I followed that approach on movie reviews my entire life. There were good features that were worthy of an Oscar or bad movies that stunk and deserved to rot in Netflix purgatory. Then, a few years ago, my friend Ron invited me to watch Barbarian, which was the Obsession horror phenom of the season. After the curtains closed, he turned to me and asked, “What’d you think?”

“It wasn’t that good. I guess it wasn’t bad…”

“But, it was FUN,” he remarked.

And since then, my eyes have been opened to not just a third category of movie grading, but a spectrum of nuance in reviews. So, I want to begin this review of Brand New Day by clocking that I enjoyed this movie both during and afterwards. It granted me escape from the stress and rigors of daily life, but it’s also afforded me the space to ruminate, argue with my family and friends, and speculate on meaning. Isn’t that what the movies are all about?

On its face, Spider-Man: Brand New Day is worth the admission. It has everything you’d expect from a Spider-Man movie: comic book villains, web-slinging action, and compelling performances from Hollywood sweethearts Tom Holland and Zendaya. We booked our tickets late, which meant only 3-D viewings were available (ugh), but the glasses worked in our favor during the stomach-turning skyscraper falls and fiery explosions. I usually pay for expensive naps in dark theaters, but Brand New Day held my attention for two-plus hours. I was locked in.

I attended the premiere of the last Spider-Man movie, No Way Home, in 2021, and I’ll never forget the audience reaction when the other two Spider(-Men?) cameoed. The theater erupted. The roars were so loud that, for a minute afterward, we missed the dialogue completely. If you’re expecting that type of adrenaline rush, you might leave wanting more. This isn’t a movie built to farm memes or Easter eggs. It’s a classical Spider-Man movie. It’s a Peter Parker story. And that’s exactly what we need right now.

One of the loudest critiques of the previous Spider-Man chapter was the fatigue around multiverse storytelling. So much of the conflict existed around Spider-Man, creating a massive spectacle to watch, but offering less insight into the person underneath the mask. We spent more time doing Marvel math than understanding motivations.

Brand New Day, meanwhile, turns inward, focusing on Peter Parker’s internal battle instead. This is a movie about the loneliness of being a misunderstood hero. It’s less of a love story and more of a post-breakup saga. It centers on the difficulty of rebuilding yourself after losing everything and the uncomfortable process of rediscovering connection after your closest relationships have been severed.

When I was onstage with director Destin Daniel Cretton earlier this summer, we talked about how emotional and introspective this Spider-Man feels, and that’s what makes it refreshing. Peter isn’t just geeky, heroic, and frustrated. He can also be lost, scared, withdrawn, and suffering quietly.

When I think about 2026’s biggest box office successes, there’s an uptick in movies like these: stories about belonging, rebuilding trust and relationships. The Odyssey and Project Hail Mary are about individuals who lose their social anchors and must find their way back. You even see shades of this in Obsession, where Bear’s friends recede and his girlfriend becomes unrecognizable. Suddenly, you’re all alone — invisible or alien to the world around you. With all the conversation around the loneliness epidemic, fewer close friendships in adulthood, and declining rates of dating and marriage among younger generations, it’s not surprising that these themes are prevailing at the box office. In the traditional Hero’s Journey, the protagonist leaves home to slay the dragon. Today, the dragon might be disconnection, and the victory is finding a way back to other people.

But that journey begs a herculean task: discovering who you are without the social scaffolding around you. We are increasingly enmeshed within the uni-context: living within a shared, universal room of norms. It homogenizes us and makes it harder to hold onto our individuality. I think about this often when I worry about how much media my children consume. When I was growing up, there were a handful of institutions and local communities that shaped our worldview. Today, we are exposed to a cacophony of voices and global opinions. It has expanded our perspective, but it has also made us more comparative — and, what’s worse, more comparable.

One of the strongest critiques I’ve read about Brand New Day comes by way of David Sims’ editorial in The Atlantic. His argument is that the movie fails to deliver on the promise of bringing Spider-Man “back to basics.” Instead, it gets pulled into the larger machinery of MCU storytelling: linking characters, expanding mythology, and serving a universe beyond itself. Increasingly, Marvel movies struggle to exist as standalone works.

I get it. The Punisher is one of my favorite Marvel characters, and even I felt some of his elements in this movie were superfluous. But I think there’s something missing from Sims’ thesis: Spider-Man has never existed in a vacuum. Neither have we.

Peter Parker’s story has always been indivisible from the Marvel Universe. Since his inception, Spider-Man has been defined by the people around him. He tried to join the Fantastic Four. He crosses paths with The Avengers. He admires Captain America. These characters aren’t just distractions; they are reflections, if not extensions. They represent different versions of heroism, responsibility, and identity. They help Peter understand who he is, even if it means highlighting what he isn’t.

In many ways, Spider-Man and Marvel are symbiotic. He not only connects storylines, but generations of fandom. Like Mickey Mouse to Disney, Spider-Man unites decades of comic book readers and audiences who’ve identified a piece of themselves within Peter’s character.

The previous Spider-Man movies often asked: Who is Peter Parker without Spider-Man?

This movie asks a different question: Who is Spider-Man without Peter Parker?

That prompt hangs over the others as well. Who are Ned and MJ without Peter? What is the MCU without him? And, eventually, it brings us back to ourselves: Who are we – not just without Spider-Man -- but the stories and communities that have shaped us?

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Eleven movies in, it’s harder to separate ourselves from everyone’s favorite Marvel superhero. We keep returning to the same theater, searching for some reflection of ourselves in the mask. But when the lights come up and the credits roll, are we any clearer about who we are? What we believe? What we stand for when we step back into our own worlds?

That answer is worth searching for.

While we need independence to discover ourselves, we also look to the people, places, and communities around us to understand who we are. Peter Parker learns that firsthand in Brand New Day, and so do we. Even Spider-Man isn’t the same without a web.

As most of you know, my background is in being a creator and founder. When I was 23 years old, I had one dream. I wanted to start a clothing brand. I wanted people to see my art, and I wanted to be heard.

I held fast to that dream. And thanks to you, we got there. We opened stores and stocked The Hundreds worldwide and assembled a global community. I felt seen and understood. Best of all, I saw and understood you.

But as I grew, I wanted more. I wanted… new. My partner Ben and I built and sold a food festival. I wrote books. All under the umbrella of a singular idea. Truthfully, I had followed one dream for so long, I’d forgotten how to imagine beyond the expected. Life became routine and predictable. I knew where the sun rose every morning and I stopped running to the window to witness it.

Today, The Hundreds is nearing 23 years old (the age I was when we started the company) but I am also the Global Creative Director of Disney Consumer Products. The moment I stepped foot on Disney’s Creative Campus, I was met with merciless change. New faces, new vocabulary, new systems. It was incredibly hard. I took it one day at a time. One finance term under my belt. A relationship forged. A code unlocked. I complained a lot, because I am weak. I dove back into the choppy waters, because I am stubborn.

There are 2 things people ask you for when they hear you’re at Disney:

1) Park tickets

2) A job.

The strangest thing started to happen. Friends asked how my gig was going and if there was room for someone like them at the company. Artists, musicians, fellow founders… People I’d never imagine working for a corporation, curious about what it was like to be a Disney employee. Designers who’d never considered Disney were now wondering about a collaboration.

It was hauntingly similar to when The Hundreds set up shop on Fairfax Ave. twenty years ago. Streetwear upstarts, graffiti artists, and burgeoning rap collectives read my blog and it opened their eyes to what was possible. “Maybe I can start a brand too.” “Maybe I can make a living off of my passions.” “Maybe I could move to Los Angeles and pursue my Streetwear Dreams.”

