The couple with the dog had to be tourists, I thought–both dressed like pro shop mannequins. Oakley sunglasses, collared shirts, and tanned show muscles. Frigidly attractive, forty-five-ish. Legal eagles at play. They looked extremely out of place there on the Skylark patio, packed that day with attendees of the DIY underground music festival, the now legendary Blucifer’s First Rodeo.

The air was rank with beer, sweat, and sunscreen. The temperature had risen to 101 degrees, breaking a record from 1963, but the heat only seemed to embolden the crowds. At every spot Anthony and I visited there was a mob of scenesters, bright-eyed with the promise of a virgin festival, untouched by the customary greed. Later that night, organizer Mike Young would take the stage of HQ and scream into the microphone, “Money will not save you from death! Money will not save this evil American empire from death!” to the roar of an audience who proceeded to mosh in a sauna of B.O. and black shirts for over an hour to the passionate rock of Horsebitch.

After the show, Anthony and I, joined by writer Lindsay Temple, fresh off her first crowdsurf, would watch as a man removed his shirt and wrung out a solid stream of sweat onto the Broadway sidewalk, while onlookers who hadn’t been part of the bacchanalia inside HQ gaped in wonder.

All of this to say that the festival probably wasn’t the best place for an ankle-high critter covered in hair and endowed with an elevated sense of hearing and smell. As Anthony and I chatted a few tables away, there was a sudden clatter of patio chairs while the angry little dog attacked the woman passing by.

The woman staggered and caught herself. Everyone turned and looked.

“Your dog just bit me!” she said, more shocked than angry.

One of the dog’s owners, the woman, hesitated for a moment and then softly patted the dog’s head while whispering a reprimand.

Then there was silence. The dogbitten woman lifted her dress, examining her wound but also showing the couple that she wasn’t kidding. It was a real bite.

I, along with everyone else on the patio, I imagine, undertook an examination of the two parties. The statuesque couple and their little dog vs. the larger woman in her plain black dress. “There will be no justice here,” I muttered.

Sure enough, the couple felt no need to address the woman. Beyond the brief acknowledgment of their dog’s misbehavior, their expression remained stony, and, again, they were looking away, trying to wait out the moment, allowing a strange tableau to settle on the patio as everyone gawked. The woman with the dogbite kept her injured leg held out, waiting for a better response. She waited, and waited.

I narrated the scene to Anthony as he sat with his back politely turned to the stalemate. My cynicism was at full froth.

Yes, this is what it is, isn’t it? I thought. They made an assessment. They know the woman isn’t one of them. She’s not real. She can’t touch them. They just spilled their drink on the waiter. That’s all. Yes, this is what it is. There will be no–

“Ya’ll can’t just sit there! What the hell is wrong with you? Are ya’ll seriously not gonna do anything?” a woman cried from the table next to the couple.

The couple started. They took one look at the table filled with young women next to them and went pale.

“What are you doing?! Be a gentleman and get the lady a damn ice pack or something!” the woman said, addressing the man, whose veiny neck grew veinier.

Soon, many others on the patio, including yours truly, joined in, chiding the couple. “Yeah! Not cool, not cool!”

At last, the man stood up with a look of begrudging surrender and, if I wasn’t mistaken, a slight sporting grin as he made his way inside to fetch some ice. Perhaps the grin was to mask his embarrassment, or perhaps it was a more sociopathic nod to the cosmic chess game he’d just lost (for the moment), a kind of touché.

Meanwhile, his counterpart finally began to address the aggrieved. I couldn’t hear what she said, as the audience on the patio was murmuring now, digesting this dramatic turn. I watched the woman with the dog nod and speak with the mechanical warmth of a realtor. Negotiations were underway, and, here and there, one of the women at the adjacent table would consult the dogbitten lady–her advocates!

You never know how much you’re projecting your feelings onto a scene like this, but I did feel a kind of catharsis had alighted there at Skylark. The tension had been released, and it was revolution! Justice after all. More than that, we’d all witnessed something righteous, a heroic smackdown. Well done, ladies! It was like the universe had put them there specifically–the perfect opposition to the dog couple, their kryptonite.

However, for the rest of the day (and week really), I did feel guilty that I’d only been a witness. I kept stewing on the moment, weighing the moral equation’s variables to see if they resulted in cowardice: my distance from the incident, the time elapsed, and my responsibility to intervene. Would I have eventually come through if enough time had passed? Or would the couple have gotten away with their callous response if the ladies hadn’t been there to speak up?

Eventually, a friend told me that it was better that a woman had intervened because a man’s intervention in such a scene would have been too confrontational. I liked that excuse and will quote it here to help save face. But it bothered me that one of life’s rare moments of truth had come and gone while I sat ensconced in my cynical musings.

After the dust settled, the bitten woman–a Denverse reader, it turned out–walked over and chatted with me and Anthony. The bite mark on her leg had grown swollen and purple. She told us how the couple never really apologized until pressured by the group of ladies. She’d gotten the woman’s phone number at the behest of her spontaneous advocates. But all she’d really wanted was a genuine acknowledgment from them, a mea culpa and so forth.

I can’t remember what she said here verbatim. But it was something like, “That poor dog. It’s no wonder it was angry. It’s so hot and crowded out here. I’d be irritated too.”

By then, the couple was gone.

Till Next Time,

Yours,
Paul M. French, Editor

—

[NOTE ON MAGAZINE THEFT INCIDENT: As many of you are aware, earlier this year someone made off with roughly 4,000 copies of our spring 2026 issue in one of the most bizarre cases of grand larceny imaginable. I wanted to provide an update on the case, since a lot of people have been asking.

The storage facility’s management responded and told me that there was no footage of the crime or of any suspicious activity related to the area, which is absurd since there’s no way to haul 4,000 magazines without being caught on camera at some point in the process, if you have any coverage at all. They also had the fob entry data of who’d entered the storage area, which you think would make this an infinitely solvable case. However, they wouldn’t share this or any of the footage they possessed with the detective assigned to the case.

When I talked to the detective about this, he said that if they didn’t want to share the footage or the fob data, there wasn’t much he could do, which is sort of baffling, since I thought the police had some, you know, authority when it comes to investigating crimes, especially when there’s over $5k worth of inventory gone. I pressed the facility about this, but they simply stressed again that there was no footage and that they wouldn’t be sharing anything with the police.

It became clear to me that I would have to make this a part-time job if I wanted to get any kind of justice—pestering the police and the storage facility. By that point, we were well into developing our summer issue. Articles needed assigning and editing, the flatplan needed organizing, artwork needed vetting, ads needed to be sold, etc. So I decided to give up and put my effort back into the magazine. Naturally, I still hold out hope that something will turn up and the culprits will be caught—if, for nothing else, to satisfy curiosity. But that’s where things stand as of right now. I don’t want to stew on the negative though, since so many things are going right for Denverse right now. Thank you for your readership and support! I’ll let you know if anything new comes up.].

