Cinemorphosis

Tag: writing

  • Steak, Asparagus, and Existential Despair

    Steak, Asparagus, and Existential Despair

    In 1994, my friend S—a remarkably successful athletic coach—and his girlfriend L invited my girlfriend M and me over for dinner. The evening began with all the reassuring signs of suburban domesticity: thick steaks, asparagus, baked potatoes, and the pleasant illusion that four adults were about to enjoy an uneventful meal. The illusion lasted roughly as long as it took to butter the potatoes. A minor disagreement flared between S and L. Hoping to extinguish it, S tossed out one of those breezy, dismissive remarks men often mistake for conflict resolution. It had precisely the opposite effect. L’s irritation hardened into outrage. She stood up, marched to the bathroom, and slammed the door with enough force to suggest that diplomacy had officially left the premises. S responded with equal maturity. He retreated to his bedroom, collapsed onto the bed, and stared at the ceiling fan as though it alone understood the tragedy of his existence.

    After checking on S and confirming that he had transformed himself into a martyr for the cause of romantic suffering, I returned to the dining room. M looked at me expectantly.

    “What should we do?” she asked.

    I looked at the steak cooling on my plate.

    “I don’t know,” I said. “I’m hungry.”

    “You can’t eat now.”

    “Why not? They’re the ones having the fight.”

    With that, I carved off a generous piece of steak and continued dinner as if emotional meltdowns were merely another side dish. M looked at me with the sort of disbelief usually reserved for people who clap when airplanes land. She wanted intervention, mediation, perhaps a heartfelt conversation. I wanted medium-rare.

    Fifteen minutes later, having completed my meal with admirable focus, I decided to make one last reconnaissance mission. I peered into S’s bedroom. There he remained, stretched flat on his back, one hand resting dramatically on his stomach, the other draped across his forehead like a silent-film actor portraying terminal consumption. He looked less like a man recovering from an argument than a casualty awaiting the arrival of battlefield medics.

    “I think M and I are going to head out,” I said. “See you later.”

    What emerged from him in response was not a word but a sound—a long, mournful groan so desolate that it resembled the final squeak of a woodland creature meeting an unfortunate end beneath a boot. It was a noise of pure existential surrender, as though every disappointment he had ever experienced had converged into one exhausted exhalation.

    A week later, the four of us met again at a bowling alley. S and L laughed, joked, and behaved as though the disastrous dinner had never occurred. The previous week’s emotional apocalypse had apparently been filed away with the leftovers. A year later they married. Two years after that, following the birth of their daughter, they divorced. S never remarried, though he went on to enjoy a distinguished coaching career and touched countless young lives. Time has blurred many details of those years, but one remains astonishingly vivid. I can no longer remember exactly what started the argument. I can barely remember what we talked about before it began. But I remember that groan. Some sounds become permanent residents of memory because they reveal, in a single involuntary moment, more truth about a person’s inner life than a thousand carefully chosen words ever could.

  • Aging Gracefully Requires an Understanding of the Drowning Tank Principle

    Aging Gracefully Requires an Understanding of the Drowning Tank Principle

    Sometime in your mid-sixties, you will begin to notice a subtle shift in the social weather. No one will insult you to your face. No one will announce that your expiration date has arrived. Instead, you will encounter what professional wrestling calls “go-home heat”—the unmistakable feeling that the audience is ready for you to leave the stage. Younger colleagues will drift toward one another while conversations quietly form around you instead of including you. Friends will become experts in the polite ghost. Invitations will thin out. You will occasionally find yourself speaking only to discover that the room has already moved on. 

    Resist the temptation to interpret this as cruelty. Much of it is simply the ordinary rhythm of generations replacing one another. You behaved similarly when you were younger, even if you lacked the self-awareness to recognize it. Your obligation now is not to indulge bitterness or self-pity but to practice dignity. 

    Above all, avoid Relevance Panic—the anxious conviction that you can reclaim youth through a sports car, a luxury watch, trend chasing, fashionable slang, or any other theatrical performance of perpetual cool. Such purchases and performances may buy a fleeting glance, but they cannot purchase belonging. When the applause fades, you are left not rejuvenated but embarrassed, having confused attention with affection.

