Anyhow, here are some magical this/thats that have caused sparks to fly in my tiny-little brain this year:

Books

• Things Become Other Things, Craig Mod

• The Place of Tides, James Rebanks

• The Bullet Swallower, Elizabeth Gonzalez James

• John & Paul: A Love Story In Songs, Ian Leslie

• Already Free: Buddhism Meets Psychotherapy on the Path of Liberation, Bruce Tift

Podcasts

• Team Human (Douglas Rushkoff)

• Search Engine (PJ Vogt)

• The Wes Cecil Podcast

• Ezra Klein (let’s be honest, Ezra stepped into his bearded prime this year)

Music

• Steve Gunn - Daylight Daylight

• Intuition & Equilibrium - Leave A Mark

• Jeff Tweedy - Twilight Override

• Aesop Rock - I Heard It’s A Mess There Too

• Martin Luke Brown - man oh man !

• Foxwarren - 2

• Everything is Recorded - Richard Russell is Temporary

“The real power in America is held by a fast-emerging new Oligarchy of pimps and preachers who see no need for Democracy or fairness or even trees, except maybe the ones in their own yards, and they don't mind admitting it. They worship money and power and death. Their ideal solution to all the nation's problems would be another 100 Year War.” - Hunter S. Thompson, Kingdom of Fear

Quoting Hunter S. Thompson feels about as authentic as a Nirvana t-shirt sold at Target. But this is about economies of scale, right? Plus, he wasn’t wrong—not in 2003, not now. And plus-plus, there are still folks out here convinced the election was stolen and that demons (and angels) are real.

Staying informed or not, starting your day with climate denial and caffeine isn’t exactly a joy trigger. And it sure doesn’t help the sacred ritual of slapping together lunches while shouting “shoes! backpacks! teeth!” like some kind of suburban drill sergeant trying to get two half-dressed humans into orbit before the tardy bell tolls. And boy, does it toll.

Parenting’s always been hard, sure. Probably since the first human popped out. I’m sure the parent looked down and thought, “Okay… what now?”

And maybe because I’m still relatively new to it (I mean, I’m not that new to it. My daughter was born in 2016), I’m just still adjusting to the tropical storm of needs that comes with raising two actual human people. Remember when we said—earnestly—that we wouldn’t allow screens in the house? How blissfully naive.

So, how do you stay positive?

How do you become the role model you hope to be? How do you stay honest with your kids about the country’s regression and the slow-motion collapse of American society? Tell the frog to jump out of the fucking pot— the water is starting to boil!

These are the internal questions that bubble up after each of my four cups of coffee every morning—once my heart can’t decide if it’s prepping for a marathon or just another day slumped in front of Zoom calls.

We are the first generation of parents trying to raise emotionally intelligent, screen-limited, nutritionally-balanced children inside a system that wants absolutely none of that.

Watching the Celtics implode in the playoffs the other night, my daughter glanced up during a timeout and said, “Every ad is either cars, phones, cheeseburgers, or grown-up medication.”

And there it was. The summation of American life, through the lens of an 8-year-old: Egregiously expensive cars and tech and bad food. Our entire ethos, rolled into one shiny, high-fructose bundle. Sell your soul by 40 and laugh about it over mild wings.

The message in the impossible-to-read-fine-print: Seek balance, young one—but make it fucking profitable.

The future has never been predictable—but for our youth, it feels overwhelmingly unpredictable. They've said as much. The question is: do we actually listen?

Or do we keep blaming their unease on bad habits—violent video games, too much (or any) social media, apathetic vibes—many of which we, as adults, parents, and guardians, are just as guilty of?

Perhaps the real power is held by pimps and preachers. But the real weight? I’ll stand up and argue—vehemently—that it’s carried by parents trying to raise decent kids in a system stacked against decency. And that lack of decency? Yeah... it’s starting to feel kind of normal, isn’t it?

Friends— that’s a major problem.

“Work pressures, multitasking, social media, news updates, multiplicities of entertainment sources—these all induce us to become lost in thoughts, frantic activities, gadgets, meaningless conversations. We are caught up in pursuits of all kinds that draw us on not because they are necessary or inspiring or uplifting, or because they enrich or add meaning to our lives, but simply because they obliterate the present.” Gabor Maté, The Myth of Normal

And there it is. Obliteration of the present. That's the real cultural export. Nixon continues to roll in his grave — Hunter was right, again.

What he didn’t mention was how loud the noise would get. Or how hard it would be to pack a lunch, teach empathy, and get your kid to brush their teeth in a world actively working against presence, honesty, and connection. But we try. We do try. We pack the lunches. We put the phone down. We try to stay in the moment. All the moments.

And maybe that’s the quiet revolution—parenting with eyes open in a world that wants you chronically overstimulated, emotionally dehydrated, and generally fucking exhausted.

I’m not certain, by the way, that that’s untrue for almost everyone living through what has to be the dumbest era on record— red hat or bearded Ezra Klein poster-haver alike.

“I could care less.”

I used to love that comeback in high school, when someone offered their unprovoked care-meter in passing.

Oh, no? And I think you mean you couldn’t care less. As in, even if you tried your fucking hardest you just couldn’t muster up a single flying fuck. This was of course well before we started tacking on a hard, fast literally to every statement of feeling.

Now “literally” is stapled to everything, even things that are definitively not literal. “I literally died.” “I’m literally obsessed.” We’ve diluted meaning into a high-fructose TikTok smoothie of emphasis. No one’s sure what anything means anymore, but we’re all extremely sure that we mean it.

We don’t say things because they’re true; we say them because they sound like something a truthful person might say. But to be fair, we are running tremendously low on role models— who’s to say which perspectives are correct (or truthful) anyhow?

