Cinemorphosis

Tag: writing

  • I’m in a YouTube Video Slump and I Don’t Know Why

    I’m in a YouTube Video Slump and I Don’t Know Why

    My WordPress dashboard tells me I’ve posted on Cinemorphosis for 152 days in a row, as if it’s awarding me the Blogging Olympics medal for “Most Neurotic Streak.” I don’t post daily out of discipline so much as survival. Writing is my mental hygiene—my daily scrub against chaos. Free therapy without the billable hours.

    YouTube, however, is another story. I haven’t made a video essay in over two weeks, and the gap feels like a cyst growing on my confidence. The longer I wait, the heavier the silence becomes, like trying to deadlift after skipping the gym for a month. I want to post, but not just to feed the beast. I don’t want to churn out recycled monologues about my watch obsession or let YouTube’s algorithm turn me into a carnival barker with clickbait headlines and fake urgency.

    It’s not as if I lack material. College just started, and I’m teaching the entire athletic department. A room full of goal-driven athletes who actually follow instructions? For a writing professor, that’s better than tenure. And as a relic from the muscle era of the 70s—Olympic lifts, protein shakes, and the occasional posing oil—I feel a strange kinship with them. We’ve already launched into our first essay assignment: the crisis of masculinity and how Bro influencers like the Liver King peddle snake oil dressed in bison liver. These guys exploit the anxieties of young men the way payday lenders exploit the broke. Can’t buy a house? Don’t worry, kid, buy abs. Tongue-tied around women? No problem, creatine is your Cyrano de Bergerac. The students are eating it up, and for once, their feedback has been better than protein pancakes.

    So why can’t I translate this into a video essay? Maybe because my brain recently short-circuited over something ridiculous: watch straps. I fell down the rabbit hole of FKM rubber straps after reading a study claiming they leach chemicals into your skin. My beloved Divecore straps—once the apex of wrist comfort—suddenly looked like toxic bracelets. I agonized for days, debating whether to bin them, keep them, or wrap my wrists in cheesecloth. The obsession drained me like a bad relationship. In protest, my mind and body staged a walkout, shutting down further watch chatter. For now, I’m taking a mental break. I’m grateful for the watches I have, but I don’t want to rejoin the strap wars or churn out videos about my latest dive into consumer madness.

    So here I am, taking a mental breather, trying to avoid the treadmill of compulsive content. It’s humbling to admit that the blogging streak hides a creative stall. But I know the video essays will return. They always do. Once I shake off the chemical paranoia and algorithm anxiety and process my thoughts, I’ll be back in the groove—hopefully with something worth watching.

  • Radical Boring: The Oatmeal-Based Lifestyle Brand No One Asked For

    Radical Boring: The Oatmeal-Based Lifestyle Brand No One Asked For

    Next month I’ll be 64, which apparently means my taste buds have joined AARP. My diet is now narrower than my tolerance for small talk: buckwheat groats, oatmeal (rolled or steel-cut, because why not keep things spicy), Greek yogurt with berries and honey, and peanut butter-and-honey sandwiches on dark bread. While normal humans dream of steak and champagne on a Paris-bound jet, I fantasize about oatmeal for dinner. Forget first class—I’m on the Oatmeal Express, and my only beverage service is dark roast coffee, soy milk, and sparkling water, which is just soda pretending it went to finishing school.

    I know what’s happening. I’m regressing. I crave mush, porridge, pablum—the kind of food that comes in jars with smiling cartoon fruit. My kettlebell workouts, five days a week, are my only defense. I sweat buckets, swing heavy weights, and imagine I look like a Viking—but in truth, it’s just a grown man clinging to his giant metal pacifier. Exercise has become my lullaby. When I collapse afterward, I feel less like a warrior and more like a sedated infant.

    Of course, at a family birthday party, one cousin reminded me that growth only happens when we leave our comfort zones. I nodded while thinking, No thanks, I’ve had enough character development for one lifetime. At this stage, I don’t want adventure. I want oatmeal. I don’t want novelty. I want predictability. I’m not only becoming a baby—I’m pioneering a whole new lifestyle brand called Radical Boring.