    Whenever I think about growing old, I remember a Batman episode from my childhood. Batman and Robin were trapped inside a gigantic transparent tank while water dripped steadily from above. At first the water barely reached their waists. Then it climbed to their chests, then their shoulders, then their necks. Eventually it hovered just beneath their noses. The horror of the scene did not lie in sudden catastrophe but in relentless inevitability. There was no dramatic explosion, no spectacular villain, only the slow arithmetic of rising water. As a child I feared the tank because it threatened my heroes. As an older man I recognize that the tank was never about Batman. It was about us.

    That memory has become what I call the Drowning Tank Principle: the recognition that every human being occupies the same metaphorical tank while the water of mortality rises with implacable patience. Some people are still standing comfortably in ankle-deep water, convinced the tank is enormous. Others already feel the water pressing against their chests. A fortunate few continue to swim vigorously despite the rising tide. Those farther from the surface often feel an instinctive discomfort around those whose water has risen higher, not because older people have become less worthy but because they embody a future the young would rather postpone contemplating. We recoil from reminders of mortality almost as reflexively as we recoil from pain. The distance is often less an act of malice than an unconscious act of self-protection.

    Understanding the Drowning Tank Principle does not eliminate loneliness, but it transforms it. It reminds you that you are not being singled out by history. You are participating in the oldest drama the human race has ever staged. Every generation eventually discovers that the spotlight moves on, that youth is leased rather than owned, and that relevance has an expiration date. 

    The challenge, then, is not to claw your way back to center stage but to cultivate a deeper virtue: magnanimity. Accept the passing of your season without resentment. Become more generous as your audience grows smaller. Discover satisfaction in usefulness rather than visibility. The final triumph over the rising water is not remaining forever young—that fantasy belongs to fools—but becoming the sort of person who can watch the water rise without surrendering either dignity or grace.

  • The Museum of Youth

    The Museum of Youth

    The Getty Museum has a way of conspiring with beautiful weather to make mortality feel especially impolite. Today, the sky possessed the crystalline blue one imagines hovering over ancient Pompeii before Vesuvius interrupted everyone’s plans. The museum’s travertine terraces glowed in the California sun, and everywhere I looked were couples in their twenties, impossibly attractive and strolling with the unselfconscious confidence that only youth can afford. Watching them, I found myself seized by an irrational envy. They seemed to possess not merely smooth skin and stronger knees but entire decades still waiting to unfold before them. Their lives resembled gleaming new luxury cars rolling effortlessly off the showroom floor. Mine, by comparison, felt like an old jalopy whose owner had begun listening nervously for unfamiliar noises under the hood.

    I envied what they represented more than who they were. They still possessed unopened chapters, careers not yet exhausted, friendships not yet mourned, dreams still wrapped in factory packaging. Youth carries with it the intoxicating illusion that time is an inexhaustible natural resource rather than a rapidly depreciating asset. Standing among them, I felt like someone who had arrived late to a party only to discover that everyone else was just beginning. I attempted the usual remedies. I reminded myself how fortunate I have been, how much joy my life has contained, how many blessings I scarcely deserved. None of it helped. Self-awareness is an ineffective antidepressant. Instead, I found myself scolding my own melancholy, accusing myself of being simultaneously ungrateful, petty, and embarrassingly sentimental—as though shame were somehow an antidote to longing.

    Fortunately, despair has an enemy that rarely receives the credit it deserves: usefulness. Later that afternoon, my teenage daughter and I sat in the museum café eating burgers while the conversation drifted toward her latest fascination—the pop music of the 1970s. Suddenly I was no longer competing with twenty-five-year-olds for possession of the future. I was explaining why certain songs endure, introducing artists she had not yet discovered, and watching her curiosity gather momentum. In that ordinary exchange, something quietly shifted. My value no longer depended upon having decades ahead of me. It depended upon having decades behind me that were worth sharing.

    That afternoon reminded me that envy is often a failure of perspective. I had mistaken youth for significance when significance had been sitting across the table all along. The young couples wandering the Getty possessed one kind of wealth: possibility. I possessed another: memory, experience, hard-earned judgment, and a daughter who still found those things worth hearing. The museum’s masterpieces had survived centuries because they continued to speak across generations. Perhaps that is the better aspiration. We eventually stop being the newest exhibit in the gallery. Our task then is to become one of the paintings that still rewards anyone willing to stop, look closely, and listen.