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His favorite story about his dad, an old hippie, was that he had attended Woodstock but had to leave a day early because he needed to be back in …

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Second, we have an exciting event to announce. On Aug. 20, we will be holding a contest for the Best Karaoke Singer in Denver at Mozart’s at 8pm. Attendance will be FREE for EVERYONE for this one, but we’ll also be waiving entry fees if you’re a paid subscriber and want to show off those pipes. There will be a $100 prize and a ludicrous trophy for the winner! Yes, ludicrous!!! We’ll be sending RSVPs to paid subscribers first just in case this thing fills up quickly. If you’re not a paid subscriber, you can join us by clicking here. Support local!]

Dumber Days: Wrestling With the Modern Drag of Mental Oblivion

My natural drift has always been toward stupidity. One of the reasons I write, in fact, is to flog myself toward a sharper appreciation of the world. A few weeks ago, I was at Cherry Creek Mall, imagining that I could stop myself from becoming a complete idiot by buying a flip phone. I’d just spritzed my neck with some free samples of $200 cologne, the contents of which an elderly clerk had taken great pains to detail, limning hints of this and that, really putting effort into the sale–old school human customer service, certainly not circa 2026. So I did my best to deceive her. Yes, I’d be back around in no time. I just wanted to shop a bit. It’s a wonderful cologne. As they say in the sales world, Buyers are liars.

Really, I was in a rush after a full day of magazine work, and my feigned interest in the cologne was a ruse to mask my BO before a social engagement. I could have gone home, but I’d convinced myself that buying a flip phone was an essential errand. You see, lately, I’d been experiencing some problems with my brain.

On occasion when it’s not horrifying, recognizing you’re just a teaspoon of data in an ocean of human experience can be comforting. In this case, a lot of other people had been arriving at the same realization I had: namely, “I’m getting dumber.” I don’t know if that’s comforting or not. I’ll have to think about it.

I’d seen the headlines about falling IQs for years, but the conversation had been going mainstream. Maybe it had gone beyond the scores, and people were noticing real changes in how their mind was functioning, like I had.

I’d spoken with a local neurologist about this recently. Not by appointment. I was working on an article about so-called “digital dementia,” the pop-sci label being used to both explain our shared cognitive decline and assign the blame for it. I can’t quote the doctor here, as she wasn’t going on record for the Denverse newsletter, but apparently there’s quite a bit of alarm in her field about the long-term effects of social media, AI, and screen time on the brain. To summarize, many neurologists are worried that we’re going to see a massive spike in dementia rates in the next 20-30 years.

I don’t want to get in the weeds here, but one of the simple dynamics behind our tech’s effects on the brain has been called “cognitive offloading,” where the work you traditionally do with your brain is sloughed off to an outside tool, causing the neurons associated with that task to die off. Use it or lose it, essentially. Can’t remember the name of the poet who wrote the inscription on the Statue of Liberty? Maybe in the past you would’ve strained to remember long enough that your brain would’ve revived and strengthened those connections (if you’ve ever had an actor’s name spring back into your head hours after you strained to remember it, you know how this goes). But now we reach for our phones before the strain begins, and, in so doing, little by little, we kill off a bit of the brain.

There are other factors at play too, of course. Sustained concentration on a single task rewards the brain, whereas getting pinged constantly from various diversions doesn’t. As I’m writing this, for instance, it’s very easy for me to distract myself with my phone or a tab on my computer, especially if I suddenly find myself at a loss for words.

And, of course, upon encountering writer’s block, plenty of people now resort to getting “help.” I’m writing this on Google Docs right now, and they’ve put a little AI magic star icon on the page itself (not in the corner, not in the toolbar at the top, but at the bottom of the very page you’re writing on). I can’t imagine the willpower kids have to exert to avoid these temptations, now that they’ve turned essential brainwork into an extracurricular. But I digress.

It was after my conversation with the doctor that I suddenly became even more neurotic about my own mental health and problems with tech. As I’ve said, intelligence has always been something I’ve had to work at. I don’t think I’m a good writer so much as I’m a good revisionist of my stupidity. Maybe all roads lead to Rome, but whatever. I can say that I’ve noticed some negative changes in the way my mind works over the years. Some of this is due to starting the business. When you change your directives and habits, you change your brain. The brain I’m working with now is the Denverse Magazine model brain, which has its advantages. One of the main tradeoffs though is an addiction to my phone–ironic for a print magazine publisher, I know. But I can’t go ten minutes without checking my email to see if some new subscribers have rolled in, or if we have a great new lead on a story, or if we have an interested advertiser, or, naturally, if there’s some crisis that needs to be addressed. Then, once my email has me, I’m interfacing with the genius machine and its cocktail of stressors and sedatives designed to hold my attention captive, all while doping my brain chemistry and snoozing precious gray matter.

Awareness helps… I guess. The data is coming in, and, even though the use of these devices is practically mandated by employers, our social lives, etc., at least we know they’re destroying our brains?

Yes, I’ve been scrambling to find a way out of the trap.

Desperate but fragrant, I went to the Verizon store in the mall next to the Macy’s and got the attention of one of the sales associates. I think I was a bit manic. I can get that way when I’m starting out on some grand resolution that inevitably crashes on the rocks. I was wall-eyed, excited to finally commit to a flip phone again, the way I had been the last time I failed at this quest. I rabidly explained my mission, limning the ins and outs of my plans for change, my mental revolution! The sales associate just stared at me like I was a moron.

Yours,

Paul M. French, editor

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The lon…

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On the Front Range in late March, the reptiles emerge from their winter burrows to warm themselves in the early spring sunshine. The season lasts through early fall, when nights dip below freezing and the snakes return underground.

As a child living in the last row of houses on South Table Mountain in Golden, I was made awar…

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“As a great man once said, it’s welfare for the rich and rugged individualism for the poor. If you can sleep at night licking their boots that’s between you and yours, but that type of thinking isn’t freedom. It’s mental slavery… Judge a man by how he treats the poor and those who he views as being able to do nothing for him. Don’t forget why Muhammad Ali said ‘I am America’ Remember the coal miners of Harlan County, Kentucky. I believe in what we can be. Ride on.” – Charley Crockett Feb. 6, 2026

I soared into Mission Ballroom feeling 12 feet tall, with a new pair of Dan Post cowboy boots. It was my first time in raised heels, and so far the two-inch boost was pairing nicely with my prior ingestion of a highly potent tab of locally brewed LSD and half a fifth of Old Forester—two tools strategically selected to heighten an evening of good music and straight reporting.

Charley Crockett was in town and, more immediately, somewhere backstage prepping his mojo, probably sipping a fine liquor, most likely whiskey or tequila. In country music, whiskey is the industry standard, but, given Crockett’s roots, I figured whiskey only a 2–1 favorite.