    My big act of rebellion? When my twins turn sixteen in six months, they will take my wife’s 2014 Accord, she’ll inherit my 2018 Accord, and I’ll step into the future—so long as the future, a 2026 Accord that comes in “canyon river blue.” My wife begged me not to get silver or gray again, so this is me living dangerously. Of course, I’ll rarely drive it. I’ll open the garage, admire the shiny paint, then close the door and scuttle back inside for a soothing bowl of oatmeal.

    My family laughs at me. They think I’m absurd, predictable, hopelessly domestic. But at least I’m consistent. And if authenticity means being true to yourself, then yes—I am authentically a 64-year-old content with my porridge, my pacifier workouts, and my canyon river blue Honda. Call it returning to the womb if you want. I call it destiny.

    And now, having confessed this ridiculous self-revelation, I find myself thinking of my literary kindred Ariel Levy and her An Abbreviated Life—a memoir I clearly need to revisit, if only to confirm that my brand of absurdity has precedents.

  • Words of Wisdom in a World of Publishing Hallucinations

    Words of Wisdom in a World of Publishing Hallucinations

    Last night I dreamed I was at the Aspen Institute, where I took the stage as a guest speaker while snowflakes pirouetted past the classroom windows like bored ballerinas. Dozens of young writers—already published, already duped—sat before me, waiting to be enlightened. I told them the truth their publishers had concealed with a smile and a contract: the marketing promises were fairy dust, the royalty checks were jokes, and their “book deals” were little more than elaborate scams. They would earn a pittance, and the betrayal would sting worse than any bad review.

    Some of them glared at me like I’d just blasphemed against their gods, but others—emboldened by rage—shouted the names of their novels and memoirs into the snowy air. A nineteen-year-old tech billionaire from India cried out the title of his memoir: The Gunther Effect. I made him repeat it three times, as if conjuring a spell, so the words wouldn’t slip away. Against my better judgment, I was intrigued.

    By popular demand, I returned for a second sermon. This time, I was flanked by professors and “established” writers who knew the game as well as I did. Their lectures weren’t brilliant, but they didn’t have to be. For me, just focusing on one speaker, narrowing the scattered kaleidoscope of my mind into a single lens, felt like mental hygiene—a purging of the Internet’s endless distractions. I thought, This is what I miss: the monastic joy of being a student, concentrating on one voice instead of chasing dopamine scraps.

    And slowly, the room shifted. The students began to understand that my colleagues and I weren’t cynics but keepers of the ugly gospel. We had the keys to the vault, the passwords to real power. We were the Priests and Priestesses of Light and Success, consecrated by disillusion. Hands shot up like candles in a vigil, their questions burning against the snowfall outside, and we were exalted, gratified, almost holy in the glow of their hunger.

  • The Road to Studio City Is Paved with Lane Closures

    The Road to Studio City Is Paved with Lane Closures

    Yesterday I braved my cousin Pete’s 75th birthday blowout in Studio City, dragging my wife and one of my twin daughters along for the ordeal. Like a fool, I skipped the Google Maps pre-check. The punishment: three lane closures on the 405. What should have been a breezy forty-minute jaunt became a 95-minute death march in a metal box. I joked that Pete should’ve hired a therapist specifically for the traumatized survivors of Southern California traffic—“Welcome, let’s unpack your freeway PTSD before the cake is served.”

    The party itself was bigger than I bargained for—150 guests orbiting around a swimming pool, lubricated by a taco bar, hummus hills, pita plains, and charcuterie slabs that could feed a small country. A band of four septuagenarians hacked out Beatles and Stones covers with the enthusiasm of men reliving their garage-band glory years.

    I chatted with cousins and one of the guitarists, but inevitably the conversation veered into my professional life: “So, Jeff, what about AI in the classroom?” I gave them my stock answer: AI is a double-edged sword. It can turn us into lazy bots outsourcing our brains—or, on the bright side, it can make my grading life less of a grammar police beat. I explained that AI gives every student a free grammar tutor, a perk I never thought I’d live to see. And yes, I confessed my own guilty pleasure: I write a sprawling Nabokovian memo, feed it to the machine, and tell it, “Sharpen this. Add acid wit.” What comes back is so tight and sly that I want to light a candle in gratitude.