These Dreams. They can evade us. Yet they are right in front of you, hiding in plain sight. Sometimes it takes an example* to see them clearly. This is how stories work. It’s hard to relate to an unfamiliar world, but if you can empathize with a hero, you can see yourself within that alternate reality. And your mind expands beyond the same. You are transformed.

*We call them role models, but they don’t have to be aspirational figures. They can just be a regular dude like me who veers off course onto the road less traveled. The one who breaks the pattern and jars you awake. And if you don’t have that person in your life, maybe you can be that for someone else.

After 18 years, today is Bob Iger’s last day as CEO of the Walt Disney Company. My President, Tasia Filippatos, is moving on to head Disney’s International Parks. And it also happens to be the 1-year anniversary of my joining Disney. Lots of change. Lots of growth.

On this day, 2025, I had but one dream. And thanks to my leaders Marcus Rosie, Tasia, and Bob, I am living it. But now, I’m dreaming more dreams, because they continue to show me how to evolve and expand in my capacity at this company. Disney has been a recurring theme throughout my life, but I never thought I could be a part of the legacy. What else is out there? I now know there is more.

The world is alive with possibilities again. I hope you can see them too.

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My Favorite Books I read in 2025:

Favorite Movies that Released in 2025

• Marty Supreme

• Superman

• One Battle After Another

• F1

• Zootopia 2

• The Great Flood

• Thunderbolts

• *Haven’t watched No Other Choice, Sinners, Weapons

Favorite TV Shows that Released in 2025 (Admittedly, I watched even less TV than usual this year):

• Task

• Physical 100: Asia

• Bluey

• Chief of War

• When Life Gives You Tangerines

My Favorite Sneakers of 2025

• Basketcase X New Balance

• Undefeated X Nike Air Max 95

• Supreme X Dr. Martens

• Futura Laboratories X Crocs

• Travis Barker X VANS

• ERL Vamp Mules

• Reese Cooper X UGGS

• Mattias Gollin X VANS

• Yu-Gi-Oh! x Nike Air Max 95 QS ‘Joey’

• Satoshi Nakamoto X VANS

• Vandy the Pink X ASICS

• Story MFG X ASICS

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My Favorite Disney Collaborations of 2025

• Disney X Nahmias

• Mickey Mouse X Number (N)ine X Supreme

• Disney X Topps Chrome

• Disney X Basketcase

• Disney X Selfridges

• Toy Story X Levi’s

• Simpsons X Fortnite

• Star Wars X Lego

• The Muppets X Gap

• Monster’s Inc. X Crocs

• Star Wars X Columbia

• Marvel vs. Capcom X KITH

• Disney X F1

My Favorite Bites of 2025:

• Lobster Spaghetti at The Benjamin

• Lorenzo California

• Once More Chinese

• Samoa Sundae at The Corner Store

• The Mulberry

• Meat Loaf at Max & Helen’s

• Miya Miya

• Tacos del Valle

• Domu

• Vulcania

• Sampaguita Ice Cream

• Budonoki

• Marcus’s House, Tokyo

Before the ‘90s, most racing helmets were function over form, safety equipment decorated in the driver’s national colors with minimal graphics. Schumacher disrupted the game. His Ferrari red, star-marked helmet was his Jordan Jumpman. It was a logo, a branding icon, a personality you could spot even if you didn’t know a single rule about downforce or parc fermé. The helmet made the sport about him — the man — not the machine. F1 instantly became more human: relatable and accessible. That design decision broke open a notoriously impenetrable world to millions who otherwise would’ve tuned out.

Schumacher understood something most elite cultures never figure out: if you want the world to care, you give them something human to hold onto.

This past weekend, Formula 1 hosted over 300,000 attendees at the Las Vegas Grand Prix. For the first time, Disney joined the race with Mickey and Friends walking the pit, Anderson .Paak DJ’ing in a Fantasia shirt, the Disneyland band performing the National Anthem, and a Mickey Mouse performance at the Fountains of Bellagio by Disney Live Entertainment.

On behalf of the Creative team and Disney Consumer Products, I fielded over thirty interviews from the media about this collaboration. Although the queries ran the spectrum, there was one question on every reporter’s mind: “So, why Disney and F1?”

When I joined Disney in the Spring, I wondered the same. Disney X F1 was one of the first briefs that dropped into my inbox. My first thought: “How are we gonna marry these two in a way where in hindsight, it’ll look like love was inevitable?”

The business had identified an opportunity, and the commercial benefits were clear for both sides. As F1 expands its global reach, it needs to convert people of all ages and backgrounds. There’s no brand that better meets the consumer where they are than Disney. From a marketing perspective, Disney must maintain its grip on cultural relevance. F1 maintains dominance not just in sport, but fashion, content, and collaborations.

From the Creative point of view, we tapped into the design history across both brands. F1 and Disney have heavy legacies with deep fandoms. There’s a lot of code, iconography, and vocabulary to draw from. At the same time, it was important that the designs weren’t weighed down in the past. Both F1 and Disney are progressive, forward-facing brands. F1 on the frontlines of sport. Disney on the leading edge of entertainment. The magic was in finding balance between honoring history and driving the future.

But when it came time to explicate, “Why? Why Disney and F1?,” the nexus was storytelling. In 1950, when F1’s first inaugural race kicked off in Silverstone, England, it was still an automotive sport based around fast cars and competitive finishes. Today, F1’s global popularity is also attributed to its celebrity power, the high-stakes drama, and the theater playing out from the cinema to the Paddock Club red carpet. Disney, meanwhile, is the master of mythmaking. F1 has its drivers and Disney has its characters and superheroes. F1 has its Grand Prix. Disney has its parks.

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Storytelling is about finding the humanity in the world, the specific in the universal, and making sense of a complex and chaotic universe. By distilling an affluent sport down to a personal narrative, Schumacher transformed an exclusive club into an inclusive community.

F1 can be aspirational, but it can also feel culturally opaque and socially inaccessible. That’s why content has been so integral for the sport’s growth. The dramatic plots have granted access for those who can’t afford a paddock ticket. Like Schumacher’s helmet, entertaining stories remind us that underneath all that metal and carbon fiber, there’s a person in there.

And that’s why Disney and F1. Because nobody can resist a smile when they see Goofy plodding down the pit. In a highly competitive, tribal sport, Minnie and Donald traipse neutrally trackside. And whether you’re an expert or novice, Mickey and Friends will take your hand and walk you into the race. Something human to hold onto.

Because you may not be a pro, but you can still play. And most inspiring of all, you can still play a part.

Sports fandom is a spectrum, and I hang on the pole that shows up for the playoffs and finals but hardly wanders into the field of stats and strategy. Growing up, I played soccer and tennis but loved skateboarding and snowboarding because they were more art than system, more dance than ritual. Sports is bound with deep histories and traditions. I saw rules. And action sports were creative and expressive. I saw freedom.

I married a sports wife and had sports children. My first son is an athlete, and I’ve found a renewed understanding for basketball through his games. We watch a lot of sports in this house, from NBA to F1, NFL to UFC. Although there is still little in me that desires to bump bodies and physically compete in these games, I have become obsessed with the mysticism of sport. Wondering what’s on the other side of the finish line. Who’s still standing? How, with all these advancements we’ve made, do we still not know? Sports is very much an act of being in the present – “in the zone” – but its sparkle is that it shadowboxes with the future, constantly predicting fates, speculating and hypothesizing what the outcome might be. And it reminds us time and again that we could be wrong and how fallible we are. Anything is possible.