  • The First Forty-Eight Shows When the Fantasy Ends

    The First Forty-Eight Shows When the Fantasy Ends

    Twenty-six years ago, while I was teaching at Cal State Dominguez Hills, one of my students was a man in his late thirties who worked as a probation officer. Before that, he had been a prison guard. Our conversations often drifted from freshman composition to crime, punishment, and the psychology of offenders. One observation has stayed with me ever since. The older gang members, he explained, were rarely the ones who frightened him most. The “Old Gs” had lived long enough to understand consequences. They could negotiate, calculate, and occasionally be reasoned with. The truly terrifying offenders were the teenagers. They were impulsive, reckless, and detached from reality. They committed acts so irrational that even hardened career criminals regarded them with apprehension. “The Old Gs are scared of them,” he told me. At the time, the comment struck me as paradoxical. Today it feels almost self-evident.

    I have found myself thinking about that conversation while watching nearly a hundred episodes of The First 48, the remarkable series that follows homicide detectives as they race to solve murders before the trail grows cold. Again and again, the interrogation room fills with teenage boys. Many slump defiantly in their chairs, radiating annoyance rather than remorse, as though the detectives have interrupted an otherwise pleasant afternoon. They insist they know nothing. They deny what surveillance footage plainly shows. They contradict eyewitnesses with astonishing confidence, even when the evidence leaves virtually no room for doubt. Much of the violence appears heartbreakingly trivial—a slight, an insult, a perceived challenge to someone’s reputation. Masculinity has been reduced to performance: proving toughness, defending street credibility, and refusing to appear weak, no matter how catastrophic the consequences.

    The most revealing moments arrive when the performance finally begins to crack. Even after hours of deception, many of these teenagers continue demanding to be released. “I just want to go home,” they protest, genuinely bewildered that anyone would keep them in custody. Then comes the moment detectives often recognize before the suspect does. Watching through a one-way mirror, an investigator quietly observes, “It’s starting to dawn on him. He’s realizing this isn’t a game anymore.” You can almost see reality entering the room. Sometimes the teenager collapses into uncontrollable sobbing. Sometimes he erupts in rage, screaming at officers, pounding walls, or thrashing against restraints. The emotional explosion is not simply fear of prison. It is the violent collision between fantasy and consequence. The imaginary world in which bravado guaranteed invincibility suddenly gives way to one governed by handcuffs, courtrooms, grieving families, and prison sentences measured in decades.

    That, to me, is the deepest tragedy. These young offenders often seem to inhabit a fever dream in which they are the untouchable protagonists of their own stories, convinced that swagger, intimidation, or reputation can somehow suspend the ordinary laws of cause and effect. Reality arrives only after irreversible damage has been done—to victims, to families, and ultimately to themselves. One cannot help wondering how many parents, teachers, pastors, coaches, or counselors warned them where this road would lead. Perhaps they all did. But adolescence possesses a peculiar arrogance: the conviction that every caution applies to someone else. The young man who believes he is the smartest person in the room often discovers otherwise only after the interrogation begins. Every time I watch that realization settle across a suspect’s face, I hear my former student’s voice from twenty-six years ago. The Old Gs, he said, feared the teenagers—not because the teenagers were stronger or smarter, but because they had not yet learned that reality is undefeated.

  • The Watch Channel at a Crossroads

    The Watch Channel at a Crossroads

    My video production is on hold because I find myself interrogating my place in the watch world. I have little appetite for another “State of the Collection” video. That genre has become the YouTube equivalent of a sitcom reunion special: everyone knows the script before the opening credits roll. Likewise, I am convinced I have exhausted the lexicon of watch addiction. I have dissected acquisition syndrome, rationalization, buyer’s remorse, dopamine hits, grail watches, collection pruning, and every psychological contortion a watch enthusiast performs while pretending another purchase is somehow “different this time.” At some point, the commentary begins recycling itself, and I have no desire to become an echo of my former self.

