This Old Brown Belt

I’ve only ever owned one belt. It’s an unremarkable belt. Brown leather, about two inches wide with a weighty, minimal brass buckle. I wear it with everything. Brown pants, black pants, blue jeans, whatever. I even have a couple pairs of shorts with belt loops and I wear it with them.

I used to be a bit heavier. When I started running a lot about 10 years ago, the weight poured off and I ran out of holes on the belt. Instead of getting a new one, I just punched a couple more holes into the worn leather and kept on wearing it. I’m not sure why I didn’t go get a new belt. I just didn’t think to.

Getting dressed yesterday it dawned on me that I can’t remember when or where this belt entered my life. I have absolutely no recollection of acquiring it. If I had to guess, it’s probably a belt my mother purchased for me during one of her back-to-school outfitting sessions when I was a teen. So, middle school school probably.

Definitely longer than my kids have been around. Longer than I’ve known my wife.

It’s a versatile belt. My style has evolved over the decades from adolescent punk rocker to middle-aged professional and this belt has ridden my hips the whole way. It serves casual and formal situations alike.

I think about this belt sometimes when I’m standing in a store surrounded by things that are designed to be replaced. There’s something radical about an object that refuses obsolescence by simply continuing to work.

This belt has disappeared into total utility, earning the right to become invisible yet so integrated into my life. I forget it’s there, but can’t imagine a life without it.

Employee-Facing Apps Don't Need to Suck

I’ve been heads down at work for the past several weeks rolling out a significant operational change (supported by new technology) to a segment of pilot stores in our retail fleet. This rollout required me to visit stores on both coasts listening for feedback, observing things that need to be improved and iterating quickly to deliver value in near-realtime. It’s been invigorating and has brought back to the surface all the elements I love about product management as a practice!

Ultimately, the problem space we’re operating in is this: How might we make the products in our stores easier to find for our employees and our customers?

The big change we are attempting to deliver is the introduction of product location data in-store. It’s a big, gnarly problem to solve for a legacy co-op like REI, mainly due to the extreme variability in our store layouts. If you’ve been to more than one REI, you know that some locations are in historical buildings – an old train station in Denver, for example – while others inherit a simpler big-box & strip mall retail feel. This variability in warehouse size & organization, combined with diverse floor sets across markets, create complexities that make standardizing a process and delivering tech that works across all locations extremely difficult.

One store workflow this new product location data will help improve is the sales floor restocking process. For the first time at REI, we know how many units of a SKU are on the sales floor, how many units are in the warehouse, and where those units are in the store. My team is also ingesting several data elements from our Visual Merchandising team and we wrote a machine learning algorithm to forecast a Target Sales Floor Quantity for every SKU in the store.

So with the raw location data and the algorithm telling us what should be on the sales floor, we were able to develop a new restocking tool in REI’s employee mobile app (Ascent) that is centered around one key hero metric: Sales Floor Percent Stocked. Store employees can now get a real-time snapshot of their sales floor stocked rate, along with a prioritized list of products that need to be restocked, on their mobile devices. This is a big step forward for our store teams.

One of the things I’m most proud of related to this pilot rollout is the feedback we’re getting from users about the Ascent features. Because we lean into co-creation mindset, the product team was able to deliver an initial version that delighted store teams out of the gate and we continue to iterate as we learn more about usage. The Ascent team obsesses over quality and store employee experience, and I think that’s evident in the product we deliver. I mean, tell me this is not one of the most elegant employee-facing app interfaces you’ve ever seen.

A series of 4 mobile app mockups

Employee-facing apps don’t need to suck. The Ascent team is lean: 1 front-end engineer, 1 back-end engineer, 1 QA analyst, shared product designer, shared product manager (me). The lean-ness of the team presents some hurdles, but it also affords us the ability to take both an an agile approach that prioritizes speed-to-market and an artisanal approach that prioritizes craft. I believe this mode of operating is our sweet spot.

As we enter REI’s holiday code freeze, we’ll be hands off on production changes but we’ll be working hard behind the scenes on the next version of Ascent (ETA January) that will power location data enablement across the enterprise.

A Fully-Present Participant in Reality

I’ve been thinking a lot about attention. My attention, primarily, but also our collective attention and where we direct it in the world.