So yeah, that rock? I get it. It sounds fucking lovely under there.

An endorsement for apathy this is not— maybe self-preservation; because America is showing its true colors right now. And if you think that’s a statement aimed at the right, it’s not—not entirely.

This is the whole us.

The left doesn’t get to play the good guys anymore. Not like this. This isn’t a reckoning—it’s a reboot. And honestly? It might even require a trip to the Genius Bar. Literally.

It didn’t.

Well—to be fair, some did. But everything over ~5000 Hz? Gone. Not low volume. Totally gone.

The tinnitus is still raging—a constant, high-pitched, broken-lightbulb-buzz slicing through any silence. And yet, somehow, I’ve managed to stay weirdly positive. Focused. Doing the work. Seeing the specialists. Trying all the treatments. Staying grounded.

I even went through an intratympanic steroid injection—where they numb you up (kind of), then pierce the eardrum with a needle to inject steroids directly into the middle ear. Sounds barbaric. Feels like hope. It didn’t work.

Today, I woke up and the fog had already rolled in. Not outside—inside. I can move, I can function, but everything feels very fucking heavy. That quiet optimism I’d been holding? It vanished. I am in mourning for the sounds I will never hear again evenly between two ears.

I want to write something meaningful. I want to have a point. But maybe today isn’t about a point. Maybe it’s not a story about healing, or productivity, or how important branded podcasts are.

Maybe it’s just this: I feel really pissed and sad. I’ve done everything right, and my ear doesn’t care. It’s just being a shitty ear. Obstinate. Buzzing. Broken. And this is very likely my new reality.

So, that’s where I’m sitting today—in the space between effort and escape.
The in-between.

If I could apply to be severed today, I might. I think I can see the advantage. Working to complete Cold Harbor sounds easier than editing dialogue with a bum ear hole right now.

Podcasting remains one of the fastest-growing media platforms. While video, social media, and AI-generated content continue to dominate, podcasting retains something unique: depth. Unlike platforms optimized for quick, consumable content, podcasts allow for real ideas to take root, fostering meaningful conversation beyond surface-level discourse.

This is why I remain deeply skeptical about the push for video in podcasting. Video has its place, but podcasting’s strength lies in its ability to cultivate deeper listening—an experience that doesn’t rely on algorithms or visual spectacle. When podcasting is done right, it thrives in the intimacy of audio, where listeners engage fully rather than passively consuming through a screen.

There’s a reason podcasting grew out of journalism—it was built on integrity. But that integrity has been challenged. The manosphere and other bad actors leveraged the medium’s accessibility, but they didn’t respect the artform. They didn’t even realize they had to. And they definitely don’t care. They treated podcasting as a tool for influence, rather than an avenue for critical thinking, meaningful discussion, and understanding.

But podcasting’s original promise—just a mic and an idea—still holds power. It’s what makes podcasting resilient. While some try to force it into a rigid capitalist framework, the heart of podcasting remains independent, exploratory, and resistant to mass commodification. It’s not inaccurate to say podcasting played a role in Trump’s rise, but a counter-movement is brewing.

Live podcasting and intellectual gatherings

Podcasting’s impact is now extending beyond the feed. Live events—real moments with real people and trusted speakers—are becoming cultural touchpoints. Thinkers, not just podcasters, are gathering audiences eager for in-person engagement. Douglas Rushkoff, Sam Sanders, PJ Vogt, Dane Cardiel from Good Tape, Tristan Harris at Your Undivided Attention, my pal Jess Thomas (just wait y’all), the Endless Thread crew—and a friggin’ bearded Ezra! These aren’t political rallies, nor are they spectacle-driven influencer events. They are spaces for intellectual exchange, where ideas take center stage over brand sponsorships and social clout.

Don’t get me wrong—I work in the branded podcast space. There’s a lot of room for organizations to organically speak their truth without it sounding like a mattress commercial. In fact, I’d bet you listen to a branded show or two without even realizing it. The best branded podcasts don’t just sell; they build trust. They tap into the same thing that makes podcasting powerful in the first place: authenticity. It’s when brands respect the medium—when they enter with something to say, rather than something to push—that listeners actually engage.

The rise of think-casters

Podcasting has given rise to a new class of voices—not influencers, not pundits, but something different: think-casters. These are the podcasters who prioritize critical thinking over clicks, exploration over provocation, and substance over spectacle. They aren’t just reacting to the world; they’re shaping how we understand it. While the manosphere and engagement-hungry content creators have exploited the medium for influence, think-casters are reclaiming it as a space for deep conversation, intellectual exchange, and genuine connection. And in a time when distraction and division dominate, that might just be what saves the republic.

Connection is the key

We are drowning in distractions—designed to steal our attention, designed to make us consume. What if we cut ninety-five percent of that out? What if we reclaimed our focus?

To save this country—and maybe the planet—we need deeper connection. We need to step back from our digital obsessions and return to people, to friends, to neighbors. We need hyper-local awareness. Genuine community. Real conversations.

Attending a podcast live event isn’t about idolizing a host. It’s not another influencer-driven spectacle. It’s about thinking together, engaging in meaningful dialogue, and reconnecting as humans. Solving fucking problems.

We don’t need more consumption. We need collaboration. Grow your own food. You don’t need to be a homesteader to plant a tomato plant. Share resources with your neighbors instead of buying more. Everyone on the block doesn’t need their own lawnmower. Let yours sit idle in someone else’s shed when you’re not using it. Play music outside. Let your kids dance in the grass while you jam with a bunch of dads (Ok, that one is for me). Toast to the birth of the new baby down the street. Bring over a meal. Introduce yourself. Offer an old crib instead of buying another one. The world doesn’t need more SHIT. It needs more generosity. Focus on building relationships, not just wealth. What else do we really need to buy?

