E8: My Pet Monkey, S6: Counter‑leash‑ference

E5: The North; S7: Who Am I? I'll Tell You

This week's episode starts off feeling fairly normal. A little memoir. A little storytelling. A song. A dead young man. Nothing too alarming. Then, gradually, things start connecting to other things. A story written at eighteen starts talking to a prose-poem written at thirty-nine, which starts talking to a song written at fifty-seven. A boyfriend becomes a symbol, then stops being one. A metaphor becomes a direction. A political decision becomes a psychological event. A move from one country to another starts behaving like a dream. A fantasy turns into an immigration story. An immigration story turns into a theory of identity. Then that starts unraveling too. The experience reminds me a little of the tunnel scene in Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory. Not because it's frightening. Because you enter it believing you're moving through a piece of scenery. Then you gradually realize the scenery is moving through you. The colors change. The scale changes. Things you thought were stable start transforming into something else. A thing that seemed symbolic becomes literal. A thing that seemed literal becomes symbolic. A joke turns serious. A serious observation turns into a joke. A story about one person becomes a story about someone else. Then maybe becomes a story about you. Or maybe not. That's a large claim. I know. So feel free to hold me to it. But one of the questions running underneath this episode is whether there are experiences that don't arrive first as thoughts or feelings. Whether they arrive first as orientation. As movement. As a pull. As a direction. And if that's true, then there is always the possibility that something in your life right now—which seems perfectly obvious and completely understood—is actually still in the process of becoming something else. The North began as a short story I wrote almost forty years ago. I thought I understood what it was. Then I thought I understood it again. Then I thought I understood it again. I'm no longer so sure. That's where this episode begins. And, perhaps unfortunately for everyone involved, where it ends too.

E4: The Outer Edge of Good Taste; S7: Liberace’s Cousin

This episode contains: A conspiracy theory about podcast analytics. A failed musician attempting to become a successful failed musician. Seven Spotify listeners. Fifteen Google accounts. Two dogs humping reality from opposite directions. David Bowie trapped inside a dead search engine. Leonard Cohen dying at exactly the wrong moment. An executive director of a non-profit openly begging strangers for dopamine. A creator refreshing statistics like a lab rat pressing the cocaine lever. An extended meditation on the precise distance between art and cringe. The answer, apparently, is one molecule. This episode asks important questions: How many fake accounts does it take to feel loved? How many followers can follow followers before nobody remembers what they’re following? Why does everyone own a lawnmower even when nobody has a lawn? Why do we trust analytics more than our own senses? Why does every creator secretly want devotion without earning it? Why does every audience insist on consuming a body of work in the least useful order possible? Why are we all staring through binoculars into somebody else’s life? And why does self-promotion feel so much like public masturbation? Along the way you’ll encounter: Trump. The Plandemic. Dead cultural icons. Artificial intelligence. Climate collapse. Species extinction. Substack weirdos. Spotify experiments. Queer oversharing. A man publicly bullying himself for half an hour because deleting the material felt too merciful. Most podcasts promise clarity. This one promises escalating confusion, self-sabotage, and increasingly suspicious relationships with statistics. You’ll hear about the infamous overlapping-voices episode. You’ll be encouraged to hunt for it. You’ll probably become curious enough to do exactly what the narrator wants. And if you do, somewhere a graph will move upward and a middle-aged gay man will receive a small pellet of dopamine. Everything above is completely true. Except for the parts that aren’t. This description had its fingers crossed the whole time.

E3 A Speed Freak’s Critique of Empire; S7: Owning the Libs

What if addiction isn’t a thing? Or at least not the thing we’ve been taught to see. This episode starts as a response to a Substack post and rapidly becomes something else: a critique of the way Western culture decides what counts as knowledge, whose stories are allowed to matter, and which explanations make it onto the menu. Because every system comes with a menu. There are approved causes. Approved solutions. Approved experts. Approved ways of talking. And then there are all the things that don’t fit. What if a stimulant wasn’t an escape from life, but an enhancement of a life you genuinely wanted more of? What if the story of someone’s drug use can’t be separated from sleep, sexuality, immigration, AIDS, colonialism, desire, exhaustion, geography, economics, and history? What if the problem isn’t that people refuse to tell the truth about addiction? What if the problem is that the available truths are too small? This episode wanders through Deleuze and Guattari, Alcoholics Anonymous, speed, insomnia, El Salvador, gay survival, and the politics of explanation itself. Not because these topics are unrelated. Because they may be impossible to separate. “A colonial mindset wants to locate the problem somewhere else. It definitely doesn’t want to point at itself.” If you’ve ever felt like your experience disappeared the moment somebody gave it a diagnosis, this one’s for you.