    The irony is that none of this means I love watches any less. They remain as captivating—and as capable of hijacking my imagination—as they were twenty years ago. Two pieces continue to haunt me. The first is the Grand Seiko SBGP009, whose champagne-silver dial possesses the quiet authority of vintage elegance while its quartz movement drifts no more than ten seconds in an entire year. The second is the Orient Star M42 Diver 1964 Recreation (RE-AU0503N), a watch that somehow manages to look both nostalgic and purposeful without descending into retro cosplay. My greatest misfortune is that neither watch is outrageously expensive. The Grand Seiko costs only about three thousand dollars, and the Orient Star about one thousand. I almost wish they were twice as expensive. Overpriced luxury has an odd virtue: it occasionally protects us from ourselves.

    Meanwhile, most of my creative energy has migrated to my blog. There I can pursue ideas that would suffocate inside a fifteen-minute YouTube video. I can move from watches to literature, from moral philosophy to true crime, from AI to theology without asking whether the algorithm will punish me for changing lanes. The writing feels richer, stranger, and ultimately more meaningful. Unfortunately, blogs occupy the cultural equivalent of a deserted side street while YouTube resembles Times Square. One offers freedom without an audience; the other offers an audience that constantly demands the familiar. Whether I can remain content scribbling thoughtful essays into relative obscurity is a question I have not yet answered.

    One conclusion, however, no longer requires interrogation. I am an incurable watch enthusiast. There is no treatment, no twelve-step program, no miraculous cure. I have accepted that reality. My task is not to extinguish the fascination but to discipline it. I must keep reminding myself that admiring a watch is not the same thing as needing to own it. Beauty can be appreciated without becoming another possession. In fact, the older I become, the more I suspect that an overcrowded collection diminishes rather than enriches the experience, spreading affection so thinly that no single watch receives the attention it deserves. Perhaps the highest form of collecting is learning that appreciation sometimes reaches its fullest expression the moment you decide to walk away.

    Happy Fourth, everyone.

  • The Woman Who Blew Up Her Neighborhood

    The Woman Who Blew Up Her Neighborhood

      The algorithms at Hulu and Netflix have learned one undeniable fact about me: I am powerless to resist true crime. Every evening they present another descent into human depravity, as if politely asking, Would you like to witness civilization unravel once more? More often than not, I oblige. Among the many stories they have served me, one from Netflix’s Worst Neighbor Ever has lingered in my mind. The episode, “Midwest Meltdown,” begins not with a monster but with a woman who once fit comfortably into her small-town community. Moncy Shirley was a respected nurse in Richmond Hill, Indiana, living what appeared to be an ordinary life. Then came divorce. Her husband left, and it was as though she resolved to reclaim a youth she believed had been stolen from her. She plunged into a whirlwind of dating, flaunted her sexual adventures with startling indiscretion, and cultivated an image built on expensive cars, cosmetic surgery, and perpetual reinvention. Her neighbors had admired the earlier Moncy—the dependable wife and community member whose values resembled their own. The new Moncy seemed intoxicated by exhibitionism. One neighbor, disturbed by Moncy’s increasingly explicit stories, decided she no longer wanted her daughter exposed to such influences. It was not merely the promiscuity that alienated people; it was the sense that Moncy had begun treating every social norm as an obstacle to be mocked.

      Then came Mark Leonard, a man whose appearance alone seemed to advertise bad decisions. With frosted blond hair, puka-shell necklaces, and the slick confidence of a carnival swindler, Leonard looked less like a trustworthy neighbor than someone who would sell counterfeit watches from the trunk of a car. The documentary patiently assembles his résumé of deception: woman after woman manipulated, savings siphoned away, trust converted into profit. Leonard did not simply enter the neighborhood; he infected it. Moncy, meanwhile, withdrew further from longtime friends while publicly displaying her romance with theatrical defiance. The couple’s conspicuous affection on the front porch felt less like love than a declaration that ordinary standards of decency no longer applied to them. Their message seemed unmistakable: our freedom is none of your business.

