The Pioneer Newsletter #14

Tuesday, January 9th

Introduction Paragraph

While I won’t reveal the exact time code of this essay, it’s the earliest I’ve been up and running in quite a while. My 8:00 AM alarm, which puts me at my desk reasonably 20 minutes late, will not go off for quite some time. My 8:30 AM alarm, which puts me at my desk unreasonably and quite chaotically 50 minutes late, is all but an afterthought. I’m instead at an overpriced coffee shop, across the street from my office, with an americano and overnight oats that ran me an even more unreasonable and chaotic $15. I hate that the coffee’s great. I hate that I really enjoy overnight oats. How many thousands of years did we heat oats before realizing they were better served cold? What year did Oliver Twist drop? I believe that will give us some context in regard to the history of porridge. The coffee shop itself is pleasant enough. Open floor plan. Floor to wall ceilings. Ladies with pins. Men with totes. 25% tip suggestion on an iPad that swivels towards you like a Chinese Restaurant serving platter. It’s a laptop cafe. They all generally look the same. And if you’re still a little lost - imagine if the Apple Store put an espresso machine behind the counter and played Beach House for 8 hours straight. I prefer the laptop cafe to the more homey joints baked in banana bread and nostalgia. Those are the cafes that promise you all that it won’t deliver. With its paperback collection on the wall, oversized cups, and This is Nora Jones playlist running, they paint a portrait of social gathering. A portrait of happen-chance conversation and creative collaboration. But walk into one of these joints and it’s still just AirPod Pros and laptops. The paperbacks are collecting dust on that wall. The nostalgic atmosphere bends its knee to the sound of typing. A laptop cafe is instead more honest in its intentions. It’s a place where we all celebrate our incessant fear of sitting without purpose. A place where we feel empowered to toggle between three tabs of Twitter and a half-populated job application. My 8:00 AM alarm is about to go off. I’m just about preparing to spend 9 more hours in front of a screen. Maybe it’s time to put away the laptop and leave the laptop cafe. Maybe I’ll just sit for the next hour somewhere else and do absolutely nothing.

Style Essay: Middle-aged Men and Sneakers

My mother has this take. It’s not particularly original but I’ll always give her credit nonetheless. Growing up, she’d re-hash it just about any time we found ourselves out on a Sunday afternoon, watching football. It was usually prompted by spotting middle-aged red-blooded Americans wearing their favorite NFL squad’s alternate uniform. Possibly a teal Jacksonville Jaguars Maurice Jones-Drew or an Orange Cincinnati Bengals Chad Ocho-Cinco. She’d instantly roll her eyes, and impart to me how idiotic it looks when grown men wear sports uniforms.

Now as a grown-(ish) man, I half-agree with her. I think the take’s a little harsh as I know a few adults who very well can tastefully pull off the un-ironic jersey and a few more who thrive in all its ironic glory. But I still do find it darkly amusing that now in Los Angeles - a city chock-full of sports transplants - each time I see one particularly loud and possibly even teal uniform-laden fellow, I imagine my mother rolling her eyes and telling me that father of 3, wearing a Trevor Lawrence uniform three sizes too large, looks like a child. More importantly, my mother’s staunch grown men should not wear sports uniforms school of thought has informed another overly judgemental take of my own. A take tailor-made for this newsletter.

Middle-aged white guy filmmakers,

Stop wearing j’s. You look like children.

I know he’s your hero but none of you are Spike Lee. He directed (and starred) in one of the most famous Jordan ads of all time. Bradley Cooper, you directed a biopic about American composer Leonard Bernstein. You’re also dating Gigi Hadid. You’re also Bradley Cooper. I have no right to tell you what you should and should not be doing. But I’ll do it anyway, because every time I see a photo of you in the East Village, with your good friend Daniel Day Lewis or your previously mentioned flame Gigi Hadid, it looks like you just robbed a FootLocker. I don’t understand why publications such as GQ and Esquire praise your look and laud your eye for pairing $2,000 wool overcoats (ungodly fresh) with sneakers you bought off StockX. I don’t understand why these publications praise other grown-ass white sneakerheads in your line of work as well.