Like time, attention is a finite resource. But unlike time, we can never run out of attention. There is a never-ending supply until we breathe our last breath. The rub with attention, however, is that even though we have an unending supply, we can only ever fully dedicate it to one thing at one time. This creates a distinctly different scarcity from time. Where time has a scarcity of depletion, attention has a scarcity of distribution.

In every moment, we make attention-allocation decisions. These decisions require active engagement with the world around us. Our reality. You can’t save attention for later. You can’t bank it or invest it or set it aside. You can only practice directing it more intentionally in each moment.

Our world is now designed to make these decisions of direction for us. The notification that pulls us away from conversation. The infinite scrolling that captures twenty minutes we didn’t intend to give. The autoplay that queues up the next video before we’ve processed the current one.

Our world has evolved to be hungry for attention. It’s the capital of our modern times. It wants to train our attention into patterns. It wants to colonize the practice of attention itself, to make fragmentation feel normal.

What if we approached attention differently? Not as a resource to be managed or extracted, but as a practice to be cultivated? What if we chose the here and now over the distant and digital? What would change if our attention was not an opportunity to monetize, but an opportunity to be fully here in this moment?

Being fully present means making intentional choices about where attention goes. Let’s choose to pay attention to the things that help us become fully-present participants in our shared reality.

An Open Letter to Shaler Area School District

The following is an open letter to Shaler Area School District superintendent Bryan O’Black and the district’s board of directors regarding the closure and eventual sale of Shaler Area Elementary School. It was delivered via email on Tuesday, September 30, 2025, but I am posting here for transparency and in case anyone else from the community wants to send a similar note. Feel free to use this as a template for your own communication.

TO: oblackb@shalerarea.org, tunstallj@shalerarea.org, phillipse@shalerarea.org, dunne@shalerarea.org, burnj@shalerarea.org, kresse@shalerarea.org, machajewskij@shalerarea.org, petrancostad@shalerarea.org, kwiatkowskia@shalerarea.org, saullet@shalerarea.org, tresslerj@shalerarea.org
FROM: jeffrey@inscho.org
RE: Community Forum Follow-Up

Dr. O’Black and SASD Board Directors —

[Redacted first paragraph with personal identifiable information]

Thank you for sharing the information about the transition to a K-5 elementary education model at last evening’s Community Forum. I appreciate the transparency and vulnerability as you addressed questions from a naturally emotional audience.

I personally support this educational recommendation for the students of the district.

My wife and I are concerned, however, about the future of the SAES property. My home is one of approximately 30 residences that abut the SAES grounds, and one of more than one hundred within a quarter mile radius of the school.

As you know, the 22 acres upon which the school stands provides a lot of benefit for neighbors and the surrounding community. People gather, practice athletics, exercise, socialize and grow relationships with their neighbors on those grounds every day. I want to ensure some aspect of that remains when SAES is gone, while also generating much needed funds for the district to reinvest in our children’s future.

My intent with this note is not to add to the emotional responses, but recommend the board take a measured and thoughtful approach when considering the sale of the property. This may include:

  • Adding a work stream for the responsible sale of SAES property. I think the work stream approach for the transition is smart and I’ve seen this be effective in private sector change management. Unless I missed it in the presentation last evening, there is not currently a work stream identified for the sale of the property. I recommend that one be created, noting the impact to hundreds of families in close proximity to SAES.
  • Engaging neighbors for feedback and vetting of potential buyers. The sale of the Jeffery Elementary property several years ago set a precedent for the district’s active collaboration with community to facilitate a real estate transaction. I recommend a steering committee of neighbors be engaged to help identify viable & appropriate buyers for the land under shared goals of creating a lucrative sale for the district and a community-based plan for the property’s future.

I am willing, able and interested to volunteer or partner in any capacity to help make this a win/win for the district and the Scott Avenue community the district serves. Thanks again for the openness.

Respectfully,
Jeffrey Inscho

Connectivity Isn't Connection

The WiFi unexpectedly went out at my house last Friday. It was completely random — working fine one minute, then zero connectivity the next. I restarted my router a few times and checked all my connections. No luck. I couldn’t spend much time troubleshooting because I was on a deadline for work, so I left the house and worked the remainder of the day from a neighborhood coffee shop.