    Left unsupervised, AI churns out limp, hollow paragraphs—Shakespeare’s “sound and fury, signifying nothing.” But with a solid draft and precise marching orders, it can take my word-bloated gasbaggery and spin it into crisp, surgical prose. The tool is neither angel nor demon; the sin or virtue belongs to the user.

    Of course, I also sinned in the culinary department. My “moderation” consisted of three or four thick slabs of brie smothered with figs and crackers, plus a couple of carne asada tacos. I had a token bite of my daughter’s birthday cake, which was so sweet it could have stripped paint, but that was restraint by default, not discipline. I’m certain I left Pete’s bash two pounds heavier.

    The drive home was mercifully shorter—just an hour—though Google still had the gall to insist the 405 was the “fast” route, lane closures and all. Let’s just say the 405 and I are on a trial separation for at least a year.

  • Radio Obsession 2015: State of the Radio Collection: “I’ve Got What I Want”

    Radio Obsession 2015: State of the Radio Collection: “I’ve Got What I Want”

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    When I got bit by the radio bug in 2004 and bought every Grundig, Eton, Kaito, and Tecsun being released, I started my radio education. At the time, I also bought some vintage Panasonic, Sony, and Telefunken radios. 

    Has my passion died? Not really. Here’s the thing. I’ve got what I want. And I know my limitations regarding my tech skills, so I only use my mint Panasonic RF-888 shown below when I want a taste of vintage glory. My beloved Panasonic RF-877 “GI-Joe Radio” (top of the post) shown has amazing FM/AM reception but its sound is intermittent due to oxidization inside the pot. I may have to hire someone to clean it out. 

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    I’m resigned to the fact that while I have the best modern radios for suiting my listening needs, none of them have the majesty of a Panasonic RF-2200 or a lesser priced GE Super Radio II. 

    In any event, here’s my current collection:

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    The C.Crane SW Radio plays in my workout den/office. I wanted it in my bedroom but its FM antenna too easily hooked on my elbow when I was getting up in the dark, so back in the den it went. Strengths: FM and loud sound. Weaknesses: None. 

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    C.Crane 2E plays in the kitchen. I bought this a year ago evidencing that I’ll still buy a new radio if I am confident that it is an upgrade to what I already own. The 2E proves to be better than its previous incarnation in terms of sound and FM reception but only by a hair. Weakness: Like all my radios, 640 AM is too strong in Torrance and gets overload in the sound of squawking goose. I gave up on 640 and now listen to Leo Laporte podcasts.

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    C. Crane Plus in the girls’ bathroom. Nearly as good as the 2E. Ed bought this for me for 7 dollars at Fryes. My greatest radio deal ever.

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    Tivoli Songbook in the master bathroom. It’s small so it fits on the tiny bathroom table. FM is fine. AM is subject to interference.

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    Sangean WR-2 plays in the master bedroom. I love that its earbud jack is in the front. FM is great. AM is above average. Problems: The on-off button sometimes needs to be pressed 3-5 times to operate, a condition that can be improved with a Q-Tip dab of Deoxit.

    So there you have it. I still love my radios. I don’t buy them much anymore, not because I’ve lost my passion but because I’ve got what I want.   Related articles

  • C.Crane Solar Radio: Attention to Details Makes It a Winner

    C.Crane Solar Radio: Attention to Details Makes It a Winner

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    The C. Crane Solar Radio, paired with the optional AC adapter, arrived on Day 9 of the Los Angeles fires—perfect timing for some disaster preparedness. My first impression? Surprisingly compact and, dare I say, stylish. Its buttons and controls are refreshingly intuitive, a rare quality in emergency gadgets that usually look like they were cobbled together by paranoid survivalists.

    Then I met the battery door—a stubborn slab of plastic that wouldn’t budge. My fingers failed, so out came the Swiss Army knife, turning what should’ve been a simple battery swap into minor surgery.