      That illusion exploded—literally—on the night of November 10, 2012. Moncy’s home became the epicenter of a blast so violent that it leveled neighboring houses and transformed a quiet subdivision into what aerial footage resembled after a military strike. Investigators from the ATF quickly concluded this was no accidental gas leak. Evidence pointed instead to meticulous planning: removed gas valves, a microwave modified as a delayed ignition device, and a conspiracy involving Moncy, Mark Leonard, and his brother to stage a fire for a $300,000 insurance payout. Their greed weaponized an entire neighborhood. Two innocent people died. Dozens suffered injuries. Families lost homes that had taken decades to build. One chilling detail captures the moral inversion at the heart of the crime: Moncy carefully arranged for someone to care for her cat before the explosion while displaying astonishing indifference toward the hundreds of human beings living just beyond her property line.

      Listening to the survivors, I was struck not only by their grief but by their bewilderment. They had welcomed Moncy into their community, befriended her, trusted her, and watched her transform into someone willing to sacrifice their lives for money and fantasy. Many eventually left Richmond Hill, unable to bear living among the memories of that night. Moncy received a fifty-year prison sentence. Mark Leonard was sentenced to life and died in prison in 2018. Yet the moral force of the story reaches beyond criminal justice. “Midwest Meltdown” is ultimately about what happens when freedom is severed from responsibility. Moncy came to believe that happiness meant satisfying every appetite, flaunting every impulse, and treating other people as incidental to her own self-expression. The residents of Richmond Hill understood freedom differently—as something inseparable from loyalty, trust, and mutual obligation. That contrast explains why the explosion feels larger than an insurance scam. It is the physical manifestation of a moral philosophy in which the self becomes the highest authority and the community is reduced to collateral damage. The lesson is difficult but indispensable: our lives are not private playgrounds. They are bound to the lives of others, and the choices we make inevitably either strengthen the communities that sustain us or, as in Richmond Hill, leave them in ruins.

    1. Forty Years Later, I Finally Learned How to Teach Writing

      Forty Years Later, I Finally Learned How to Teach Writing

      This morning was bittersweet. Assuming I don’t substantially revise my curriculum for one final spring semester, I may have written my last syllabus after forty years of teaching college composition.

      My freshmen will spend the semester wrestling with subjects that would have been unimaginable when I began teaching in the 1980s. They will analyze the epidemic of sports betting in a culture of loneliness, examine how algorithmic platforms reshape identity and ambition, and challenge the mythology of the self-made man through the life and writings of Frederick Douglass.

      As I finished organizing my notes, an uncomfortable realization settled over me: I am retiring just as I feel I have finally learned how to do this job well.

      I have always been a slow learner. It took me four decades to discover how to design a writing course that feels intellectually coherent rather than merely competent. Only now do I feel that the readings, assignments, and classroom conversations reinforce one another with genuine purpose. Just as the picture has come into focus, I find myself stepping off the stage.

      I also have mixed feelings about OpenAI platforms. On one hand, they have created an endless stream of grading headaches. Every semester brings hundreds of essays that bear the unmistakable fingerprints of AI splatter—competent-looking prose that collapses under scrutiny because no real mind seems to inhabit it. I return many of these papers with one instruction: start over.

      Yet these same tools have also made teaching writing more intellectually exciting than it has been in years. I have used them to sharpen essay prompts, generate competing arguments, refine classroom activities, and demonstrate to students how AI can become an editorial collaborator rather than an intellectual substitute. I realize that sounds almost sacrilegious coming from a writing professor, but adapting to these technologies has rekindled my curiosity about cognition, literacy, learning, and composition. We do not yet know where this technological revolution is taking us, and I doubt anyone can fully control its direction. But the questions it raises are among the most fascinating of my career.

      My greatest concern is not artificial intelligence itself. It is the widening gap between students who possess deep literacy and those who do not. Students who have spent years reading demanding books can interrogate AI, challenge its assumptions, recognize its mistakes, and use it to strengthen their own thinking. Students raised primarily on TikTok and algorithmically curated snippets often lack that foundation. For them, AI becomes less a tool than a surrogate mind—a magical genie that produces respectable-looking mediocrity while quietly encouraging them to outsource their judgment, curiosity, and intellectual will. The danger is not that AI will make students less intelligent. The danger is that it will make them comfortable never developing the habits of mind that intelligence requires.