The technical issue that brought down the WiFi isn’t important. What’s important is that it was something I couldn’t fix myself and the provider needed to send out a technician to resolve it. The extra-important part is that they couldn’t put us on the schedule until the following Tuesday. This meant we’d have no internet at home for five days.

As an elder millennial, the thought of an offline extended weekend excited me. I remember well, and often long for, pre-internet living. This wasn’t the case for my 13-year-old who lives on YouTube or my 18-year-old ESPN freak who was on his way home from Penn State (they were on a bye) to visit for the weekend.

What transpired over those few offline days was special. Yes, our phones still had cellular connections, so we weren’t completely disconnected. But lack of WiFi meant our laptops remained closed, our tablets untouched, and our smart TVs dark.

Instead, we spent quality time together, mostly outside. We built a fire. We made margaritas. We took a few family walks with the dog. We cooked a Sunday football feast and watched the game using an antenna. We looked each other in the eye as we talked, and it was nice.

Those five days reinforced for me that life feels richer when I’m not constantly plugged in. Sometimes absence can create space for much needed presence. When Tuesday came and the technician completed his work, I was almost reluctant to reconnect because I now realize the connectivity I’d been missing wasn’t the WiFi at all.

Turn Off the Internet

Big tech has built machines designed for one thing: to hold your attention. The algorithms don’t care what keeps you scrolling. It could be puppy videos or conspiracy theories about election fraud. They only care that you keep consuming. And unfortunately nothing keeps people engaged quite like rage.

The executives at these companies will tell you they’re neutral platforms, that they don’t choose what content gets seen. This is a lie. Every algorithmic recommendation is an editorial decision. When YouTube’s algorithm suggests increasingly extreme political content to keep someone watching, that’s editorial. When Facebook’s algorithm amplifies posts that generate angry reactions, that’s editorial. When Twitter’s trending algorithms surface conspiracy theories, that’s editorial.

They are publishers. They have always been publishers. They just don’t want the responsibility that comes with being publishers.

For years, these companies have hidden behind Section 230 protections while operating more like media companies than neutral platforms. They’ve used recommendation algorithms to actively shape what billions of people see every day, then claimed they bear no responsibility for the consequences. It’s like a newspaper publisher claiming they’re not responsible for what appears on their front page because they didn’t write the articles themselves.

We need to be honest about what these algorithms are doing to our democracy. They’re not just amplifying existing divisions, they’re creating new ones. They’re not just reflecting polarization, they’re manufacturing it. Every time someone opens one of these apps, they’re being shown content specifically chosen to provoke an emotional response. That’s not neutral. That’s manipulation.

This isn’t a technology problem. This is a business and choice problem. These companies could change their algorithms tomorrow to prioritize accuracy over engagement, community over conflict, human wellbeing over profit. They choose not to because extremism is more profitable than moderation.

The solution isn’t to ask nicely for these companies to do better. We tried that. The solution isn’t to hope users will abandon these platforms en masse. That won’t happen as long as the network effects keep people trapped.

The solution is regulation. Real regulation. Not the performative theater we’ve seen in congressional hearings, but actual laws with actual consequences.

We need algorithmic transparency. These companies should be required to disclose how their recommendation systems work and what content they’re amplifying.

We need algorithmic accountability. When an algorithm recommends content that leads to violence, there should be consequences. And we need algorithmic choice. Users should have the right to see chronological feeds, not just algorithmically curated ones designed to manipulate their emotions.

Most importantly, we need to end the liability shield these companies hide behind. If you’re going to operate as a publisher, making editorial decisions about what content gets amplified, then you should face the same legal responsibilities as any other publisher.

Turn off the internet. Or fix it. Those are the only choices we have left. The time for hoping these companies will self-regulate is over. The time for treating algorithmic manipulation as an inevitable part of modern life is over. We know what these systems do. We know who they hurt. The only question left is whether we’re going to do something about it.

Reality Check

Things feel heavy right now. The headlines are grim, the discourse is toxic, and each day seems to bring fresh reasons for despair.

I try to stay optimistic underneath it all. It’s hard. But here’s what I’ve come to realize: optimism isn’t some fluffy feeling I can summon by thinking happy thoughts. It’s a decision. A daily choice to notice what’s actually happening around me.

