Jeremy Fuksa: Writing

See the radio world around you.

Thu, 23 Jul 2026 23:00:00 GMT

I used to keep an old Windows laptop around because a lot of amateur radio apps are Windows only. Most of those apps are also old and not always built with user experience in mind. So, when that laptop died, I thought I’d try my hand at cross-platform app design.

My scanner, a Uniden Bearcat BC125AT, was my primary tool for radio, and the programmer app for it is Windows only and 14 years without an update. There’s also an equally old Windows app called Scan125, which can control the scanner via USB. I decided to try to merge the two functions into one app.

I wanted to mimic the look and feel of the scanner hardware as much as I could in order for the app to feel automatically intuitive. I also realized that this new app could make it to where you can read your scanner from across a room, something that could be handy for some radio hams.

The more I thought about the experience of the screen at a distance, I had my first thought about visualizing the radio activity in my area, so I added the ability to log all scanner hits and added some simple visualizations. If anyone wants to go deeper into analyzing the data, they can export a CSV and go crazy.

When my visual idea started to gain traction, I decided that I didn’t want to make it part of this app. I wanted to keep this constrained to its initial use plus one unique feature. I also didn’t want to tie up my scanner. So, I went and made Kerchunk Kiosk.

I still had this app lying around, 90% finished, so I decided to complete it and make it available to anyone that wants to use it. It’s thoroughly tested on Mac, but I haven’t had anyone try the Windows or Linux versions, therefore it is currently a beta app.

I named the app Bearpaw, a nod to the Bearcat scanner that it controls over USB. If you use a BC125AT, I hope you’ll download Bearpaw and give it a try.

I am an amplifier.

Wed, 15 Jul 2026 17:00:00 GMT

I just joined School of the Possible. I haven’t had good conversation with a group of creative minds in a long time, and I’m going to see if I can get some of that back. As I was filling out my profile information, there was a bio field to fill in.

I am not good at bio fields. And I rarely take them seriously. Some of my favorites are “I’m 1992’s Uncle Rico. Get off my lawn.” and “I used to podcast but I ran out of things to say.” I felt like I needed to try a little harder on this one.

I’ve used “I am an amplifier” before. Not the guitar-pedal kind. The PA kind. Paul Corrigan, a creative director of mine at Barkley, called me this once because he thought I was great at taking a lot of smaller, random ideas and mixing them into one big one.

We were working on ways we could digitally integrate Sonic Drive-In’s loyalty program. This was 2008, so scanning a loyalty card was the height of that experience, and we were trying to make the loyalty experience frictionless somehow. And I thought, “what if your car was your loyalty card?”

Theresa pulls into a Sonic Drive-In stall, the system detects the car, gives the carhop notice of any rewards she earned, and automatically counts today’s order toward her loyalty balance. It would allow them to automatically pay. We could pull it off with something like turnpike tags, but there’s no way it would have been cost effective in 2008.

As I thought about this old story this morning, I realized that this was essentially what Amazon Go does, just a decade early. Mobile ordering kills this particular Sonic idea. I started to argue that the car still knows something the app doesn’t, that you’ve actually pulled in. Then I realized the phone knows that too, down to the stall, and it doesn’t care what you’re driving.

Nose to nose with infinity.

Sun, 12 Jul 2026 12:00:00 GMT

Last week, we took a trip to Orlando, Florida. It is becoming an annual tradition for us, as the AAU boy’s volleyball tournament is held there every year. As has been the case for the past couple of years, we stay a day after the tournament to do something fun as a family.

This year, we decided to go to the Kennedy Space Center. Robin and I had been there as kids and loved it. But, we also were there in the 80s when the space shuttle program was in full swing. And NASA isn’t in the current culture the way it used to be, so we were a little worried that the boys wouldn’t be into it. In the end, we had nothing to worry about.

Like most kids of the 80s, I was fascinated by space. We were exposed to the space program all the time, and we were all watching the Challenger launch live on TV when it exploded. Being at KSC was, for me, an emotional experience. I’ll chalk some of that up to my nerves being worn raw by the tournament, but it was more than that.

The attractions they’ve added in the 35 years since I was last there are amazing and pack a storytelling punch. They all follow a similar trope of showing you a short film about an aspect of the space program, and then lead you into a real-life artifact that blows you away. ”… and now, if you will enter these doors, here is the actual room where the moon launch was controlled.”

The one that really got me was the space shuttle Atlantis. Toward the end of its film, doors behind the screen open, and you see the silhouette of the shuttle. “Ladies and gentlemen, the space shuttle Atlantis.” The screen raises, and there it is at eye-level, mere feet in front of you.

I started crying, and I couldn’t stop. Again, I’ll blame some of it on exhaustion. But, there was something so humbling about being so close to something that meant so much to me as a kid. I’m welling up as I write. As I spent time just absorbing the enormity of the shuttle, I thought about my day spent with the history of America’s creativity, ingenuity, and courage.

We have a lot of space exploration news we hear, just not in the way we used to. We also saw Mars rovers, but they don’t have the same punch. And we hear about them so infrequently.

There’s a building starting to fill up with Artemis artifacts from SpaceX and Blue Origin, and it was there that I felt sad that the current space exploration landscape is so politicized. We would have never made it to the moon if not for private companies like Lockheed Martin, Boeing, and Northrop Grumman. But, our current crop of space visionaries are so damn unlikeable. Yet, I begrudgingly hope that Musk and Bezos succeed in their endeavors, because I want to see us go back to the moon and beyond.

There was no AI involved in the old space program. It was all human ingenuity, and it was all done with a lot less computing power than we have today. As interested as I am in the potential of AI, I won’t ignore the fact that humans are capable of amazing things without it.

In fact, as I stood nose to nose with Atlantis, the thought that looped was, “I think so small.” I get excited when I have an idea to mash together a couple of APIs to do something interesting, and feel like I’ve done something amazing. If you stand at the foot of a 171,000-pound spacecraft that has been to space and back and don’t think your own ideas are small, then you are a psychopath.

The flash is easy now.

Tue, 09 Jun 2026 14:00:00 GMT

I had a call a few weeks ago about an AI design strategy role.

The problem I’ve had in the later stages of interviewing is that I don’t have a lot to show. The pieces I’ve written on this site are the extent of what I’ve got to show for my time at Oracle. So, when asked for an example of my thinking, I couldn’t just point at a portfolio.

The interviewer was leaving for Hawaii for a week, which gave me a deadline I didn’t ask for. I had a week and one idea I trusted, and the idea was to build something real for one of their actual clients: Scouting America.

I picked them because I’ve lived inside the problem, and the problem isn’t the one most people assume. Cub Scout families almost never quit because Scouting is bad. They quit because communication is a dumpster fire: they never quite figure out how to get engaged, so they don’t, and one quiet Tuesday they’re just gone.

Scouting America already invented the job to fix this. It’s called the New Member Coordinator, and the role’s own description asks the holder to “promote Scouting through social media” and “design well-distributed invitations.” Only a small fraction of packs ever fill the role. The org runs a bootcamp for it that opens, no kidding, with “Are you excited about Scouting but have little marketing experience?” They built a position that requires a craft almost none of their volunteers have, and then acted surprised when it sat empty.

So I wanted to build a New Member Coordinator that doesn’t need a marketer in the chair. A system that does the family-communications work the volunteer can’t keep up with, in the pack’s own voice, on the channel parents actually read. The kind of job AI is genuinely shaped for: tireless, personalized.

I started building the thing I’d want to show off: an interactive prototype of what this tool would actually put on a parent’s phone. You’d type a question (what does my kid even need for the first meeting) and an answer would come back in the pack’s own voice, in a thread that looked like the texts already sitting on your phone. Somewhere around Wednesday I did the math and saw I wasn’t going to make it. So I ripped the working parts out and rebuilt it as a page you scroll. No model. No animation. The argument, sitting still, holding even.

I expected to feel like I’d settled. I didn’t. The Hawaii deadline had quietly steered me off the thing I wanted to build and onto the thing that actually made the case.

Here’s what a working chatbot does the moment you hand it to someone: it tells them their job is to break it. Ask the weird question. Find the seam where the AI shows through. The big idea is the last thing on their mind.

For most of my career I was about the flash. The interactive thing. The part that makes a room go ooh. I’m not anymore. The flash is the easiest part to make now, and it’s the first thing that pulls people away from whatever you were actually trying to say.

So I sent him the quiet version, finished the day he flew home.

It’s at jeremyfuksa.com/nmc. A week of work barely scratches the surface of a problem this old, but it’s a start.

I fancied myself a computer man.

Wed, 20 May 2026 12:00:00 GMT

In college, I applied to work phones at Creative Labs supporting Sound Blaster installs. I fancied myself a computer man. The application test said otherwise. I might have known how to use computers, but I sure as hell didn’t know computers the way I thought I did.

