When you buy a vintage radio, the features listed feel like a high schooler padding out an essay: precision dial tuning, adjustable antenna, both AM and FM bandwidths! It’s an amusing vestige of a different time when there was no distinction between terrestrial and non-terrestrial radio. 

So, why buy an old radio when you can use the internet? Why not just use a smart speaker? Why even listen to the radio when you’ve got Spotify? That has all the songs and all the podcasts. But, for me, the GE 7-2875 has something the internet doesn’t: the spirit of rebellion. 

This radio has no monthly fee. It doesn’t track when it’s in use. It doesn’t tell anyone what I’ve been listening to. It connects me to local news plus limitless jams (without shelling out a few extra bucks to skip ads). And if you listen to local, public, and college radio stations, with their limited scope and dwindling ad market, you’ll be participating in this spirit of rebellion, too. 

And in my quest to spend a little less time with the Algorithm (especially when it comes to music), I’ve been enjoying new music from my local college station (shout out to KCRW). They play tunes that a person (not a computer, focus group, or shareholder) has curated. And that might mean getting shoved outside your comfort zone and discovering something truly new.

So forgive me if I get a little Andy Rooney, but this thing just works. It’s close to 50 years old and still happily transforms the radio waves floating around our country into hot beats and local news coverage (shout out to KPCC). It might not be practical. It might not have the shows I want to hear when I want to hear them. But the GE 7-2875 helps keep me connected, expands my worldview, and doesn’t want to track my every move.

Over the course of a busy weekend, flanked by Year of the Dragon’s start and the Super Bowl, we quietly lost a legend. Bob Moore, of Bob’s Red Mill, passed away at an enviable 94 years old. 

I don’t remember when Bob’s Red Mill entered my life, its charming packaging exuding a real OG Earth Day vibe, but it’s never left. Bob’s products always live in my pantry. And, frankly, I hope that never changes. I assume — and I care not to fact check this in the slightest — that every bag bearing his name contains food processed on the same pastoral millstone. Sourced from the same gorgeous red barn, enveloped by some bucolic pasture.

See, whole grain values were always instilled in my life. That one should always ask for whole wheat toast (a healthy complement to diner eggs, bacon, and home fries) or brown rice (which transforms General Tso’s chicken into a nutritious meal with the help of broccoli). And, as far as brands goes: I could always trust Bob’s Red Mill to deliver a wonderful whole wheat option. Nourishing, in the realest sense of the world.

Bob, well, he had the opportunity to sell out, but chose to operate his company within his values, growing with an employee stock ownership plan instead of extracting the most amount of dollars from every grind. I can only imagine how hard it was to resist (or maybe incredibly easy for one with such an altruistic, macrobiotic personality). And yet still grocery stores across this country are lined with his products. And not just a few.

Dark rye flour. Vital wheat gluten. Oat groats. The amount of shelf space this man took up was insane. And thanks to Bob, I’ve been able to experiment with making seitan, pasta, and the best kasha I’ve ever had. Most recently, I’m going to recommend the buckwheat pancake mix (I swap water for oat milk, toss in some berries, maybe add in some cinnamon spice). And no matter what, it feels nourishing. In a way that most products with a farmhouse on their packaging can never deliver. Bob’s Red Mill has one thing that I think most brands can only strive for: my utter trust. 

Bob, thanks for grinding all these years. You were a real one. You might not have an enormous advertising budget, but you certainly built a legacy. Let’s eat.

What if there’s an emergency? And what about my alarm? What if you don’t find out about the Oscar snubs before you rub the gunk out of your eyes? Look, I get it. 

There’s a lot of pros to sleeping with your phone next to your bed. It’s fun. You get to see memes (sometimes about an event that happened while you were asleep!). You can scroll the infinite scroll upon waking up, letting even the most vivid dream evaporate into the aether while reading work emails. The screen delays reality!  

And I know you don’t need another voice telling you that you spend too much time with your phone. Heck, I’ll roll the dice and say you probably already feel that way (and if I’m wrong, e-mail me and I’ll buy you a coffee). And if by the time you’re done scrolling before bed or after waking up, you think, “that was a good use of my time, it helped me become the version of me I want to be” … yeah, just ignore me. 