E2: Welcome to the Algorithm; S7: Non-Alcoholic Libations (maybe just a little)

One of the weirdest things about becoming visible online—even slightly visible—is discovering how quickly you start wanting reassurance from numbers. Not success. Not art. Not connection. Numbers. A graph moving upward. A little dashboard saying: “Good boy.” This episode started as something completely different. Then suddenly a few podcast episodes escaped containment and got hundreds of listens instead of seven. Which, for the record, is enough to completely reorganize your nervous system if you are used to living artistically in near-total obscurity. And what fascinated me wasn’t the “success.” It was how FAST my brain adapted. Immediately: Should I tighten things up? Should I edit more? Should I stop stammering? Should I become digestible? Should I optimize myself into a smooth consumer product? Should I become… spiritually aerodynamic? And that’s where this episode accidentally wandered into the territory of spiritual bypassing. A phrase many people have never heard before, but which is actually very simple. Spiritual bypassing is when people use “growth,” “healing,” “mindfulness,” “evolution,” “optimization,” “higher consciousness,” or pseudo-spiritual language to avoid reality instead of entering it more honestly. It’s when someone says: “I’m protecting my peace,” when what they mean is: “I refuse to tolerate discomfort.” Or: “I’m setting boundaries,” when what they mean is: “You are no longer providing dopamine correctly.” Or: “I’ve evolved past negativity,” when what they mean is: “I’ve become terrified of ambiguity.” Or: “Everything happens for a reason,” because the alternative—that existence may be partially random and horrifying—makes them want to throw up in a Whole Foods parking lot. And online culture is absolutely soaked in this now. Everyone is optimizing. Curating. Healing. Manifesting. Strategizing. Building brands around authenticity. Everyone is becoming an algorithm about escaping algorithms. Which is why the spreadsheet boyfriend in this episode matters so much. Because his orgasm spreadsheet sounds ridiculous—and it IS ridiculous—but it also isn’t fundamentally different from podcast analytics, follower counts, engagement dashboards, productivity systems, wellness trackers, or all the little charts people use to transform life into measurable reassurance. What if Spotify statistics and orgasm spreadsheets are spiritually the same object? What if most people don’t actually want intimacy? What if they want analytics that temporarily feel like intimacy? That’s the question hiding underneath this entire episode. And underneath all the jokes about gay performance art, herpes monologues, audience hostility, giant theatrical dicks, dopamine addiction, and the algorithm itself… there’s another question too: Can you become visible without slowly sanding off the parts of yourself that made visibility interesting in the first place? I genuinely don’t know. This episode is me trying to fail honestly instead of succeeding strategically. And because modern attention spans now resemble caffeinated squirrels being tased inside a cryptocurrency convention, I’m also including pull-quotes below. Partly because I’ll use them as Notes while promoting the episode on Substack. But also because I enjoy the humiliating honesty of admitting that we are all trying to grab each other’s attention now. Including me. Including you. So here are twenty little dopamine traps. Hopefully one clamps onto your nervous system hard enough that you’ll need to hear the whole episode in order to pry its fingers loose from your brainstem. Or your nuts. Whichever metaphor feels more spiritually aligned for your personal growth journey.

E1: Crème de cassis; S7: Liberated Panties

This introduction is being written for Substack, which is a queer‑deaf place. Not hostile — just unable to hear the frequency queer people speak in. So I’m going to try to write something that will be legible to the queer‑deaf and also put them gently in their place. That’s what this introduction is for. And because “queer‑deaf” needs a definition, here’s the only one that makes sense: Queer‑deaf is when someone hears the sentence but not the slippage. It’s when you speak in parentheses inside parentheses inside a parenthetical multiverse, and they respond in the grammar of customer service. It’s when you leave the stratosphere, leave the universe, leave the multiverse, and go looking for God — and She’s sitting on a folding chair at the end of the Manhattan Beach Pier drinking crème de cassis and saying, “Oh honey, I heard you the whole time — they’re the ones who can’t.” That’s the audience. That’s the platform. That’s the vibe. But honestly, you should just listen to the podcast. Once you start, you won’t be able to stop. You won’t understand it with your “understanding.” You’ll understand it with your body. Season 7 is coming. The episode is coming. That’s the whole announcement. --- PULL‑QUOTES: destabilizing queer situations These are direct pulls from the script — no rewriting — chosen because they show the kinds of queer danger, confusion, grooming, vulnerability, or existential dislocation that queer‑deaf readers would never register unless they listened to the episode. Each one is intentionally fragmentary. Each one destabilizes without needing to finish the thought. 1. “Reading is eating someone else’s shit.” 2. “My openly gay mentors were becoming flies. And then they dropped.” 3. “Cute, blue-haired, popular, intelligent, infuriating disease vectors.” 4. “I thought my badassery might change something for him. It didn’t.” 5. “There was another world spinning inside of this one… or maybe not spinning, maybe it was just gagging on the other world.” 6. “I became very vulnerable… to grooming.” 7. “The thought police were your OWN thoughts.” 8. “I didn’t mind not knowing what was going on.” 9. “It’s really delicious… how disgusting it was.” 10. “If you dated… it was just really hard to show any interest in the cute, vulnerable twenty-two year-old…” 11. “The gang bang story was probably easier to tell.” 12. “That is how I became an autodidact.” 13. “Thoughts, in those days… they were all toxic.” 14. “Reading was something you could do to maybe not have time to have sex with too many strangers…” 15. “I really wanted something to mean something.” 16. “The truth is ugly.” 17. “Humanity is an industry.” 18. “Honestly, I’ll take anywhere but here.” 19. “No one is gay. Not even me.” 20. “I thought I was being taken / but I was taking memory.”