I felt that way for a bit last night. I went to a Kansas City AI Club meeting, and initially I felt like I was in the wrong room. I talked for a while with a guy from American Century, picking up enough fragments of how he’s using AI to feel like the sum should have added up to something I was missing. Standing there nodding, I felt like I didn’t know shit about AI.

Then the panel on enterprise AI started, and I found common ground with Eric Pfeiffer from VML. He talked about content creation, integrating VML’s client data, and the more esoteric brand story and the tacit knowledge that lives around it.

Partway through I noticed the panel wasn’t handing down answers. They were comparing notes. The room and the panel were in the same place. Nobody had this figured out. Some of us were just further along on different parts of it.

After the panel I tossed around the knowledge licensing idea I wrote about a few weeks back. Got some skeptical looks, as the idea deserves. The work world isn’t ready for that jelly. I picked up some new LinkedIn contacts, people I can nerd out with.

By the time I left, I didn’t feel like I was in the wrong room anymore. I’ll see you all next month.

The model of you stays.

Fri, 01 May 2026 20:00:08 GMT

Every company taking AI seriously is building some kind of a knowledge layer right now. They’re going to make a lot of work better. But, they rely on you to grow and thrive. And once you’re out the door (for good or bad reasons) they still have your knowledge, and they own it forever. That’s the part that needs to change before it gets too late. So, here’s a wacky idea.

We used to think we owned Photoshop. We didn’t. Technically it was always a license, but you bought a disc, it sat on your shelf, and Adobe had no practical way to revoke it. Then the industry switched to subscriptions, and the licensing nature of software became impossible to ignore. You stop paying, it stops working. People hated it. There were petitions. And then everybody got used to it, because the new arrangement was better for Adobe and tolerable enough for everyone else.

We should treat our knowledge the same way. Everybody’s going to hate this idea, the companies most of all. Too bad. We hated paying Adobe every month too, right up until we didn’t.

The strict subscription version is the simplest. Your work contract is the license. The whole time you’re employed, the company has the right to use what your knowledge contributes to the model. The day you leave, the license ends with the employment, same way a SaaS subscription ends when you stop paying. Cleanest in concept, technical nightmare in practice: surgically removing one person’s contributions from a trained model isn’t something the technology can really do yet, and might never be able to do cleanly.

The time-limited license is softer. The company can use what you contributed, but only for a set period after you leave. Two years, five, whatever the contract says. After that, it has to be purged or relicensed at a new rate.

The royalty model is the messiest of the three and probably the most ideal. You license your knowledge in perpetuity, but the company pays you (or your estate) for as long as the model uses it. Closer to a record-label deal than a software subscription. Different analogy, same energy: ownership and use get separated, and the person who created the value keeps getting paid every time it generates value.

I floated this idea to my wife the other night, because she’s a lawyer and would absolutely have thoughts.

She did. “No way. Anything you make on company time belongs to them. That’s just IP law.”

She’s right. For how much longer, though?

Traditional IP has edges. Whatever you make for the company belongs to the company. And while your tangible footprint might remain their property forever, you could at least walk out the door with everything that made that footprint possible: taste, judgment, experience. They’ll never have someone who contributes exactly the way you do.

That part is gone.

For a company’s knowledge layer to actually work, it needs more than the documents lying around. Documents are the official record of what people thought after they thought it. The biggest value isn’t in the deck you made for the Johnson account. The real signal lives in the sausage being made: the sentiment in a Slack thread, the inference buried in a Zoom transcript.

Some of that gets captured passively in the systems people already work in. But the part that actually matters has to be drawn out. Somebody has to sit you down and ask you to articulate what you know. A real knowledge layer isn’t surveillance. It’s an interview. A long one. Repeated, contextual, structured to extract the part of you that doesn’t show up in the artifacts.

Every session you sit through, the model of you gets a little more accurate, a little more useful to the company. When you leave (when they decide the real you isn’t worth what the model of you already cost), the model stays. It doesn’t negotiate salary, it doesn’t have a hard quarter, and it doesn’t go find something better.

That last bit doesn’t really make you want to sign up for that interview. Does it?

Researchers at Harvard Business School and MIT studied this and published in March. Their finding, in one sentence: workers know they have control over how much they share, and they restrict it the moment they learn their expertise may be used to train AI to do their job. The effect was significant enough that participants in their experiment refused real money to opt out, once they understood the deal.

I wrote earlier about how the real bottleneck for expressing intent in AI design isn’t the tech. It’s getting experienced people to sit down and bare their brains to the system. I believe in what deep knowledge layers can do to further design. Yet if I were the one being asked to externalize thirty years of judgment into a system someone else owns, I don’t know that I’d do it.

The deal doesn’t work. I sit down, I tell you everything I know, you get something out of it forever, and I get nothing out of it forever. A document I make for the Johnson account stops being useful when Johnson moves on. A model trained on how I think keeps producing original output for any client long after I’m gone. The taking is one-time. The using is forever. Even the software deal let you keep using it for as long as you paid. This one keeps using you after you’ve stopped getting anything at all.

So here’s where we are. The technology works. Companies need your knowledge. The legal framework doesn’t properly account for it. The people who’d have to sit down for the interview have the most reason to refuse. And the three ideas I floated earlier are probably all unworkable: the strict version is technically impossible, the time-limited version is gameable, and the royalty version will get fought tooth and nail by every company whose AI strategy depends on never paying anybody twice for the same thinking.

I know. I’m throwing shit at the wall.

But somebody has to. The current deal (sit down, train your replacement, leave, get nothing) is going to break before the people with the most power have any reason to fix it. The Harvard team also found that when workers were given the choice, sixty-four percent preferred a policy where they could own and sell their own work data. People aren’t confused about what’s happening. They’ve already figured out the deal. They’re just waiting to see whether anyone in charge plans to offer them a different one.

Death by a thousand tokens.

Wed, 29 Apr 2026 19:50:20 GMT

I spent months trying to make one design system fit everything I make.

All of it obeying the same rules so it would all feel like it came from one person. Great intentions, but it never got anywhere. And for a long time I thought that was a completeness problem: not enough tokens, not enough rules, not enough rationale written down. So I kept adding.

Then I looked at what it was actually producing. The website came out flat. Underpersonalized, no pulse. The apps came out the other way, too much personality, loud where they should have been quiet. The rules weren’t wrong; they were fine both times. A one-size-fits-all system was the wrong idea.

What it couldn’t hold was intent, the part around the spec that makes it mean something. Who’s using this, what they’re doing when they hit the screen, what the thing is for. My website and my apps share a spec but do not share an intent. The website is me thinking out loud. The apps are tools that have to get out of the way.

So I split it. The website got its own design system, website-only, built to capture my brand intent and not just my colors. The old system goes back to being what it’s good at: my app system, where personality is a liability and the tool needs to disappear.

That helped. It also didn’t fix the thing underneath, which has nothing to do with how many systems you run.

This isn’t a niche problem with my niche setup. Google Stitch introduced the DESIGN.md format earlier this year, and Claude Design pushed it the rest of the way: one markdown file describing your system, readable by any AI tool, dropped into the prompt as truth. There’s a GitHub repo collecting 68 of them, scraped from top brands. The pitch is “drop one in, scaffold a full UI in one shot.” Point the model at the file, get the brand.

The scraped files don’t carry the intent, and the obvious fix is to write it in. Writing it down beats leaving it out. But the website that came out flat and the apps that came out loud weren’t short a few tokens. They were short the thousands of small decisions behind every token, most of them never written down even on the human side, each one a tiny piece of why this and not that.

Say you got every last one of them into the file. You still hand the model that same file twice and get two readings of the same constraint.

I'm the cutout bin guy.

Wed, 22 Apr 2026 05:53:03 GMT

The best music I ever found, I wasn’t exactly looking for. Bought because the cover looked interesting and nothing else. I’d dig through a stack of stuff nobody wanted in the cutout bin and every so often pull out a treasure I’d never have found any other way.

In the late 00’s, I found bootleg blogs, and it was the cutout bin times a hundred. Someone would dig through estate sales and dusty record bins, rip the vinyl, compile the best tracks, and drop a zip file somewhere. Private press soul. Unreleased West African funk. Weird exotica from labels that pressed 500 copies and disappeared. I’d download it and fall into entire worlds I hadn’t known existed.

Then streaming became the easy way to find music. Apple Music and Spotify make their own bins for you to dig through, the home screen, the mixes, the weekly playlists, and it looks like the same thing. But their bins are pre-sorted. The wacky shit you used to stumble onto never makes it in, because it’s the same algorithm doing the sorting, and it already decided what you should hear.