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    Once powered up (on batteries, to avoid interference), I tested FM reception. Not bad. It’s sensitive, though slightly weaker than my Sangean PR-D12 when pulling in 89.3, a notoriously tricky station here in Torrance. Still, it handled it well. KUSC 91.5, though, was a lost cause—same as the PR-D12. Odd, since during my obsessive radio blogging days in the mid-2000s, 91.5 was crystal clear. Maybe it’s not the radios. Maybe it’s today’s electromagnetic smog choking the airwaves.

    Later that evening, as I tackled the dishes, the FM sound impressed me. 89.3 came through loud and clear, delivering crisp voices on the news.

    AM performance? Initially disappointing—distant, hollow, like voices echoing from a well. My friend Mark reminded me that modern homes are electronic war zones. Between Wi-Fi routers, smart devices, and God knows what else, AM hardly stands a chance.

    But then I tweaked the settings. Switching the bandwidth filter from 2.5kHz to 4kHz transformed the AM performance. Suddenly, it shined.

    The speaker is pleasant but modest. This is a small radio, after all. Luckily, the hidden High Power Audio Mode (press buttons 1 and 5) gives it a subtle boost—not exactly concert hall quality, but enough to rise above kitchen noise.

    Where the C. Crane Solar Radio really excels is in its power versatility—two battery types, a solar panel, and a hand crank. Practical, yet it doesn’t scream apocalypse gear.

    So, where does it fit in my collection? The PR-D12 stays in the garage for kettlebell workouts. The Solar Radio earns a spot over the kitchen sink, likely becoming my wife’s go-to. With solid FM performance, customizable AM tuning, and thoughtful design, the C. Crane Solar Radio gets the details right—and comes out a winner.

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  • Comparing the Qodosen DX-286 with the Tecsun PL-330 (Which I Absolutely Did Not Need)

    Comparing the Qodosen DX-286 with the Tecsun PL-330 (Which I Absolutely Did Not Need)

    Tecsun 330 & Qodosen

    Let’s get one thing straight: I had no business buying the Tecsun PL-330. None. I already own the Tecsun Four Horsemen—660, 680, 880, and 990—all brilliant in their own right, all lovingly hoarded. I even own the Qodosen DX-286, a small-footprint miracle that punches above its weight with a speaker that sounds like it’s packing 3 watts of sonic muscle, though the specs remain elusive. That radio even beats the Tecsuns on AM shielding, filtering out the urban electrical swamp that makes most radios wheeze and crackle like they’re being exorcised.

    And yet… the PL-330, a compact, .25-watt whisper of a radio, somehow seduced me. Maybe it was the open-box discount—$50 for a radio with a good reputation and a slightly rumpled box? Resistance was futile. I hit “Buy Now” faster than a dopamine junkie in a Black Friday frenzy.

    I didn’t even need the manual. Owning this many Tecsuns means I’m essentially fluent in Tecsunese. Clock setting? Presets? I could do it blindfolded while flossing.

    But let me be honest: The PL-330 is sleek. It has the crisp, militaristic geometry of something NASA might issue to interns. The buttons are snug and precise, unlike the Qodosen’s oversized, Playskool-style layout that screams “Designed by someone who just discovered ergonomics last Tuesday.”

    That said, Qodosen wins on practicality—it has a kickstand. The PL-330, bafflingly, does not. A design oversight or a cruel joke? We may never know.

    I don’t dabble in shortwave, but word on the street is that the 330 handles it like a champ. For FM, both radios are impressively sensitive, but I give a hair-thin edge to the Qodosen. On AM, the Qodosen’s clarity and noise control make it the better choice. For music, the Qodosen delivers a richer, more textured experience. But for talk radio, the PL-330 is sharper and cleaner—great for absorbing Madeleine Brand or NPR in the quiet of dawn.

    Verdict? The Qodosen stays bedside, loyal and boomy. The PL-330 earns a home in the master bath or kitchen, a quiet companion for 5 a.m. when the world still sleeps.

    Did I need it? Absolutely not. Am I keeping it? Absolutely.