The real world is still functioning and there is good happening within it. People are still fixing bikes, making coffee, helping their neighbors, creating things with their hands. The static of everyday life – messy, imperfect, beautifully human – keeps crackling along.

You want to know where hope lives? It’s in the fact that someone still grows the tomatoes you buy. That baristas remember how regulars take their coffee. That strangers still help push cars out of snow. That construction workers show up every day to build things that last.

I’m paying attention to the small stuff that works. Noticing the crossing guard who waves at kids every morning. The postal worker who knows which packages need careful handling. The mechanic who just fixed my Jeep for a fair price and didn’t try to screw me over.

Most people are decent. Most systems, despite their flaws, still function. Most problems get solved by people showing up and doing the work, quietly, without fanfare.

We can’t ignore the big problems. But we must remember that they exist alongside a million small things that are going exactly right. The world isn’t broken – it’s complicated. And complicated includes both the disasters and the daily miracles.

The Next Chapter

Tomorrow we will get up early and drive you off to college. The car is mostly packed, except for some last-minute items you’ll grab in the morning.

I’ve been thinking about time a lot in recent days. Not in an abstract way, but in a very concrete sense. This website has been chronicling your journey since before you could hold your head up, and today I found myself scrolling through years of posts like flipping through a diary that spans your entire life.

There’s the announcement of your arrival in 2007, when I was so new to fatherhood that I was still figuring out how to hold you properly. Your first Father’s Day, when you were barely a month old and I was already marveling at how completely you’d changed everything. Then years of football games, dude’s days, graduations, milestones both big and small. All of it archived here, a digital scrapbook of watching you grow from that tiny infant into the young man you are today heading off to study journalism.

As you head into this next chapter, I want to share some thoughts – not as the guy who’s been writing about your life for eighteen years, but as someone who cares deeply about how the next eighteen turn out.

Be yourself. This might be the last time in your life you get a completely clean slate. Nobody at Penn State knows the Elliott from high school or the Elliott from middle school or the kid who used to catch snowflakes on his tongue. You get to decide who you want to be, how you want to show up, what parts of yourself you want to emphasize. That’s both liberating and terrifying, but lean into the liberation. The world needs your particular brand of thoughtfulness and curiosity.

Try new things. College is basically a four-year experiment in being human, and the best experiments involve trying things you’ve never done before. Take that dance class. Join that club that sounds interesting but weird. Order something off the menu you can’t pronounce. Say yes to invitations that make you a little nervous. Great discoveries happen when you venture outside your comfort zone.

Find your people. You’re going to meet hundreds of people in the next few months, and you don’t need to be friends with all of them. But pay attention to the ones who make you feel more like yourself, not less. The ones who laugh at your jokes and challenge your ideas and seem genuinely interested in what you have to say. Some of the most important relationships of your life might start in a dorm hallway or a dining hall line. Choose wisely – you become who you hang out with.

Call your mother. And not just when you need something. She’s going to miss you. Hearing your voice — not just reading your texts – means more than you know. Call when something good happens. Call when something frustrating happens. Call when nothing much is happening at all. And yes, call me too.

We have your back. This one is important: independence doesn’t mean isolation. There’s going to come a moment – maybe several moments – when you’re overwhelmed or confused or just need someone to remind you that you’re capable of handling whatever you’re facing. Lean on the core four. That’s what we’re here for. Not to solve your problems, but to remind you that you have the tools to solve them yourself. And if you don’t have the tools yet, we’ll help you find them.

Have fun. But not too much fun. You know what I mean.

As I write this, I keep thinking about that first Father’s Day post when you were barely a month old. I wrote about how surreal it felt to suddenly be responsible for this tiny person, how the weight of fatherhood was both overwhelming and motivating. Eighteen years later, that feeling hasn’t gone away – it’s just evolved. Now instead of protecting you from falling off the changing table, I’m watching you prepare to launch yourself into the world.

The difference is that now I have eighteen years of evidence that you’re going to be just fine. More than fine. I’ve watched you navigate challenges with thoughtfulness and grace. I’ve seen you stand up for what you believe in. I’ve witnessed you treat people with kindness and respect. I’ve watched you pursue your interests with genuine passion.