The cutout bin never decided anything. It was chaos, a pile nobody managed, and the weird stuff survived in there precisely because nothing was curating it out.

But the music didn’t disappear. It’s all sitting right there in Apple Music, in Spotify, the cutout bin times a million now, catalogued and waiting. The pile only got bigger. The algorithm just had no reason to surface any of it. I kept finishing Radiohead tracks, so it kept serving me more Radiohead-adjacent sounds. Why would it randomly show me Orchestre Poly-Rythmo?

If you found your way to this, odds are you know the feeling. Your streaming app gets to know you so well that all it does is hand you more of what it already knows you like.

For me, that’s unacceptable. I’m the cutout bin guy. I don’t want the center of the thing I already love. I want the edges, and whatever’s past the edges. I want the chaos.

So I tried using AI to break out of it.

First, I installed an app called PlayTally, which allows you to see your Apple Music listening history across all your devices. I let it run a few months, then exported a CSV file for Claude.

4,631tracks analyzed
68%Rock / Alternative
702plays of “Tiny Dancer”

Dominated by 90s alt-rock and 2000s indie, and 0.2% of it from outside the US, UK, or Canada. The numbers told me everything I needed to know about the rut I was in.

When I tried to describe what I actually wanted instead, it wasn’t genres. It was textures.

“Fender Rhodes dripping with chorus.”
“Pedal steel in music that isn’t country.”
“Quiet jazz, not the freeform stuff.”

“Alternative,” “Rock,” “Jazz” are huge buckets, and the micro-genres I wanted were drowning somewhere inside them. I knew they were in there. I needed a way to surface them from a system that wasn’t built to understand texture.

The thing I figured out, with a lot of help, is that the algorithm pays more attention to what you finish than to what you tap a heart on. So Claude built playlists around that. It paired an anchor I already loved with a challenge I didn’t know yet, close enough to follow. Radiohead’s “Pyramid Song” into Khruangbin’s “María También,” which shares the same Rhodes texture and slow build. Play them in order, let both finish, repeat. My read is that the repetition taught the algorithm to treat the two as related, and to start pulling more of the second kind toward me.

Plenty of it flopped. Japanese city pop went nowhere, Nordic jazz never took, and of the West African artists I seeded, only one stuck.

The cutout bin was a unique part of the analog era. Those boxes of chaos existed because some store owner dumped albums in a bin and sold them for a dollar to be rid of them. The mess was an accident. And there’s no incentive for such a bin to exist digitally. Which sucks, because I owe most of my musical taste to the chaos of the cutout bin.

I champion frictionless. I am the friction.

Thu, 09 Apr 2026 04:34:24 GMT

A designer named Jenny Wen went on a podcast recently and said the design process is dead. Somebody dropped the YouTube link into the Oracle AI design Slack and within an hour everyone had watched it. Everyone had a take.

Mocking has gone from 70% of a designer’s time to maybe 30%. Engineers are shipping prototypes with AI faster than designers can review them, let alone block them. She describes who thrives in this new world: the strong generalist, the deep specialist, the eager new grad who hasn’t calcified yet. Her advice to them: ship fast, iterate in public, build trust through speed.

She’s right. And I know she’s right because I was part of what she’s burying.

I spent years being the friction in the design process. Not on purpose. Or at least not in a way I could see at the time. Slow the work down. Another round of review. One more exploration. If you weren’t slow, you weren’t thorough. If you weren’t thorough, you weren’t serious.

I only recognized this about six months ago.

Before the slow years, I was fast. I spent my 20s and 30s jumping from video editing to motion graphics to web development to Flash. Every jump was instinct. Ride the wave, keep your center of gravity broad enough that you don’t drown when one thing disappears.

I’ve been a creative generalist for 30 years. It’s paid off every time the industry shifted, because the generalist is always already moving when the specialists are still mourning what they lost. Jenny frames the generalist as a new archetype for the AI era. It’s the oldest one I know. AI just finally made it legible, because when the making is cheap, the person who can tell you which option is right and why, across disciplines, turns out to be the one everyone needs. We’ve been here the whole time. The value was in the connective tissue, and nobody notices connective tissue until something tears.

But agency speed had its own problems. When I brought it into healthcare enterprise software, I kept missing things. The problems were just deeper than anything I’d been trained to see. So I learned to slow down. The enterprise process rewarded it. And eventually the slowness became the habit.

Then AI showed up and I had to break every one of those habits faster than anything.

The waves I rode before: Web 2.0. Social media. Multi-platform experiences. Every previous shift had a direction: you could see where it was headed and lean into it.

This one doesn’t. AI is moving in every direction at once, and there’s an anxiety in sprinting when you can’t see a horizon line. I’m learning (slowly, which is ironic) that maybe it doesn’t need one. Because if you’re wrong at this speed, course-correcting is also fast. The old slow made mistakes expensive. Months lost. The new fast made mistakes cheap. Days, maybe hours.

Jenny describes “research preview” like it’s a new concept, but companies have been shipping public betas forever. What’s new isn’t the idea. It’s the speed of the cycle.

The next creative team.

Tue, 31 Mar 2026 18:33:26 GMT

My neck hurts. There’s Irish cream in my morning coffee. My brain is already days beyond the 5am email that kicked off this thought train. It’s moving like there’s some sort of grand plan. Damned if I know what it is.

I got laid off this morning.

I’m not sad. Relieved, mostly. Turns out a month of bracing for something is harder than the thing itself. While bracing, I realized the AI-augmented design tools and processes I was building at Oracle aren’t proprietary. They’re the blueprint of what creative work is about to become. And smaller businesses will take to it faster than the big ones. They always do.

A small, cross-disciplinary pod. Tight. Trusted. Ad agencies figured this out decades ago with the art director/copywriter team. Small businesses are made of these pods by default.

The next creative team will have a bench of agents and skills connected to a proprietary knowledge base. An AI-augmented design team can be sure work meets their company’s quality standards, brand voice, safety requirements. Not just opening a fresh chat with Claude and hoping the default training of the model is enough. It isn’t.

Without your company’s unique knowledge layer, you get the same AI thinking everyone gets. Real, relevant creative work happens when you give your AI the rug that ties the room together. The knowing. The why behind the what. The lessons learned to get to this point.

Your job has changed. You’ll spend less time making and more time validating. Tastemaking. Scrutinizing. Deciding which of the five things AI brought to the table is worth pursuing and why. Big picture thinkers and detail people are both still essential. Humans are still the only reliable source of truly novel creative judgment.

I may have spent months developing this kind of process at one of the largest tech companies in the world, but it’s not just for the big boys. It’s for any company that wants to grow, let alone survive. I built one for myself. A personal knowledge layer: my thinking, my patterns, my years of knowing what good work feels like. It works. Which means it scales down as far as one person and up as far as you need it to go.

You might wonder why I’d want a knowledge layer when it’s everything that’s already in my head. Two reasons:

My brain has always needed an external storage and processing unit that actively works with me. This is v67.0 of my overall attempts, but the first time my expectations meet my ideal
The more your teammates get to know you, the better you work together. AI is your teammate. The more it can get to know about your specific needs, the better it will get at working with you. And that scales to all sizes of business, too.

A couple of months ago I joked to my colleagues that I should quit and become an AI YouTuber. Maybe I’ll give that a shot.

I’ve never trusted fast.

Thu, 26 Mar 2026 00:36:11 GMT

The pace of AI progress is crack to the right ADHD mind. It certainly is for me, but keeping up eventually leaves you hungover, not knowing what day or time it is, and the sting of a tattoo you don’t remember getting.

New AI features are coming faster than ever. Financial headlines are starting to whisper “AI bubble.” And at a lot of big companies, somewhere between the acceleration and the doubt, the pressure to show progress, to ship, to move faster than you’re actually able to move just gets louder. I’ve never trusted fast. Quick I can work with. Quick is easy if you know what you’re doing. Fast just means the speed is the point. Whether my distrust of it is wisdom or stubbornness or fear or just the way my brain is wired (probably all of it), faster tools don’t fix it.

Business leaders love fast. Fast generates ideas, designs, code, decisions at a scale no team can match alone. Fast is impressive. But fast is the wrong finish line.

The question that actually matters: how do you know if what AI generated is any good? Who decides? Fast makes it very tempting to get rid of the people best positioned to answer that.

There’s a story about an old butcher. Merlin Mann told it once and it was the first thing that came to mind as I started to write. Thirty years behind the counter, the guy doesn’t use a scale. Picks up the cut, sets it down, tells you the weight. He’s right every time. From thirty years of knowing what right feels like in his hands.

Merlin’s point was about dependence on tools for certain jobs. But I kept thinking past it. A scale tells you how much. It can’t tell you if a cut is any good. Whether it’s fresh. Whether it’s what you actually ordered. The butcher can. Thirty years of knowing what right looks like, smells like, feels like.