The case against influencer culture

True story: I knew Andrew Schulz when I lived in NYC. Not well, but I spent a good bit of time around him. He was chill—almost reserved back then. A comic, an incredibly privileged one, grinding away to make a name for himself in the City. Well, shit, he certainly did. But he let it bend him. He let it manhandle him. And now? What does he stand for?

He’s not a thinker. He’s a performer. But the jokes on us; he always was simply that: a performer. A reaction machine. A Youtube thumbnail. His audience will turn to the next thing just as easily because his tool isn’t thought—it’s attention. And the Zoomer generation is ripe for burnout. They’ve been living off cortisol-fueled digital crack for far too long, and that model is about to break. It’s about come undone, friends.

We don’t need more Andrew Schulz types—we need less. Sorry, old pal. We need more thinkers who see the bigger picture, who are willing to wrestle with complexity rather than distill everything into a punchline or a hot take. We need people who challenge us, who ask hard questions, who make us sit in discomfort long enough to actually learn something. Thought leaders, not just content creators. Conversation shapers, not just engagement hackers. The internets are already crowded with performers who thrive on provocation, keeping audiences hooked without offering anything of real depth— just a quick bump. We need less performance and more depth. Less spectacle, more substance.

It’s time to listen again.

Podcasting, at its best, is an antidote to the attention economy. It isn’t built for endless scrolling or fleeting dopamine hits. It’s slow media. Deep media. A space that values intelligence over impulse, conversation over clicks. If we want to save this country, we need connection. We need to listen—to real ideas, from real people, in real conversations.

And then? We need to raise our hand. Speak up. Be courageous. Add to the dialogue. Because right now, more than ever, we need all the ideas we can get.

On a Thursday morning a few weeks back, I was sitting having coffee with my wife and my right ear started ringing loudly. I’ve had bouts with tinnitus but this was acute— unlike anything I’d ever experienced. Raw guitar feedback.

After a few minutes, my ear suddenly felt very full as if I’d been swimming for the past few hours. Then, the ringing subsided. Sort of. But I was left with very little hearing in that ear— like, maybe 10%.

My wife was looking at me funny as I began rather frantically snapping my fingers in front of each ear— left then right, over and over again—while offering her no context as to why. When I tried to stand it felt like a was on a boat. I was wildly off balance.

I was scared as fuck. And remember, I work in audio; losing my hearing is not an ideal situation.

When she asked what I was doing, I shared with her some of what I was experiencing. Wasting very little time she sent the kids to the neighbors (it was a snow day) and insisted we go to the ER. It all happened over the course of an hour or so.

I do not like doctors. I especially do not like hospitals. But I agreed because this felt urgent, so off we went to Maine Med.

I know stepping through the automatic doors alone at the ER will cost us $700. That was certainly on my mind. But something felt seriously wrong, and no amount of financial anxiety was going to change that. My wife and I approached the woman at the intake desk. She was surrounded by cups of ground coffee. Is that a thing? She asked me what was wrong and I rifled off a quick explanation. I must’ve looked as off-balance as I felt because she didn’t hesitate to hand me a clipboard and tell me to take a seat, nodding to the triage person to ready their station. I think she thought I was having a stroke. I think maybe I thought I was having a stroke.

Hospitals have a way of making you feel both important and completely insignificant at the same time. The fluorescent lights, the quiet, controlled movement, the low murmur of voices—it’s a holding space for fear and frustration. The TV had a show about puppies playing. Tactical, I thought.

I sat there, ear buzzing, ruminating, but trying not to fully spiral into dread— mostly meaning I wasn’t allowed to go on Reddit while waiting for my name to be called. My wife was in charge of “research,” not me.

To her credit, my wife is so fucking good in these type of situations. Like, really good. Poised. Clear-headed. Level. I am a small child in a medical setting; a white coat syndrome-worst-case-scenario-ist. Which, is probably why my blood pressure was the highest it’s ever been when the triage person ripped off the cuff.

About 30 minutes after triage they called me back to speak to a 25 year old resident with face piercings and tattoos. I know, I know! That feels super judgmental and it is. Mind you, I am covered in tattoos. I’m not, however, dealing with incredibly vulnerable people at their most scared and weakest. I make podcasts for Christ’s sake— I have little room to judge. But I want to be clear, it wasn’t her body art and metal face that set me off; it was her dismissive, shitty attitude. She ran through a series of questions. Have you been sick recently? Any history of hearing loss? Any recent trauma to the ear? I shook my head “no” to most of it. Her diagnosis?

“You must just have a common cold...like, just some sinus stuff happening.”

I didn’t even have time to move my eyebrows lower than they already are before my wife asked very directly to speak to the attending physician in a way that only a 40 year old super-pro-boss-lady can cut down a 25 year old girl. She melted into a small puddle of ink and silver rings and slithered out of the room. Very shortly after, the attending popped-in and began asking the same series of questions, except her response was different. Very different.

“I think you’re experiencing sudden sensorineural hearing loss,” she said. “Which means, we need to act quickly.”

I squinted at her. Wait—what? Sudden sensorineural hearing loss? I had never even heard of it. Ears don’t just stop working like that, right? I mean, I’ve been to enough loud concerts, but this wasn’t some gradual decline—this was a switch flipping off. I waited for the part where she told me this was temporary, that my ear was just being dramatic and would sort itself out. Instead, she started explaining that SSNHL is rare, often has no clear cause, and if untreated, the hearing loss can become permanent. Permanent. There’s only a very small window of time to treat it. Like, days, not weeks. My brain latched onto “permanent” hard, refusing to let go.