Charge your phone in another room at night. Give it a shot. Maybe just a few days a week. C’mon.

And, no, this practice hasn’t cured my mental illness, jump started my energy, or actualized my spiritual potential. But I’m less riled up by the news, less FOMO’d by peers, and less pressured to spend every waking moment engaged in productivity. And more importantly, I’m starting the day on my terms, not an algorithm’s terms.

What if industrialization was defined by Japan instead of the West? That’s the question stuck in my craw since I finished In Praise of Shadows by Jun'ichirō Tanizaki.

The author, a novelist writing in 1933 Japan, cites many examples, from minute to grand. Would there be no ballpoint pens in favor of calligraphy-friendly brush-tipped pens? Would we design audio equipment for the resonance of Japanese music? And, most preeminently to this work, how would our built environment look if we valued dimness as much as illumination? Oh yeah. 

“We find beauty not in the thing itself but in the patterns of shadows, the light and the darkness, that one thing against another creates.”

Unsurprisingly, I’m an American (who doesn’t need authorization to work, employers!) who grew up way past 1933. I’ve got daylight-level bright bulbs throughout my home. I can see everything that hasn’t been swept under the rug. And like many Americans, I just kind of assumed “bright and polished” were the default. It’s clean! You can see things! I mean, who wouldn’t want their space illuminated? 

So if you’re into diving into POVs entirely different from your own — things that just might shake up your snow globe a little bit — you’ll appreciate this quick read. Yeah, there are some things that didn’t age too well, but it’s through the lens of someone watching his culture slowly replaced. The author laments the aesthetic degradation of things such as dining, theater, and even toilets, thanks to Western industrial influence. Patina giving way to gloss. 

And reading this book, you might come up with similar questions for today’s world. Would we engage in as much excess if we believed that every object had a spirit? Would the architecture of social media look the same if it was developed in a culture that values blending in more than sticking out? Would our perception of the digital world change, complement, or reject our tactile, analog experience?  

I can’t say for sure, but I’d bet there’d be a lot less flickering fluorescent bulbs. 

This book (or short essay?) was recommended by Kyle Chayka on Ezra Klein’s podcast. Thanks, Kyle!

A good logline tells you everything.

“Expose the corruption. Protect the hive.”
When I saw this on a billboard with Jason Statham staring pensively into the distance, his body inexplicably dissolving into a swarm of bees, I knew The Beekeeper would be perfect. At least, perfect for me.

Now, this is the third web log post on my “professional” website (where I’m sending hiring manager). And you know what? I fully understand this Statham vehicle might rise to “mid” in the critical landscape at best. But I’m not gonna sit here and lie to you about having erudite taste (well, except for ostentatious words). That’s not me. Heck, I recently saw The Boy and the Heron and walked away with a big ol’ “huh.”

But, dang, The Beekeeper doesn’t waste a second of your time, jumping into its ridiculous hole-filled plot. Turns out, some corruption happened to Statham’s landlord and now the hive needs protecting via murderous rampage across Massachusetts. I’d spoil the ending, but you already know it.

Is this an homage to the action films of yore? Somewhat. There’s some solid one-liners, a couple of intense set pieces, and just enough bee metaphors to keep you laughing at how ridiculous the concept of a secret society of John Wick–level trained killers called the Beekeepers is. Heck, nothing about the organization necessitates the actual keeping of bees. But Statham’s character chose to spend his retirement tending hives and filling jars with honey. (Yes, his character comes out of retirement to run amok across New England.)

Oh, and did you know that honey is flammable? It might not be the most efficient accelerant, but it’s truly the most poignant. The antagonists aren’t complicated, painted in such a despicable light that you can’t help but enjoy their comeuppance. Jeremy Irons brings gravitas to the periphery of the melee. But it’s the Statham of it all that carries this cinematic marvel to its predictable end.

It’s dumb in the most brilliant way possible. It’s not trying to be in on its own joke a la Sharknado, it’s its own tale of defending the weak against those who would seek to prey upon them. And it’s wonderfully entertaining to watch one man quip his way through the demise of thugs, FBI agents, and international hired hitmen.

Plus, it’s left me with a new raison d’être: Expose the corruption. Protect the hive.