      Teaching students to acquire the literacy necessary to use these tools wisely may become the defining challenge of higher education over the next generation. That is one reason retirement feels bittersweet. Just as this frontier is opening, I am leaving the profession.

      Looking back over forty years, however, gratitude overwhelms regret. I was fortunate to spend my working life in a profession that demanded perpetual intellectual growth. Every semester required me to become a slightly better reader, writer, and thinker. I never tired of teaching argumentation, counterarguments, rebuttals, rhetorical strategy, or the mysterious alchemy that transforms an elephantine sentence into something lean, graceful, and memorable.

      Writing has always fascinated me because most of it disappears the moment it is read. Nearly everything we encounter is competent enough, clear enough, forgettable enough. Then, every so often, a sentence possesses that rare quality I call salience. It arrests your attention. It feels inevitable, as though no other arrangement of words could possibly exist. Discovering how writers achieve that effect—how they impose order, precision, and beauty upon the chaos of language—has remained one of the enduring pleasures of my life.

      Perhaps my final lecture should not be about grammar, thesis statements, or MLA format. Perhaps I should gather these reflections into a Google Slides presentation and offer my students a panoramic view of why writing classes matter more today than at any other moment in my career. Artificial intelligence has not diminished the value of literacy. It has elevated it. In an age when machines can imitate competent prose, the truly educated writer will not be the one who produces the most words. It will be the one who possesses enough judgment, imagination, and intellectual character to know which words are worth writing in the first place.

    2. Why Cape Fear Left Me Cold

      Why Cape Fear Left Me Cold

      Apple TV’s Cape Fear boasts an embarrassment of riches. Javier Bardem is mesmerizing as the sly, unhinged Max Cady, a man who transforms grievance into an art form and revenge into a religious vocation. Amy Adams brings intelligence and emotional complexity to Anna, the defense attorney whose perceived betrayal becomes the object of Cady’s meticulously orchestrated vengeance. The direction is assured, the cinematography elegant, the score thrums with menace, and every frame announces that this is Prestige Television.

      And yet, by the fifth episode, my wife and I had gone numb.

      Halfway through the episode, I paused the television and tried to explain why the series wasn’t working. I finally arrived at a diagnosis: the show has no meaningful stakes because everyone already despises everyone else.

      Drama depends on the possibility of loss. Someone must have something precious worth protecting—a marriage, a friendship, a family, a moral center, a fragile hope. Cape Fear begins after those treasures have already been pawned off. Alienation saturates every relationship. Resentment hangs over every conversation like mildew creeping across a damp wall. The characters don’t merely dislike one another; they seem exhausted by one another’s existence.

      So what, exactly, is Max Cady threatening?

      He isn’t shattering an intact family. He’s tormenting people who already appear spiritually bankrupt, emotionally estranged, and halfway to divorce lawyers, therapists, and antidepressants. His campaign of terror feels less like an invasion than a remodeling project. When every room in the house is already on fire, the arsonist loses much of his dramatic power.

      That is the paradox of the series. It mistakes relentless darkness for dramatic intensity. But darkness has no force unless it threatens to extinguish something luminous. Evil matters only when goodness stands in danger of being destroyed. Without love, trust, or decency to defend, suspense dissolves into mere endurance. Episode after episode becomes an exercise in watching damaged people become incrementally more damaged.

      None of this is Bardem’s fault. He remains one of the finest actors of his generation, capable of turning the smallest gesture into something simultaneously magnetic and terrifying. I would gladly watch him read a phone book if he found one inhabited by demons. But even an actor of his stature cannot manufacture stakes that the story itself refuses to supply. I’m no longer sure I’ll finish the series.

      After putting Cape Fear on hold, my wife and I sampled the first two episodes of Alice and Steve. The show is unabashedly awkward, funny, and deeply human. Jemaine Clement and Nicola Walker are a delight together, and their chemistry gives every misunderstanding and emotional misstep genuine consequence. Unlike Cape Fear, watching Alice and Steve doesn’t feel like fulfilling an obligation to the gods of prestige television. It feels like spending time with people whose happiness actually matters.

      One show demands that I admire it. The other quietly invites me to care. In the end, caring is infinitely more compelling than admiration.