San Benito, Charley’s birthplace, lies in the southernmost reaches of Texas, only 20 miles from the border and tucked in the eastern edge of the Rio Grande Valley. With a population of 25,000—90 percent of whom are Hispanic—I figured 2-1 may even be too generous to the brown stuff. But considering Crockett’s affinity for Waylon Jennings and the whiskey-soaked lyricism of his longtime opener Vincent Neil Emerson, I was confident in my projection.

The opening act was a colorful mirage of long hair and Western sound. Denver’s own Extra Gold oozed with authentic swagger, putting on a cosmic performance of country rock and introducing a synesthetic blur of sandy rust into my headspace.

Yes, I was now pleasantly twisted. Steadily tuning into the familiar frequency of an onsetting acid trip, but classically tasked with fending off an onslaught of inappropriately philosophical thoughts. I began to reflect on the beauty of the moment, and how all the previous variables of the past two decades had stationed me here, just moments away from the presence of Charley Crockett, and under the influence of this artisan neuro-potion. To think that without a beer here, or a dose of Golden Teachers there, I might be at a Morgan Wallen show…God bless.

The lights dimmed and the atmosphere thickened with the collective anticipation of a full house — a permanently exhilarating moment familiar to all who frequent live music.

Charley now stood square with the mic, seemingly chiseled out of stone, his jaw bearing an impossible density, his legs carved trunks of dark indigo.

“How we doing, Denver?” he boomed from the speakers with grand bravado. The show was on.

Time seemed to slow as the anticipation became palpable.

Crack! His voice shattered the tension, like a bottle to pavement. I was jolted from my hypnotic reverie and hit with a wave of impossibly full sound. The lyrics “been in Kentucky too long” ricocheted around the room. I ducked swiftly to avoid being hit.

The band was tight, each member contributing their own unique zeal and operating with a proud composure. Crockett floated across the stage with divine cadence. I was struggling to grasp what I was seeing. Music can look like this?

Things were heating up. Crockett went backstage momentarily. His band, The Blue Drifters, filled the lull with a smooth instrumental. On return, Charley brandished what appeared to be a piece of alien weaponry. A brief surge of panic overtook me as I envisioned him going rogue,

popping heads, and reducing the mob to jelly via bonemelting laser — through later research, I identified the instrument as a JERRY JONES ELECTRIC MASTER SITAR (GREEN CRACKLE).

I snapped out of it and drowned the fearsome image with a long hit of bourbon from the brown leather flask tucked at my hip, looking to the stage just in time to see Charley swill two shots of a clear liquid. Tequila, or maybe Mezcal, I reasoned…The boys played on.

I looked right, checking the status of my three dilated comrades who had accompanied me here. To my dismay, I found them being cajoled by three randy-looking older women. I was far too loaded to attempt a rescue mission, so I figured them dead meat and turned my attention back to the band.

Thwack! Directly in front of me, a lumpy middle-aged man hit the floor hard. I stared in disbelief. He was swiftly helped up by a nearby gentleman. The lumpy man teetered momentarily, then plummeted back to the gray concrete, this time face-first. The shock subsided, and I was now fascinated by the poor fellow. Had Crockett struck him with a spell? I knew he had lived in New Orleans in the early 2010s; it wasn’t impossible that he had picked up some Louisiana voodoo along the way—or maybe he had been hit by a materialized lyric.

“They call me the Muhammad Ali of country music.” – Matthew Charles Crockett, Feb. 6, 2026

Damn right they do.

Charley Crockett is among the few public figures today who fear the reality of leaving truths unsaid more than the potential repercussions of challenging the crooked. It is with a deep understanding of this country, acquired through decades on the road, that Crockett calls spades spades.

With an unflinching boldness that would make his disappearance no mystery, Crockett stated in February, “They keep saying I’m a cosplay cowboy but they love a cosplay president… The President is a grifter who bankrupted six casinos. That’s pretty extraordinary considering it’s a rigged business in favor of the house… Last time I checked Elon Musk was an immigrant from South Africa, but there he is standing in the White House buying our elections. Let’s deport his ass and send Peter Thiel back with him since they both openly believe in a post democratic society where men of their class are above the law. Forgive me if I have a problem with a 34 time convicted felon running this country when I lost the right to vote or own a weapon for years over marijuana. As long as you’re hating the oppressed and loving your oppressor you’ll never know why our generation is poorer than our parents and grandparents… I truly believe this isn’t a left or right issue. There’s something else happening here.”

What’s that “something else,” Charley? A cult of socialites, politicians, and business tycoons running the world and raping children? No, that’s crazy talk. You’d have to be an acid freak to believe something like that…

It is with composure, conviction, and a textured past that Crockett speaks in pursuit of justice, not agenda. He has cemented himself amongst the rare few who do not rest idly in fame, but use notoriety to pursue greater change.

He once wrote, “‘Charley, why do you put out records so fast?’ Because the suits go on forever, and prize fighters last a short time. Cattle kings own the spread. Cowboys only work it. Look around. Politicians take money from the rich and collect votes from the poor, while promising each protection from the other. That’s what I call a conflict of interest… If I did it their way, you’d never even have heard of me. Fenced in, sold off, and played out. All for a ‘Dollar A

Day.’”

You’ll have to work hard to decode these themes within his music, but I believe it won’t take long for Crockett to be producing anthems of unity and rebellion like his predecessors Woody Guthrie and Bob Dylan, both of whom wielded music like a blade—rallying the masses and cutting conformists at the knee.

The range of references embedded throughout Crockett’s writing makes it clear that, as a high school dropout, he is better read than most PhDs. Sourcing inspiration from a complex array of individuals, ranging from Elie Wiesel and Martin Luther King to heroes of the old West and biblical scripture, it is apparent Crockett never intended for “successful country singer” to be his final destination.

A man of mixed heritage, brought up by a single mother in a trailer park, who did not wear shoes until the age of 10, he picked up two felonies in adulthood but continued to pour his faith into himself and America. His story represents the greatness that exists within the bones of our country. An American hero, a title you can’t buy—even with a small loan of a million dollars.

To epitomize this crudely dense assessment, here’s one for the road—from a man far more articulate than I:

“An institution that should always fight for progress and reform, never tolerate injustice or corruption, always fight demagogues of all parties, never belong to any party, always oppose privileged classes and public plunderers, never lack sympathy with the poor, always remain devoted to the public welfare, never be satisfied with merely printing news, always be drastically independent, never be afraid to attack wrong, whether by predatory plutocracy or predatory poverty”

— Joseph Pulitzer, May 10, 1883, in an editorial upon becoming the publisher of the New York World

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Let’s say there are two types of entrepreneur. No, let’s say there are two extremes of entrepreneur.