Steroids. That was the answer. A high dose of prednisone immediately to try to reduce inflammation and, hopefully, restore some or all of my hearing before it was too late. She wrote the prescription and helped expedite a trip to the ENT.

I wish I could say this came out of nowhere, but my ears have been a bit of a mess for a while. I’ve had tinnitus on and off for years—mostly an occasional nuisance but sometimes loud enough to hijack my focus. A few months back, I started noticing weird fluctuations in my hearing, random fullness that would come and go, and this vague sense that something wasn’t quite right. I’d tried to book an ENT appointment last October, but thanks to the glacial pace of american healthcare and the black hole that is specialist scheduling, I was still 2 months out from being seen. And then, just like that, my right ear decided it wasn’t waiting any longer. The ER visit—at best—got me into an ENT with haste. The boy did not cry wolf, but he did cry.

Sudden Sensorineural Hearing Loss (SSNHL) is exactly what it sounds like—hearing that vanishes, seemingly out of nowhere, usually in one ear. It’s classified as a medical emergency because the window for treatment is brutally short—typically less than two weeks—before any hearing loss becomes permanent. The cause? Often a mystery. Viral infections, circulation issues, autoimmune reactions—doctors throw out theories, but in most cases, they never pinpoint exactly why it happens. And because it’s both terrifying and frustratingly vague, it’s all over Reddit (obviously), where people swap horror stories, treatment successes, and desperate pleas for reassurance. Lately, it feels like more people are experiencing it, whether due to post-viral complications, stress, or just better awareness, but one thing is clear: if your hearing suddenly drops, you don’t wait. You act fast, or you risk losing it forever.

No one talks about this, but it happens all the time. To musicians, to accountants, to people who wake up one morning and realize their alarm clock is suddenly on mute. There’s no warning. Just silence.

Forever, forever-ever? Forever-ever?

I went through the full course of prednisone—the high-dose, taper-down regimen that’s supposed to give you the best shot at recovery. And to some extent, it worked. My low and mid registers came back, which was a huge relief, but the high end? Still gone. I can’t hear the hi-hat. That crisp, bright shimmer that should be cutting through a mix just isn’t there. It’s like my ear has an EQ filter permanently rolled off at the top.

Now, I’m deep in the world of specialists, navigating appointments with more ENTs, audiologists, neurologists, acupuncturists, hyperbaric oxygen chamber therapists, Reiki energy healers, I don’t fucking care! I am hitting them all; really anyone else who might have a clue.

I had an MRI, which at least ruled out the truly terrifying shit—no tumors, no major structural issues. So now, I wait. Maybe my hearing keeps improving on its own. Maybe it doesn’t, and I’m stuck with this new reality where concerts, Celtics games, and every goddamn loud restaurant (including my own dinner table) turn into a miserable wall of sound— like, a broken fluorescent lightbulb crackling away. Networking will forever be a nightmare, and networking events already sucked.

I don’t know where this goes from here. I try not to obsess over it, but when you lose something you’ve relied on every second of your life, it’s hard not to notice its absence. I catch myself instinctively cupping my ear, snapping my fingers— is it back? Hearing is such a passive, automatic thing—until it's not. And then, suddenly, you're hyper-aware of everything you're not hearing, of the ways you have to work to follow a conversation, of the little joys that just... vanish.

Maybe my hearing improves. Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe I just get used to it—learn to work around it, lean into it, figure out how to navigate the world with a busted right channel. People adapt. Brains compensate. Life moves forward whether you’re ready or not. Truly, I’m grateful for all that I do have, even if I have to strike an attribute off the list. Right ear.

The hardest part?

No one can tell you what happens next. It’s a bizarre limbo where doctors shrug, tell you to hope for the best, and send you back into the world with a broken sound mix. But here’s what I do know: I will never take sound for granted again. I will savor every crisp cymbal hit, every whispered “s” or “th”, every goddamn delicate frequency that I still have in my right ear. And if I don’t get it back? Then I figure it out. I adjust. I learn to live inside this new mix—because what other choice is there?

With no political divisions or online outrage, just pure curiosity, the show proves that in an era of AI and deepfakes, we still marvel at handcrafted illusions made of sponge and fondant. Is It Cake? reassures us that, despite everything, we can still find joy in the most unexpected places… at least before the robots take over.

Written and read by Nathan Tower.

Ground & Common

The robot takeover can wait

While we nonchalantly wait for the robots to take over, I find an optimistic pulse in an unlikely place: Is It Cake…

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a year ago · Nathan Tower

Quit sugar

Quit social media

Quit Spotify

Quit reading the news

Quit clenching your jaw

Quit seed oils

Quit shopping

Quit owning things

Quit coffee; quit all caffeine

Quit gluten

Quit dairy

Quit breakfast

Quit deodorant

Quit using soap

Quit shampoo too

Quit hot showers

Quit fluoride

Quit sleeping with your phone

Quit screens

Quit porn

Quit ChatGPT

Quit wearing shoes

Quit sitting

Quit chairs

Quit furniture

Quit pillows

Quit owning a car

Quit driving

Quit eating out

Quit air conditioning

Quit deadlines

Quit vaccines

Quit birth control

Quit sunscreen

Quit stretching

Quit monogamy

Quit having kids

Quit having friends

Quit walls

Quit society

Quit email

Quit texting

Quit negative self talk

Quit working entirely

Quit ambition

The following is not a review or examination of the unarguably stupid and impossibly delightful series. I’m not sure there is anything to actually review. The concept is pretty straightforward: Bakers make cakes that look like real things, and the b-list celebrity judges try to guess which one is the real cake in a line up of like items. That’s the whole rig— nothing more, nothing less.