Even when they try to Moneyball the data, sports evades us. It’s a romantic thought, but I love the idea that the computers will never be able to catch up to the caprice and idiosyncrasies of the humans. We are complex universes, guided by our own nutrition and experiences and genetic makeups, incalculable and unquantifiable. We are infinite and unpredictable and when you put that many of us together on a playing field, you never know what might happen.

Last night, the Los Angeles Dodgers won Game 7 of a once-in-a-lifetime World Series against the Toronto Blue Jays. Here was a battle for the ages, two teams, perfectly matched to the point where the winner was less defined by merit and skills and more dictated by time constraints and game allowances. If baseball series could go on forever, the Dodgers and the Blue Jays could have thrown hands endlessly, tit-for-tat, one run exchanged for the other’s, until their bats exploded (which, they did) and their muscles ran ragged.

There were countless times where the Dodgers should have lost, but they didn’t. There were moments where the Blue Jays clearly won, but the tape mysteriously showed otherwise. Skirmishes and slides, plumes of dust settling on surprise finishes, and double plays that turned the game so suddenly, they’d give you whiplash. This game, this series, this war, was a mishmash of miracles and it captured our imaginations, every last one of us, even the dilettantes and overnight online experts.

Sports continues to captivate us because it safeguards the last bastion of surprise and wonder. Technology tenders the illusion that we can harness the unknown. We have all this information now and it makes us feel better in a fraught and anxious climate. To forecast what’s next. To prepare for the uncharted. At some point, we got it wrong, that mystery is bad and uncertainty is wrong, an ill feeling. Sports is proof that not-knowing can be uncomfortable – even painful -- but it can also be fun. Within that discomfort, there is room for the imagination to spark and creativity to flourish. Problem solving, resourcefulness, leaning on community for support, drawing on wisdom, are all called upon in the dark anti-gravity of outer space.

The world around us has become increasingly formulaic and predictable. Algorithms and patterns have done a great job of making our lives routine and efficient – and safe. But that can also mean a conventional existence, repetitive, and boring. When a ball gets amazingly stuck in a fence or a home run saves the day, we are jarred awake, jostled out of our ruts, where our eyes widen to the possibility of the impossible. Maybe there is more magic out there for us. Maybe our life can be a nail-biting World Series finish also, spun into extra innings, where the crack and the pop of a ball soaring in the night sky can make all the difference between the mundane and immortality.

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Sometimes, it seems like our lived experience has gotten so streamlined and optimized that we manufacture problems to have something to work through. What is creativity without struggle, what is revelation without breakthrough, what is growth without pain?

My sons are teenagers now, but their playgrounds were padded and so were their childhoods. They even had the privilege of cutting Disneyland lines. The worst part of the day is when their 2FA gets lost in the junk filter. I think about how their ancestors survived war, famine, immigration, and grueling work to provide as comfortable of an existence for them as possible. Every generation’s purpose is to make the environment easier and more abundant for the next. But is there a point where we go so far in rounding the corners that we’re starved for purpose and stuffed with boredom?

We’ve nestled into these 3D-printed grooves in our daily routines, set on a theme park track that shepherds us from one tram stop to the next. These are highly intricate systems that have been refined and choreographed for thousands of years, pruned of struggle and character-building, processed and deep-fried… to the point where the routine has become machine. “This is how a car is designed.” And so we’ve been stuck with the same model and orientation for 100 years. “This is how a blockbuster film is structured.” And Western film has shackled itself with the 12 steps of Joseph Campbell’s Hero’s Journey. Daily life is like a Nathan Fielder sketch: rehearsed, honed, and meticulously standardized. Are we ever gonna get an iPhone redesign?

Are we getting better and more efficient at living? Maybe. But I think we’ve flattened our realities in the pursuit of deeper rituals and patterns. We’ve conditioned ourselves to abide by systems of predictable lifestyles and social dynamics — best practices — because humans are wired to protect themselves from threats. That means reducing unexpected outcomes and mitigating risk. But we’re leaving ourselves a world without wonder, where curiosity is choked, and pure creativity is throttled. Fashion becomes formulaic and streaming music becomes algorithmic.

Even buying has gotten boring. Have you ever thought about how it easy it’s become to consume? You used to have to drive to a store or a restaurant. You’d price-compare across retailers or seek out recommendations from friends. There was a hunt, a chase, and the purchase not only yielded utility, but recreation and purpose. Now, everything is funneled into a single click. My children used to think it amazing that every time they opened our front door, a hot meal was waiting for us on the welcome mat. Food tastes a little less delicious when you don’t invest the full effort to gather it (and when it’s not sealed in a plastic geranium, humidifying on the floor of a stranger’s Altima).

Every now and then, artists attempt to break the monotony by disrupting the traditional flow. Beyoncé or Tyler will drop an album unannounced, without the usual marketing rollout. As much as we like to complain about collaborations, a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup X OREO still interrupts our feed. Olivia Rodrigo brings Weezer onstage at Lollapalooza, bridging generations of pop music. A comic book superhero will break the rules across multiverses in a way that drives brand narrators, Reddit purists, and studio lawyers insane.

Surprise has become the most valuable feature of any cultural impact.

We’ve cultivated such refined patterns that we’ve become masterful predictors of what’s next. It makes us feel safe and satiated, but it also makes us indifferent and uninspired. This is why Trump continues to control the discourse. We never know what he’ll say, which tariffs he’ll enact, or who he’ll pardon. Biden was forgettable and ultimately unwinnable because he was so mind-numbingly stable and consistent. There were days, even weeks, where we didn’t think about who was sitting in the Oval Office. And even if we did, we weren’t entertaining thoughts of what he’d do next. It was always business as usual.

But the ticker tapes and our imaginations won’t let go of Trump. He spins erratically off-course, shoots off the scales, splinters off into his own alternate timelines. It’s not entertainment. It’s a haywire thrill ride: frightening and worrisome and stressful. We are always on our toes, not in anticipation, but in anxiety. And that captures our nervous systems in a Biden-boring universe.

Think of what else grabs our attention and snaps us out of the algorithm. We are riveted by sports because they are full of surprising unknowns, even against the backdrop of staunch traditions. At one point, moneyball and datafication stripped the game of its fun by quantifying victory and money over chance and surprise. The league adapted by moving the goalposts, keeping the show electric and unexpected. Even off the court, as with the mid-season Luka Doncic trade to the Lakers, sports news can be shocking and steal the imagination.

Nothing is more enthralling than the weather and natural disasters. Mother Nature is the last bastion of the uncontrollable, the unknowable, and the unexpected. Since the beginning of time, predicting the weather has been akin to sorcery. And so we are tantalized and beguiled by its volatile patterns. Nature’s capricious movements are impossible to code algorithms around and the consequences can be devastating. A tsunami off of Russia, maybe… but an earthquake in New York? I didn’t see that coming.

When people talk about Labubu, I think it’s fair to attribute the doll’s success to the artist Patrick Lasung. But it’s really their retailer Pop Mart that should be commended for injecting surprise into a stale and predictable shopping experience. When cynics equate Labubus with Funkos, they are overlooking a critical component of Pop Mart’s toys’ success: there’s no window on their boxes. With Funko, it’s a linear transaction. You point at the product you want and go home happy with it. With Pop Mart, there’s a question mark hanging over the entire experience.

The blind-box is nothing new to toys and collectibles. Even McDonald’s Happy Meals were a crapshoot of scoring a Grimace or Hamburglar. But Pop Mart’s total premise is founded on limited series of blind-box toys where the odds of winning the “chase” — a greyed-out “Secret” character — is printed on the side of the box (1 out of 72). It’s an inception of surprises: Which toys are in stock? Of those boxes, which figure will I win? And there’s a tiny chance I unbox the grand prize — a collectible that hasn’t been identified yet. A Russian egg of reveals.