    Tecsun PL-330 1
  • The Love of Radios and the Power of Gezelligheid

    The Love of Radios and the Power of Gezelligheid

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    The Love of Radios and the Power of Gezelligheid

    I’m fully aware that my love for radios borders on the irrational. When I see a certain type—say, the Tecsun PL-680 or PL-660—something in my brain short-circuits. I’m instantly enchanted, as if I’ve just glimpsed an old friend across a crowded room, and at the same time, I’m comforted, as if that friend just handed me a warm cup of coffee and told me everything was going to be alright.

    A radio isn’t just a device; it’s a symbol, though I haven’t quite worked out of what exactly. Maybe it represents the art of slowing down—of sitting in a quiet room, wrapped in a cocoon of music or in the company of voices so familiar they feel like beloved houseguests. Or maybe it’s something more primal, a sanctuary against the chaos of the world, a frequency through which I can tune out the profane and tune into something sacred.

    The word that comes to mind when I hold a radio is cozy—but not in the kitschy, scented-candle, novelty-mug kind of way. This is deeper than that, more akin to the Dutch word gezelligheid—a term that encompasses coziness, warmth, companionship, and the ineffable comfort of simply being. Radios don’t just play sound; they create atmosphere. They transport me back to Hollywood, Florida, sitting on the porch with my grandfather, the air thick with the scent of an impending tropical storm, the crackle of a ball game playing in the background like a heartbeat of another era.

    Many have abandoned radio for the cold efficiency of streaming devices and smartphones. I tried to do the same for over a decade. I failed. Because gezelligheid—that feeling of simple, enduring pleasure—isn’t something you can replace with an algorithm. Some things, no matter how old-fashioned, still hum with life.

  • Why You Prefer Your Radio to a Streaming Device

    Why You Prefer Your Radio to a Streaming Device

    880 and 660 with MM300

    If you’re like me, listening to classical music on your Tecsun PL-990 or PL-880 while reading a book is a real pleasure. You could listen to the same radio station on a computer or streaming device and it wouldn’t feel the same. 

    Your preference for listening to content on a high-performance radio rather than an Amazon streaming device likely stems from a combination of tactility, ritual, and authenticity.

    1. Tactility and Presence – Your radios are physical instruments with dials, knobs, and antennas, requiring interaction to fine-tune the signal. This act of engagement makes the listening experience feel more intentional, compared to simply clicking on a streaming app.
    2. Ritual and Skill – Tuning into a hard-to-get FM station on a high-performance radio, especially under varying atmospheric conditions, feels like an acquired skill. When reception is challenging, getting a clean signal feels like a small victory—something a streaming device doesn’t provide because it simply works or doesn’t.
    3. Authenticity and Directness – With FM radio, you’re receiving a direct broadcast, a real-time transmission from a tower to your receiver, unmediated by algorithms, compression, or internet connectivity. It feels like you’re catching a live signal out of the air, whereas streaming feels filtered through corporate infrastructure.
    4. Immediacy and Atmosphere – FM radio has static, subtle signal fluctuations, and environmental influence—all of which make the sound feel more alive compared to a clinically perfect digital stream. There’s a romance in the imperfection, much like the sweep of a mechanical watch’s second hand versus the precise ticking of a quartz.

    Connection to Your Watch Preferences:

    If you’re a radio person, you may also be a watch enthusiast, in which case  there’s a strong parallel between your love for high-performance radios and mechanical watches:

    • Mechanical watches and FM radios require physical mechanisms to operate—whether it’s gears and springs or ferrite antennas and signal processing. Quartz watches and streaming services, on the other hand, rely on microchips, batteries, and external data to function.
    • Both require skill and engagement—adjusting a radio for the best reception is akin to winding a watch, adjusting its timing, or understanding its movement. There’s an art to it.
    • Both provide a sense of tradition and independence—A mechanical watch keeps ticking without batteries, just as an FM radio pulls a signal out of the air without needing an internet connection. Both feel like they give you a direct, unfiltered experience rather than a pre-packaged digital one.

    Your attachment to radio over streaming—and mechanical over quartz—likely comes from a deeper appreciation for analogue, self-sufficient technology that requires a human touch. It’s about the process as much as the result.