But it goes deeper than that. Is It Cake? is for the people. No matter where you come from, who you support politically, and whether or not you believe the Earth is flat or round. As a viewer, the only contentious energy is rooted in one simple question: Is it cake? And that boosts my belief in the human spirit.

In our daily lives we are constantly pulled toward conflict. Algorithms feed on our most visceral emotions. We side with dislike far more often than we cozy up next to empathy, let alone kindness. There is something profoundly refreshing about a show that boils human curiosity down to its most innocent form. The stakes are delightfully low. There is no impending societal collapse hinging on whether or not a judge correctly identifies a cake shaped like a Croc or a Fendi handbag. There are no comment sections. There are no tribal affiliations. There is no moral grandstanding. Just people—often incredibly skilled kitchen folk—spending hours sculpting hyper-realistic cakes for no reason other than the fun of it.

That’s where the optimistic pulse picks up its BPM. There is comfort in the mundane— we live in an era where we have the technology to create AI-generated content indistinguishable from human work, where deepfakes blur the lines of reality, and where misinformation spreads faster than truth. Yet, amidst all of that, here we are, glued to our screens, collectively marveling at whether or not something is made of sponge and fondant. Sugary tricks, sure. But AI-generated gateaus they are not.

We like to think of ourselves as a species of super advanced beings— ‘WE’VE BEEN TO THE MOON!’ But if the internet turned off tomorrow we’d revert to the way we did things for the first 300,000 years. We’d still drink. We’d still laugh. We’d still fuck. And we’d still fight. We’d just have less to do while we poop.

Is It Cake? is like a little hug, reassuring us: 'It’s going to be okay.'

The show, in all its absurdity, reminds me that people will always find joy in simple, shared experiences. It’s a reminder that curiosity, humor, and wonder can still unite us, even if just for the length of one stupid episode. Because at the end of the day, whether you are a scientist, a conspiracy theorist, a politician, or a baker, we all want to know the answer to life’s most pressing question:

Is it cake?

So, when everything feels impossible, what if we laced up anyway?

Written by Nathan Tower and read by Nicole Perri.

Ground & Common

Lace-up the old cleats in an unfair world

There are days where I feel particularly uninspired to write. It’s just not there. I can’t really line up my thoughts. I haven’t discovered that morsel; that little crumb that often becomes the very thing to stimulate the pouring-out-of-words into some coherent, structured narrative…

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a year ago · 1 like · Nathan Tower

But is it really progress—or just escalation?

Written and read by Nathan Tower.

Ground & Common

Welcome to the future. It’s the past

There’s no doubt that technology has driven extraordinary human progress in the past 100 years…

Read more

a year ago · Nathan Tower

I know writing isn’t just about waiting for inspiration, but that doesn’t stop me from resenting its absence. I sit there, staring off into my laptop, watching Slack messages pop-up, waiting for a scrid of motivation. Sometimes it doesn’t come. Sometimes it never arrives, and I abandon ship.

This clog—or whatever you want to call it—fundamentally pisses me off.

In my late teens and twenties, back when I played team sports, I noticed a pattern—I had my best practices on the days I least wanted to suit up. It happened so often I’d think, “I should remember this. It seems important.” I’d walk off the field feeling better than when I’d begrudgingly stumbled onto it. Something was at play—something obvious, but hard to pin down.

With my days of organized athletics behind me, I’ve become a runner—mostly as a way to burn off built-up animosity and societal angst, but also because I’ve fully subscribed to Team Murakami and what running can be for both spirit and general fitness. I love it. In fact, I hate how much I love it, because I know how obnoxious it is to say out loud.

And yet, in my life, I’ve applied the same lesson all over the place. I take out the trash when I really don’t want to take out the trash. I make the kids dinner when my energy is on empty. I happily jump on Zoom meetings when being virtually-social is the last fucking thing on Earth I can imagine doing well. And yes, I set off on a run even when I don’t want to.

The same pattern shows up in my writing, in fatherhood, in producing podcasts for clients, and in showing up for friends even when I feel especially stretched thin. The resistance is always there. I don’t think it will ever not be. But if I’ve learned anything, it’s that pushing through tends to matter more than I expect.

Because, in the end, the push itself—the act of peeking over the wall—matters more than whatever's on the other side. It’s not just about the result. It’s about the getting up, the setting off. What you find isn’t the point. What matters is that you went.

Do you remember the Exxon Valdez oil spill in Alaska back in 1989? I was about 5 when that happened, but the images of the wildlife covered in oil forever burned themselves into my memory. It was my first taste of a feeling I’d come to know well, but at that time in my life it was impossible to understand. The weight of unfairness felt criminal— and it was.

That heaviness is back, at least for me it is. But I’m not guessing at that on behalf of others; I keep hearing people—on the news, on podcasts, in line at grocery stores— talk about this tonnage that is pressing itself into us. Things (add link to bottomless list here) feel unfair at the moment. Many of us have a president we don’t want. Some of us have lost homes in wildfires, floods, or whatever else a disgruntled Mother Earth throws our way. We are disconnected and discontented. We are exhausted. And yes, we are fundamentally pissed off, hence widespread division, remission, and pablum.

We—if I can speak for the collective for a second—feel exactly like that oil-covered bird did. Like, “what the fuck, guys? I was literally just being a bird and you dumped 11 million gallons of crude oil on my fuckin’ house.”

“Pushing through” may mean biting down on a leather belt for the next four years. It may also mean giving each other the benefit of the doubt. It definitely means resisting the urge to check out entirely (or take up arms on the opposite side of the argument). The weight is real, the unfairness is real, the oil has spilled. You don’t need to question that any longer. I’ll confirm right now: What you’re feeling is real.