Pokemon cards and sports cards have been “blind-boxing” for generations now. But the surprise has hit a fever pitch in cards because traditional collecting has gotten so formulaic, convenient, and mundane. With sneakers and streetwear (two collectors’ pastimes that have lost their froth), what you see is what you get. The process is catalyzed by hype and low supply, but it’s rhythmic and follows a ritualistic cadence. Imagine how the hobby would transform if sneaker collecting carried a rogue Trump moment. What if 1 out of 72 customers open the Undefeated Jordan IV box to discover an original pair from 2005, worth $40,000 at resale?

Gamification also juices the element of surprise. Video games, for example, steal our focus over television and movies because the outcomes are unknown. You never know what’s around the corner and so research and strategy are paramount to survival. Adrenaline and anxiety stay high, along with the stakes. With blind-box collecting, there’s a proper gambling structure that is fueled by “live breaks” (where streamers unbox and unwrap card packs over social channels, taking viewers on the emotional ride of risk-taking and rewarding payoffs), a dynamic secondary market (propped up by apps like Whatnot, StockX, and eBay), and a rabid hobbyist community who gather on Discord and at conventions, adding a social layer to commerce.

More surprise. More fun.

Surprise will only grow in importance and value in an AI-dominant world. LLMs and machine-learning make predictions off of patterns, recycling and repeating existing answers to prompts. A “Trump” AI would skew off-script and be terribly inefficient in providing precise solutions. But it would become the disruptive outlier that would stand apart from the pack and ultimately gain notice.

My family was sitting at brunch yesterday at this quaint neighborhood diner. The host warmly greeted us and walked us to the table. I couldn’t tell you much about her. But the server who followed her had an eccentric rapport. Her responses were a half-second delayed (Gen Z stare?) and her replies were slightly off-kilter — just enough to make you recalibrate your positions.

“I’m thinking the breakfast burrito or the huevos rancheros. Can you help me tip the balance?”

“Hmm… I love the huevos rancheros. Definitely get them with your pancakes.”

But, I’d never mentioned pancakes. And that seemed like a lot of food.

“Pancakes? Should I get those instead?”

“I wouldn’t. The air is so much clearer today.”

She smiled the entire time and made eye contact, but we had difficulty meeting her head-on in dialogue. The banter careened around unexpected turns and when she was in the kitchen, we found ourselves talking about her more than the meal. Not in a derisive way, but in a way that we found her interesting. When we watched her work the room, you could see other patrons entertained by her presence as well, engaging with her over the other servers.

She had brown, curly hair. My wife thought she looked half-Asian, but I thought Latina. Her name was Jasmine.

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In brand and business, there’s a lot of talk about cutting through the noise. It’s harder to be conspicuous when the Internet molds us into conformity. It takes a little more thought and effort to stick out when the centrifugal force of hegemony, institutional ideology, mainstream code and culture are exerting all their weight to tuck you back in. But fight complacency. Take the path of resistance. Climb out of the rut and fall out of step with convention.

Don’t just make a sale. Make a memory.
Make it fun, not forgettable.
And keep ‘em guessing. The sooner they know your next move, the sooner they’ll tune you out, lost in a static abyss of white noise, formulaic product, and foreseeable endings.

Surprise them. And you just might surprise yourself.

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Any owner of IP (a familiar logo, a nostalgic band, an iconic cartoon character) can license their work out to a Licensee in exchange for a royalty fee. You can be a Hollywood studio, a coffee shop owner, an artist with a lovable mascot... Every deal is different, but Licensors (the ones who own the license) typically charge the Licensees between an 8-12% royalty to use their property. They often have an MG (Minimum Guarantee) in place as well. That means that Licensees are on the hook for a minimum amount of dollars, regardless if they make that money off of the arrangement.

Licensing has been around for generations, but modern commercial licensing exploded in the 20th Century with The Walt Disney Co. spearheading the charge. The first licensed product was a Mickey Mouse writing tablet, then the iconic Mickey Mouse watches, and throughout the 1930s, everything from dolls to toothpaste to wallpaper.

For the past decade, I’ve been seeing the landscape change at the annual Licensing Show. When we first started prowling the convention center, streetwear guys like us were rummaging for candy bars, classic cartoons, and ‘90s music artists to collab with. The more niche, the more personal — the more storytelling — the more meaningful. This was a golden era of Streetwear Licensing that wasn’t necessarily big on returns for the Licensor or Licensee, but was high in marketing volume and PR hits.

Eventually, Licensors determined that the marketing juice wasn’t worth the squeeze and they needed to see more of a return on their investments. So they upped their MGs and edited their Licensee lists down to the most successful partners who could deliver. Five years ago, those collaborators were riding the anime wave. You might remember this period in COVID history, where every mall retailer had Japanese animation banners in their window displays like Dragonball and Hunter Hunter. The same goes for horror movies, Deftones tees, and for some reason, Dennis Rodman.

@shanneythichOf course ❤️ @POP MART US #popmart #popmartunboxing #blindbox #bagcharm #labubu #crybaby

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This year, the Licensing Show skewed heavily into Asian kawaii plush, especially of the blind-box vinyl figure kind or bag-charm keychain variety. This isn’t a new trend in fashion and figurines, especially if you live in the East. But there has been a sudden swell in interest around this genre of collectibles over the past year, largely due to…

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“How’s… you know.. how’s the new job?”

They fumble around the ask. I get it. It’s awkward.

For over twenty years, much of my public persona was grounded in my career. And much of my career was framed as being an entrepreneur and founder.

And not just any business owner. But one that was outspoken about personal indepen…

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Two hours into my flight, my stomach growled, waking me from a nap. It was time. Have the tray tables gotten smaller? They’re like the size of an iPad now — I always feel like I’m playing make-believe tea-time on a princess toy set. I gently removed the salad’s cover and the condiments. I balanced a full cup of ranch dressing while peeling open a bag of tortilla strips. I unearthed the container of sweet barbecue sauce that turns a lifeless box of lettuce into a festive culinary explosion. As I sat up in my chair to get a handle on things, I jostled the table with my left knee and the barbecue sauce tumbled onto the woman’s leg next to me. I was horrified. She was dressed well, wearing cream sweatpants and a designer bag.

“Oh my God,” I gasped, as I searched for napkins in the store bag. "Here, let me —”

The woman laughed, as she dabbed at the maroon bruise on her thigh with some ice. “Don’t worry about it,” she smiled. “They’re Amazon.”

We were flying back from Maui for our annual Spring Break trip, which conveniently coincides with my birthday. We don’t shop a ton while we’re on vacation, but I do like stopping at the outdoor mall in Wailea to see what the surf brands like Volcom and Billabong are up to. Years ago, I was doing some light consulting for companies in this sector, who never quite righted the ship after a prosperous ‘80s and ‘90s. Eventually, they were consolidated and owned by the same company, who filed for bankruptcy a couple months ago.

“This shopping center must be struggling,” my wife lamented. “All these stores are having a closing sale.”

“Well, surf brands aren’t as in-demand as they were decades ago. Even surfers don’t wear surf labels,” I answered.

An hour later, I was at the beach with my son, looking at his boardshorts. They were cool — blue, geometric print, cut above the knee.

“What brand are those?,” I wondered. He shrugged. My son — like many sons today — wears Crocs instead of Jordans. Blank T-shirts instead of giant logos.

My wife overheard. “I got them on Amazon. They were cheap.”

“You’re part of the problem!” I cried.