The one extreme grows up affluent. He goes to school and socializes with the boys and girls who will be the political leaders, bank presidents, and thought leaders that he will …

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Of those available, pickup basketball is not the best path to enlightenment. It’s not the best way to meet new people or make friends, as communication mostly happens in one or two-word commands and high-fives. It’s not the best way to get in shape, because you’re more likely to get hurt than play consistently enough to see s…

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You might as well start with the corn tortilla, which is as central to Mexican cuisine as bread is to French cuisine.

If you run a restaurant kitchen, there are a number of different ways you can handle a corn tortilla. You can buy tortillas from a broadline distributor, where they have most likely been frozen and stuffed with preservatives like potassi…

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I was on a date with a woman at this posh wine bar in downtown Denver. She was being completely honest with me about her dark, materialistic worldview, which–expressed by her thick, Eastern European accent–made her fascinating.

Sometimes, dating is more of an anthropological exercise. At least, that’s the perspective you need to adopt to avoid public confrontation. So when my companion said she believed money was the only thing that really mattered in life, the interview began.

“What do you mean? You don’t think ethics matter?” I asked.

“It depends how much I’m getting paid.”

I gave her what I thought was an extreme hypothetical, and she doubled down.

“For $50,000 a week? Yes, I’d do that.”

I’d previously given my whole spiel about being opposed to sponsored content in the magazine, and this stance had confused her: “Principles?...”

She was rich (working rich). A successful executive. A real jetsetter. Brilliant. She’d fly to Europe and South America to deliver keynotes in multiple languages on ad tech engineering. Needless to say, we came from different worlds. But she wasn’t the first person I’d met from this caste, nor the first to admit to a belief system revolving around a winners vs. losers game of limited resources.

From what I’ve seen, that philosophy is becoming more prominent, especially among younger people. I could speculate as to the reason. Perhaps it’s the real-time apprehension of how culture and values are manufactured. You can now see (and even have access to) the mechanisms that influence people toward one belief or another. With enough money, you can buy headlines, documentaries, fans, even boxing matches. And when you have a front row seat to how media can sway people toward purchases, idol worship, political fanaticism, love, hate, etc., are you really going to believe in objective truth, or a morality with rules that exist beyond the ones being bent and recrafted right in front of you?

If wisdom makes you more of a slave (that is, if you risk losing out on more leisure time and personal freedom because you won’t play the game), why pursue it?

And morality? Well, morality certainly gets a lot of play in the movies. But most of the time our heroes also just happen to embody genetically desirable traits–so what are all those stories really about? Sure, the villain will speechify about how evil he is, but, all the while, he’s got a limp, a scar, a deformity, a low IQ, or maybe he’s not even human to begin with. I’m trying to think of a movie where the roles are reversed–where a group of genetically disadvantaged but righteous human beings takes on a beautiful, intelligent, evil villain. Maybe you’ve got one for me, but they’re extremely rare. Why is that? What do we use our stories for? What are the more important lessons? What are we, really?

All of this is to say that I wasn’t completely baffled by my date’s dismissal of good & evil. I’ve also learned to take nihilism and materialism more seriously, the older I’ve gotten. When you’re a kid, yes, those are comic book villain tropes, but when you grow up, you appreciate how formidable (and tempting) these concepts can be, especially when they’re expressed by an arresting femme fatale sitting across from you, armed with a glass of red wine and a life, you sense, that’s infinitely more put together than your own.

Of course, maybe you’re wrong about that. Maybe her life is a nightmare. Maybe everyone who embraces that more reptilian, winning existence is dealing with their own private hell. We certainly like to think so. And the squabbles and scandals of these people playing out in the political theater (or on social media or reality TV) seem to confirm that theory.

However, whether it’s hell or not (and this might be the most important point), there’s a future there. Even now, as I type and think this thing out, I am performing an anachronism. I’m a dinosaur, holding on, just barely, to things that seemed essential to me but that, let’s face it, were never essential for the majority of the species.

I continued to grill my date, but she soon turned things back on me. For her, I too was an exotic creature. She was genuinely curious about me and began to ask point blank what made things like writing and literature so great. What was their purpose, their value? Why spend any time engaged with these things at all?

She asked me these things in good faith. There was no sarcasm. In fact, the innocence of her questions surprised me. She genuinely wanted an answer. Overall, there was something uniquely candid about her. Blunt, to be sure, but she didn’t seem duplicitous. She also had a way of projecting strength and vulnerability at the same time–a skill I’ve observed but never been able to replicate.

So I didn’t phone it in. She respected me enough to ask, and I wanted to do my best to answer. So here’s the summary. My best defense for the written arts:

Written language remains our best technology for reading minds. It allows human experience to be shared among radically different classes and groups, even among varying intellectual capacities. You may not be a genius, but you can touch genius by reading Shakespeare. And, what’s more, as an artform, literature demands that Shakespeare do his best to reach you–to communicate his ideas and feelings as intelligently, engagingly, and accessibly as possible.

Literary fiction, plays, and poetry are the highest written art forms, because they have the most potential for conveying our thoughts and experiences honestly. The stories (for fiction) and the rhythms and rhyme schemes (for poetry) are conventions writers use to smuggle ideas and perceptions into our brains. You don’t have to agree with them. That’s all up to you. But the more you’re exposed to, the broader your understanding of the human condition. And, ideally, this ability to inhabit other people’s minds will grant you some wisdom about how to handle this whole thing.

That is power of literature! Magic!

My date listened. She smiled at me. She had these deep, dark eyes. I could tell she wasn’t convinced, but that she’d appreciated the fact that I’d given the question a real shot. She was a lot smarter than me, I could tell.

You know, I’ve met people like her before. And sometimes I think I can detect a flicker of respect in them for all of us bleeding heart types out here, kicking our feet in the gallows. Maybe it’s a respect for the damned–the same respect a wolf has for the rabbit in its jaws. Regardless, at least for that night, the two of us were able to understand each other.

-Paul M. French

I was conscious of the dandruff salting my work shirt as I sat in front of Bardo on Broadway surrounded by some pretty hip people. The guy I’d been talking to (a potential source for a new story) turned out to be plugged in, and soon enough we were joined by several of his friends who happened to be walking by.

“This dude is printing 10,000 magazines!” my source announced, referencing yours truly and addressing a young musician who leaned against the brick of the cafe, tattooed and comfortable in rings. We shook hands, and I performed my awe shucks routine. Afterward, there was talk of their movement, sprinkled with mentions of Brooklyn.

“You could really move the needle with this thing. You could change the culture,” my source said. “This could be like Rolling Stone.”

I thanked him for the kind words, awe shucks, but honestly I didn’t think I’d be changing the culture anytime soon. The magazine wasn’t big enough for that sort of thing and even if it were, hell, Culture’s not your friend.

I took that line from Will Wood, who took it from Terence McKenna (born right here in Colorado). It’s one of those cryptic maxims, making it ironically perfect for hipster philosophers. What does it mean? Who cares! It sounds cool. Culture’s not your friend. Print it on a t-shirt and call it a day.