But the only way out has always been through.

Waiting for the perfect moment—scrolling, stalling, hoping for a sign—won’t cut it. It’s all practice. The perfect opportunity doesn’t exist. The right leader won’t untangle our cultural suplex.

It’s about getting up. Lacing up your cleats, your running shoes—or fuck it, going barefoot if you have to. Standing up, and setting off. Running anyway. Writing anyway. Showing up anyway.

Because resistance isn’t what stops us—it’s what proves we’re still here.

But when belief takes hold, do we lose our ability to question?

Written and read by Nathan Tower.

Ground & Common

A masterclass on conviction: how the Telepathy Tapes draws you in

It feels really good to believe in something that fills a gap or answers a mystery, much like finding the missing piece in a puzzle you’ve been agonizing over. There’s a serotonin hit that makes you want to lean in even further, even when you were about to give up, pack it up and never puzzle again…

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a year ago · 2 likes · 1 comment · Nathan Tower

In the early 20s, radio broadcasts were only just becoming available in American homes. Ford introduced the Model T truck. An early version of the traffic signal was invented. Jazz thrived in its golden era, but for most people, life remained difficult, with an average life expectancy of just 60 years.

A century later, we have TikTok, the Cybertruck, and—though we may live longer—obesity rates have nearly quadrupled. We are, paradoxically, both healthier and unhealthier than before.

AI is accelerating at an unnerving pace, even beyond experts' understanding. And the average American owes well over $100K in consumer debt, but we’ll still line up for the iPhone 17 because it’s thinner and a new shade of gray.

Consider this contrast: In 1925, Fitzgerald dropped The Great Gatsby. In 2025, Trump dropped a memecoin—along with FEMA, the Paris climate agreement, and most federal DEI programs. ‘Dropped’ is a double entendre; ‘progress’ isn’t—but it might not mean what we think.

In fact, ‘progress’ starts to feel like a really weird word to use so frequently, especially when we look at where many Americans are struggling the most: rising living costs, declining mental health, climate disasters, gender inequality—and of course, gun violence. Less than 48 hours into 2025, 78 people were killed and 197 injured in shootings.

Are we more connected? Technically, sure. We’re also lonelier, much lonelier— suicide rates in the US have risen by 30% since 2002. In fact, suicide was the second leading cause of death among people ages 10 to 14 in 2022. Again, ‘progress’ isn’t necessarily the word I’d choose.

And actually, let’s stop calling it ‘connection.’ It’s not.

But here’s the thing: we don’t really progress—we just escalate. We invent milestones to tell ourselves we’ve evolved, that we’re smarter, kinder, more enlightened. But at the core, we’re still just proving ourselves to each other, still locked in the same primitive contests we’ve always been.

Which brings me to wolves.

Barry Lopez, in Of Wolves and Men, put it like this:

"Part of the tragedy, and it was a tragedy, was that wolves that bothered no cattle were hunted down by men that largely wanted to prove to other men that they were no fools."

To sum up Of Wolves and Men is a rather subjective activity. I liked this summary I found somewhere on the internets: “Humankind's relationship with the wolf is the sum of a spectrum of responses ranging from fear to admiration and affection.” Wolves and humans have had a fuck-marry-kill relationship. We loathe them, we love them, and everything in between. And by ‘everything in between,’ I mean we’ve hunted them for sport, vilified them under false pretenses, and woven them into myths and nightmares, casting them as evil in stories that shaped entire cultures. We’ve feared them, revered them, and at times even tried to eradicate them only to later realize their importance and fight for their survival. Our relationship with them is as complex as they are, a tangled web of fascination, fear, and responsibility.

Why am I ranting about society and bringing wolves into it? Because people don’t change. We just call our escalations progress. You make a car, I make one faster. You make a hamburger, I sell a cheaper, shittier version. The game never stops—only the mechanics evolve.

My fear? Technology isn’t just another Model A after the Model T topped out at 40 mph. It’s a far more dangerous game. Are we building a better future for the planet or are we just doing what we’ve always done—laying our little Elons on the table and reaching for the tape measure?

It feels really good to believe in something that fills a gap or answers a mystery, much like finding the missing piece in a puzzle you’ve been agonizing over. There’s a serotonin hit that makes you want to lean in even further, even when you were about to give up, pack it up and never puzzle again.

Last weekend I started listening to the Rogan-topping podcast about psychic communication, Telepathy Tapes. I was entirely taken by it. It felt groundbreaking—the kind of discovery that could fundamentally shift our understanding of human communication and connection—some real Matthew McConaughey trapped in the 4th dimensional bookcase type shit. I was sold… at least for a moment.

Telepathy Tapes is a 10-part podcast series hosted by American documentary filmmaker Ky Dickens. It spotlights non-verbal children with autism who seem to demonstrate telepathic (read: mind-reading) abilities. The overarching premise? These kids are brilliant—like, really brilliant. [Side note: no debate from me on this front.] Using tools like iPads and spelling boards, facilitated by parents and experts, Ky and her team showcase extraordinary communication skills. Provocative claims are launched from podcast cannons with slick production. Controlled tests—blindfolds, number generators, and GoPro footage—propel theories about universal consciousness while taking jabs (sometimes throwing haymakers) at the constraints of materialist science. But there’s one glaring issue: no skeptics are invited to the party. Like, none.

"For those who believe, no proof is necessary. For those who do not, no proof is possible." - Stuart Chase

The series has all the right ingredients for flat-Earthers and paranormal skeptics alike to roll up and smoke. The format is tight; excellent cadence and delivery, and just enough hard data to let the Serial-ification mechanism work its little magic. Prepare to be Koenig’d, but by Ky Dickens.