Tomorrow we’ll jump in the car and make the drive to State College. We’ll carry your boxes up to your room, help you get settled, and then – probably after lingering longer than you’d prefer – we’ll drive home to a house that feels a bit smaller. But this is the way it is meant to be.

Now I’m handing the metaphorical pen to you. You’re the author of the next chapter in this story that started eighteen years ago and I can’t wait to watch you write it.

Letter Club

Letter Club, a new project from Naz Hamid and Scott Robbin, looks very cool. From Naz’s announcement post:

Not physical letters, but digital letters that arrive with traditional mail’s rhythm. It’s a private group newsletter that everyone contributes to and receives. It’s intentionally slow, purposeful, and deeply gratifying — a low-stress, high-signal way to stay connected that creates meaningful moments in a social world dominated by drive-by likes and fleeting attention.

I love this concept and I’m thinking of a number of cool topics worth exploring in this small group format:

  • A record club where we share new additions to our collections
  • An adventure club that shares highlights and recaps of running, cycling, hiking or climbing endeavors
  • A BBQ club focused on smoker & grill experiments and recipes

If one of these ideas resonates with you, hit me up. Awesome stuff, Naz and Scott!

Update: I created a club called Get in My Earholes that asks the question, “What’s the best record you’ve added to your collection recently?” Feel free to join the club…first letter goes out on 8/9 and then every 2 weeks after that.

Jameson - line (pause) line

A friend reached out the other day asking if a self-released EP my band put out back in the day was streaming anywhere online. It was not, so I uploaded it as a playlist to YouTube.

Released in late 1999, line (pause) line was the first and only recording we put out into the world. We toured a bit supporting it opening for bands like Midtown, The Juliana Theory, Further Seems Forever and the like, and I have some amazing memories from this period of my life.

I haven’t listened to it in ages, and thought I’d cringe a bit upon hearing it, but I’m cringing less than expected. It actually brought a smile to my face and unlocked those memories once again.

Let me know if you want the mp3 files and I can email them to you.

Ebb + Flow

I’m sitting here at my laptop for what feels like the first time in weeks, and it feels good. Really good. Like returning home after being away for too long.

The past few weeks have been a whirlwind. Elliott graduated high school. One chapter closing, another opening. We threw him a graduation party that seemed to take over our entire lives for a month. Planning for 100 people at our house, coordinating catering, setting up tents, worrying about weather. The setup was exhausting, the teardown even more so.

But when it was happening? Pure magic. Watching Elliott surrounded by friends and family, seeing the pride on everyone’s faces, feeling that collective celebration of this milestone – it was everything we hoped it would be and more.

Between the party planning, family travel, and an unusually demanding stretch at work, writing this site took a temporary backseat. This site sat here, patient and waiting, while life demanded my full attention elsewhere. And you know what? That’s exactly how it should be.

There’s something extremely natural about the ebb and flow of creative practice. Some seasons are for output, when thoughts are flowing and the words come easily. Other seasons are for input – for living, experiencing, gathering the raw material that eventually becomes the next wave of posts.

I used to feel guilty about the quiet periods. Like I was failing some invisible obligation to feed the algorithm, to maintain momentum, to stay visible in the endless scroll. But that’s the beauty of owning your own corner of the web. It doesn’t demand daily feeding. It doesn’t punish you for taking time away. It simply exists, ready for whenever you return.

This space has become something I didn’t expect when I started writing here: a refuge. A place where I can think out loud, process experiences, and document the moments that matter. It’s here when I need to work through something complex, celebrate something meaningful, or simply reconnect with the practice of writing.

Tonight, sitting here after being fully present for graduation ceremonies and family celebrations and work deadlines, I’m grateful for this patient digital home. I’m grateful for the rhythm that allows for both busy seasons and reflective ones. And I’m grateful that some things in our hyperdigital world still move at human speed.

This Site in Perpetuity

Not to get morbid, but turning 47 yesterday started me thinking about the persistence and legacy of this site if I were to suddenly get gone. One of the main purposes of StaticMade.com for me is to leave a public mark or a detailed record of my time, thoughts and consciousness while on this planet. How might I ensure it persists if something unforeseen happens?