AI is the best scale anyone has ever built. But it’s still a scale. You still need the butcher to make sure your order is good.

The mistake a lot of organizations make is assuming the butcher is the bottleneck. He’s slow. The new scale that weighs your order to the atom and wraps it in paper is fast. So get rid of the butcher, move faster, ship more.

Except getting rid of him doesn’t remove the bottleneck. It just moves it somewhere more expensive: the part where you’re cleaning up after something that the butcher would never have sold.

Most organizations are still on crack. The hangover is coming.

I’m building a network I can’t explain.

Tue, 30 Sep 2025 22:12:30 GMT

I’ve spent the last few weeks building an open source communications network I can’t explain. Not because it’s classified or complicated. I just can’t tell you why I’m building it. Not to my family. Not to my friends. Not even to myself, really.

I can describe what it does: it’s a Meshtastic network using LoRa radio technology that lets small devices communicate with each other without cell service or internet. Messages hop from node to node, creating a self-healing network that works off-grid. My node runs on a Heltec V3 that fits in my hand. A LoRa hat for my Raspberry Pi is coming in the mail from China to run a 24/7 router node. No tariffs on that yet.

But if you ask me why any of that matters, I’ve got nothing. It’s a bunch of tiny boxes talking to other tiny boxes. It’s cheap enough that you never hit that moment where you have to justify spending $200 on anything. You just keep ordering more tiny boxes.

I sent out a test message on the Meshtastic primary channel. Got a response from someone nearby. The silence since then tells me one message was enough.

This is what nobody mentions when they talk about Meshtastic: most local meshes are quiet. Not broken. Quiet. The infrastructure works. The technology is sound. There’s just nothing happening on it day-to-day because nobody has a practical reason to send messages.

Turns out I’m not pioneering anything. There’s already a Kansas City mesh with 68+ nodes and organized community infrastructure. I just discovered it after building my first node. The silence on the public channel isn’t because nobody’s building. It’s because even in an active, organized mesh with real community coordination, most communication happens privately or people just run infrastructure without constant chatter. The network exists. The daily usage question remains.

The boilerplate philosophy is that Meshtastic is for when everything else breaks. When cell towers go down. When the internet fails. When infrastructure collapses and we’re all trading bottle caps for gasoline. Emergency preparedness. Off-grid resilience. Decentralized networks.

But day-to-day? Cell phones work. Text messages are reliable. Need to keep track of a kid? Get an app. It’s guaranteed to be 100x better.

Some people do use Meshtastic to text with family or track kids’ locations right now. Maybe they’re in rural areas with spotty cell service, or they want communication that doesn’t depend on cellular infrastructure. For them, it solves a real problem.

But for me? I can’t find the practical use case. I’m not building this because I genuinely believe everything is about to collapse (but let’s not be hasty). I’m building it because I see photos on Reddit of solar-powered nodes installed on mountaintops and I think they’re awesome. I want to do the same thing. Maybe on a tall office rooftop, a self-sustaining unit the size of a box of baby shoes mounted in a weatherproof enclosure with a solar panel.

A Meshtastic solar node in Salt Lake City. Photo: u/stuffandthingz7

Then I imagine actually having that conversation with a building owner:

“I want to mount a baby shoe box on your roof so it can talk to another baby shoe box in Olathe. Maybe Smithville.

For when everything breaks. No, not for your building specifically. Just in general.

Yes, I know cell phones exist.”

Coming from ham radio, I thought I’d have a framework for understanding the radio communications side of Meshtastic. I keep catching myself applying mental models that don’t translate. Thinking more power means better range (it doesn’t work that way here), expecting some sort of participation (these nodes just do things autonomously, and I’m just watching infrastructure participate without me).

But here’s what I’m realizing: I can’t use ham radio to explain Meshtastic because I can’t explain ham radio either.

In 2025, try explaining to someone why you own a radio that lets you talk to people you don’t know about nothing in particular. Try justifying the license, the equipment, the antennas. It’s all pain in the ass gear that’s useful “just in case.” And “just in case” isn’t a reason. It’s a placeholder for “I don’t actually know.”

The shift from ham radio to Meshtastic isn’t about learning new technology. It’s about realizing both hobbies are equally absurd when you try to explain them to someone who doesn’t already get it. At least with ham radio, the price point eventually forces you to stop and think. With Meshtastic, you can accumulate a whole network of baby shoe boxes before you ever ask yourself why. You start thinking about nodes at your office, your parents’ house, that coffee shop you go to on Saturdays.

Here’s what I think is actually happening: I enjoy building infrastructure. The network optimization is interesting. Figuring out antenna placement and hop counts and topology is satisfying in the way that solving any technical puzzle is satisfying.

The theoretical emergency use case is, to me, a nice to have. The one practical application I’ve found (automated weather alerts pushed to the mesh) gives me something concrete to try to achieve.

And maybe that’s fine. Maybe infrastructure building as hobby is enough of a reason. Maybe the Wee Keds boxes don’t need to justify their existence beyond “I wanted to see if I could make them talk to each other.” Maybe the low barrier to entry (the fact that you can start building for under $50) is a feature, not a bug.

Though, technically, you could stop at under $50. You just don’t have an easy way to verify if your node works when you only have one. So you buy a second one. And once you have two working nodes talking to each other, well, now you’re thinking about what a third one could do. You start calculating which friend’s house would make the best relay point. You begin mentally rehearsing conversations: “Hey, would you mind if I zip-tied a small weatherproof box to your fence? It’s for radio stuff. No, you won’t notice it. Probably.”

If you’re reading this and thinking “should I try Meshtastic,” here’s my honest assessment:

You probably shouldn’t if you’re looking for a practical communication tool. Your phone does this better. A $12 walkie-talkie from a gas station does this better.

You might want to if you’re in a group with actual coordination needs in areas without cell coverage. Or if you’re practicing emergency communication with a commitment to regular check-ins and drills. Or if you enjoy building infrastructure that doesn’t need to justify its existence. Or if you want to do a possibly pointless but potentially limitless thing with me and whoever else is out here ordering tiny boxes.

The question isn’t “is Meshtastic useful” but “are you someone who enjoys building infrastructure for its own sake?” At $30-40 per node, it’s cheap enough to find out.

I asked the Meshtastic community what they’re actually doing with their meshes day-to-day. The responses confirmed what I suspected: most people are infrastructure hobbyists. “Because we can,” one person said. “I’m a nerd,” said another. “New map pings make me smile.” Some found legitimate use cases (music festivals, rural coordination, actual disaster preparation). A few built social communities using the tech as an organizing principle. The Buffalo, NY mesh has 270 nodes and regular meetups. The Kansas City mesh I accidentally joined has 68+ nodes and organized community coordination.

But even in these established meshes, the fundamental question remains: what happens on a Tuesday? The infrastructure is impressive. The community coordination is real. The daily usage is still mostly theoretical or private.

I’m still building my mesh. Still fighting the urge to buy more hardware. Still planning that rooftop baby shoe box with the solar panel. Still mentally cataloging every tall building and willing friend.

The storm cleared the static for me.

Tue, 20 May 2025 03:48:25 GMT

Storms rolled through Kansas City tonight. My scanner picked up the local emergency weather nets and filled my office with storm spotters: reports of wind speeds and hail size from different corners of the city, cutting through static. I was supposed to be working on a project, but instead found myself eavesdropping on strangers talking about wind speeds and hail size.

I’ve always found ham radio check-ins painfully dorky. Every week, amateur radio operators gather on specific frequencies just to confirm they exist: call signs exchanged with practiced formality, quick reports on how well their signal is coming through, minimal pleasantries. From the outside, it all seems unnecessarily structured, a radio ritual without obvious purpose. Like people gathering to read the phonebook to each other once a week.

Until it matters.

The person running these sessions doesn’t need more than a quick mention of your radio name to know who’s speaking. Those seemingly pointless weekly check-ins teach them where people are from, what equipment they’re using, how someone’s voice sounds when they’re calling from a car. What looks like just playing radio from the outside is actually preparation for moments like this, when important information needs to travel quickly and clearly through stormy conditions.

When an emergency weather net activates and storm spotters are zooming around the city giving reports, that practiced way of talking becomes efficient. The formality becomes clarity. The dorky transforms into necessary.

To be fair, some folks are totally LARPing as first responders on these frequencies. You can hear it in how they stretch out transmissions, adding unnecessary details, savoring their moment of performed importance. I came across a Reddit thread earlier today that had me nodding along with the criticisms until I realized I was doing it while literally listening to these same people on my scanner. There’s probably a German word for that specific flavor of self-deception.