I was so engrossed that I even got defensive when my wife questioned its credibility. Her skepticism, rooted in her god damn reasonable scientific and methodical way of thinking, seemed, at the time, like an unwillingness to embrace something extraordinary. She was missing the point!

But she was right to be critical.

Here’s the thing: it’s easy to get swept up in something that’s polished, well-produced, and presented with conviction. That’s exactly how misinformation works. It’s not always about a blatant disregard for facts; sometimes, it’s the emotional resonance of the story being told. To suspend ones disbelief is beautiful and freeing.

As I went deeper into the series, I realized how my enthusiasm mirrored the mechanisms of how conspiracy theories and misinformation spread. They tap into our biases, our emotional needs, and our desire for clarity in a world full of ambiguity. The podcast’s creators, whether intentionally or not, used techniques that made the information feel authentic—personal anecdotes, emotional appeals, and an overarching narrative that framed the story in a compelling, almost irrefutable way.

This isn’t unique to one podcast or one story. It’s a pervasive issue in how information is consumed and shared, especially in our digitally fluid age. The same tools that make a story engaging—strong production, an emotional hook, and a clear point of view—can also make it dangerous if not critically examined. That’s why it’s crucial to approach even the most well-crafted narratives with a healthy dose of skepticism, especially when they align too perfectly with what we want so badly to believe.

When we hold on to that belief we often put horse-blinders on. For example, the fact that facilitated communication (FC)—an attempt to help non-verbal people communicate by having a facilitator guide their hand or arm while they type—is a scientifically discredited technique, but that reality was only lightly skimmed over throughout the 10 episodes.

Also, the “experts” may consider themselves experts, however, it doesn’t appear that the science world—which the series calls too full of “materialist” for its own good—would agree. As a public, we’ve perhaps unintentionally cross-pollinated our experts and our influencers; that’s been confusing, I think, for many, especially those who get all their news and information from Theo-Von-knockoffs on social media.

There’s value in exploring the unknown, in pondering the possibilities of things we don’t yet understand. I want to be very clear because this is an important point: I’m not being critical just to pick a side. This is, more than anything, a critique of myself. I noticed how quickly and easily I was swept into this narrative. We are living in an era where people claiming they’ve “done their research” often amounts to nothing of real substance. This phenomenon works particularly well with pseudoscience, because when nothing is truly objective, you can’t effectively argue against it. 'Well, you just haven’t done your research.'

Don’t get me wrong, as a podcast I think Telepathy Tapes is an incredibly well-done series. I'm just nervous that it's too incredible for its own good. Go listen to it! It took the #1 spot because it is that captivating. I only want to remind listeners of the importance of pausing, questioning, and considering alternative perspectives before fully buying into any idea—no matter how compelling it seems. It’s not about dismissing new or radical ideas outright but about holding space for curiosity and skepticism to coexist. Judgement can be applied with grace.

There’s a responsibility to recognize how easily our perceptions can be shaped by the way information is presented. Whether it’s a groundbreaking discovery or a divisive political argument, the lesson remains the same: pause, think critically, and question the narrative. Because sometimes, what feels like finding a missing puzzle piece is just a mirage—an illusion crafted to fit perfectly into the space we’ve been trying so desperately to fill.

In a world primed for division, what if we gave people the benefit of the doubt?

Written and read by Nathan Tower.

Ground & Common

January 23, 2025

A few apps on my laptop go unclosed: Gmail, Calendar, Slack, Descript, and Facebook Marketplace. That last one—Marketplace—wasn’t obvious to me for some time. Though, my affliction for buying and selling gear has been intensifying for a while. Entertaining, enterprising and egregious— sifting through the shit people don’t want is oddly satisfying, I sup…

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a year ago · Nathan Tower

There are, however, some idiosyncrasies within the experience that make it unique and endlessly weird.

“Hello, is this still available?”

To approach someone is to confront someone. The way we communicate on Marketplace is unlike any exchange we’d ever have in the real world. It has no rhythm. It’s as if two people from far away worlds, unaware of the other’s cultural norms, are attempting to make small talk and choppy demands. The prompted question, “Hello, is this still available?” can lead to no response equally as fast as it can lead to 32 messages that are somehow unintelligible and unnecessary. It can be crass; a grammar-less land of dead ends and miniature profile pictures. To be sure, it’s expeditiously frustrating exhilarating.

Yet, deep within the bowels of Marketplace lies an unexpected warmth and humanity. Real people do lurk behind their crusty ottomans and dusty drum sets. And some are fucking cool people.

I am an average guitar player. I started playing guitar when I was in 4th grade. I went to a little hippy school and one of my teachers who I think was named Barry lent me his ‘72 Ocean Turquoise Fender Stratocaster; a guitar a 9 year old really has no business playing or even holding. He eventually downgraded me to a copy of a Strat with a white crescent moon painted on it’s black pick-guard. More apt. But probably a vintage-enough guitar that you could get at least a grand on Marketplace today. He taught me Under the Bridge and I fell in love with playing the guitar (and guitars, in general).

My wife can not understand this disease— how I can love one guitar for a hot second and then turn around and sell it is totally beyond her. This post is not intended to explain away this phenomenon. I love them, and then I send them on their way. There are of course exceptions like her late father’s 1965 Martin D-35, which will never be rehomed. But everything else is never not for sale.

A few years back Fender came out with a Parallel Universe Sixty-Six— a mashup between a Strat and a Telecaster that has a slightly smaller Jazz Bass body with a big old headstock. Since then, “Fender Sixty-Six” has become an autocomplete prediction in the Marketplace search bar. And I can’t find one, at least not in Maine.