Coincidentally today, Manton (founder of Micro.blog, the platform I use to publish Static Made) posted some information about his policy on scenarios of subscription lapses and untimely death:

If you have ever paid for hosting with us, and you haven’t violated our terms of service or community guidelines, we keep your blog online forever, even after you’ve stopped paying for your subscription.

I think this is a very proactive and generous policy. So as long as there is a plan for domain management, the site should remain online in perpetuity. Thanks Manton!

Forty-Seven Things

I begin my 48th trip around the sun today, so here is a non-exhaustive list of 47 things I’ve learned during those 47 orbits.

  1. Static made old radio.
  2. Be here now. This moment is the only one you can truly inhabit.
  3. Put the phone down. The best conversations happen face-to-face.
  4. Quality over quantity, always. Fewer, better things make life richer.
  5. Your body knows more than any smartwatch can. Listen to it.
  6. Progress isn’t always about moving faster or going farther.
  7. Sometimes the best way to move forward is to leave things behind.
  8. Eat as low to the ground as you can.
  9. Pizza and bagels are just better in New York.
  10. Never drink so much at night that you ruin the whole next day.
  11. People matter more than protocols, and protocols matter more than platforms.
  12. Relationships require effort.
  13. If the music is too loud, you’re too old.
  14. You should not enjoy the music your kids listen to.
  15. Seek out conversations with the elderly. Their perspective will educate you.
  16. Seek out conversations with children. Their perspective will energize you.
  17. Read books. Real ones. Feel the pages. Breathe in the binding.
  18. Depth almost always beats breadth.
  19. Chaos is constant. Exploit it.
  20. Living well is about progression, not perfection.
  21. Everything fades.
  22. Grief doesn’t last forever. It dulls over time.
  23. There is a difference between pain and discomfort. Learn to deal with each uniquely.
  24. Pain caves are mental constructs. You can choose to leave them.
  25. Small, consistent choices add up to big changes over time.
  26. Running can be meditation in motion.
  27. It’s OK to be bored. Let your mind wander. It may lead to something creative.
  28. Spend at least one hour a day outside.
  29. There is no such thing as bad weather.
  30. Get sunlight into your eyes as quick as you can in the morning.
  31. Avoid productivity as performance.
  32. Take notes, but don’t document everything.
  33. Take photos, but not selfies.
  34. Use the appropriate tool for the job.
  35. Outcomes over outputs.
  36. Don’t just do a thing. Do the right thing.
  37. Technical debates often obscure the more important human questions.
  38. Own your content. Put it on your own domain. Leave a digital legacy.
  39. A good leader doesn’t create followers. A good leader creates more leaders.
  40. Embrace both/and thinking instead of either/or battles.
  41. You are not your profession. Work is a means to an end, not an identity.
  42. Rise early. Get an edge.
  43. Check in on the news once, maybe twice, per day. Any more than that is not helpful.
  44. Attention is your most valuable currency.
  45. Tip well.
  46. Listening is vastly more important than speaking.
  47. Learn to be comfortable in silence and solitude.

Sunday Service

A church on a hill

For some people, attending church on Sunday morning is the spiritual space they need in their lives. I have never been one of those people, but I am someone who needs quiet, reflection and beauty to feel spiritually fulfilled. I find my spiritual space in the nature.

This morning, as the church bells atop North Park rang to signal 8am, I started out on the Green trail. It was foggy and humid, but once I got into the woods, the fog added a layer of mystery to the familiar trail.

A wooded trail with a green blaze on a tree

As I moved from the Green trail to the Orange trail, I passed a father and young son just starting out on a Father’s Day hike. They were the only two humans I’d see on the trails this morning.

I love solo runs like this. They ground me in a way I presume church or religion does for others. I listen closely to the sound of my breath and the non-rhythms of my footfalls. My mind wanders wherever it wants to wander, much like my body in these trail running moments.

After an hour or so in this zen-like state, I emerged from the woods into the church parking lot refreshed, aware and at ease — a spiritual space those now entering the church will likely have in about an hour.

A Different Kind of Ultra

It’s been several months since I stopped using a smartwatch to track health and exercise metrics, and it’s an understatement to say this simple act has fundamentally altered my mental state in the best possible way. The shift has completely changed my perspective on the purpose of maintaining good health.