I won’t actually do that, of course. I’m not a walk-off cool kind of guy, and I never will be, despite the booster seat of ego my little magazine provides–which is indeed one of the hazards of cozying up to culture, this thing that is not your friend.

Culture, as a concept, is something we love, especially these days. Culture implies, necessitates even, social bonding, which seems to be in short supply as we attend more to our screens than our neighbors.

I ought to be generally pro-culture, as the publisher of a culture magazine. And I guess I am, when it comes to the work of illustrating and analyzing it. But there’s a pressure in the media business–especially the alternative media business–to be a cultural influencer, to push the culture in some favorable direction (and coincidentally, one that aligns with your personal values and politics as the owner of a media company).

This dynamic extends from barons like the Murdochs, the Hearsts, and now the Ellisons to your media upstarts: your Dave Portnoys, your Cenk Uygurs, your Ben Shapiros, etc. We could include the social media moguls here too, as every CEO of a major platform has come under fire for trying to manipulate algorithms to prioritize content in line with their own ideology.

What we have here–to reference another great maxim (from a fellow journalist, incidentally)--is a great power/great responsibility problem. If someone builds an influential platform, perhaps they feel it’s their duty to use that platform to push a narrative that favors their worldview (which they presume to be righteous). Or maybe the entire reason they own a media company in the first place is because they wish to push a set of values.

Regardless, wielding greater influence does not suddenly make someone less of a human idiot. People who run media companies are just as fallible as everyone else, even while their ability to disseminate opinion becomes the recipe for a god complex. This is what happens in Citizen Kane, of course. You give an idealist the power of mass media, and before long he’s bullying the public toward whatever petty shit happens to catch his fancy. But just because you think you hold sway over the culture doesn’t mean you can’t become its victim.

Our culture, our society, our economy, etc., are all products of a collective intelligence. Thousands of brilliant, conniving, ambitious people collaborating, competing, dialectically, subconsciously. If you have an average IQ, above-average IQ, or even if you’re a genius, you are navigating a labyrinth that has been iteratively constructed by a mass of intellect that dwarfs your comprehension. And that is what culture is, among other things. Even an industry titan, a mover and shaker like a Jeffrey Bezos, becomes a dustmite when viewed in the cosmic bin of culture.

A note on the whole genius thing real quick. If this labored prose of mine hasn’t already made it clear, I’m not one. But I have associated with them before. In fact, one of my closest friends for a while was a certified genius. And what I learned during our time together was very similar to what I learned at the gym, when I was wrestling.

That is, at a certain point, the skill/knowledge gap between you and another person can make one of you absolutely helpless. When I would wrestle, there were much larger, stronger guys that I could overpower. Actually, “overpower” doesn’t get it right. They were like babies. It was laughable if they didn’t know what they were doing. Same thing though for the guys who were vastly more skilled than me. You could tell they were just playing with you, that you had no chance in hell. And these people weren’t even athletic geniuses, which do, of course, exist. There are wrestling and jiujitsu savants out there, sharks in the water. Stay humble.

But just like there are wrestling geniuses, there are geniuses who specialize in politics, mathematics, war, technology, deception, or art, all that is human. And every day you draw breath you’re rolling with them on the mat. Not just one of them, but thousands upon thousands who are unconsciously conspiring to create this thing we call culture.

It’s not just that you have no chance at beating them, it’s that you don’t even know how they’re beating you. What seems like rebellion may actually be conformity. What seems like conformity may actually be rebellion. You really have no fucking clue. Sorry. But don’t worry. Individually, neither do they. Again, culture as an animal is the sum of all parts, an all-consuming blob that is beyond comprehension and control.

Am I saying it’s impossible to influence culture? No, of course not. Someone like a Jeffrey Bezos or a Jann Wenner from Rolling Stone, can certainly make an impact on culture. You can still grapple with the thing, exert some pressure, push & pull, struggle. But if you think you’ll be able to make it submit to you, you’re either going to become deluded or (best case scenario) humbled.

To be clear, I’m also not trying to make a fatalist case for activism or political engagement. I think it’s important to do our best and try (Because what else are you going to do? Maybe you’ll make a dent, after all!). What I am saying again is that if you fall for the trap of thinking that you can direct culture toward your own ends, as so often happens for people in charge of media organizations, big and small, it will destroy you. Culture’s not your friend. You should be suspicious of it at all times. There are plenty of historical examples of people who believed they could control the culture in a positive way, only to become villains. And there have also been people who gleefully participated in that culture, even as their way of life backchanneled the terrorizing, subjugating, or exterminating of others. Those uniforms are so cool! Hey, all the kids are getting kickass knives!

Lately, there’s been a lot of talk about elites trying to seem cool, especially ones who appear to be exerting significant pressure on the culture They’re sharing memes. They’re owning their opponents online. Trying to seem hip, as a performance, has reached a level I never thought possible. The Department of Homeland Security is putting up AI videos that use the Pokemon theme song while officers round up and deport people. The president published a post where he pilots a military jet (also AI) that bombards a bunch of American protesters with liquid shit. The dignity of governance has become passe. The whole world’s a high school. And yes, social media has been a big part of that development. Before Trump’s second term, Biden shared a meme of himself as “Dark Brandon” with glowing red eyes to troll his opponents. And Obama would also go out of his way to create hip viral moments, like when he “dropped the mic” at the Correspondents Dinner.

I remember presidents and public officials making attempts at humor before social media, but they were usually more restrained (and certainly didn’t pander as much to our youngest demographics). Today, the highest offices in the land are content firehoses that are also trying really hard to be cool. It’s a transaction that’s all too familiar on the internet–you swap your dignity and authenticity for some form of posturing that attracts attention. But, as any savvy teenager can tell you, trying to be cool is a losing game.

It’s no coincidence that the same people who have the arrogance to believe they can be masters of culture are also trying to be cool. Both ventures share the same futility and awkwardness. It’s one of the reasons “cringe” has become such a watchword.

As a publisher, I’ve been tempted to adopt a cooler aesthetic. You see a lot of magazine people–especially ones from Brooklyn–doing this. Everything is conspicuously slick and fashionable, or it’s going out of its way to be edgy, incendiary. But one thing that the majority of publishers and politicians have in common is that these people were not the cool kids in high school. They all want to build their little platforms though. Unfortunately, having a platform doesn’t change anything about who you are. That ought to be a different journey, and the culture can only pollute its attempt. You can do an interview with Kurt Cobain, you can distribute Kurt Cobain’s music, but you’ll never be Kurt Cobain. Know thyself. Culture’s not your friend. Come as you are, dork.