I could judge my son for not caring about brand value. I could attribute the surf industry’s collapse to his mom for buying generic Chinese fast-fashion. But this past Winter, for the first time in many years, I bought no-name snowboard pants from Amazon. Typically, I wear authentic gear on the mountain from 686 and Burton. But, for years now, I’ve been hoping that the legitimate outerwear brands would offer oversized bottoms. They never caught up with the fashion trend, and then I was served an ad for the exact pants I was looking for.

Typically, snowboard pants can be hundreds of dollars. These were $60. I’ve worn them on three snow trips now and they’re some of my favorite pants I’ve ever owned. Comfortable, durable, perfect fit, and no branding. I received lots of compliments. Even from my son.

As an owner and operator of a brand for twenty-something years, and now as a steward of Disney, I think about Brand more than the average person. Brand is incredibly useful to navigate an ocean of diverse product options. There really is not much of a difference between toothpastes, but sharp storytelling around a brand, woven with good design and compelling salesmanship make some logos stand out on the shelf more than others.

Fashion and Brand go hand in hand because we dress ourselves as a means of self-expression and identity. We adopt logos and brand markers to associate with personalities and lifestyles that are closest to our own. When I was growing up, I wasn’t a surfer, but those aforementioned labels like Quiksilver, Stüssy, and T&C Surf were the only options you had to choose from. I gravitated towards the ones that employed cartoons and graffiti in their graphics because I wanted to signal that I was an artist.

I was also a skater. So when skate brands became accessible in my teenage years, I made the migration, finding them more in-tune with my background than beach apparel. And once Streetwear (as we define it today) materialized in the late 1990s and early 2000s, I felt brands like Alife, A Bathing Ape, and Supreme most aligned with my worldviews and design tastes.

But they weren’t exact. I aspired to be like Tony Arcabascio, Jest, and Arnaud at Alife — street artists who cared about limited sneakers and curated retail — but, they didn’t mirror my love for Garfield or LA workwear. James Jebbia was my hero, but Supreme was very serious and its attitude was New York in flavor. My personality was open, self-effacing, and irreverent. And so, in 2003, when my friend Ben and I founded The Hundreds here in Los Angeles, a streetwear brand of our very own, we tailored it for our needs. As young gods, we made it in our vision…

[Remainder of this piece is for PAID SUBSCRIBERS only]

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As an artist, they asked why I applied to law school.

The morning after I took the bar exam, they wondered why I was going into fashion.

Once I was a streetwear designer, they were confused as to why I’d start a food festival.

Decades into being a business owner, they laughed that I’d want to write screenplays.

After I sold a TV pilot, they couldn’t fathom why I’d want to write another book.

And as a founder and entrepreneur, they’re questioning why I’d work for another company.

My entire life, I’ve been sitting at the wrong table, dressing the wrong way, and breaking expectations of what I should or shouldn’t be. I was the Asian kid who was into nonnormative subcultures like skateboarding and punk music. I was the streetwear guy with a J.D. The writer with a design background. Along the way, I’ve been met with curiosity, scorn, and doubt. “Are you lost?”

But it’s all been crystal-clear to me.

A couple weeks ago, we brought on some new hires at The Hundreds. Our new Marketing guy, Darrick, asked if he could speak with me on his first day.

“You know,” he said, as we stood out back of the warehouse by the skate ramp, “When people found out that I was moving in-house to work in the office, they had a lot to say.” Darrick was not only one of our shop staff, but he’s a skilled photographer and freebird creative. The peanut gallery had been loud and noisy. “But, when I listened to myself, I knew I was making the right choice.”

I’ve fielded a spectrum of responses to the news that I’m now a Disney executive. The majority have been kind and supportive, but there have also been some surprising reactions and unwarranted feedback. At first, I was taken aback by a cynical opinion or a dash of skepticism. “Why would you leave success there to come here?” They couldn’t follow why I’d prioritize curiosity over prosperity. But then, I remembered that my moves have been making people uncomfortable for years.

People see you how they see themselves. For many, the idea of toggling between lunch tables, veering off a predetermined career track, or eluding categorization feels wrong. I’ve been a part of subcultures that were founded on rebellious principles, yet they enforced some of the most rigid rules on ideology, style, and association. It really upset some of those adherents when I’d color outside the lines. But for me, the lines were suggestions, and it was up to the artist to draw their own.

Most of my closest friends, however, know how I operate and are excited to see where I journey next. Last night, Matt congratulated me and remarked, “It takes a lot of balls to switch lanes like this.” Well, I only have two like the rest of my counterparts, but I do think it takes a bit of noise-cancellation to hear yourself these days. And maybe that is some form of bravery in the groupthink era. So much of our validation has become extrinsic because of social media Likes and crowdsourced trends. I suggest switching off of auto-pilot whenever you can and swerving across the highway. The Internet isn’t the only terrain fenced in by algorithms – much of our behavior and life decisions are guided by patterns and traditions, customs and expectations. But when you take a hard turn and off-road into the wilderness, you find surprise, growth, and adventure.

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This week, I proudly accepted a role as the Vice President of Creative for Disney Consumer Products. I’ll lead Disney’s licensed and theme park creative teams for the Americas (clothing, toys, apps, books, console games, and other merchandise). If I hadn’t studied Intellectual Property law, I wouldn’t have been equipped to shoulder the weight of the Disney brand. Running high-profile collabs for two decades granted me expertise in licensing deals. Writing books and screenplays landed me square in the studio and entertainment space. Designing and operating six brick-and-mortar stores offered me critical insight into Disney retail buildouts. And collecting cards, designing vinyl figures, and minting digital collectibles, provided everything I needed to know about toys and collector culture.

If I’d stayed in my lane as a clothing designer, I wouldn’t be able to fulfill this role. Like a video game where you pick up weapons and assets along the way, everything was preparation for now. Everything was a prologue for this next chapter. My career is a sentence that runs on, a paragraph that falls off the page, a story without a period. Life can’t be contained by a binding and a cover, as long as you keep writing from within. You will discover that the world has no edges, the universe just keeps going on and on forever.

photograph by Lindsey Byrnes

Substack, in particular, is not only my favorite platform to produce content for, but also to consume. It’s easier to graze through a flipbook of slides and Reels, but I’d rather devour a deep-dive essay, the shared knowledge of a well-re…

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Big news like this can reveal more about others than the subject themselves. It’s a Rorschach test in that way, a mirror. For some, the announcement provoked a discussion of streetwear’s health. For others, it’s the end of innocence, a rude awakening as to how distant objects appear in the rearview mirror.

[Our first official office / clubhouse / studio / warehouse, circa 2006]

We’ve been in LA’s Fairfax District, on Rosewood Ave., for 20 years now and have raised a generation of rebels, outsiders, and nonconformists. Many of us remain Lost Boys, frozen in time when sneaker collecting was sparkling, street culture was transitioning to screen culture, and Streetwear left a mark. Our first flagship was born in the Blog Era of 2-way pagers, skinny jeans, and white girl rappers in shutter shades. It was on these streets that The Hundreds’ block parties united the streetwear pantheon, world-class skateboarders and artists were cast, and Odd Future Wolf Gang Kill Them All coalesced.

[The night before opening, February, 2007]

A few years ago, the founder of one of the most popular streetwear archive Instagram pages attended one of our parties. I saw him standing in The Hundreds’ doorway, taking in the block: the honking around the near-collisions in the intersection, the clack-clack of polyurethane wheels rolling down the cement, the smell of sweet smoke interlaced with hot chicken sandwich grease.

“When was the last time you were here?,” I asked him.

“Never. This is my first time,” he declared unapologetically.

“To our store?”

“To Fairfax.”

