works of wanderlust

Month: June 2025

  • periodical past

    Remember magazines?

    There are still magazines for sale, of course, paper ones… really. I know. I’m looking at some there off to my right even as I sit here writing this—but despite the physical evidence just out of reach from me, I do honestly believe we are clearly past the age of peak periodical. 

    I stopped for a coffee in a bookstore this morning and wandered through the magazine rack just long enough to thumb through a few familiar titles before heading for the cafe, a free table, and my phone… which has instant access to roughly fifty downloaded-but-unread issues of various magazines (which I may or may not get around to reading someday) all buried inside apps and services to which I subscribe. 

    I remember magazines—and I certainly didn’t need a paper copy.

    Oh, but heck if I didn’t used to be the core customer demographic for print magazines, subscribing to WIRED or Runners World delivered by postal mail, hitting up the convenience store for the latest issue of Popular Mechanics or that Playstation magazine that came with a free demo disc, and definitely buying a copy of some text-heavy serious content periodical like The Economist or National Geographic with habitual dedication at the airport before I hopped on any flight. And before you think I’m getting all high and mighty about those particular titles, I definitely still have a stack of MAD back-issues on a shelf in my office.

    Yet I cannot actually remember the last time I out and out bought a print magazine.

    (And to be honest I looked at the prices and that wasn’t swerving that decision any closer to a sale this morning, either.)

    The answer to what happened to magazines is obvious: the internet happened. 

    I mean, I’m sitting in a bookstore watching people still queued up to buy print books by the arm-load, but the magazine rack is a ghost town. 

    That’s to say, maybe the internet didn’t kill print mediums as much as it just killed print media. 

    And of course it did.

    I don’t buy magazines on paper anymore, though I’ve bought my share of bound books. But those things aren’t even really equivalents after they? Books vers magazine periodicals? I buy books to have them. I want magazines to use them.

    Because sure, I kept a few keepsake issues of those many hundreds perhaps thousands of paper-based magazines that I bought over the decades, but that particular ratio is likely something close to 5-10% tops. On the other hand, I still own at least 80% of the dead-tree books I’ve ever bought, and the other 20% that I have lost track of were almost certainly resold, loaned or given away.

    Magazines are, after all, by design transient media. Temporary. Longer-lasting than a newspaper, sure… but not by much. Magazines were always just a means to communicate something that was mostly never meant to endure beyond bursts of momentary information or entertainment. Then? Insert big blurry line here and cross over to the other side to find the realm of more persistent print mediums like novels and other books. (Magazines often try to be books too these days—weightier and collectible—but I would argue that the effort was flimsy and doomed. To most of us, magazines are things we buy, read and then… just toss.)

    I collect and read and savour books, but magazines? Far less. Magazines are disposable, fleeting, keep-scrolling kind of media.

    And that kind of media, transient and temporary, is really where the internet shines the strongest: short form transient content in a digital on-demand format. Read once and discard. Consume today, gone tonite. Words tangled up with timestamps and best before dates.

    Heck, you could even argue that apart from a few differentiating factors—like cost, quality, contributor count, etc—this very website is little more than a kind of digital periodical. And the one place where it is practically the same, sadly, is in readership. Sure I get some traffic, but this site is just as much a ghost town as the periodical aisle three metres to my right.

    We haven’t stopped reading magazines I suppose. In fact, arguably the digital equivalent of periodical media is probably in something of a resurgence. My own personal experience is that of reading articles from these kinds of publications almost daily in my news and social feeds.

    But as for that floppy bit of glossy paper rolled up and tossed in a bag, sitting in a cafe or on the couch or on a plane reading a bound anthology of that kind of writing? I recall it like a long-lost cozy sweater, but there’s pretty much no way I’m routinely shelling out fifteen bucks for something I have on my phone already—and then I’m going to throw away next week. 

    I remember magazines and to be honest I kinda do miss them… but probably not enough to do much more than feel nostalgic about it.

  • raising calvin

    I grew up on a steady diet of Calvin & Hobbes. 