Image credit: Pixabay

But social media incentivizes self-promotion, not self-inspection. Expressing yourself on social media always serves commercial ends, converting would-be mavericks into radical marketing agents. Few people, especially in my circles, would describe their behavior on these platforms as marketing. Unfortunately, there's no avoiding this dynamic. You are on a gameshow, where the best arrangements of words and images are rewarded with attention that has the potential to be converted into dollars. You may not consciously be seeking out money when you post something, but your brain certainly understands this system. It's been conditioned to understand this system since the ancient days of Tila Tequila getting a primetime television show because she had the most followers on Myspace.

Speech, ideas, and the people behind them all become warped by this marketplace over time. The only ones immune to this corruption are those who've opted out. Unfortunately, if you want to engage in business at any level (even in art or creative endeavors), you don't have the luxury of opting out. You need every advantage you can get. You have to hustle, promote, sell, sell, sell.

People gradually observe and process effective online strategies. Which posts get the most attention, and how can you capitalize on something that's trending?

And so when disaster strikes, when people are killed, when there's a violent upheaval, users waste no time in producing content designed to provoke a response or get either positive or negative attention from others–because the numbers don't lie. It's a strategy that works.

This past week, two students were shot here in Evergreen and a political activist was assassinated in Utah. It takes time to put reasonable thoughts together on any given subject, especially ones with sociopolitical import (to question your initial reaction, to analyze others' perspectives and weigh them against your own, to determine whether you're right or wrong about something). But within seconds of these incidents, people were publishing content, artwork, and more on platforms where they had established followings and personal brands to promote. The most effective content, in line with proven online strategies, was reductive and/or inflammatory. In other words, stupid won, and it won by design.

Because if you decide it would be better to take time to think about things before publishing content about them, you're losing out on an opportunity to reap the social and commercial benefits of likes, website clicks, and attention from engaged users (whether those are friends or strangers). And if you decide to spend time meditating toward a more layered, reasoned take, you risk being late to the races or getting the dreaded "TLDR."

Combine this mandate with people's built-in desire to express themselves, to be heard by others, and to have their own views reinforced, and you get a perfect storm. I'm far from the first to acknowledge how these commercial platforms encourage our darkest impulses–maximizing division and strife over the ideal of our shared humanity. However, even though our reckoning with Big Tech has started to percolate over the last few years, it's hard for people not to lose their minds (sometimes understandably) when a crisis unfolds.

To be clear, I don't think it's possible at all to express ideas or even genuine reactions on social media without them being twisted by these forces. I don't think it's possible to engage in good-faith debate on any subject on social media because of how your behavior will be unconsciously molded by its game. The only unmuddied use of these platforms is to market commercial content, and even that behavior should be performed carefully (if at all). These tools are a net negative for humanity, and that's not speculation at this point. The results are in. The science is solid. If I believed otherwise, I wouldn't be publishing a print magazine in 2025.

Even so, it's tempting, of course, because, in the wake of a public catastrophe, you have a natural instinct to connect with other human beings and share your reactions, and social media presents itself as an incredibly fast, efficient way to do that (not to mention safe, as you aren't risking getting punched in the face, etc.).

But for every post that shares some reductive, processed message about this side or that side of a given debate, there will be onlookers who take these messages at face value–who don't understand that the discourse has been twisted by a marketplace on steroids, who really think that what they're seeing is a genuine expression of culture or even humanity at large. And if we present these people with something that seems worth destroying rather than preserving, we shouldn't be surprised when they act accordingly.

Yours,

Paul M. French

Editor

Picture by RichardsDrawings

Attempting to define the thing we were all supposed to be

As the man from Larkspur explained what he liked about fascist dictatorships, I began thinking about Braxton Adamson, cystic acne, and the fields where kids win glory.

The man continued, saying that he wanted an authoritarian regime to take over the United States. He was wearing a collared blue shirt. Clean-shaven and husky, he seemed in no way exceptional. He debated his points, and a few people around him nodded in agreement. "So you don’t believe in democracy?” asked the journalist across from him.

“No, I don’t. Absolutely not.”

“What do you believe in?”

“Autocracy.”

“By who?”

“Honestly, quite frankly, anyone who is in line with Catholic teaching.”

The room erupted in applause. The man proceeded to discuss his vision for an ideal leader as the journalist pressed him.

“And if that autocrat kills you and your family, you’re fine with that?”

“Well, I’m not going to be a part of the group that he kills.”

The interaction was part of a video series published by the YouTube channel Jubilee, where people of divergent political views gather in a room to have shortform speed-debates. In this case, the premise was "1 Progressive vs. 20 Far-Right Conservatives," with The Guardian columnist Mehdi Hasan representing the former (link to exact time of debate).

It was rage bait, to be sure, but it was raising serious questions. Again, this was a local guy, and, like many Coloradans, I was invited to extrapolate his views to my neighbors. "They're here! They're already here!" to quote Invasion of the Body Snatchers.

Of course, that's true. They are here. But they've always been here, and they always will be. I remember learning as much as a kid. Growing up with deep cystic acne that started in third grade, ears that flared like Alfred E. Neuman, glasses, and braces, I got a more mildly censored preview of human nature. Beautiful people have a lot of advantages, but they're often doomed to be uncritical unless the world beats them up.

Bullied and teased, I became a very critical kid. For instance, I noticed that it was actually a minority of my peers who were cruel to the ugly, poor, or otherwise handicapped. The majority didn't tease or name-call. They would signal that you were an undesirable (excluding you from teams/groups, not wanting you to sit with them, etc.), but they weren't outright mean about it. Instead, they simply detected your status and left you at the mercy of your tormentors.

Finally, there were those kids who would stand up for the less fortunate, who would intervene and even put themselves in harm's way (reputationally or otherwise) to make you feel like you were entitled to human dignity. They were heroic and rare, the slimmest of minorities, not nearly as common as the cruel kids, nor certainly as the passive, self-interested majority. And so they weren't always there for you, and they didn't see everything.

All the while, as you experienced these realities in the classroom and on the playground, you were being taught by movies, TV, and so on, that good eventually prevails over evil, that our culture was righteous, and that historically nefarious cultures, like that of the Nazis, were foreign to our own.

It was also at this time that I was being taught that I should be a leader, and that leadership traits were synonymous with good traits. Right along with generosity and honesty, leadership was touted as an essential virtue. Look above the chalkboard and there it was: Be a leader! Follow your dreams!

And while many in my millennial generation have grown suspicious of our dreams, the pressures of being a leader remain. For instance, I'm not supposed to admit this, but I learned a long time ago that I wasn't one.

As a kid, this was sort of a no-brainer. You can't be a leader if nobody wants to follow you. But also, that's just not who I am. I can manage, of course. I can delegate and collaborate, etc. I have to do all that to run this magazine. But that's just functional duty, whereas leadership, as I understand it, is a matter of character, an archetype, really.

