Celebrity gossip? Insufferable meditations on culture like this? All of the above, probably. And here I was…thinking I was above all of the above. But at least so far, I’m not. I’m the 99 percent. The community theater of the internet.

So from here on out, I am making the brave decision to under no circumstances, ever go viral. I do not need the respect it inevitably comes with. The opportunity that arises from it. The money. The influence. The staff writing gig on Industry Season 4. The New York Magazine column. The confidence to put writer on a Raya profile. A Raya profile, just while we’re at it (breaking from sarcasm to tell you Raya just sorta worked as a joke here). I need none of it. This writing shall stay far away from anyone’s megaphone, especially yours Usher. I shall instead pursue anything and everything for myself and absolutely nobody else. And if that means a life of obscurity, then so be it. I’ll die with my low performing content boots on. Because, if it means losing myself, who the hell wants to be viral? Not me.*

*This is a classic reverse jinx. Please for the love of god…let me go viral.

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