    The still-famous cartoon strip by Bill Watterson was a fixture in our local newspaper during the entirety of my teenage existence, one of the sole reasons I read the paper that I delivered door to door, clipping out my favourite strips and then later buying the collections in multiple formats of increasingly crisply bound volumes. You could say it was formative for me, and that would be an understatement by a mile.

    The Kid graduated from high school this week and tho they were not allowed to decorate or bedazzle their gowns, they were given free passes to flare up their mortarboard caps.  She spent a whole evening in the basement and emerged later that night proudly showing off a collage affixed to the top of her cap: it was a collection of Calvin & Hobbes comic strips, arranged and glued to her lid, spattered artfully with colour and sparkles, and ready for a quick stroll across the diploma stage.

    This was not a surprise to anyone who knows her.

    To lay claim to some kind of parenting methodology that led us to this moment, my daughter walking across her graduation threshold literally wearing a comic strip that went out of print more than a decade before she was  born, that would be foolish of me. I mean it’s simple, really. She likes Calvin & Hobbes because (a) it’s a great and timeless cartoon, (b) I had numerous copies in the house, and (c) I read them to her frequently until she could read them on her own and then she read them frequently.

    Then, too, don’t forget that I even drew my own comic strip for a few years and you would not be the least bit surprised to read that one of my major influences for that effort was Calvin & Hobbes.

    That influence, it swirled through the rooms of our house for decades.

    Now, maybe it is that I may have internalized some of the lessons of a comic strips character who I adored because, truth be told, I was nothing like him growing up. Calvin was defiant of authority in a way that I could never muster. Calvin was wise and deep and whip smart with a purpose that I merely aspired towards. Calvin brought everything to a life lived with existential abandon that defied everything I understood about the metaphorical box in which I was raised and out of which I feared to step out. Deep down I knew that I was not Calvin, but that not just maybe, certainly, there was something aspirational in that defiant little character and his life of epic adventure and freedom.

    As we were driving home from the ceremony, I racing to get her back to the house so she could dress for prom, she was holding her cap in her hand and she turns to me and says something like “You know why I put this on my cap, don’t you? I’m basically Calvin, you know that right, Dad? You raised me to turn into Calvin.”

    And what does that even mean? Are you a mischievous troublemaker? Are you a socially misaligned youth? Or are you a creative soul unbound by rules? A philosophical genius wise beyond her years? A dramatic soul unleashed by existential undercurrents? Or maybe a bit of everything all rolled into one?

    Calvin & Hobbes was formative for me because while I was not Calvin, then too I could pretend to be that guy, act the part, read the strips and embody the spirit of this quirky kid, not so much unlike a neurotic rule-following father-figure guy in not but a mask and striped shirt.  But whatever I made of myself, there could be a chance—a risk—an epic possibility that I influenced something else. Did I actually parent my own Calvin into being?

    Formative, indeed. Formative squared. 

  • leaning positive

    Angry sells.

    Have you noticed? You probably have. I mean, isn’t that why we are living in these unprecidented times? Angry people, rage, fails, and violence all seem to generate more clicks, more views, voter turnout?

    I wrote a couple weeks ago about the weird fluctuations in my traffic. Some days I get a lot of clicks and some days almost nothing. I tossed some advertising modules up on the site because, hell, if I’m going to start needing to deal with increased traffic I may as well turn that into bucks to pay my hosting fees.

    But, truth be told, I’m probably not angry enough. Not even close.

    Look. It’s simple.

    I’m not picking fights with other bloggers or accusing people of hate crimes or committing hate crimes (I hope) or tearing apart the creative works of others for my own self-agrandizement. (Although this is sort of a critique of the social zeitgeist, so there is an argument that I am being negative about negativity to promote positivity, blah, blah, whatever.) I’m doing none of that. I could. I mean it’s so easy to be mad and pissy and negative. And I’d get a helluva lot more traffic.

    It’s an angry world and anger sells.

    The roaring twenties are roaring cuz everyone is pissed off all the time and roaring negative about damn near everything. It is almost performative. Like, people are hating on others for the lolz and the clicks. Literally.

