I worship rock stars. Honestly, it’s weird to me that more of you don’t. But whatever, I’m either too old or too cool, and I’ll take either as long as I’m different from the rest. That’s always been my thing. I’m not so old, but I’m old enough to remember going into Jack’s Records in Red Bank or PREX in Princeton with a $20 bill and sifting through CDs, going from A–Z in “Rock” and “Rap” and occasionally drifting into “Reggae” or “Punk.” Never “Musicals.” I had a strong desire to waste my time in those stores. I was getting ahead in the only definition that mattered to me: finding new and old music my friends hadn’t touched yet. I’d usually have to take a piss three times while there, which sucked because the counter dudes never wanted you to use their bathroom. But I’d be there for a while and I’d always buy something.

One of the gods I worship is Springsteen, who taught me I’d learn more from a record than I’d ever learn in school. He was right. Not that it’s a better education, but it’s where I chose to spend my time. Lennon, another god of mine, said “Time worth wasting is not wasted time.” It was actually my yearbook quote. My mom thought that was hilarious. But these were the threads of my life, all learned through countless hours in record stores, listening to music, and soaking up as much advice from these heroes as I could. I carry those lessons with me to this day.

There’s an awesome Red Hot Chili Peppers documentary called Funky Monks. I strongly recommend watching it. It’s free on YouTube, you can check it out here. It’s a behind the scenes doc on the making of Blood Sugar Sex Magik, which seems like an impossible album to create, but gods can do crazy things. Rick Rubin is with the boys, going through the creation of the record from beginning to end. They were kids. A good reminder of how genius our youth is.

Anyway, the point of this piece is the beauty of what we learn and apply to things that don’t seem linear. That’s always been my way of thinking. I think the most interesting people are inspired by things outside of their profession and are able to apply those passions to their personal and professional work. That’s cool. Makes you different.

Ok, back to Funky Monks. John Frusciante, one of the greatest guitarists on planet fucking earth, has a quote in it that’s stuck with me forever. He says that when he plays guitar, he considers it important to always think of the space between notes when playing. He regards silence and music as completely equal. When he plays a note, he changes the silence that was there before. For John, silence is taken for granted, but one really has to see how it’s used to understand a song.

To his point: in music, silence gives meaning to sound. A note only resonates because of the space that surrounds it. Without pauses, songs collapse into noise, an undifferentiated stream with no contour or emotion. Frusciante’s point is that silence isn’t absence but an active force, shaping how we perceive and feel music. So what does this have to do with media?

The internet has convinced us that media needs to be 24/7. Our feed has to keep feeding us, regardless of whether we’re thirsty or not. The mechanics keep us engaged and addicted. We have little time to think or consider what we consume before going on to the next thing. Just like music, media benefits from silence. But in today’s world, that’s hard to get.

For media, it’s not just the presence of information that matters, but the absence, the gaps, the moments of stillness where discovery and meaning can form. Platforms today have eliminated those gaps. Infinite feeds, autoplay, algorithmic loops are all designed to erase silence, to collapse every pause into the next unit of content. The result is a constant drone. Attention is flattened into uninterrupted consumption, where the act of seeking is replaced by passive reception. We rarely feel the tension of waiting, the excitement of stumbling across something, or the pleasure of choosing, because the platforms fill every empty space on our behalf.

This shift doesn’t just change how we consume media, but how we value it. Just as music without silence becomes noise, media without moments of absence becomes indistinguishable filler. The richness of discovery—through friends, serendipity, or curiosity—is replaced by a predictable flow engineered for monetization. Our feeds optimize for time, not depth or resonance, so content often feels disposable. In this sense, the “music” of media is robbed of dynamics. I can’t get no relief.

The cost is cultural as much as personal. When everyone consumes the same algorithmic diet, cultural patterns flatten. Shared moments are less about discovery and more about synchronized consumption of whatever the machine surfaces. But true cultural moments, like powerful songs, depend on dynamics: tension and release, silence and sound, scarcity and abundance. We need the pauses, the unfilled spaces that invite us to search, stumble, and share in order for culture to breathe.

To reclaim that, we might think of media more like Frusciante thinks of music, not just in terms of what fills our time, but what frames it. The silence of not knowing, of not scrolling, of waiting for a friend’s recommendation or stumbling across something off the beaten path is not wasted time, but essential structure. Without it, we’re left with a flat hum of endless notes. With it, the media we choose and the meaning we attach to it has room to echo.

We can’t go back in time. Again, old dude here. But we can consider how to shape the means by which we create and consume moving forward. We want to be different. We want to (hopefully) be fucking cool again. I’m obsessing over this lately and should have more ideas on what to do and how to do it soon.

