“Emotional Support Whiskey” by McCarthy (written on a bar napkin, signed in ketchup)
When the woman cuts in front of me at TSA, I don’t flinch. I picture her face-down in a Marriott pool, clutching a mimosa and a yoga mat. It’s not a murder fantasy. It’s a peace offering.
I am 47 and have cried in more parking lots than churches. A woman once told me I had “sad dad energy,” so I leaned into it— got a flannel, grew a beard, adopted a dog named Regret. We howl at sirens together.
A girl said she likes men who cook— so I made her a soufflé and ghosted myself. Poof. Gone. Left the oven on just in case.
She said I was “too intense,” so I sent her flowers with a card that just said: “RUN.”
Another said I reminded her of her ex. So I slept with her best friend and sent her ex a thank-you note.
When she stopped texting, I took up taxidermy. Now I stuff my feelings into squirrels with tiny hats. I tour the Midwest with them. We sell out in Omaha.
She wanted a man with a five-year plan. I told her I was more of a five-minute man— three of them spent wondering why I still talk to women who say things like “my truth” in a sentence. She left before the microwave hit zero. Good. I didn’t want to share my Hot Pocket anyway.
I don’t key cars. I don’t listen to Taylor Swift unless I’m trying to fake empathy. I don’t write sad-boy poetry on rooftops. I don’t chase closure— but I will send a $2 Venmo labeled “emotional damages” just to see if they flinch.
She told me I was emotionally unavailable. I told her I was emotionally under construction, but the crew quit, the permits expired, and Joy Behar took over middle management. Now my inner child gets interrupted every five seconds and accused of being problematic.
I’m not mad. I’m just tired. Tired of pretending every cup of coffee isn’t just a slow suicide in disguise.
But I’m still here. Still tipping 20%. Still flossing sometimes. Still saying “you too” when the waiter says “enjoy your meal.”
I don’t need closure. I need a burrito and a nap. And maybe someone to lie to me about the future while I pretend I’m not googling if dogs and squirrels can actually be friends.
Most people will die with their bodies in damn good shape. Neatly kept, clean, like they were waiting for the mortician all along. A few crow’s feet, maybe a little sag around the chin, but overall—good enough for the open casket.
The funeral director will nod, “Looks just like them,” they’ll say. As if that’s some kind of fucking achievement.
But then there’s us— The ones who didn’t treat life like a goddamn waiting room. We come in with screws in our bones, plates in our heads, scars running across our skin like crude roadmaps. We come in with cigarette burns, busted knuckles, wrinkles earned in back alleys, in bars, in love, in wars in octagon of life (physical, emotional, financial—pick your poison).
Our hands don’t look soft because they weren’t. Our ribs might have been cracked, our teeth chipped, and our hearts— well, our hearts certainly don’t come in mint condition.
No embalmer can fix what life did to us. No makeup can paint over the shit we’ve been through. They might try to sew up the damage, smooth out the years, but some things don’t hide.
And maybe that’s the point. Maybe it’s better to arrive at the end, not looking like a goddamn mannequin, but like someone who actually lived.
Mental Toughness and Creativity: Lessons from the Titans
Ah, creativity. A fickle mistress, a deceptive muse, a relentless tormentor. It demands from us everything and offers nothing but suffering in return. Yet, we plunge into its chaotic embrace, knowing full well that true brilliance is born from the depths of our agony. To understand this dance with madness, one must look to the hardened warriors of resilience: David Goggins, Jocko Willink, and the indefatigable Rocky Balboa. Imagine them not as athletes or soldiers but as artists, writers, filmmakers, and musicians. Their capacity to endure, to dig deep and savor the pain, is the crucible of their greatness.
David Goggins, a man forged in the fires of suffering, would approach creativity as he does his ultramarathons and SEAL training. His canvas is the battlefield of his mind, his brushstrokes the relentless pursuit of the impossible. Goggins would tell us that creativity is not a gift, but a grind. It is the result of thousands of hours spent honing a craft, of pushing past the point of exhaustion, of embracing the suck. His mantra, “Stay Hard,” would become the battle cry of the artist willing to bleed for their vision. Goggins teaches us that to create is to suffer, and to suffer well is to create something truly extraordinary.
Then there’s Jocko Willink, the stoic warrior of discipline. For him, creativity is a war, a series of battles fought in the trenches of self-doubt and procrastination. Jocko’s advice is simple: get up early, show up, and do the work. He would see the blank page, the empty canvas, the silent instrument as an adversary to be conquered with relentless discipline. “Discipline equals freedom,” he preaches, and in the realm of creativity, this means mastering the basics, committing to a schedule, and attacking the process with military precision. Jocko would remind us that every masterpiece is built on a foundation of mundane, repetitive tasks executed with unwavering focus.