    I do catch myself playing that game, too. Creeping into being mad.

    And I mean, look, honestly, you can be part of that obtusely unaware crowd of people who think rage and anger and being an asshole are somehow flags of independent thought rather that what they really are—the soup of the day—but I see through a lot of it, personally. That’s such an easy clear path to follow. It’s like lazy af and lit by a neon casino glow. It’s fake and wonderful and terrible and always so fucking lazy. But then what do I know. Maybe that’s just age writing. Hell, I’m creeping up on fifty. How did that happen? Yeah, maybe I am just naive. Maybe I just don’t want to lean into the clicks, huh?

    My truth is just that, as I wrote above, angry sells. And I’m not even close to angry enough to bank on this blog…

    …which was never the point when I started writing it. Still isn’t.

    If you have stumbled upon this site, congrats. The Algorithm doesn’t want you here. You have entered a place where there is nothing to be sold, nothing to be bought, nothing about which to tear off your shirt in a spitting rage. I have been trying—not always succeeding, but trying—to lean positive.

    That is not performative. That is just me. I’m not inclined to rage on differences, or tear down effort in any form or demand a level of quality that I could not first deliver myself (which is virtually never.) I am most just here to point and say huh, isn’t that thing that happened a thing that happened and wasn’t it mildly interesting?

    That doesn’t sell.

    But you are here reading it, so maybe there is hope for the world not being completely sold out to hate and anger, right?

  • seeking adventure

    Imagine you are flying.

    Down a trail.

    Over the crest of a low hill.

    Around a hairpin curve in the path blinded by a dense forest of trees.

    I think a lot of people hear the term ‘running’ and can’t fathom that it means anything more than grueling hours spent on a treadmill. I think most people wallow in the sport as little more than a fitness activity, a workout, or a span of time spent sweating for the sake of the sweat and the calories. 

    I have been a runner, properly so, for nearly eighteen years.

    I rarely run for the sweat.

    I do, on occasion, yes.

    But by far what I run for is the adventure.

    I am flying.

    Flying down a trail, over a hill, and around a hairpin curve brushing past the foliage reaching out across the narrow path.

    It did not start out this way.

    For the first couple of years, yeah years, I was stuck in a beginners rut. We do beginner runners such a disservice giving them rules to build into and goals to which they then aspire. How many beginner runners start to either “get in shape” or “participate in some race” thinking that fitness and competition are the best parts of the sport? How many don’t get in shape or don’t “win” the race and stumble back to the couch?

    During the pandemic years I started hosting what I called Adventure Runs. I would post a meeting location. I would roughly plan a route (usually never having run at that location myself). Set a time, arrive, and just run.

    We were not there for fitness or time or training or any of that. It was perfect timing for such things because most races had been cancelled or limited, people were bored and lonely, and the world was damn near empty of pedestrians.

    We flew down new trails, clambered over low hills, and traced unexplored hairpin curves in dense forests that had grown there for decades but which rarely saw more than a few humans on any given day.

    Adventure.

    Adventure is ill-defined. I can set you specific goals for fitness. I can tell you what numbers makes for a good pace. I can adjudicate your finish time in a race. I can see the appeal of quantitative measures against which we can guage our so-called enjoyment of this activity. But adventure? Adventure is raw quality. Adventure is about the feel of it, how your heart sings in the moment and how you end some span of time spent away from everything else, flying, climbing, swerving through the woods feeling unlike anything else.

    I’ve been thinking about adventure again. I have been trying to bottle that effort into a coherent plan for the upcoming summer months. I have been getting myself ready to fly again.

  • already not famous

    The one-wayness of fame has got me thinking this past week.

    Now, to be clear, I could all-too-easily frame this in a way that could come across as very sour grapes. I’m not trying to be sour about it, but rather just hold up an observation and say—huh, isn’t that a curious thing that we just sort of take for granted. Almost all of us do. Even me, mostly. Except when I get a thought stuck in my craw like: 

    Fame is unidirectional.