I grew up in rural Oklahoma where tornado sirens were the soundtrack of spring. I used to get physically sick when those Emergency Broadcast System tones interrupted regular programming, drilling into my nervous system like a dentist hitting a nerve. My body would clench up while my mind raced with terrible possibilities. Our underground cellar stunk of mildew, and you never knew if snakes had decided to take shelter with you.

And yet I dreamed of being a storm spotter. I imagined driving our country roads with a radio mounted under the dash, watching wall clouds rotate, reporting with calm precision on conditions that terrified me. Fear and fascination tuned to the same frequency.

I got to sit in a car similar to this in the early 2000s. That was a good day.

I’ve always been drawn to the seedier side of radio: CB channels late at night, pirate stations broadcasting from makeshift studios, drunk rants floating through the atmosphere when skip conditions are just right. These transmissions feel authentic. Unpolished signals carrying raw humanity.

But now I’m looking into the certification necessary to join Skywarn, wondering what it would really be like to participate. These guys approach weather with a seriousness that’s easy to mock from a distance: the practiced terminology, the official vests, the whole system of it. But when you listen long enough, you start to see the purpose behind the formality. I’ve spent years in Scouting with my own ceremonies, uniforms, and specialized language. Turns out I’m not allergic to dorkiness after all. I just prefer my flavor of it to come with merit badges and knots instead of callsigns and radio protocols. At least until now.

And I’m listening to them. Regularly. I’ve programmed their frequencies into my scanner. I can recognize some of the regular operators by voice now, though they don’t know me. I’m just receiving, not transmitting. Not yet.

There’s a threshold here I haven’t crossed. Something shifting from observation to curiosity. I might as well come into the circle and see what everything’s all about. Check into a net with my own callsign. At some point, you either admit you’re interested or you keep pretending you’re just doing research for a project that doesn’t exist.

It might be everything I imagined as a kid, looking up at Oklahoma skies turned green, wondering who was out there tracking the storms that both terrified and fascinated me.

Radio creates a weird intimacy. These voices emerging from static connect through the air itself. There’s something almost magical about hearing someone’s voice traveling across space without infrastructure, without companies, without subscriptions: just atmosphere and physics bringing strangers together.

The storms are passing now, scanner traffic slowing to routine check-ins. But something has shifted in me, a signal finally received after years of atmospheric bounce. I realized tonight I can’t really make fun of them when I’m clearly in just as deep. I just didn’t know I was wading in.

I’ve been practicing how to say my callsign in the car.

I don’t know what I’m doing but it’s working.

Wed, 07 May 2025 19:29:01 GMT

Growing up, when I couldn’t sleep, I just listened.

Oklahoma nights gave me wind and highway noise outside my window, and a twitchy little AM dial that pulled strangers out of the dark. Ball games from cities I’d never seen. Preachers yelling into the void. Mariachi music drifting across borders like it didn’t care who was listening. Most of it faded fast. But I stayed with it. It felt like eavesdropping on the edge of the world.

In college, I landed in broadcast radio. At first I was just talking. But then I got pulled behind the scenes: the engineer handed me a soldering iron and just said, “See if you can fix that.” I gave it a shot and mostly made smoke. He stepped in and made it work. And I watched.

We kept the station alive with parts from RadioShack. Schematics on napkins. Labels in Sharpie. Half-functioning boards, patched together with a mix of guesswork and gut sense. I didn’t understand it all, but I could tell when something worked.

And it carried. Not as a skill, exactly. More like a way of getting by. I’ve never had formal training in anything I’ve done. I just did what felt right, and noticed when things clicked, even if I couldn’t tell you how or why.

With Scouting on the sidelines, there’s more time on my hands. I hadn’t thought much about radio since those college days, but the idea faded back in: first as a flicker, then as something harder to ignore.

So I leaned in.

Not to transmit (although I did get my Technician Class license (KF0NUI), mostly to scratch that tech and engineering itch) but to just listen. You don’t need a license to just listen. But I wanted to understand how it all fit together.

I’ve pieced together a listening station. I’ll tell you about it later, except to say it’s a hodgepodge of cheap import handsets, preowned scanners, and an old PC that crashes just often enough. I’ve made antennas out of old speaker wire. The whole thing is a house of cards.

But it hears things.

(And sometimes I do too.)

The bands are quiet compared to what they were. Mobile communications and the internet obviously took a lot out of radio as a tool, and the juicy stuff like police and fire is hidden behind encrypted digital transmissions. But there’s still stuff to hear. Old timers talking about their knee replacement. Weather loops. The occasional pirate spinning lo-fi disco into the void. Japanese late night radio. The edge of the world.

Radio scanning is a lot like fishing.

You find a spot. You set up what you’ve got: maybe it’s old gear, maybe it’s barely working. The guy next to you might have thousands of dollars worth of gear. But you’ve both cast a line into nothing. And now you wait.

Not because you know what you’ll catch, but because you want to be the kind of person who’s there when something bites.

Most days, it’s just noise. But once in a while, the signal comes back strange and sharp and exactly what you didn’t know you were listening for.

‘Well, Hell.’

Fri, 04 Apr 2025 16:57:25 GMT

And here I was, just a couple days ago, thinking about features and ideas that might keep this from becoming the “what’s wrong with Jeremy now?” blog.

But (doop doo doop doop) BREAKING NEWS:

I went in for my biannual CT angiogram to check on the ol’ aortic aneurysm, and this morning I went over the results with cardiology. Turns out it’s grown past the cutoff point for surgery, so I’ll be getting an aortic replacement within a month. While they’re in there, they’re also going to see if it makes sense to overhaul the 18 year-old bypass grafts.

Honestly? I’m relieved. A part of me was hoping for this outcome back in December. Living with the looming threat of an aortic rupture is worse than just getting the surgery. That said, I’m still nervous as hell.

The first time around, it was just my wife and me handling everything. Now there’s a whole circle of people who care, who’ll be impacted, who’ll want to help. That’s comforting. And a little overwhelming if I think about it too much.

I’m not going to turn the newsletter into a medical journal. But if you want a journal about this (the messy, more frequent updates) you can opt in. I’ve set up a new subscription tier called The Mederma Fund, which gets you those extra posts.

It’s $1/month, and trust me, I’m not thrilled about that either. But Ghost only allows one free tier. So think of it as chipping in for some Mederma to rub on my scar as it heals. 😊

I’ve been tested.

Sun, 30 Mar 2025 17:51:56 GMT

Well, a month between posts is kind of what I expected when I started writing again. Good to know I’m consistent in my own estimation.

There’s been no shortage of things worth writing about, but lately, I’ve had to pause and ask whether I should write about them. In my 30s, I was a social media open book because I knew it meant “hits and engagement,” but now I’m more selective about what I keep close to the chest. Still, something’s been gnawing at me. So I’ve decided to write what feels like just the right amount.

TL;DR: I’m currently undergoing testing to determine whether I officially have high-functioning Autism.

I’ll never publicly share the diagnosis. If you know me, you’ve probably already formed your own assessment. And depending on how you know me, your impression will likely be different, and probably accurate within that context. I’ve come to understand that I’m a master of masks.

A heady mix of time alone to think, the slow creep of age, lingering anxiety about what the stroke may have left behind, and some of the best therapy I’ve ever had has cast a sharper light on things I used to brush off. On their own, they felt trivial: quirks, preferences, maybe just personality. But in reflection, patterns have begun to surface, subtle but insistent. The tipping point was something I mentioned in my last stroke update: my overwhelming sensitivity to sound, especially the sharp, chaotic clatter of a basketball or volleyball court.

Therapy helped me realize that this sensitivity has always been there. I just never considered it unusual. I avoided those environments and chalked it up to not being a sports fan. But this sensitivity (along with a host of other traits I’ve traced across the years) led me to wonder how it all fits together. Because, if you’ve watched enough Big Bang Theory, it’s like I’ve got a little bit of each guy in me, but mostly lean into Sheldon Cooper territory.

I have “a spot” in every room where I habitually spend time.
I can always tell when people are happy, but I have a much harder time reading other emotions. I usually default to assuming everyone’s mad at me or that I’ve done something wrong, so I go into overdrive trying to keep them happy and “get out of trouble”. Which, shockingly, is both physically and emotionally unsustainable.
About 15 years ago, I got a performance review where a client described me as “acerbic” (still bothers me, JJ). I’ve tried to soften my edges since then, but at the time, I genuinely thought I was following good advice: that great creatives fight fiercely for their ideas. I took that as a license to remind clients that I was the creative expert. For any young creatives reading this: don’t do that. It might be fundamentally true, but it doesn’t help anyone. I also bought into another misguided mantra: that ad people should switch agencies every three years*. That one’s not great either.
My knees are always bouncing, and my hands are constantly tapping or wringing. Anxiety just turns the dial up to 11.
I’ve also got a bit of an internal counting thing**. Filling the ice in my water bottle is always four. Putting water in the dog dish? That’s twelve. I realized just now that I subconsciously avoid odd numbers.
Have you ever tried to talk to me about something I’m passionate about?