And then we have Rocky Balboa, the quintessential underdog. Rocky’s story is one of grit, heart, and the indomitable human spirit. As an artist, Rocky would teach us the value of perseverance in the face of relentless failure. He would stumble, fall, and get back up, each time with a little more wisdom, a little more fire in his belly. Rocky’s motto, “It ain’t about how hard you hit; it’s about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward,” is a testament to the resilience required in the creative journey. His work would be raw, unpolished, but bursting with authenticity and soul. Rocky shows us that the beauty of art lies not in perfection but in the relentless pursuit of one’s passion, despite the odds.
In the end, creativity is not a serene stroll through the park but a grueling marathon, a bloody battle, a tenacious climb up an unforgiving mountain. It’s about embracing the pain, finding joy in the struggle, and knowing that every ounce of suffering is a testament to the work we’ve put in. Goggins, Willink, and Balboa each illuminate a path through this wilderness, showing us that the true artist, the true creator, is one who revels in the suffering, who finds strength in the darkness, and who emerges, bloodied but unbowed, with a masterpiece in hand. For in the crucible of our torment, we find the purest expression of our creative selves.
As we peer through the rear-view mirror at the years 2015-2025, the contours of that tumultuous era appear both jagged and instructive. With the clarity that only hindsight affords, we now ask ourselves: was this the period that presaged the demise of the West, or was it merely a tempest in the teapot of history?
The decade began with a global landscape pockmarked by crises. Political upheaval, the resurgence of nationalism, and a pandemic that rattled the very foundations of societal norms—these were but a few of the seismic events that defined the period. The United States, that erstwhile beacon of democracy and economic prowess, found itself grappling with internal schisms as deep and abrasive as any since the Civil War.
It was a period characterized by the rise of populism, where figures like Donald Trump in the United States and other nationalist leaders across Europe commandeered the public discourse. They tapped into a wellspring of discontent that had festered in the underbelly of globalization’s promises, harnessing the fears and frustrations of those who felt left behind by a rapidly changing world.
Yet, as is often the case, the pendulum of public opinion swung with vigorous unpredictability. The West’s obituarists, who in their haste had drafted somber epilogues, perhaps underestimated the resilience of democratic institutions and the liberal order. Despite the cacophony of crises, the core structures held firm, battered yet unbroken.
The mid-twenties were a testament to the tenacity of these systems. Despite burgeoning cries that the liberal model had run its course, there emerged a renewed commitment to the principles of freedom, equality, and justice. This was not a smooth recalibration; it was contentious, often messy, and invariably incomplete. Yet, it was a definitive rebuff to those who predicted a rapid descent into irrelevance for Western democracies.
What then of the extreme divisiveness that marked those years? It is here that we glean perhaps the most poignant lesson. The divisiveness was, in no small measure, fueled by the echo chambers of digital media—platforms that often amplified the most extreme voices to the detriment of nuanced discourse. The societal polarization this engendered was palpable, reaching a crescendo in the early 2020s. Although, the greatest achievement that seemed to bring the country and the west a touch closer was the declaration of Fentanyl as a weapon of mass destruction in late 2024. Before the end of 2025 the military had demolished every Cartel and their annexes, and all who were caught selling counterfeit pills laced with the poison were sentenced to death and that was the end of what took more lives than 911, the pandemic, or any war since World War 2. And, thus far, no new cartels have been able to resurrect themselves.
Now, decades later, we appreciate the cyclical nature of history. The fissures that seemed so insurmountable have, in many respects, been bridged by a subsequent generation that views the ideological battles of their forebears with a mixture of bewilderment and instructive caution.
In retrospect, the decade from 2015 to 2025 was neither the nadir of the West nor an era of unmitigated calamity. It was a crucible moment, one that tested the mettle of institutions and the spirit of societies. The lessons gleaned from those years have informed newer, more adaptive approaches to governance and social cohesion.
Thus, as we look back from a vantage point of relative stability, we realize that our forebodings were perhaps overstated. The period under review was undeniably marked by trials and tribulations, but it was also a testament to the durability and adaptability of the Western model. It reminds us, in no uncertain terms, that the course of history is seldom linear and never preordained. The resilience of the West was not guaranteed—it was earned. And therein lies the fundamental insight of this retrospective examination.