Phenomenal fit (ankles up)

I’m talking to you, Jason Sudeikis. Your Ted Lasso Halloween costume looked to be pretty popular at Spirit Halloween this year. But next October, I’m thinking about just doing the Jason Sudeikis. It consists of wearing skinny jeans, a hoodie, backpack, and of course j’s. When others ask if my costume is a 5th grader on the first day of school, I’ll say no. I’m dressed like Emmy Award winning 48-year old, Jason Sudeikis.

Ben Affleck. Don’t think you’re slipping out the backdoor. Just like Cooper Scooper, I see you’re running an awards campaign as well. I understand it’s for a movie about the origins of the Air Jordan sneaker. I understand YOU play Nike founder Phil Knight. So it makes a little more sense that you walk around West Hollywood believing you’re the exception to the rule. But sorry, you are not. Unfortunately, you’re also an established filmmaker with an inspiring body of work, Academy Awards, and a remarkable eye for mainstream adult dramatic storytelling. Therefore you also look like a 5th grader in your j’s. Mr. Affleck, I understand your sneaker-head turn could be motivated by the necessity to sell your film - which I will reiterate is partially about how Michael Jordan, Phil Knight, and Nike inspired grown-ass white dudes to wear colorful sneakers late into their 40s and 50s. If so, I respect the hustle. I respect you just doing it. But if it’s instead your entryway into cementing some sort of signature look, I hope you’re not planning on accepting a lifetime achievement award 30 years down the road in a pair of Travis Scott 1s. I’ll once again write about how bad this will inevitably look in Issue #1,565 of The Pioneer.

So Cooper, Sudeikis, Affleck, and anyone else out there with a D.G.A. card and shoe boxes lining your closet - just know you’re setting a dangerous precedent. You’re normalizing rather sophomoric behavior. You’re turning me into my mother as now one day I will see some fellas on a Sunday morning, look right at my kid, roll my eyes, and impart to Junior just how silly it looks when grown-ass white dudes wear j’s.

Recs

*A few acceptable (and some forgettable) casual sneakers for grown men:

Dunk Lows (neutral colorways only)

Chucks (if you’re Devin Booker)

Sambas (but why?)

Cortez (if you’re Jeremy Allen White)

Ligas (Samba alts)

Gazelles (if you’re Paul Mescal)

Stan Smiths (eh, sure)

Common Projects (if you’re J.J. Reddick)

White Air Force Ones (cutoff at age 30)

Golas (giving that one away for free, you’re welcome)

550s (cutoff age 35)

Club C 85s (a true workhorse of rubber)

Conclusion Paragraph

how i imagine you read this

Ah shit, they’re back. Those sneaky conclusion paragraphs. I’m late this week because I really really wanted to write one. Unfortunately, it took a little longer to figure out just who and what I’d write about. I’ve written so many CPs about heroes of mine. This week, I’ve decided to do just the same. But who? Well, there’s the guy I pass every morning on Venice Boulevard who busks on a street corner previously thought unbuskable. My windows are up and I have no idea what song he’s singing but each morning as I pass by his make-shift unplugged set, I nod my head in respect. There’s also the Chevron gas station attendant who let me use the restroom at 7:00 AM during my run. I won’t dive too much deeper into this story but that guy deserves recognition as well. And finally, there’s YOU. That’s right. YOU. Because some of you have been opening my emails and reading these newsletters for quite some time now. I really appreciate that. I appreciate the kind words and constructive criticism you reply with. I even appreciate each and every time you call me out for an idiotic typo. So as this newsletter braves a new year, I cannot promise you on-time and typo-free newsletters. That would be far too reasonable. But I can promise you that I will continue attempting new types of pieces, nitpicking subjects previously thought unnitpickable, and most importantly reporting on the slivers of humanity that slip through the cracks of our self-checkout world. So thank you heroes of the week. And please keep letting me know just how poor my grammar is. It never ceases to amaze me.