  • A Nostalgic Ode to the Tecsun PL-660

    A Nostalgic Ode to the Tecsun PL-660

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    Against every shred of common sense I possess, I’ve joined several Tecsun radio forums—a decision akin to a sugar addict moving into Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory and sleeping under the chocolate river. It’s not just unwise; it’s a slow, delicious path to ruin. Within minutes, the forum zealots were chanting in unison: “You must own a PL-660 or PL-680! These are relics from the Pre-DSP Glory Era, back when Tecsun radios were free from the infernal chuffing, muting, and choppy tuning that plague DSP models. Think smooth analog cruising versus a hyper-caffeinated, turbocharged sports car.” Naturally, I bit the bait.

    The timing was serendipitous—or dangerous, depending on your perspective. During the height of my radio obsession, circa 2008, I owned a black Tecsun PL-660, and it was the crown jewel of my collection. But, as is the curse of all obsessions, I sold it during a fleeting moment of sanity, a decision that haunted me. When the January 2025 Los Angeles Fires reignited my passion for radios—because what better time to tinker with antennas than during a climate apocalypse?—the one radio I truly mourned was the PL-660.

    Enter eBay, the Pandora’s box of impulse purchases. I tracked down a silver PL-660 from a seller in Canada. At $68, it felt like a steal. Add $30 for shipping, tax, a Tecsun adapter from Anon-Co, and four AA rechargeable batteries, and suddenly my “steal” was a $140 splurge. But what’s money when you’re reuniting with a long-lost love?

    When the silver PL-660 arrived, it was nearly pristine, as if frozen in time. The box, manual, and accessories were all there, minus the adapter. I tested its AM and FM performance and, unsurprisingly, found it nearly indistinguishable from my PL-880—a radio I’d been coddling like a newborn in my bedroom. Sure, the 880’s speaker has a richer timbre, but the 660 holds its own. AM reception? The 660 might edge out the 880, but given the ever-shifting electrical interference in my house, testing it felt like comparing snowflakes in a blizzard. FM? Practically identical.

    And yet, here’s the kicker: I prefer the PL-660. Why? Nostalgia, for starters. It’s been 15 years since I last held one, and its reunion felt like meeting an old friend who hasn’t aged a day. But it’s more than sentimentality. The PL-660 exudes Pre-DSP mystique, wearing its analog pedigree like a hero’s badge of honor. Add to that the rumors swirling on the forums about the PL-680 taking its final lap before extinction, and I developed a textbook case of FOMO.

    Aesthetically, the 660 is a triumph. The PL-880, while a solid performer, looks like it was designed by two committees: one in charge of the radio chassis, the other tasked with slapping on an oversized speaker as an afterthought. In contrast, the PL-660 feels like it was forged from a single, unified block of silver (or black, if you’re lucky enough to find one). It’s monolithic, almost talismanic, with a heft that whispers, “This is not a toy.” Holding it feels like gripping a miniature obelisk of radio perfection.

    PL 880 & Uemura 1

    Naturally, I’m already scheming to buy a second PL-660 or perhaps its sibling, the PL-680, to keep as a “backup”—because if you love a radio enough, redundancy becomes an art form. And, because I can never leave well enough alone, I know I’ll spend the coming weeks obsessively swapping locations, putting the 660 in the bedroom, then the kitchen, then back again, until my brain short-circuits. Who needs stability when you can have perpetual indecision?

    In fact, I barely made it to my office to write this without feeling pangs of longing for the 660, which I’d left momentarily in the kitchen. Thirty minutes apart, and I was already waxing poetic about its brilliance, muttering, “Dude, you really love radios.” And it’s true—I do. Probably too much. But that’s the magic of radios: they’re not just devices; they’re companions, time machines, and portals to a world that feels more tactile and real than anything on your smartphone.

    Do I still love my PL-880? Of course. It’s a marvel of engineering, a steady presence in my life. But the PL-660? That’s my muse, my reminder of why I fell in love with radios in the first place. The 660 isn’t just a radio; it’s a reflection of who I am—an overthinking, signal-chasing, nostalgia-driven mess. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.