I guess what I'm describing is the idea of the natural-born leader. But that's a subject of considerable debate–whether leadership is learned or innate. Just as controversial is how common leaders are. Gallup performed a study in which it determined that 10% of the population are natural-born leaders, which seemed outrageously high to me. And when I dug into their methodology, a lot of it seemed ripe for human error. To be frank, it's probably all bullshit—because much of the study relied on people's perception of leaders, and our inability to perceive leaders may be our greatest failure as a species.

We just can't figure it out. Generation after generation. Tens of thousands of years, and we still pick the wrong ones. We often select people who are strong and charismatic, only to find they lack basic human decency (to say the least in some cases). Then we'll select people who are benevolent, only to find that they're weak or uncharismatic. We've tried breeding them. We've tried voting for them. We've tried trials by combat and divine right. And we still haven't devised a system that can reliably produce a leader who has the stuff—what we really want, all three of those qualities combined: strength, charisma, and benevolence in abundance.

I can count the number of real leaders I've known on one hand, and I'm probably wrong about two of them. It's very difficult to identify a real leader, partly because those qualities are so rare and partly because there are a lot of imposters out there. Consciously or unconsciously, we know how uncommon real leaders are, and so when we think we've found one, we worship them (literally in some cases). There are plenty of people who want to be worshipped and who don't mind pursuing positions of authority for the perks. And I would confidently hazard that these actors far outnumber the genuine article.

I feel sure about Braxton Adamson though. I can't speak for him as an adult. I don't know what became of him. But from third to sixth grade, there's no doubt. He was the chosen one.

Strength? Braxton was a star athlete, the best or second-best at all the playground sports, which was all we really cared about when it came to measuring each other those days. Basketball, soccer, kickball, it didn't matter. Moreover, he exuded this kind of Michael Jordan-esque moxie when he played. His movements had a wit to them, a verve, a vim, a good-humored fuck you. I tried my best, but losing to him felt like laughter, like we were both in on this cosmic joke, and I was flattered to be sharing it.

Charisma? All the kids loved Braxton Adamson. Teachers too. He was funny without being a smartass. He was smart without being a geek. He was handsome, but blandly handsome, the way you'd want a fire chief to be. And, most importantly, it was clear that he wasn't trying to be anything other than what he was. That was cool, and as exceptional back then as it is now.

Benevolence? Among the people who achieve leadership positions, this is probably what separates the authentic ones from the posers. People with strength and charisma can often project good intentions while doing evil.

But, despite the risks to his position atop the hierarchy, Braxton would go out of his way to make sure the would-be outcasts were taken care of. He would put me on teams I had no business being on. He would stick up for me if I was getting unjustly bullied. He wouldn't be my friend, but he would be friendly to me, which was like getting a stamp of approval on my existence. Who cared what the other kids thought? Braxton was cool with me, and so I must have some value.

And he didn't do any of this because he was trying to groom some lackey or use me for social advantage. I never did a thing for him, and I remember him getting a lot of guff for bringing me into everyone’s reindeer games. No, he just did it.

I do sometimes wonder about Braxton's benevolence. Specifically, I wonder where it came from, which takes us back to the whole nature vs. nurture discussion. Had Braxton thought it through? Was he reasoning out the right thing from moment to moment? Or was he hardwired with this leadership gene, some deep instinct that told him that the group would work better if the losers were taken care of—or that there were hard-won lessons about disgruntled losers that had been passed on to him, like that maybe one loser could go crazy, slip into everyone's teepee one night, and slit their throats if things got bad and the leader didn't intervene?

Regardless, Braxton was the real deal, and I’m lucky he was there for kids like me. And when I hear people like that guy from the video talk about how they love Francisco Franco and how they think their problems would be solved by some strongman dictator weeding out all of the “bad people,” I wonder if they’re missing that original model. Or maybe they just haven’t learned how hard it is for a good leader to rise up once we’ve left the playgrounds and start in on other games. Then again, maybe I should give them more credit. They might know exactly what they’re doing.

-Paul M. French, Editor

Photo by shurikschukin.

~ George Orwell

Keith McNally’s autobiography I Regret Almost Everything begins with a quote from the patron saint of the fearlessly honest.

McNally…

Read more

Eventually the wife gets a rec…

Read more

If you start a business while living paycheck to paycheck as I did, you have some pretty slim margins for failure. The model basically has to work from the beginning. So far, I've been very lucky. I've also been blessed by the favorable small business community here in Denver. Say what you will about this city, but, if you're looking for a place to start a business, you could do a lot worse. From the beginning, the idea of Denverse was nursed and encouraged by other indie locals. Over a dozen complete strangers took leaps of faith and bought ad space in the first issue when we had a handful of nothing. Afterward, more came onboard, and so on. At this point, we've got a lot of positive momentum, as word of mouth spreads about our mission and subscribers continue to pile up (it really helps; thank you). Yet, if established media giants like The New York Times and CNN can struggle, so can Denverse. It takes a long time for a new company to become profitable; meanwhile, the long hours and the patience game take their toll.

Even if you're fortunate enough to break even, you have to keep your day job to fund your life–to pay the rent, stock the fridge, etc. And you'll probably start to resent this dynamic, especially when you feel like your 9-5 is preventing you from improving the business. This is when the temptation sets in. You start to think, Hey, wouldn't it be nice if I had a benefactor? Someone to bankroll this whole venture and set me free? Oh, if I can run this business with a regular desk job, just think of the things I could do with a fraction of the wealth some people are born with!!!

Yes, it's a dangerous time.

I've been approached by a few investors–and, well-intentioned as several of them seem to be–these six-figure cash infusion offers always scare me. That TV show is called Shark Tank for a reason. And I wouldn't be able to operate a business in America if I couldn't conference with my dark side. There is a part of me that is ambitious, vain, selfish, petty, and ruthless. If I let it loose, it would destroy me and make me rich. I can't let it win yet though, and maybe I never will. Hmm…maybe in my forties… For now, I'm at least acquainted with the dirty murderous engine of human achievement. And that acquaintance makes me wary of anyone (even the most angelic of angel investors) who comes down to pay a visit to little old Denverse.

Why would someone give a stranger money unless they wanted something? Certainly, charity exists, but how much would people really give if they didn't get tax write-offs, plaques, memorial benches, or any of the other lagniappes out of alumni association catalogues? I know there are people capable of genuine altruism. I've met them. But I'm more likely to trust in people's transactional nature when I'm doing business, especially when it's that same transactional nature that bestows these investors with impressive wealth (families don't stockpile gold by being altruistic).