“Seriously?,” I asked. I was incredulous. This guy’s brand is regarded as one of the most credible voices of street fashion! To this day, authentic designers co-sign him with high-profile collaborations. But he’d never stepped foot in the epicenter of 2000s streetwear.

“What happened here?,” he trailed off into the ether.

I didn’t bother. Nothing about his demeanor told me he was interested in learning.

It was then that I knew something had fundamentally changed in the culture. We can blame the pandemic for enervating Fairfax. Someone blamed Supreme’s departure as the death blow (I disagree). Most recently, the fires are the clear culprit. But the real answer is that Fairfax hasn’t felt the same in years, even before COVID. Virgil once said that streetwear didn’t age well, and I took offense to that. But Fairfax had clearly let itself go since its tanned, sinewy youth. There was no debate.

We all know why people don’t visit physical retail stores as much anymore. Amazon is convenient. The Internet warehouses have available inventory. Brands offer more affordable prices when you buy from them direct. But on Fairfax, the limited-edition sneaker drops were just an excuse. These guys (and they were mostly young men) were shopping for friends (whether they’d admit it or not). Come for the clothing, stay for the culture, leave with a community…

At some point in the last several years, as we lost the boundary between our lives and our phones, Streetwear started conflating Comments with Community. Many of the gossipy streetwear archives and news pages lure engagement through rage bait and provocative headlines. There is little dialogue or thoughtful discourse below the fold. There’s only heckling and hate, being thrown at each other like mud and monkey shit.

Back on Rosewood Ave., The Hundreds’ home for the last two decades, even if a debate unfurled into a loud argument, it’d be settled on the asphalt with a handshake or a closed fist. But before it got there, most disagreements would’ve been negotiated and settled through earnest conversation. There was a code of conduct on Fairfax and Rosewood. People may have beefed, but they looked each other in the eye when they did it. And we knew that the next afternoon, we’d have to face each other again. And the day after that. And so on. There was accountability and there was fraternity.

Now that The Hundreds has left Fairfax, we close the door on a chapter of LA history behind us (Tyler’s GOLF store will thrive down on the next block, as will Canter’s Deli. These are destination retail fronts that have their own endemic following). We held out for as long as we could, hopeful that Fairfax would heal. Time and again, we couldn’t bring ourselves to end the lease, knowing that we wouldn’t be closing a store, but a genre. “It’s a good look to have a store here,” we’d tell ourselves. “It’s a marketing expense.”

Even though we were making rent, we had to face a cutting reality. Up and down the boulevard, once-flashy signage has been slapped with “For Lease” placards and commercial realtor numbers. The skateboards have stopped, the restaurants have shuttered. The kids would rather queue for their streetwear online, not in line. We asked ourselves, “Does it hurt us more than help to be on this corner? If we were to open The Hundreds today, in 2025, would we choose to set up shop here?”

Our friend Jared said it best: “Fairfax doesn’t deserve The Hundreds.” When, for so long, it was the other way around. We believed a brand had to earn their right to be here. When a Fairfax address used to be the gold standard, a blue checkmark, a black card. When pioneers from around the world made the pilgrimage to see and be seen and settle. O, Pioneers!

Friends ask if we’re okay. I’m quietly very happy, very grateful. We lived a full life here. We built it and they came in droves and generations. And nobody can say we didn’t finish what we’d started. Fairfax provided fertile soil for The Hundreds and a class of streetwear brands to root their foundation. Sometimes I feel like we’re the fashion equivalent of music artists who got in right before Napster and streaming. We were able to cultivate a company organically because of this neighborhood and the dreamers that filled it. Will I miss Fairfax? Not really. Will I miss what it meant? Absolutely.

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In J.M. Barrie’s classic, Peter Pan, magic prevails as long as you don’t grow up. Early in our brand, I likened ourselves to the Lost Boys, Peter’s band of mischief-makers who resist age and prolong the imaginary. I say this now as I sift through memories of crew that graduated into their own. Some became rockstars, others turned into our highest competitors. Some trajectories were interrupted, their runways abbreviated by fast takeoffs. The hardest part of closing the store was accepting that two decades of our lives have slipped through our fingers. Garage brands became global businesses, rappers became famous, kids had kids. Did we outgrow Fairfax or did Fairfax outgrow the fantasy?

The cold truth. It’s not that we grew up. It’s that we grew apart. But I still believe that Fairfax will find its way again. It might not be us out there, spelunking for treasure, but a new set of Goonies and Wanderers and Lost Boys. Maybe it’ll be here in Los Angeles or across the world. Maybe it’ll be in 5 months or 5 years. But the magic is always there, waiting.

You just have to show up. And you have to go together.

Although the Nazi T-shirt had been up prior to the Big Game, …

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The subtitle should actually read, “This is what hasn’t helped.”

Because for the last four decades, I’ve tried everything to sleep better, and only a handful of adjustments have added continuity and stability to my sleep quality.

The more I talk about this subject, I realize that I’m not alone. Many of you (1 out of 3) have some type of sleep disorder. Maybe it’s chronic insomnia, perhaps it’s trouble falling asleep. My problem is that I can’t stay asleep. I like to say that I nap, not sleep, because I’ll doze off for 2-3 hours at a time throughout the evening, and be wide awake for most of the long gaps. Some nights, I’ll only get 1-2 hours in. When people ask me where I find the time to get work done, or how I read so many books, now you know my dirty little secret (I’m in good company. Celebrated writers from Shakespeare to Haruki Murakami credit that 4am magic hour as the sweet spot for their best work).

I’ve been like this my entire life. As far back as I can remember, my family and I all shared this problem. I’d wake up at 3am and peer down the hallway. My dad would be reading in his office, my brothers’ lamps would be on, the light spilling out onto the carpet from under the doorways. By middle school, teachers were writing notes to my parents, concerned that I seemed groggy in class. By high school, I gave up on my bed. Instead, I migrated between different couches like a sleep nomad, soaking up the cool fabric or soft leather for an extra twenty minutes of slumber.

As with many corporeal complications, I’ve assumed there’s a strong genetic link to poor sleep. I also believe that we’re wired to different circadian clocks. I feel much more myself as a night owl. In another social universe, I’d sleep when the sun rises and start my mornings at lunchtime (hard to do when you’re running a business and have children). The other thing that works against me is that I suffer from ADHD and other disorders that are probably more causative than correlative with sleeplessness. It’s a chicken and egg conundrum. Lack of sleep leads to a hyperactive brain and deeper mood swings. A restless mind also foils peaceful sleep.

(The older I’ve gotten, I’ve also noticed that my sleep disorder has seasons. Everything gets worse in the last quarter of the year. I have no idea why. My stress level and workloads are consistent; there are no other significant lifestyle changes. There is probably a connection to sunlight exposure and increased darkness, but regardless, my sleep sucks in the first half of the year too).

Whenever I tell people I don’t sleep much, they respond the same way. “Oh no, that’s really bad for you.”

Yeah, I know. A history of poor sleep can lead to higher risks of dementia, heart disease, type 2 diabetes, obesity, certain cancers, anxiety and depression. I understand this very acutely. Trust me, I’m not trying to stay awake, folks. I would give up most everything to regularly experience 8 hours of unbroken sleep. I’ve never felt it in my life. If you have the ability to do so, consider it a superpower.

The second thing people say is, “Have you tried…(fill in the blank)?”
(And, if you suffer from sleeplessness and haven’t done some of these, give ‘em a try!)

As for me, Yes. I’ve done it all. Nothing’s helped.

Melatonin.
Magnesium.
Marijuana.
Ashwagnadha.
L-theanine.
Zzzquil.
Even a heavy duty Xanax can’t keep me down.
When it comes to pills and supplements, I still get bad sleep but now it’s compounded with a nasty hangover.

