The Pioneer Newsletter #7
Tuesday, Oct 31st
Introduction Paragraph(s)
My Sundays needed a rebrand. A revamped philosophy for just how I would spend the only day absent from work or amusement. For years, I subscribed to the belief that Sundays were for rest. I’d sink into my couch, generally a little weak from the weekend revelry, and lock into a few films or 7 hours of commercial-free football. However, upon entering the workforce, I became confronted with the looming fear of mortality a mindless desk job can conveniently provide. I realized Sundays were too finite to spend in a dark living room and instead began accomplishing tasks I had put off for months. My weeks became more organized. I, in turn, became more civilized. Sundays became the life hack every time management book preaches it can be. But the fulfillment my newfound productivity provided soon became addictive. Just how many more tasks can I complete? Just how much doper will my pad look if I put my fruits and snacks in glass jars? Well, guess what? My pad does look dope. But I have spent the majority of my recent Sundays sweating in parking lots, viciously u-turning on Venice Boulevard, and coordinating 7 loads of laundry in and out of my building’s sole washer/dryer unit. I began to feel like my own personal assistant. Andy Sachs and Miranda Priestly all at once. Tasked with making my life increasingly convenient - I realized I wasn’t making it any easier. So I woke up last Sunday ready to re-imagine just what the day could become. I wouldn’t abandon errands altogether. Maybe I’d pick up that can opener from Home Goods but leave my dry cleaning in the trunk for next weekend. I’d find balance between productivity and wellness. My Sundays would once again become my own and I knew exactly where to begin.
Breakfast.
The Pluto of meals. Shunned by both science and culture. A demilitarized wasteland, gutted by intermittent fasting and refrigerated oats. Secretly, however, we all know a long and robust breakfast has certain healing powers. I felt confident that a Sunday morning feast would soon become religion amongst everyone I knew. But I’d have to lead by example before any disciples followed. So that Sunday, it would just be me. I took a nice walk through the neighborhood to The OP Cafe in Santa Monica. Once seated at the small countertop, I ordered an Americano and bacon omelet. Obviously, I went with potatoes as my side (I don’t pay restaurants to dump cold fruit on my plate). I felt comfortable at the OP Cafe. It’s a unique establishment where the rapid coffee-refill-culture of an East Coast Greek diner collides with the selective menu and rustic surfer aesthetic of the pleasant Los Angeles breakfast joint. The food is great, L.A.’s only two radio genres - mariachi and Tik Tok - don’t piss through a terrible Bluetooth speaker, and service is chummy yet diligent. It was a near-perfect joint for my newfound power breakfast. However, my greatest discovery wasn't the location but instead how much I enjoyed power breakfasting alone. I was in search of a time to exhale, recollect, and reconfigure. All I needed was a place where nobody knew my name. I ate great food and sipped on two cups of coffee. I skimmed through the free local paper and some articles on my phone. For a while, I even just sat there doing absolutely nothing. It was a spa with bacon - no sharing allowed. So while I imagined my Sunday Power Breakfast would be a practice you’d all like to join me in, I’ve updated my proposal. If you find yourself at The OP Cafe on Sunday mornings, I politely ask that you keep your distance. I’ll be there on my Solo Power Breakfast and I suggest you do the same. But if not at The OP, find a corner bistro in your neck of the woods. A joint that’s nostalgic yet new - like The OP is for yours truly. Then find yourself a table for one. Finish the crossword. Indulge in some pig-slaughtered bacon and that second cup of coffee. Take a moment to communicate with you and nobody else. Most importantly, be a stranger in a crowded room, if just for a moment on a Sunday Morning, at your Solo Power Breakfast.
The Subscriber Challenge
It’s no secret. The Pioneer Newsletter is a wagon. I’m overjoyed by the audience I get to write for each week and simply can’t wait for the Pioneer family to grow even larger. So it’s time for aggressive expansion. It’s time for a membership rewards challenge.
It’s quite simple. Procure the number of subscribers required and reap the benefits. Either reply to this newsletter with your leads (and their email addresses), or for my Substackers, email me at thepioneernewsletter7@gmail.com
Shoutout to the reader who suggested this. I can’t, for the life of me, remember who you are but this is truly your moment. Own it. Bask in it. Command it.
The Tucci Club - 5 New Subscribers
For 5 new subscribers - I will combine my P.H.D. in mixology and flair for the dramatics to make you a cocktail instructional video. You pick the potion and I’ll make the commotion. Stanley Tucci inspired. Pioneer executed.
The Director’s Commentary Club - 10 New Subscribers
For 10 new subscribers - I will record and send an audio commentary for a film of your choice. Unfiltered. Uncut. Unhinged.
The Print Media Club - 12 New Subscribers
For 12 new subscribers - I will hand deliver a bound copy of the next Pioneer to your doorstep. Maybe, if you’re lucky, you’ll get the chance to invite me inside and offer a beverage from your fridge.
If you’re outside the Los Angeles Metro Area, I will mail you your copy along with a lovely handwritten postcard. Bon voyage le Pioneer!
The YouTube Singer/Songwriter Club - 15 New Subscribers
For 15 new subscribers - I will awkwardly press record, and perform a song of your choice on the acoustic guitar. Maybe I’ll be in a field. Maybe I’ll sing to you from my terribly lit bedroom. But wherever I find myself, it will be a moment of beautiful mediocrity that you and I can share forever.
Keep your selections rather simple. If you request Free Bird, I’m playing you Wonderwall.
Like the Whole Foods self-checkout, we will operate this on an honors system. No fake emails, please. Godspeed everyone.
Recs
Color Green (Band) - I'm not one to turn to for underground discoveries but I'll claim this one. Pretty sure I found their song Night through Mapache (another band) radio on Apple Music and it’s been floating through my station wagon speakers since.
Not Talking About the Weather (plea) - If the only subject we're able to talk about is the weather, don't make me play along. Keep walking and move on with your day.
Conclusion Paragraph(s)
I present to you a tweet from GQ Columnist and How Long Gone podcast host, Chris Black. The tweet was sent to me by a friend who, along with Mr. Black, recognizes a true hero when he sees one.
God dammit Paul Mescal. We gotta stop letting you leave the house. Save some quad for the rest of us just trying to make ends meet.
It all began three years ago. Mescal stepped out of the grocery store in some O’Neills Gaelic football shorts and altered masculinity for good. I finally got my hands on some this Summer while in Dublin. So did another mate of mine, who then on this very Halloween, recreated the look for his costume - down to the Walker’s potato crisps and black wired headphones. Between consultation on said costume and the miles I’ve run around the neighborhood in my own pair, I was confident in my adoption of the fit. Then, this week, Mr. Mescal stepped out on the streets of London once more and reminded us all to stay the hell out of his lane. He went ahead and elevated his own fit. A look that took absolutely no effort to originate - other than an 18 year commitment to the sport of Gaelic football. Just when we all felt great in our short shorts, Mescal hits the gym for Gladiator 2, and Ridley Scott will now have to finance my leg days if I ever hope to wear my O’Neills with dignity again. But that’s why Paul Mescal’s my hero for the week. Like any great Olympian of fit, he stays 5 moves ahead. As soon as I saw the now blacked-out look and that silly little cappuccino cup, I knew it was checkmate.
I still can’t believe Phoebe Bridgers left this guy for Weird Al. Team Paul 4ever.
So glad I didn't bring up the weather when I saw you from a distance at The OP this past Sunday morning.