Before I made the switch, I could classify my metrics gathering into two buckets:

  1. general life metrics like sleep quality, resting heart rate, and daily steps
  2. workout metrics like pace, weekly miles, and elevation gain

My assumption going into the experiment was that the general life stuff would be easier to let go of than the workout metrics. But to my surprise, I don’t miss the exercise metrics at all.

In fact, not having pace and miles strapped to my wrist – or the pressure to stack miles week over week – allows me to be more present when I’m out there on a run or ride. Not knowing exactly how fast I’m pacing lets me truly listen to my body for cues about when to go harder or when to back off. I can feel my fatigue in greater fidelity, if that makes sense.

For example, I wasn’t feeling 100% after starting this morning’s run, so I decided to power hike the steep inclines of North Park’s South Ridge. In that moment, I thought to myself, “You would never let yourself hike these hills if you had pace on your wrist.” Hiking would slow down my overall pace too significantly.

It’s liberating to be able to run fast when I want to and throttle it back when I feel like I need to. Similarly, it’s refreshing (and sort of weird) to have no idea exactly how far I’m running.

When I returned home from this morning’s run, Jilly asked how far I ran.

“I’m not quite sure,” I told her. “I ran through the woods for about an hour and fifteen minutes, so that’s maybe six or seven miles, but I don’t know for sure.”

She didn’t quite understand why I would run if I wasn’t paying attention to how far I ran.

I think all of this boils down to the phase of life I’m currently in. I’m getting older and I’m okay with that. I’m not chasing paces anymore. I’m not chasing mileage volume. I’m not putting pressure on myself to progress at all costs. I don’t get upset if life gets busy and I don’t have time for my daily run. There are no ultramarathons on my docket.

Things are different now.

These days I’m chasing experiences – I want a unique one with each outing, and that’s only possible if I am fully present during each outing. These days I’m chasing future experiences and a level of fitness that will keep me on this planet for a bit longer so someday in the not-too-distant future I can be active with my grandkids.

That’s a different kind of ultra, but it’s the one I’m training for these days.

A Dream for the Web

I dream of a web that’s small and strange and wonderful. Where personal websites grow like gardens – each one unique, crafted by hand, reflecting the beautiful weirdness of its creator. Where the web feels big because it’s made of small, individual voices.

I dream of a web where people own their words. Where our thoughts live on our own property, not rented from a company that can disappear voices on a whim. Where writing exists because you have something to say, not because the appetite of the algorithm demands it.

I dream of a web where linking is loving. Where hyperlinks have power, where blogrolls make comebacks, where discovery happens through human curation rather than manipulation by machines. Where following a thread of links can lead down rabbit holes of genuine fascination.

I dream of a web that respects our attention. Where websites load quickly because they’re not bloated with tracking scripts and surveillance infrastructure. Where reading an article doesn’t trigger an onslaught of analytics events and cookie consent banners. Where the interface serves the content, not the advertiser.

I dream of a web that’s accessible to everyone – not just those who can afford the latest devices or fastest connections. Where sites work on old phones and slow networks because the creators remembered that the web is for everyone, not just the privileged.

I dream of a web where communities form around shared interests rather than shared platforms. Where discussions thrive, where posts feel like letters from friends, where feeds let you choose your own reading rhythm instead of surrendering to an infinite scroll.

I dream of a web that’s built by humans for humans. Where the goal isn’t to automate away human expression through artificial intelligence, but to amplify the unique perspectives that only humans can offer.

I dream of a web that moves at human speed. Where conversations unfold over days and weeks instead of milliseconds. Where depth matters more than virality, and reflection is worth more than reaction. Where you can disappear for a month and come back to find your community still there, still talking, still caring.

I dream of a web where silence is golden. Where not every moment needs to be documented, shared, or optimized for engagement. Where digital sabbaths are respected, where being offline isn’t a productivity failure, where the most profound connections happen when the screens are dark.

I dream of a web that doesn’t just connect our devices, but connects our souls. That doesn’t just transfer data, but transfers meaning.

The No Excuses Jacket

My friend Rob calls it my “no excuses jacket.” Every time I show up for a run when the weather is doing its worst—sleeting, pouring, or threatening something even more unpleasant—I’m wearing the same beat-up, greenish-yellow Marmot Precip jacket that’s been my constant companion for years.