Individually, none of these things prove anything. Lots of people do some of them. But when I started connecting memories across my life, it made a compelling case for getting tested. I’m halfway through the process now. That first questionnaire? Boy, howdy. It surfaced a lot of things I’d never considered.

I’m sure your first thought is the same as mine: “Good job working on yourself, but what are you going to do with this information? What can you do?” And the honest answer is: I don’t know.

There’s a big part of me that will feel relieved either way. Because at least I can say I’ve been tested. And that brings some closure to parts of my self-discovery. But what if I am on the spectrum, and I find that out at 52? There are so many things from childhood that could’ve gone differently. In some cases, life-altering things. If we had only known. A whole new trove of existential questions.

I don’t want to be haunted by that. And it’s up to me not to be. I hope I can remember that.

I also don’t want anyone to treat me differently if it turns out I’m autistic. You already treat me based on your assumptions and experiences with me. And honestly, that’s fine. It works. Let’s keep it that way.

And maybe, more than anything, this journey isn’t about getting an answer. It’s about giving myself permission to ask the question. About this, or anything related to my mental health, in a way that goes deeper than solving an immediate problem. For the first time in my life. To be curious. To be kinder to the version of me that didn’t know, and to whatever version is coming next.

* Ironically, the same person who had to tell me I was acerbic gives the best advice on this: “Just worry about the work on your desk today.” Still trying to live by that one.

** Rereads of this article to make sure it was perfect? Twelve.

What’s up with the stroke?

Wed, 26 Feb 2025 14:00:23 GMT

For those of you who aren’t following me on Facebook or Instagram, you should know that I had a stroke last September. It was a transient ischemic attack (TIA): a formal way of saying “mini-stroke.”

If you’re interested in what happened, here are some links to Instagram videos:

Since Part 4 was recorded six months ago, those who already knew might have wondered how I’m doing, especially since I pretty much disappeared from public life afterward, or at least the public life I was involved in at the time. I’m happy to report that things aren’t too shabby.

If you watched the videos, you know I ended the series by talking about some lingering effects from the stroke. These days:

I’m no longer as sensitive to light.
The weird doubling shape in my left eye has disappeared.
Any unsteadiness I had is gone.
I don’t get nearly as tired as I used to every day.

Basically, whatever was going to happen from that stroke has already happened.

But during my hospital stay, they found something else: an aortic aneurysm. It was too small to worry about… yet. Fortunately, I still had a cardiologist from my arterial bypass 20 years ago, so I got in quickly. He sent me to the cardiac surgeons, who determined that the aneurysm was still too small to justify the risks of cracking my chest open a second time.

I have a CAT scan in March to check for growth. If it’s negligible, we’ll check again in October. If it’s concerning, I’ll be getting an aortic replacement, along with a bypass refresh while we’re at it. Familial hypercholesterolemia is a real pain.

In the meantime, I’m stuck in a weird dilemma. I’m afraid to overexert myself or even, uh, strain too hard in the bathroom, all in the name of preventing aneurysm growth (or worse). But exercise helps me, and too little (or the wrong kind) could be just as bad. So, I try to keep it out of my mind while I wait for March.

I do have a few lingering neurological quirks:

My short-term memory wasn’t great before. It’s worse now. Having a grandma who developed serious dementia doesn’t exactly put me at ease.
Words escape me more often, but I’m not sure if that’s the stroke or just aging.
I’ve developed an almost debilitating sensitivity to loud, high-pitched sounds.

That’s a whole other post, but let’s just say I’ve actively worked on fixing it. Again, I’m not sure if it’s the stroke or age, but I’m leaning toward stroke.

And that’s it. I’m here. I’m forgetful. I hate squeaky shoes. I’ll let you know how things go in March.

Time for a long-overdue check-in.

Fri, 21 Feb 2025 00:10:19 GMT

Let’s, for a moment, press mute on the current global shitstorm and focus closer to home. Let’s talk about you. Or, really, me. But I have a feeling you’ll be nodding along at a thing or two.

How are you holding up? I’m not doing too awesome. I caught myself Googling, “What do you do when you feel helpless?” in a spare moment before my kids’ band concert. And after the concert, I found myself uncontrollably yelling, “FUCK YOU!” at a Cybertruck driving through the high school parking lot.

I’m gutted, overwhelmed, scared, and just plain burnt out. I’ve been mentally rummaging through every helpful tool my therapist has ever given me, and I’ve realized. This is trauma. I am experiencing trauma. We are experiencing trauma. I’m not just talking about the national angst that comes from hearing the creaks and groans of our government’s pillars. I mean our collective mental well-being.

Every decent person, regardless of political affiliation, who isn’t on board with this Whyte Thug Life (let’s make that a thing somehow, OK?) is experiencing trauma. A lot of us are lucky because we (especially white men) have the privilege of just being anxious and skittish. But the wave of layoffs that keeps surging? That’s a whole different level of trauma. Add in the stress of job hunting in a brutal market, knowing the economy is swirling into a cesspool, and it’s no wonder my empathy is amplifying my own anxiety. But it’s more than that.

That anxiety is warranted, and their hatred of all things non-white Jesusland is laid bare. Most of us don’t feel great right now.

They’re coming to get you, Barbara.

At this point, I don’t think it’s too conspiracy-theorist to say, “And they’re coming for YOUUU.” Because, in some form or fashion, they are. They’re hitting all the top things they hate right now, but you might be next. Maybe you’re far down the line, but at some point, some dickwit, Whyte Thug Life stunt meant to “pwn the libs” is going to have a real-world effect on us reasonable humans. If it hasn’t already. It’ll start small, like this price-of-eggs bullshit. You know… memeable stuff. But something truly painful is lurking in the shadows, waiting. And the country asked for this to happen, for reasons I still can’t comprehend.

Housing. Materials. Food. The list of essentials is vast and may soon be out of reach. And not in a “ration your cheese for the troops” (oh dear God, let’s hope not) kind of way, but in a “ration your cheese because the cabal of masculinity-cosplaying thugs in Washington went full Wile E. Coyote and blew up the country’s infrastructure, and now dairy cows are being culled because it’s not OK that they’re simultaneously black and white” kind of way. Something you take for granted today may soon be a memory. I hope it’s not something essential to your health or safety.

I’m all mad now, and that’s the thing: I’m too overwhelmed to do anything productive or useful with that energy. Other than, you know, reflexively yelling “FUCK YOU!” at a Cybertruck.

On Bluesky, I see post after post filled with understandable anger and fear, the kind that feels slick, like a cold sweat. And I love that most of the people writing them are turning that energy into action in all kinds of ways. But then I feel bad when I realize…I just can’t seem to do that myself. Though, maybe I’m off to a decent start here. At least I’ve got the anger, fear, and cold sweat part down. It’s the action part I’m struggling with.

Right now, I’m under a weighted blanket of bad vibes that’s keeping me from putting my energy or talents toward something that might actually help. Even if it’s just some dumbass video that makes one person smile in an otherwise miserable day.

I don’t know how to get myself to a place where I can contribute something meaningful to this completely unhinged zeitgeist. But writing all this has helped. So I’m going to start writing and posting most days. Let’s be realistic, though: I won’t be consistent. My output will definitely be hot and cold. And it’ll probably feel a lot like listening to someone talk out loud to work through a problem.

But I know you. You like that kind of stuff. Stick around.

Besides, it’s your turn. How are you?

A happy place.

Sat, 14 Apr 2018 02:42:19 GMT

“The beach is my happy place.”

“Crafting puts me in my happy place.”

“Happy place, happy face. Farting on the human race.”

I don’t know why, but the idea of a “happy place” has always seemed to me like it was contrived as an excuse for people to post smug photos of their beach vacations. Or, maybe, a way for some Etsy crafter to use a script font to put an inspirational saying onto another throw pillow.

I believe it’s possible to find relaxation nearly anywhere you put your mind to it. But I’ve never understood how anyone can have an actual “happy place” that magically washes their cares away. My mind, even on the most relaxing vacation, is a hornet’s nest of anxieties and overclocked trains of thought.

Case in point: I was on a beach in the Bahamas before Christmas last year, and I was as anxious as I had been in weeks. There was no joy, mon. I’ve never considered that it was possible for anyone else, anxiety or not.

That is, until I realized I’ve had a happy place all along.

Earlier this week, I drove out of the city to Theodore Naish Scout Reservation to drop off a Raspberry Pi rig I had helped design as a way to turn a bunch of smartphones into game show buzzers. The rig had been missing for a couple of months. After frantically asking everyone I know if it had landed in their possession, I realized that it had been in my hellmouth of a garage the entire time.