Oh, an important note about Marketplace is everyone’s armed with some type of trade offer. Most often the question you get when you’ve listed something for sale is, “are you willing to trade for it?” or simply, “trade??” Trades are the needle in the haystack of Marketplace. They are infrequently successful, and usually just a buyer’s lowball attempt to dupe the seller.

Until they aren’t…

Last week, I traded a ‘16 Player Series Fender Jazzmaster for my long sought after Sixty-Six. Yep, I found one. And would you believe it, it was a pleasant, respectful human exchange. All my isms and gripes went right out the window. The trade was 1 for 1; no cash: One high value guitar for one high value guitar. Fair. Even. A done deal.

It was timely too. Why? Well, if you haven’t heard Trump has started his second term as President. And as far as the American people go, we’ve picked our sides by now. I can’t imagine there are still many that are waffling in a state of indecision. You are either for Trump or against him. Our hackles are up— on both sides. We are divided. Deeply. Fox vs. the Times. Red Sox vs. Yankees. Tyson vs. Jake Paul? And many of us are apparently armed; and not just in Florida. So, local meetups are to be coordinated with caution.

My successful trade, however, was not about political allegiance. It was about guitars.

After a few days of negotiation, my counterpart and I chose a meeting spot— he’d be on-site at a job, some kind of piping project in the basement of a commercial building. He blasted out a series of texts about 10 minutes after I pulled to the parking lot explaining that they were at a critical part of the job. He’d be right out. Then, there he was. A friendly, cool guy covered is all sorts of basement grime with a guitar case in hand. Our hand-off lasted about 40 seconds. I’d secured a Sixty-Six and it was now on its way to join its new family on the wall in our basement.

Outside of the obvious win, there was a more human triumph in the mundane transference of instruments. We were simply two guitar players. No party flags were flown. I couldn’t even guess if our stances were aligned or misaligned. It didn’t matter— not at all. It doesn’t matter. And that’s the point.

In that moment, all of the blow for blow politics that so engulf our American culture seemed trivial. People—at their core—are more alike than they are dissimilar. I did not expect Marketplace to help unearth that realization so blatantly. When it’s always raining kerosene, candle light can easily become a raging forest fire. We, friends are on fire, not just in Los Angeles— in all 50 states.

I was inspired in that moment to do better. To be better. To recognize that kerosene drip for what it is: an instigator. And to give people the benefit of the doubt.

I even think I may start responding differently to, “Hello, is this still available?”

“Yes, hello. It is. And we’re all going to be OK.”

A day later, the new Jazzmaster owner sent me a voice memo of a song he’d written on his new guitar. He is good— very good. Perhaps the guitar is equally as happy as I about its new home.

It’s very fair to say my expectations were off. I was becoming agitated at the prospect of dealing with shitty people. When I found I was not face-to-face with one, it dawned on me that I was the aggressive Marketplacer, not vice versa. Other people we do not know are not by default the other. But they are, as it turns out, much better guitar players.

When did discomfort become the enemy? Maybe what we’re looking for isn’t something to buy but something to create.

Written and read by Nathan Tower.

Ground & Common

Winter in Maine

There are those days when the cold gets all the way inside your bones. By the time you finish your coffee, it’s already 3pm. The sun sits low in the early afternoon. It’s heavy with an idle weight; it’s a deep, deep orange. And She drops fast behind the trees…

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a year ago · Nathan Tower

Winter aside, even the promise of Spring brews little assurance of newfound warmth. Not the warmth we truly crave. We know heat— stifling, discontenting hot. But we’ve forgotten warmth; the kind that reaches beyond the skin and settles somewhere deeper.

There’s a never-ending list of tasks, carts filled with things we don’t really need, and too many unsubscribe buttons to even bother with anymore. Often life feels designed to keep us behind the 8 ball, unable to fathom the invisible burdens others carry. We snap out of autopilot in the middle of the grocery store, staring blankly, unable to recall why we came in to begin with. The next thing has to be right around the corner. Just a click away. Perfectly succinct categories. Ranch dressing. Easy, dumb convenience.

We exhaust each other with shallow distrust and fleeting opinions, leaving behind only a dull haze of disinterest and emojis. Any original ideas melt away before we get to the next post or story. We virtue signal, or so we’re told. We’re met with distaste. But we aren’t wrong when we’re right, and we’re always right when others are mistaken or too lazy to defend themselves.

To the gods of self-improvement we lift our arms, carefully crafting an image of moral integrity. There is no room for disingenuous mask-wearing, only rhythmic Trikonasanas in Lululemon-scented space pods.

Just name it, we say. Admit to your flaws. Be brave— embrace your damage. Stand united. Happy Black Friday to you too, friend. The curated nature of these truth-vomits, however, just feel hollow. They land flat, even in 4K.

Rather than digging deeper into why we behave a certain way, we settle for broadcasting our supposed growth. Is it praiseworthy? Scroll. Do you have what you need? Scroll. Still virtue signaling. Scroll. And charge, but don’t recharge.

Driving over the median is sometimes the fastest way to Target. Traffic or no traffic. The influencers are equally influenced. And the sunsets go unseen. Yes, we captured the thing of it. Keep moving. Discomfort isn’t welcomed here. There should be no discomfort— None. We’re that advanced; we’re too advanced, maybe. We’ve simply worked too hard. No free shipping? No discussion.

Perhaps, warmth isn’t something we buy—it’s something we create. Could that be? Is it in the pauses, the deeply uncomfortable moments or the short, cold afternoons?

Regardless, She drops fast behind the trees.

Link to audio version. As read by Nathan Tower.