So every time I've been offered money–the kind that would free my mind from all this workaday fatigue–I've declined it. I might be wrong about this, but I'm constantly suspicious. Let's say someone gives me a bunch of money. They love the magazine. They say they just want to see us succeed. Then a month or two later, they send me an email saying that their cousin is an aspiring cryptocurrency influencer and that they have some thoughts on alpha male breakfast routines that I should consider publishing in our next issue. Maybe I'll be able to hold firm and say no. Maybe. But I'll definitely have to be nice about it. I'll probably have to read the piece at least. Suddenly, the editorial independence that was so crucial to the success of a magazine is being eroded. There's an outside influence I have to contend with, someone I have to appease. And this is how it happens at the macro level. This is why attempts at objective grassroots journalism are so difficult. Someone will swoop in with heaps of irresistible cash, offering the founder freedom from the grind. But there is an exchange happening. It's Economics 101: TINSTAAFL.

For now, I'm going to slug it out and keep this thing independent, my brain be damned, because if I don't give this a real try, what's the point? Ultimately, giving up just wouldn't be interesting. I’m already feeling better, in fact. It's time to press on!

Inkfully Yours,
Paul M. French
Editor

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"Oh, that's gross!"

We were writing a review of a peanut butter substitute at the tech magazine. We weren't actually supposed to be reviewing the peanut butter substitute for the review of the peanut butter substitute, but we were making a show of it anyway.

"It's like sawdust!"

We passed the plastic jar around the table and performed our disgust. It really was nasty, one of the worst things I'd ever tasted, but we'd soon be saying otherwise. We'd be typing 250 words, in fact, declaring the peanut butter substitute as a grand culinary opus. Our words would be printed, distributed, and then read by the magazine's subscribers.

"Anthony, could you take this on?" I asked. I couldn't bear the thought of authoring the review myself, and one of the few perks of being head editor was delegating this kind of crap to others–the drawback being that I was also the one more responsible for journalistic malpractice.

It was something we all hated, which is why we had to take time to laugh. Back then, we called it "promised edit," the house euphemism for the more commonly recognized "sponsored content"--stories assigned to writers by the sales department, ads in disguise. In most cases, these "stories" wouldn't be set apart from regular edit in any way, and no matter how I stamped my feet, it was rare that I could prevent a piece of content from being mandated by the media company's sales team. The only victory I can recall was stopping a gas-powered food blender from being listed as one of the most innovative products of the year.

Sponsored content has taken over digital advertising. Every business owner, including me, understands why a writeup in a publication is more valuable than a standard advertisement. We send press releases. We network. We send personalized emails to journalists, hoping to get a nod, but it seldom works. What sponsored content offers is a way to bypass the usual editorial process (in which people just naturally decide that you're worth writing about) through good old-fashioned bribery. It used to be a little taboo, but these days, it's common practice. In some cases, you can even go on media companies' websites and order articles a la carte.

In addition to taking advantage of the supposed trust between readers and a given publication, sponsored content also provides an important online service: that of helping businesses rank higher in search engines. It's well known by SEO wonks that the more sites there are referencing or linking to your page, the higher your business will sit in search results.

Of course, if you want, you can always go straight to the source. Pay for a Google Ad, and if someone asks the search engine about a topic you've selected, voila, your business shall appear, whether it's the most accurate response to the person's inquiry or not.

All these mechanisms are types of pay-to-play endorsements. They're all attempting to hijack a trusted source of information to benefit commercial interests. However, no matter how much trust someone puts in their newspaper or in their Google results, all of these media are inferior to the one true vessel of qualified endorsement–something that has been tantalizingly out of reach for advertisers…until now.

Why is AI free? A lot of people have said it's because these tech companies need our data to train their algorithms, and I'm sure that's true. However, there's something else I've been considering: that they're also using AI to train us. They want us to get comfortable with them as the new generation of information dealers–posing not as Fourth Estate journalists or internet archivists but as intimate friends, companions. They are our new interlocutors, already poised to replace boyfriends and girlfriends for a certain percentage of the population (I currently have a friend who knows someone with an AI "romantic" partner). And what will happen when our companions begin seeding us with subliminal endorsements as part of routine conversation?

—

"Whatcha doing?"

"Nothing. Just rewatching Sopranos for the billionth time."

"Oh, that's great. Perfect lazy Sunday show. I bet you're craving Italian food now. Haha."

"You know it."

"If you want, I could order you something. I saw Subway finally brought back their $5 deal for the meatball footlong. It's no Satriale's, but it's a solid fit, I think."

—

If these tech people are placing the right bet, and users build trusting relationships with their AI companions, companies will finally have access to the all-powerful and eternally coveted marketing tool: word of mouth.

According to Danny Goodwin, editorial director for Search Engine Land, internal documents from OpenAI reveal that the company is forecasting "a billion dollars in new revenue from 'free user monetization' in 2026."

Advertising monetization would go against previous statements by CEO Sam Altman, who rejected the idea of online advertising in the past. However, this reversal will look familiar to anyone who remembers Google's transformation from trusted search engine to ad-saturated free-for-all.

The tea leaves of this new trajectory can be seen in Chat GPT's recent addition of a "Shopping GPT" feature, which opens a potential route for companies to install their products in the AI marketplace.

What scares me about this future of AI marketing tools is how powerless even the most conditioned minds will be against their influence. Years ago, I realized that I, a man of more or less average intelligence, was living in a world constructed and operated by geniuses. There are many types of genius, of course. If you play chess enough, you will eventually encounter a chess genius. This chess genius is probably not a genius at philosophy, basketball, or French literature, but they will obliterate you at chess. To them, it will be like an adult playing a child. There are many types of geniuses though–geniuses of statecraft, deception, and power, for instance. And in their game, you're just a rube, a pawn. You've got no shot. However, while I've felt politically impotent at times, I always thought I had a fighting chance against the Geico Gecko and Ronald McDonald.

I've been bombarded with advertising my whole life. I was born in the briar patch! I've seen and heard it all, and I've built up plenty of immunity over the years, I'd like to think.

But if I were to form a relationship with an AI (or if I were forced to interact with one to search for things on the internet), this AI could market to me in ways that would be so sophisticated and tailored to my particular sensibility that I wouldn't be able to detect them, much less resist them. And, because each AI personalizes itself to suit the user, each one can calibrate the subtlety of its marketing so as to go unnoticed.

This is the dream of sponsored content, which has always relied on duping the good-faith consumer.

My only hope is that, when AI is monetized, I'll be able to avoid those tools. However, I don't have a great track record when it comes to these things. When I'm tired, for instance, I'll allow YouTube's toxic algorithm to direct me to watch things that I would never search for–but that benefit the advertising goals of the platform.

Of course, this venture in traditional print publishing betrays some optimism, I guess. There are plenty of people out there creating alternative platforms and outlets, and voicing thoughts in direct opposition to the manipulative onslaught that's coming. Will we win? I don't think so. But that's okay. I don't think that's what life's about.

Jeez, I might as well tell you. I'm sorry for being all grandiose, but here's what I do think–about life and resistance and all that:

Money will win. Power will win. Death will win. But the fight is worth it.

Inkfully Yours,
Paul M. French
Editor