August 1, 2026

I used to send you songs.

Every Monday at noon (pacific time): one mixtape, ten songs. I spent my weekends listening to everything so you didn't have to. Because streaming had opened the door to every artist on earth and put them all on the same infinite shelf. Great records were getting buried. That gap was the whole job: pull ten songs out of the pile, put them in front of people who trusted me. For some of those artists, it was the first real audience they ever had.

Then I went quiet for a few years. Not gone, just building. I learned to make software the way I'd learned to curate records, which is to say badly at first, then constantly. And here's the part I didn't expect: shipping was the easy half. I built things I was proud of, but getting anyone to see them was brutal. I was getting buried, same as the artists were. And I'd bet you know the feeling. Most of you reading this have built something of your own in the past year. An app, a tool, something you want the world to see. That's what changed: everyone makes now. Almost nothing gets heard.

I keep coming back to the same idea: abundance was never the gift. The filter was. When anyone can make anything, what's rare is the thing made with care — the crafted thing, the beautiful one, the one that's still good in fifty years. That was true of songs. It's true of software, of objects, of places.

So I'm paddling back out. This wave looks a lot like the last one.

Stay tuned,

P.S. Noon was never a one-man show. Far from it. To the friends who helped build the apps, curate mixtapes, run the pop-up shops, promote the record label, and keep the train on the tracks: you know who you are, and thank you.