So, you’re itching to surf the savage swells of production, eager to plummet into the void where the only beacon is the frenzied luminescence of creativity colliding with deadlines? Strap in, for you’re about to embark on an expedition through the annals of time, escorted by tales of the damned, navigating through the chaos with nothing but sheer audacity.
Let’s kick this off with a smidge of history, tinged with the cosmic irony of a universe so bizarre it might have sprung from the depths of a George Lucas fever dream. Picture this: the Producer of old, nothing more than a watchman, rooted beside their mailbox, longing for the day “a job” might land in their lap. A silent guardian, never daring to question the narrative, the purpose, or the mechanics. Simply a vessel for another’s dream.
Now, let me take you down a rabbit hole of personal revelation, through the lens of a career that’s ricocheted between the peaks of award-winning euphoria and the gutters of despair so deep, they’d make Dante’s Inferno seem like a stroll in the park. From crafting ads that snagged accolades, steering documentaries and Super Bowl commercials, to navigating the stratosphere as a Chief Creative Officer, I’ve worn the hats. Yet, the role that tested the very fabric of my being was that of the Producer, and for a spell, the Executive Director of Integrated Production. Amidst the pomp and circumstance of public victories, I’ve danced with demons in the shadowy recesses of failure and self-doubt. Hence, I preach: confidence is but a fleeting specter for us mortals.
ADVANCE—
Catapult to the tumultuous now of 2024, where lounging idly, fingers intertwined, awaiting the muse’s grace or a project’s embrace, is as archaic as the analog tones of dial-up. The modern Producer is an entity unto themselves: a renegade, a disruptor in the creative tapestry, a bringer of bedlam and brilliance. Gone are the days of mere paper-pushing and deadline wrangling; behold the digital circus’s ringmaster, synchronizing the celestial dance of stars and strategy from inception.
My tenure taught me the audacity to compete, to present ideas and scripts not as bids for glory, but as offerings to the collective genius. Beware, for if the shadow of bureaucracy and the specter of politics deter you, this path is fraught with peril. My method? Relentless toil. A dash of competitive zeal blended seamlessly with an unyielding spirit of camaraderie. Present your ideas with open palms—gifts to those who find them worthy. This isn’t about accolades; it’s about being an indispensable arsenal, a beacon of tenacity and resilience amidst the inevitable storms of rejection.
In your odyssey, you may align with digital seers, strategy savants, and the odd account executive (their numbers etched in your mental Rolodex). Should you possess the audacity, you might just ignite a project with a mere hunch, a flutter of innovation, or a gadget that catches your fancy. Dare to whisper, “Behold,” and watch the dominoes tumble.
Is there a knot in your stomach? Excellent. That’s the essence of challenge permeating the air. Echoing the sage words of Seth Godin, the true arena lies in igniting the flame of innovation without a formal summons. The realm is sparse, populated by those few souls brave enough to court the ire of the creative deities. Yet, having battled in these trenches, I assure you, the pantheon of creativity craves not solitude but the spark of collaboration.
Questioning, probing, diving into the abyss with eyes wide open—this becomes your shield, your lance. In an epoch where the pace of demand transcends sound, your inquisitiveness will illuminate the shadows, revealing treasures hidden well beyond the confines of the brief. You need not the laurels of academia to conquer this domain, only the raw courage to dream, to forge, to steer your vessel through the maelstrom, and dock upon the shores of the Imaginative beyond.
If you enter the fray, merely a cog, obedient and unassuming, you squander a seat that might have been filled by a revolutionary. It’s a simple task to fade into the background, to nod in acquiescence, to play the part of the obedient soldier. Yet, in shunning the challenge, in eschewing the call to arms, you are not merely stationary; you are in retreat.
So, as you traverse the urban sprawl or meander through the morning’s quietude, whisper to yourself: I am the Creative Producer of 2024. Fearless. Focused. A maelstrom of passion and purpose, defying the chains of bureaucracy, weaving through the mire of negativity, embracing the winds of change with every fiber of my existence. I am the vanguard of evolution, a harbinger of what’s to come. And so, as the first light of dawn breaches the horizon, a reminder: This journey, this odyssey through the kaleidoscopic chaos of creation, began with a simple, yet profound query—do you dare to navigate the tempestuous seas of production?
The gauntlet, tossed at your feet amidst the ruins of convention and the specter of the mundane, beckons. It’s more than a challenge; it’s a call to arms for those brave enough to wrestle with the abyss, where the only beacons are your wit, your will, and the wild heart that beats within.
Do you pick it up? Because remember, my soon-to-be frazzled friend, in the grand tapestry of creation, it’s not just about surviving the tempest—it’s about becoming the storm.