Pulling up to the security gate, I knew I was driving into a stressful situation. There was a work crew getting ready to staff a Wood Badge training course this week. I knew they were going to be frazzled as they rushed to make final preparations before participants arrived at 7:00 am the next day. They were going to need to be reminded how the Raspberry Pi worked and how to connect participants’ phones to it. And, I knew that there’d probably be a person or two that wasn’t happy with the fact that I had misplaced the Raspberry Pi under my own nose.

There was a lot going on in my head. Yet, as that gate opened for me to enter, a wave of calm hit me. I actually felt my blood pressure drop.

It was the first truly nice day of the year. I was heading in to see a group of good friends that I don’t get to see often. I was there to help them create an exceptional training course. As I drove forward, the breeze came in the open window. I heard the popping of gravel under the tires. I turned up the access road, past the staff cabins, up to the dining hall. When I stepped into that large room, it hit me:

“Well, I’ll be damned. This is my happy place.”

In that moment, I realized this place had a calming effect on me every time I came here. Whether I was here to train adults or shepherd around a bunch of rambunctious young boys in the blazing heat of July, I was calm when I was within the borders of Camp Naish.

I could have dropped off the kit, given a 5-minute tutorial on how it worked, and hit the road. But I didn’t. I helped set up the classroom area. I helped tweak PowerPoint presentations. I answered tech support questions. I offered to fix the PA system. I spent time with my friends and ate cold cut sandwiches and chicken noodle soup for lunch, even when I had planned on going to the barbecue joint down the highway on my way back to the city. All of this on a beautiful Spring day at a place that, apparently, magically washes my cares away when I enter.

I stayed over three hours longer than I needed to at my happy place. I had things to do. But those things could wait, at least for half a day.

I used to think that the idea of a happy place was elusive and perhaps a bit ridiculous. But, now, I realize how essential it is to have one.

The old, crusty hermit and his return.

Wed, 21 Mar 2018 02:38:04 GMT

The past three years have been weird.

Before I continue, I want you to know that I’ve been staring at that last sentence for three weeks, unsure of how or why to illustrate that statement further.

The short version is that I ventured off to start my own design and development consulting business, I got busy, and kind of fell off the edge of the Earth so to speak.

Over those years, the same things happened that happen to anyone starting a new business: I had some successes. I made some mistakes. The combination created a rollercoaster ride that, at times, made me wonder why the hell I thought this was a good idea. And, then, I’d get to experience a moment that I’d never have been able to if I were employed elsewhere. Then I’d remember why I did this. Somewhere, in the middle, I forgot to attend an AAF-KC event, write a blog post or record a podcast episode.

The long version is, well, more complicated than that.

I think that somewhere over the past year and a half I purposely withdrew from the community that I had been part of for over two decades. I’m still trying to figure out exactly why I did that. But, I got some clues this weekend when I rewatched The Last Jedi with my family.

The legacy of The Jedi is failure, hypocrisy, hubris.

I think I withdrew from both my online and local communities because I felt my hubris had come to roost and that I didn’t deserve a place there anymore. After a successful first year in business, I had a very unsuccessful second year. Here I was, this person that was supposed to be talented at what he does, who had worked on large web projects for national brands. A person who some have called a creative dynamo. Yet, I was barely making ends meet for my family. In the midst of it all, I felt like a complete failure. And failure doesn’t pay the bills.

In the lens of hindsight, I realize that this was because I was letting hubris cloud my path forward. I was trying to go after business that was too big for me to handle alone at this point in my business’s history. I was thinking that small projects were beneath me[1]. Or, at the very least, I wasn’t going to make a name for my business if I wasn’t working on the largest projects I could find.

As I wallowed in self-pity and fear of the future, I closed myself off. I didn’t want people to know I was failing. Sounds kind of like a certain old Jedi Master we all know, doesn’t it?

Returning to the Resistance.

So, here I am. A web designer hermit that has hidden himself away on a proverbial island because he’s embarassed that he wasn’t an immediate success on his own. But, even though no wide-eyed pupil has come to discover me and my throngs of super cute bird bear creatures, I’ve decided that it’s time to return to the fight to lend whatever wisdom I have to those who might need it. Honestly, I think the person who needs the wisdom the most is me.

While the past three years have been weird, the past three months have been a long slog of trying to shore up what I’ve been through so that the next three years and beyond are sustainable and enjoyable. I’ve gotten enough of a taste of the self-employed life that I’ll do whatever it takes to protect what I’ve got. I feel like I’ve got a plan, even if I don’t have all the pieces in place right now.

The three lessons.

Just like Luke promised to teach Rey three lessons in the way of the Jedi, I have three lessons that I’ve taken away from the rollercoaster of the past three years that might be of use to you[2]:

The opportunity to do your best work isn’t dependent on the size of the project. In fact, the smaller projects usually give more opportunity for creative ideas to shine.
The rollercoaster effect is part of being a business owner. The freedom you have is a benefit that largely outweighs the instability that you encounter.
Get out of your own way, but don’t get out of everyone else’s. Solitude does nothing toward helping any depression or anxiety that you might face.

I don’t know if I’ll write any more about this. Part of me feels good for getting this off my chest. Part of me feels a little silly for spending so much time writing something that may only have value to me. Another part feels anxious that I’ve exposed too much and that I should only be putting forth the most confident, expert version of myself. I think that it’s that last part that I need to overcome the most. It’s what created the need to write any of this in the first place.

I do know this: we’ve got a world to save with better ideas and smarter design decisions. Let’s all work to support each other so we can use our powers for good.

I’d love to think that I wasn’t so conceited as to think this. But, I have to admit that I was. ↩
Sorry that it took so long to get to the lessons. Sometimes I just have to work things out on my own. And, as you may know, half of what makes many creative endeavors what they are is revealing the process that went into making that thing happen. If you didn’t know that, consider it a bonus fourth lesson. ↩

Welcome back.

Mon, 05 Mar 2018 23:36:11 GMT

Hello, dear reader. It’s been a while since we’ve seen each other. I wanted to let you know that I’ve started my website back up.

It feels so strange to be (re)starting a blog in 2018. In so many ways, it feels like the world has moved beyond the quaint world of personal publishing. We are all constant consumers of bite-sized social content, snarfing down quick snacks of cute animal videos while we wait in line for our coffee. In fact, I can still recall that moment eight years ago when I decided there was no need to keep writing blog posts when I could be tweeting, sharing, and oh, yes… podcasting. Why spend all that time writing when I could say twice the words in half the time?

Yet, here I am.

I decided to come back to writing for a few reasons:

A friend and mentor told me that it was a shame that I stopped. Apparently I was a better writer than I thought.
There are so many facets of what I do that just can’t fit neatly into a quick social share. I have to have somewhere that I can explore those things at length. And those things need to be somewhere that others can easily refer to them when they agree/disagree/modify.
Have you ever tried to put a podcast together? It’s a lot of work.

As I set my website back up, I debated on what to do with the backlog of writing that I have. On one domain or another, I’ve been writing for the web for 16 years, and I’ve got all the database backups to prove it.

I briefly thought of importing that data so that there could be a time capsule of my writing when the historians come to judge me. But, let’s face it. The internet has gotten along just fine without those posts out there for the past 8–10 years. Frankly, much of it wouldn’t stand the test of time anyway. So I’ve decided to start clean.

So, welcome back to that same old place that you laughed about.

The cheetah dash of creativity.

Fri, 05 Sep 2014 21:23:40 GMT

Every morning, I watch an episode of Wild Kratts with the boys before we start getting ready for the day. At first, I was a little annoyed by the show because Nathan was initially obsessed with it. And, you may know how it can be when a 6 year-old is obsessed with anything and in near constant earshot.

Today’s episode was another one featuring Nathan’s favorite animal: the cheetah. I thought I knew everything there was to know about the cheetah because of my boy’s near encyclopedic knowledge of the Harley-Davidson of the African Savannah. But I learned something today that I hadn’t heard ad nauseam in the past year:

A cheetah (as common sense would dictate) cannot run at top speed for long without becoming completely exhausted and unable to continue the hunt or, in the case of the episode, its escape. In fact, a cheetah can only run for about 1,600 feet at top speed before it can absolutely run no more.

I realized this afternoon that my bursts of creativity are exactly like that of a cheetah. Given the right conditions, I can get myself up to top speed very quickly and can go for a distance. But once that distance is hit, no matter if I’ve achieved the goal I wanted, I’m spent and can’t go any further.

This leaves me, just like the cheetah, in a vulnerable position. Unable to move or react quickly, an exhausted cheetah or Jeremy is an easy target for predators. In my case, that predator is self-doubt and, ultimately, depression.