I work out rigorously daily. I’ve tried exercising in the morning and in the evenings. Doesn’t matter.
I practice meditation and breathing techniques.
I stick to a routine bedtime (11-11:30pm) and don’t drink a lot of water after dinner.
I have a cool bed. I invested in an Eight Sleep smart mattress and use the app to monitor my unconscious levels.

I’ve also abstained from it all.

I don’t drink caffeine (really). I’ve reduced screen time or cut it out completely for hours before bed (there goes the blue light theory). I rarely drink alcohol.

I’ve read Why We Sleep. I’ve also read Sleep Revolution by Arianna Huffington (a book that reiterates how bad sleeplessness can be for you, with little useful guidance on how to fix the problem). I’ve listened to all the Andrew Huberman sleep tips (sun-staring, etc.). And I’ve even paid for sleep studies, overnight hospital stays with nodes and all. Wanna know what the last doctor’s diagnosis was?

“I have no idea what’s going on. I’ve never seen this before. It’s like you’re a narcoleptic, except narcoleptics can sleep at night.”

I haven’t given up hope, but I’ve accepted that there is no “cure” for someone in my condition. However, I’ve incorporated some helpful practices that have alleviated the rougher patches. They are nowhere near fool-proof, and to be honest, they only work occasionally. But,… it’s something.

• Earplugs

  • I’ve worn earplugs to bed every night of my life since I was a teenager. There are different NRR (Noise Reduction Ratings), but I don’t think it matters. If you’re a sensitive sleeper like me, you can always kinda hear ambient noise, even if the NRR is in the mid-30s. So, earplugs are more of a psychological reassurance. Better sleep is about routines, and so when the earplugs go in, I’m telling my brain, “It’s time to calm down.”

• Blackout

  • The darker you can make your bedroom, the better. I paid for blackout shades, but traces of sunlight still creep in, and I’ve noticed that I sleep longer in hotels that are furnished with industrial-power curtains. Even the glow of a digital clock or a computer monitor left on in the corner can disrupt sleep quality. Unplug them. I’m serious!

• Eyemask

  • That’s why I add an eyemask! The single most beneficial sleep aid I’ve added to my routine as an adult hasn’t been a pill or a magic powder. It’s this $20 silk mask from Amazon, that Tim Ferriss recommended in his sleep protocol a decade ago. Again, part of the mask’s benefits feel placebo or psychological, but the pressure of the cool fabric against your eyes and around your ears signals soothingness to the anxious mind.

• 4-7-8

  • Years ago, a friend suggested I try the 4-7-8 pranayama breathing method and in recent times, I’ve seen it go viral — not just for helping people fall asleep but for reducing stress and clearer mental health. Essentially, you inhale through your nose for a count of 4. Then, you hold your breath for 7 seconds. And then you slowly draw out an exhale (audibly) for 8 seconds. People who espouse the 4-7-8 technique swear you’ll fall asleep before completing 3 cycles of this exercise. It used to be somewhat effective for me, but it lost its power over the years. If anything, what I anecdotally believe is that it helps with taking your thoughts off of sleep pressures. That always helps.

• Telling your body to go to sleep. In stages.

  • Not sure how to better word that. My friend Patrick once told me he calms his mind by telling his toes to sleep, then working his way slowly up his ankles, then his legs, and so on. He said he rarely gets above the waist before he’s knocked out. It’s never worked well for me. But then, over the holidays, another friend shared that she does it in reverse. She puts the top of her head to rest first, then down her scalp, her temples, eyes, nose, etc. Guess what? This one has been working for me more often than not! Is this the remedy I’ve been searching for? Try it and let me know if it works for you.

• Diet

  • I love to eat. I enjoy spicy foods that make my stomach roil. I consume rich foods with lots of flavor, fat, and oils. What’s more, I like to eat a LOT of it. If there’s anything I’m sure of when it comes to sleep quality, it’s that a bloated stomach leads to lousy restfulness. Whenever I eat tame foods in moderate portions, I sleep through the night much better. (Unfortunately for me, I’m not giving up my voracious eating habits anytime soon. So, screw you, Sleep!)

• Getting up and Moving

  • You can toss and turn in your bed all night. You may even find yourself becoming, alarmingly, more awake! But, have you ever noticed that if you walk around, move to a different room, or even sit up in bed, that you’ll start yawning? The change of environment and the repositioning of your physical body reorients how your brain thinks about sleep. At the least, I sit up in bed and read a physical book (not my phone or e-book) using this book light on the lowest, amber setting. After about an hour or so, my mind chills out and I get drowsy again. If that doesn’t help, then I try to sleep on a couch in a different room.

• That Extra Hour

  • Does this (above) happen to you? This is a daily (or nightly?) occurrence for me. But studies have shown that if you can dive back into one powerful hour of sleep (in this guy’s case, from 6am-7am), it can make your entire day. My wife tells me I snore like a wart hog and I’m out to the world between this 6am-7am window, but just 60 minutes of being knocked out cold does more for me than 7 hours of broken, frustrated sleep.

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THE ONLY GUARANTEED ANSWER

Having said all that, here’s the only successful solution that I’ve found, after a lifetime of wrestling with this affliction. I’ve learned to embrace it. Instead of complaining about it during the days or writhing in anxiety throughout the nights, I’ve reframed sleeplessness as a positive attribute.

In ways, lack of sleep has benefited me. When my children were born, I didn’t have as tough of a time with their unpredictable sleep patterns because I already sleep like a newborn, collicky baby. I’m immune to jetlag, because I’m just always, permanently jetlagged. And while others are handcuffed to coffee or energy drinks to sustain, my body and brain have learned to overcompensate in low sleep, which accounts for my manic energy bursts and persistent drive. Friends joke, “Imagine what you’d be able to accomplish if you slept well.” But I actually believe that it’d be the other way around. I’d be less creative, less productive, and have lower ambition.

The truth is that the 7/8-hour sleep recommendation is largely a myth, as explained in Dr. Jen Gunter’s TED video below. It’s driven our culture to orthosomnia, an unhealthy obsession with perfecting our sleep and paying a big industry to resolve our perceived problems. It’s forced us all into a monolith. Meanwhile, required sleep is different for each individual. It’s a range:

I wish I could sleep better. It would feel great. But I also wish I could hit a ball like Shohei and had the skin of a K-pop idol. We all have our Achilles heel, but mine wakes me up to write novels and fuels my frenetic energy to work on multiple projects. But best of all, my sleep disorder forces me to think deeply and thoughtfully about a spectrum of things in the quiet solitude of night. Without anyone to answer to. Without a stimulating, alive world to distract me. Sometimes, I think my mind keeps me up because I don’t give it enough time to breathe during the days. It’s our quality time together, to debate new beliefs and dissect ideas, to allow information to uncoil. And to let my dreams wander. Even if I’m awake for them.

For my paid subscribers, some more resources below:

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Men’s Fashion Week is nearly closing in Paris and, from afar, the ene…

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Some people say that it feels like the pandemic all over again. And, when you see the N95 masks back out, a Presidential regime shift, and Squid Game on TV, I guess it does.

But, the big difference is that, this time around, it’s as if COVID-19 has only struck particular people in specific neighborhoods. And the further your distance from these homes and the City of Los Angeles, the less personal stake you have in the devastation. The more tenuous the connection to the horror.