I worship rock stars. Honestly, it’s weird to me that more of you don’t. But whatever, I’m either too old or too cool, and I’ll take either as long as I’m different from the rest. That’s always been my thing. I’m not so old, but I’m old enough to remember going into Jack’s Records in Red Bank or PREX in Princeton with a $20 bill and sifting through CDs, going from A–Z in “Rock” and “Rap” and occasionally drifting into “Reggae” or “Punk.” Never “Musicals.” I had a strong desire to waste my time in those stores. I was getting ahead in the only definition that mattered to me: finding new and old music my friends hadn’t touched yet. I’d usually have to take a piss three times while there, which sucked because the counter dudes never wanted you to use their bathroom. But I’d be there for a while and I’d always buy something.

One of the gods I worship is Springsteen, who taught me I’d learn more from a record than I’d ever learn in school. He was right. Not that it’s a better education, but it’s where I chose to spend my time. Lennon, another god of mine, said “Time worth wasting is not wasted time.” It was actually my yearbook quote. My mom thought that was hilarious. But these were the threads of my life, all learned through countless hours in record stores, listening to music, and soaking up as much advice from these heroes as I could. I carry those lessons with me to this day.

There’s an awesome Red Hot Chili Peppers documentary called Funky Monks. I strongly recommend watching it. It’s free on YouTube, you can check it out here. It’s a behind the scenes doc on the making of Blood Sugar Sex Magik, which seems like an impossible album to create, but gods can do crazy things. Rick Rubin is with the boys, going through the creation of the record from beginning to end. They were kids. A good reminder of how genius our youth is.

Anyway, the point of this piece is the beauty of what we learn and apply to things that don’t seem linear. That’s always been my way of thinking. I think the most interesting people are inspired by things outside of their profession and are able to apply those passions to their personal and professional work. That’s cool. Makes you different.

Ok, back to Funky Monks. John Frusciante, one of the greatest guitarists on planet fucking earth, has a quote in it that’s stuck with me forever. He says that when he plays guitar, he considers it important to always think of the space between notes when playing. He regards silence and music as completely equal. When he plays a note, he changes the silence that was there before. For John, silence is taken for granted, but one really has to see how it’s used to understand a song.

To his point: in music, silence gives meaning to sound. A note only resonates because of the space that surrounds it. Without pauses, songs collapse into noise, an undifferentiated stream with no contour or emotion. Frusciante’s point is that silence isn’t absence but an active force, shaping how we perceive and feel music. So what does this have to do with media?

The internet has convinced us that media needs to be 24/7. Our feed has to keep feeding us, regardless of whether we’re thirsty or not. The mechanics keep us engaged and addicted. We have little time to think or consider what we consume before going on to the next thing. Just like music, media benefits from silence. But in today’s world, that’s hard to get.

For media, it’s not just the presence of information that matters, but the absence, the gaps, the moments of stillness where discovery and meaning can form. Platforms today have eliminated those gaps. Infinite feeds, autoplay, algorithmic loops are all designed to erase silence, to collapse every pause into the next unit of content. The result is a constant drone. Attention is flattened into uninterrupted consumption, where the act of seeking is replaced by passive reception. We rarely feel the tension of waiting, the excitement of stumbling across something, or the pleasure of choosing, because the platforms fill every empty space on our behalf.

This shift doesn’t just change how we consume media, but how we value it. Just as music without silence becomes noise, media without moments of absence becomes indistinguishable filler. The richness of discovery—through friends, serendipity, or curiosity—is replaced by a predictable flow engineered for monetization. Our feeds optimize for time, not depth or resonance, so content often feels disposable. In this sense, the “music” of media is robbed of dynamics. I can’t get no relief.

The cost is cultural as much as personal. When everyone consumes the same algorithmic diet, cultural patterns flatten. Shared moments are less about discovery and more about synchronized consumption of whatever the machine surfaces. But true cultural moments, like powerful songs, depend on dynamics: tension and release, silence and sound, scarcity and abundance. We need the pauses, the unfilled spaces that invite us to search, stumble, and share in order for culture to breathe.

To reclaim that, we might think of media more like Frusciante thinks of music, not just in terms of what fills our time, but what frames it. The silence of not knowing, of not scrolling, of waiting for a friend’s recommendation or stumbling across something off the beaten path is not wasted time, but essential structure. Without it, we’re left with a flat hum of endless notes. With it, the media we choose and the meaning we attach to it has room to echo.

We can’t go back in time. Again, old dude here. But we can consider how to shape the means by which we create and consume moving forward. We want to be different. We want to (hopefully) be fucking cool again. I’m obsessing over this lately and should have more ideas on what to do and how to do it soon.