    3. Why Mike Pesca Chose Algorithmic Exile

      Why Mike Pesca Chose Algorithmic Exile

      For more than a decade, Mike Pesca built one of the most respected podcasts in the business. His conversations were thoughtful rather than performative, his interviews nuanced rather than sensational, and his political analysis resisted the tribal certainty that dominates so much online discourse. By conventional standards, he had already succeeded.

      Yet success in today’s media ecosystem is no longer enough. To keep growing, creators must increasingly submit themselves to the demands of opaque algorithms that reward relentless engagement, perpetual self-promotion, and an endless stream of optimized content. Pesca looked at that landscape and concluded that the price of further growth was too high.

      It was not that he lacked the ability to master the algorithm. Rather, he had no desire to become the sort of person whose professional life revolved around pleasing it. The daily rituals required to stimulate engagement struck him as alienating. They demanded a temperament and set of priorities that no longer resembled the person he wanted to be.

      Standing at this fork in the road, Pesca faced two paths. One led toward greater scale by embracing whatever the algorithm demanded. The other required walking away from a successful enterprise he had spent years building. He chose the latter, entering what might be called algorithmic exile: the voluntary withdrawal from a profession or platform because its algorithmic incentives have become incompatible with one’s identity, values, or conception of meaningful work.

      In doing so, Pesca honored what might be called the Identity Preservation Threshold Principle: the point at which further professional success requires so much adaptation to external incentives that a person refuses to proceed in order to preserve a coherent sense of self. His departure was therefore not an admission of defeat. It was a declaration that there are forms of success not worth pursuing because they demand the slow erosion of the very character that made the work worth doing in the first place.

    4. The End of Mike Pesca’s The Gist Reminds Us of the Tyranny of the Algorithm

      The End of Mike Pesca’s The Gist Reminds Us of the Tyranny of the Algorithm

      On his June 30 podcast, Mike Pesca announced that The Gist is coming to an end.

      To paraphrase his explanation, the current algorithmic media environment has become increasingly hostile to the kind of show he produces. The Gist never occupied a clearly defined ideological lane. It wasn’t relentlessly anti-this or unapologetically pro-that. It wasn’t built to serve a tribe or reinforce an audience’s existing worldview. Instead, it thrived on curiosity, unpredictability, and the freedom to roam across politics, culture, sports, history, language, and whatever else happened to interest Pesca that day.

      Those qualities, however, have become liabilities.

      Today’s attention economy rewards strong brands, reliable outrage, short video clips, and highly shareable moments. Successful podcasts are expected to generate a constant stream of excerpts designed to circulate across social media, pulling new listeners into an ever-expanding algorithmic ecosystem. Pesca acknowledged that he neither built his show for that world nor particularly wished to. After years of producing a daily podcast with a small staff, he concluded that they simply were not getting enough juice for the squeeze.

      What remains unclear is what comes next.

      Pesca hinted that another venture is in the works, but he offered few specifics. As a subscriber, I’m left wondering what happens now. Will paying subscribers receive ad-free content through a different program? Will his other podcasts continue? Are those shows better suited to the current media landscape while The Gist is not? For now, those questions remain unanswered.

      I’m genuinely sorry to see The Gist disappear.

      Ironically, the very qualities that limited its growth are the qualities I admired most. Pesca never sounded like someone trying to satisfy an algorithm. He sounded like an intelligent, curious person thinking out loud in real time. He was willing to wander, to surprise, to change subjects, and occasionally to change his mind. That kind of intellectual range has become increasingly rare in a media culture that rewards specialization, ideological certainty, and perpetual performance.

      Whatever Pesca does next, I hope he remains a prominent voice. He would make an outstanding regular guest on Blocked and Reported, The Fifth Column, The Remnant, Making Sense, Uncomfortable Conversations, and The Unspeakeasy Podcast. His gift has never been hot takes or tribal affirmation. It has been thoughtful conversation.

      Pesca said he expects to provide more details as The Gist winds down over the coming week. I’ll be listening.

      Update:

      After I emailed Pesca about his other podcasts, he replied to say that they are all being discontinued, so clearly he is making room for a new path.