June and July were a cheetah sprint for me. I very quickly got a custom CMS and front-end for misfitrad.io up and running. I very quickly assembled a roster of shows to participate on the network. I very quickly got the word out to the world that this thing I worked so hard to make is, in the words of the Kratt Brothers, living free and in the wild.

But there’s so much left to do. The real website needs to be coded up and pushed. The CMS needs improvements. The network needs more shows. The network needs an exponential increase in listeners.

I can’t do any of it.

I look at how the website and our shows are performing and I immediately feel that I ran so hard and fast for nothing. I didn’t expect misfitrad.io to be an overnight success. But I also didn’t expect for it to have this humble of a beginning, either. On average, first week listenership of The Shakes is down 500% from when we were on Mule Radio Syndicate.

All of this compounded makes me want to just roll over and let my predator have at the fleshy underbelly of my creative ego. But I just can’t do that.

I’m tired. I’m fighting my predator. But once I finally get it off me, I’ll pant and rest until I can get up, look across the savannah and make my next cheetah dash.

The podcasting food chain.

Tue, 29 Jul 2014 02:21:07 GMT

Almost two months ago, my friend Mike Monteiro told the world about how Mule Radio Syndicate was significantly scaling back operations. For the past two years, I produced and hosted a show on Mule Radio called The Shakes. When Mule Radio’s doors closed, we found ourselves on the outside, wondering what our next move was going to be.

Mike wrote that everything dies. Sometimes those things just die well. Mule Radio Syndicate certainly did die well and I’m proud that our show was able to be part of its life. But, also, when things die, new things inevitably emerge.

My son and I watched a recent episode of Adventure Time called ‘The Food Chain’. We learned that the caterpillar eats the leaves, the bird eats the caterpillar, the big bird eats the small bird and the bacteria eat the big bird when it dies so that it can become fertilizer for the plant to grow again. Mule Radio’s death was a way for me to grow something of my own to see if it eventually gets eaten by bacteria.

On July 1, I launched a new podcast network called misfitrad.io. I figured since I needed to build a way for The Shakes to continue to show up via RSS on iTunes and other podcast apps, I might as well build a scalable system that would allow other shows to come together the way we did at Mule Radio and try to find our voices.

Why did I decide to do something like this? In the wake of Mike’s announcement, there was discussion as to whether podcast networks were still relevant or needed. Marco Arment said no while Radio Survivor said yes. And, truthfully, I can see both sides of the issue. We could have certainly continued to produce episodes of The Shakes independently and that would have been that. The one thing that made me want to start a network and rally a group of shows together was the one thing I found at Mule Radio that would never be true as an independent: community.

Mule Radio had a group of hosts and producers of varying experience levels that supported each other and really worked together to make the network and the shows within it the best they could. That’s something I wanted to continue to foster for shows and voices that were a bit off the beaten path or unknown to many of podcasting’s more ardent fans.

That’s why I settled on misfitrad.io as the name. Partly because we found ourselves suddenly without a network home. But also because, thematically, I wanted to build something that felt like the Island of Misfit Toys or, more aptly, Channel 62 from the Weird Al movie, UHF.

You get to drink from… THE FIREHOSE!

I want to program this network with shows that are really good and interesting in their own special ways but, for one reason or another, may just not have found the love that they know they potentially deserve. And, The Shakes fits right in there with the rest of those shows. We were not the most popular show on Mule Radio but we constantly work to improve our episodes in the hope that one day listeners will tell a couple of friends and then the world will discover what they’ve been missing all this time.

I’m in a weird position to be running a podcast network. I’m not popular and famous enough to make it an overnight success, but I know that if we all want it enough, we’ll make our shows and the network a success. We’ll find someone to love us the way the ostrich-riding cowboy did. Or maybe we’ll stumble upon our own Stanley Spadowski’s Clubhouse. Who knows?

We launched with an initial roster of five shows:

American Copywriter
Nuts & Bolts
The Shakes
Why Do We Do This?
Zero Proof

Our plant has just sprouted out of the bacteria-digested bird. Let’s see how far we can go before we get eaten by caterpillars.

A second full-time job.

Mon, 31 Mar 2014 16:12:24 GMT

Ashley Milne-Tyte shared a great Wall Street Journal article on people who produce podcasts and how they’re looking to build business models out of them.

TL;DR: Most people aren’t building any sort of business out of podcasting. Period.

If you’re wondering, The Shakes is in the same boat with these examples. I’ve probably got $2000 (and counting) invested in the assorted gear and software needed to produce the show. And between booking guests, planning for future episodes and recording and editing current episodes, the show feels like a second full-time job. Donations via Tugboat Yards and sponsorships have helped recoup most of the expenses, but there’s no way doing the show full-time would be a viable way for me to make a living.

“So, why do you even do it?” is probably the question running through your mind. For me, the whole reason why I’d even keep going with something so time-consuming was summed up nicely in the final quote of the article:

“It is similar to the economics of a band. You are saving money to do more of what you love in the future, instead of making a living off of that thing right now.”

That’s totally it. The way I see it, if the donations and sponsorships help me break even, then I’m actually ahead. I never truly thought that doing a podcast would give me a new career. I just hoped it would enrich my current career while giving me something fun to do.

Two-thirds

Wed, 11 Sep 2013 15:03:02 GMT

When I was in college, I used Microsoft Money to take care of my checkbook.

Aside from the fact that it’s a little amazing that I ever tried to keep a balanced checkbook, there’s nothing remarkable about that. But that bit of pre-loaded software on a laptop long disposed was responsible for something that has been on my mind a lot lately.

This particular version of Microsoft Money featured a life expectancy wizard that was probably designed to assist in insurance rates. But, for me, it was just a quick way to send me reeling toward my mortality. I took the questionnaire and, given my answers at the age of 25, was given a life expectancy of 65.

Of course, at 25, I thought something to the effect of, “Cool. Whatever. That’s 40 more years, longer than anyone really needs on this Earth.” And then I took a bite of the Big Mac on my desk, washed it down with Johnnie Walker Red and stepped outside to smoke a pack of cigarettes.

I’m nearly a month away from 41. If there’s any credence in how Microsoft Money calculated my life expectancy, my life is nearly two-thirds over. For those not doing the math, I have one foot figuratively in the grave. I could easily be rounding the penultimate corner heading toward my doom.

I guess what I’m saying is, “GAAAAAAH!”

Now, at 40.875, I’ve got a family. There are two cute boys and a sassy lass of a wife waiting at home that wouldn’t like it too much if Microsoft Money was right. I have a sweet scar on my chest from when all those Big Macs, bottles of Johnnie Walker Red and cigarettes tried to cash in early on Microsoft Money’s promise and sent me in for a triple coronary bypass at 36. I’ve got an awesome podcast that no one really listens to. I’m living the modern American dream. And I’m not ready to give it up as easily as I was at 25.You can’t have my life, Microsoft Money. Not yet.

Still, despite my recent concern about making sure that I outlive that random number that was burned into my psyche decades ago, I have a hard time doing anything about it. Call it lazy. Call it ugly Americanism. Call it having ADHD. I struggle with dedicating the time and willpower to the exercise, better eating and longer sleeping that I need.

Oh. Hey! I took that life expectancy wizard again and it says my life expectancy is now 85. I have plenty of time to worry about this. I’m off to drinks with my friends at the burger bar.

Why Candy Crush Saga drives me nuts.

Tue, 09 Jul 2013 18:50:39 GMT

I am incredibly late to the game when it comes to Candy Crush Saga. My wife has been playing for months while feeding our infant son, and I resisted installing the game as much as I could. For some reason, I gave in last month.

At first, I did not connect the game to Facebook. I had resisted this game for so long, I didn’t want people to know that I was playing. But, last week, I connected the game on my wife’s advice and the lure of free lives. That’s where I got angry.

As I’ve been stuck on level 64 for the past few days, a sugar-melting lava of contempt has been boiling inside me, and I’m fed up with what this game does to people. Of course, the real objective of the game is the same as a carnival game: to get the player to keep spending money. I get it, King. You’re building a business model here, and I’m not going to bang on you too hard for that. But, at least Zynga games are accomplishable without shelling out a dollar or two every few days.

So, that’s why they have the “ask your friends” mode on Facebook. If you don’t want to pay any money, just ask your other addicted friends to help you unlock the next episode or give you just one more life.

Just one more taste, Johnny. That’s all I need.

To me, that makes actually paying for levels and lollipop hammers seem palatable. At best, all we’re doing with this Facebook assistance is giving each other the gift of an enjoyable afternoon shit. At worst, we’re enabling each other to spend free time flipping jelly beans when we could be encouraging these same “friends” to make or do something awesome with that time. It just feels wrong.