I don’t blame people in Orange County, up North, and out of state, for going about their routines, oblivious to the catastrophe. They haven’t edited their life down to birth certificates and 3 days’ worth of clothes in a bag by the door. As if they’re going on vacation for a long weekend. They can’t smell the plastics in the air, worrying about how those chemicals may change the biology of the cells in their lungs. They’ve never heard of the Watch Duty app. They don’t know how to distinguish the flags from the exclamation marks.

And that’s why I’ve been saying that I’ve never felt closer to my city than I have throughout this ordeal. This past week, it has truly felt like it’s LA VS. THE WORLD. And not in an adversarial way, not even when the social chatter online is filled with derisive remarks about Californians. But in the sense that this is a plight that is uniquely ours that no one else quite understands in the way that we do. This is a history that only we can speak on.

If you live in Los Angeles, even if you didn’t directly suffer loss from the fires, you are affected. As isolated as we may feel sometimes, the truth is that we are a network — interconnected through the economy, the wreathed freeways, the aroma of the trompo tacos... We benefit from the great weather here. We are also collectively at the mercy of LA climate and conditions.

Los Angeles is not the craftsman homes, award-winning restaurants, outdoor malls, and beautiful hikes, however. Many of those are now gone, but Los Angeles is still here. In fact, we are stronger, more resilient. And we are prouder.

I’ve never loved LA more. I say it with my whole chest.

When Angelenos hurt, many of us heal by trying to help. What a breathtaking show of support this past week. Donation centers were overflowing, Michelin Star chefs gave away food to firemen, and strangers opened their homes. I lost track of how many friends lost their houses and businesses in the fires. But, I was even more overwhelmed by how many of them were out volunteering, posting GoFundMes, and disseminating helpful information for other victims. Some of these folks never even publicly shared that they had lost everything themselves. This is Los Angeles.

The biggest impact The Hundreds can have is in giving our community what they want from us: a T-shirt. It is also the fastest and most effective way for us to raise money.

As important as it is to help LA fire victims with immediate needs, the looming concern is long-term welfare -- weeks, months, and even years after the rest of us have moved on. This T-shirt came about after my friend Ann Lee (CEO, CORE) told me that to help families and businesses get back on their feet, they will need cash programs, emergency materials, and comprehensive case management to navigate the aid process. That’s why we are donating 100% of profits of this T-shirt to CORE’s strategy.

Design.

Ben suggested a shirt that boldly proclaimed our love for Los Angeles. Instead of thinking too artistic, trendy, or conceptual, I imagined LA’s response to Milton Glaser’s 1976 “I Love NY” T-shirt. In this case, the heart is too big to contain. It is colored an orange red to represent our sunsets. And by subtracting the “I” (s/o Randy Newman), “Love LA” is from all of us in unison. It’s also a directive and a call to the rest of the world.

The Hundreds X CORE “Love LA” is on sale for a short window of time so that we can accommodate production. Please buy one HERE and SHARE with a friend.

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There is so much left to discuss, but even more that renders me speechless. I have a lot of close friends asking if I can publicize their GoFundMes. To be fair, I’m posting some of the ones that have not yet met their goals. If you are within your means, please consider donating to the following people who complete the picture of LA to me.

Briana Gardela (formerly of The Hundreds!)
Yasi Salek (formerly of The Hundreds!)
Megan Murray
Darin Bresnitz
George Jenkins, Sr.
Lauren and Zoey
The Wolins
The Semple-Cho Family

Five years ago, Kobe Bryant and his daughter Gianna had just watched a Nets game in Brooklyn for their last public appearance. A Minnesotan man named George Floyd was working security at the Conga Latina Bistro club, along with being a delivery driver. Months later, he would lose both jobs due to the pandemic. Restaurants still issued paper menus, remote work was 1/5 of its scale, and we had a lot less hoodies in our closet.

It was a different world. And one I find myself thinking about often. I don’t long for 2019, as much as I use it as a barometer to compare my current life. I come across pre-pandemic family photos in my camera roll and imagine how my children’s lives would’ve materialized without lockdown. I remember what the retail landscape looked like before the market went entirely DTC. I miss Virgil and a streetwear era where Nike and Supreme ruled. At the time, older folks said that the global pandemic was our generation’s world war. In that sense, the virus split our timeline in two. And the B.C. (Before COVID) multiverse is sentimentalized as innocent, naïve, and pure.

For years now, we’ve gauged our well-being and progress by pre-COVID standards. The media’s been celebrating small victories around the restoration of pre-pandemic metrics. California’s population rebounds to pre-pandemic levels. Life expectancy has returned closer to pre-pandemic levels. Homicide and violent crimes have dropped to pre-pandemic levels. 2019 life is romanticized as this ideal state of the world, before we were defiled by a plague, social division, and a battered economy. But the truth is that we were already suffering then, and in many ways, descending on a downward spiral. Mass shootings were on the rise, Trump was rounding off his first term, and social justice movements like MeToo and BLM were in full swing.

Hindsight is truly 2020. If your life isn’t perfect today -- if you’re not where you want to be in your career, making the money you feel you deserve, or locked down in a relationship status to write home about -- it’s a lot easier to make sense of these shortcomings by pinpointing a culprit. Some people assign that fault to a President, some like to finger the “other.” But for all of us, the COVID-19 pandemic is the most obvious and justifiable source of our problems.

Business struggling? That’s because of the supply chain disruption.

Dating life sucks? People don’t go out anymore.

Should be in a bigger house? Inflation tanked real estate.

I’m not discounting that this is exactly what’s happened. I’m saying that it’s been five years since social distancing, the Great Resignation, and Zoom became a part of our daily lexicon. And we can continue to bemoan our lack of progress on the phantom menace or we can write a new set of rules that are 2025 and not 2019. The New Normal is established not once every New Year, every five years, or even every war or pandemic. The New Normal is enacted every single day.

Today, on this day, January 1, 2025, I propose a more honest reality for us. A reality that is sober, appreciated with eyes wide open, and prepared to tackle some hard truths. The world is weirder and wackier. In some ways, it’s gotten worse. In other ways, it’s gotten much better. Our children are grown now, our work has evolved, the wrinkles have set deeper, and the lacquer on your dreams may have faded. It’s time for a fresh coat of paint. I want to hear a new set of ideas.

We aren’t just post-pandemic anymore. We are post post-pandemic. Let’s wake up to a perspective that isn’t imprisoned in 2019 comparisons or 2020 blame. Let’s forge ahead into a 2025 future that is wide open and ready to be filled. Where anything goes. And while some it might be different and strange, may all of it be revolutionary. I will meet you there.

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Photography from a family hike, Lake Arrowhead, Summer 2020

Disclaimers per usual: This isn’t a complete list; it’s nowhere near exhaustive or precise. I can’t remember everything I consumed this year and am too lazy to dig through my files. I also didn’t read, listen to, or see everything. Like, I’m sorry that Anora isn’t on my Favorite Movies list, because I haven’t seen it yet. Lastly, there is no food, because 1) food is polarizing and 2) the purpose of this “Best of” is to share media that everyone can experience.

And if you’re looking for my Favorite Sneakers of 2024, they’re over HERE.

Music

Substacks

The Honest Broker by Ted Gioia
Freddie deBoer
Days Gone By by Sandy Mosqueda
Damp Magazines
The Free Press
Impersonal Foul
Letter in the Ether by Greil Marcus
Hummingbird Project
Another Newsletter by Aaron Stern
After School by Casey Lewis
i’ll make this awkward by Liz Carey

TV

Books

Movies

Podcasts

and my Absolute Favorite Things of 2024

Nothing has affected me this year like In My Time of Dying by Sebastian Junger. It haunts me as much today as the day I read it.

For my PAID subscribers only, I compiled a Spotify playlist of my favorite songs of 2024 after the jump below:

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