    —and weird and fickle and imbalanced in a million little ways and really a strange artifact of some aging post-democratic late-stage-capitalist hellscaape, if I’m being honest. But for my point today, fame is oddly unidirectional.

    And if you don’t make stuff maybe you don’t even notice.

    But chances are, and here’s the thing, you are almost certainly a person who exists and may be worthy of a certain share of attention for whatever effort it is that you make each day when you wake up and do whatever it is that you do to fill each of your days. Yet, chances are also great that whatever it is that you do—stocking shelves at a grocery store, helping people file their taxes, building kitchen cupboards, delivering hot food to people’s doors, or integrating complex banking software systems—no one is really paying attention.

    On the other hand, certain people—famous people—go for coffee and wear a fashionable dress and there is a societal tidal wave of attention thown upon them. They make something, anything, and we all watch the trailer or throw money at the thing they made or sign up for notifications about it and give it our raw attention even before we know if its worth that all because of fame.

    And like I said, you are sitting there reading that and thinking, well… yeah. That’s fame. That’s just how it works. 

    And I’m sitting here writing and saying that, well sure, I know… but have you ever thought about how incredibly weird and strange that is?

    And yeah, maybe you don’t even care that no one is paying attention to your life. Maybe even that’s an optimal outcome of your actions. No one fucking look at me, you’re thinking. 

    Now. to be clear. I don’t even want to be famous. (That’s me saying that, believe it or not.) I’m not aiming for some kind of widespread name recognition or the attention and adulation of strangers around the world. That whole notion creeps me the hell out and I’m actually a fairly private guy who would crumble under the pressure of fame and too much attention.

    Yet, there is a sweet spot somewhere between “literally no one notices or cares” and raw unflitered Taylor Swift ubiquity. I feel like with the quantity of effort that I’ve made over the years, the raw and unending production of effort that I put in—and here I want to tiptoe very carefully because I don’t want to say I deserve it or even that I’ve earned it, because I probably don’t and haven’t, but—there should be something more than nothing in this fame equation that we all take for granted. It’s just so unidirectional. 

    And to be fair, that’s not even really what got me thinking about this.

    I got to thinking about it because I was thinking about a piece of so-called advice that fluttered across my feed on social media suggesting that blah, blah, blah engagement in building a larger network of people was all about engaging back—and I thought to myself: you know what? The hell it is. Famous people, and here I mean truly famous people, don’t engage back. They are swamped by attention automatically. The rest of us claw for scraps.

    I mean here’s the thing: I watched Pedro Pascal’s dystopic sci fi zombie show but has he ever done me the honor of reading any of my dystopian science fiction? I listened to Rainn Wilson’s podcast and he seems like a great guy and would probably have enjoyed listening to a bit of mine in return. Did they tho?

    Tho even as I write it, and you read it, the whole premise sounds beyond absurd. Of course they haven’t—we’re both thinking it. That’s my point. The whole equation is unidirectional and we just take it all for granted. We don’t even question it, and you are likely shaking your head at the obnoxious notion I’m presenting. Who the fuck does this hoser think he is?!

    Brad, you’re yelling at your screen. These people we adore have worked their whole lives on a craft that has elevated them above the rest of us, they are the faces of industrial complexes of creation that have systematically built empires of high quality content for the masses to consume. It is their very purpose and they have earned our adoration and attention, you say.

    Sure.

    And I’m just asking why we are taking all of that for granted.

    Why haven’t we aspired to a meritocracy, even with the internet. Why haven’t more of us sought out unfamous voices with regularity? Why don’t we have systems that draw attention away even a little bit more strongly from the firehose of ugly fame and let a dribble escape for the rest of us? Or, if when we have made those systems in the past, why do we let them devolve into just another outlet for the already-famous. Arguably, social media could have been that but The Algorithms now decidedly shift attention to those who already have it, bootstrapping the pre-amplified voices into furies of inescapable commericalized, advertizing-laden sound so imbalanced that beyond a lottery of rare chance no one else can ever hope to be heard above it.

    That’s just how it is, you say.

    I know. I get it. I just—don’t.