It’s not the most technical piece of gear, and it’s certainly not the most stylish. But it has one quality that matters more than anything else: I trust it completely. Through Christmas Eve runs at -11 degrees, winter solstice adventures on the Rachel Carson trail in 18 inches of snow, and just last week when sheets of summer rain turned my morning neighborhood run into an impromptu swimming session, this jacket has never let me down.

The durability isn’t just about the fabric—it’s about the memories woven into every mile. This jacket has been with me through breakthrough runs and breaking points, through moments of clarity on quiet trails and the grinding determination of longer efforts. It’s become more than gear; it’s become a symbol of showing up.

But here’s what I’ve realized: the real power of the “no excuses jacket” isn’t protection from the elements. It’s protection from my own resistance to discomfort.

Weather is just the most obvious form of resistance we face. The cold whispers that it’s too harsh to go out. The rain suggests that maybe today isn’t the day. The wind argues that conditions aren’t ideal. My jacket doesn’t eliminate these conditions—it just gives me the confidence to move through them anyway.

This same principle has started showing up in other areas of my life, particularly in those moments that require a different kind of courage. Like having uncomfortable conversations with team members about performance issues. Or pushing back on a decision I disagree with in a leadership meeting. Or admitting I was wrong about a product direction we’ve been pursuing for months.

These situations don’t require literal weather protection, but they need the same kind of shield—something that helps me face discomfort rather than avoid it. Sometimes it’s preparation that serves as my jacket: spending extra time thinking through a difficult conversation before having it. Sometimes it’s a mindset: reminding myself that avoiding hard truths doesn’t make them disappear. And sometimes it’s simply the accumulated confidence that comes from having weathered difficult moments before.

This isn’t about toxic productivity or grinding through everything that feels hard. There’s a difference between productive discomfort and destructive suffering. The “No Excuses Jacket” philosophy is about being brave enough to engage with the things that matter, even when they feel uncomfortable. It’s about recognizing that the best runs often happen in the worst weather, and the most important conversations often happen when they feel the hardest to have.

The jacket reminds me that I have more capacity for discomfort than I usually give myself credit for. That the anticipation of harsh conditions is often worse than the conditions themselves. That showing up consistently, regardless of circumstances, builds a different kind of strength than any training plan could provide.

There’s something grounding about having a piece of gear—or a practice, or a mindset—that you trust completely. It becomes an anchor point, a reminder that you’ve faced uncertainty before and made it through. My beat-up Precip has become a tangible representation of the principle that we’re more resilient than we think, and that the best version of ourselves often emerges not in perfect conditions, but in spite of imperfect ones.

How I Used AI Today

My son is having a birthday and graduating from high school in the span of five days, so Jilly and I thought we’d do something special and get him a joint gift to celebrate both occasions. He’s very much interested in photojournalism and will be entering university in the fall to study communications. We thought a nice DSLR camera would be a the perfect gift.

I don’t know much about cameras or lenses, so I asked Claude for some help. My initial prompt:

I want to buy my son a DSLR camera for his birthday/graduation. You are an expert in photography and photography equipment. Could you help me select the right camera, lenses and bag? I’d like to spend about $X total.

Claude and I then chatted about my son’s photographic interests, his current level of expertise, and several of my purchase preferences/requirements. The output of this conversation was a tight list of three potential camera bodies w/ corresponding lens pairings.

I then asked Claude to find the best deals for two of the options and it returned the top three online retailers for both based on price, service and customer reviews.

After validating some pricing details, I made the purchase. In total, I estimate this approach saved me several hours of research and analysis paralysis, which I am known for when making purchases like this.

The camera kit arrived two days later, we gave it to him on his birthday and he used it for the first time last night to cover his school’s WPIAL title baseball game.

Note: This post is part of an ongoing series called How I Used AI Today, inspired by friend and former colleague Beck Tench who does something similar over on LinkedIn. I’m starting to believe the thinking and narrative around generative AI is becoming too binary. The intent of this series is to keep me publicly honest and intellectually responsible with my use of this emerging technology.

Long Live the Zine

Pittsburgh-based nonprofit news outlet PublicSource is experimenting with a new printed edition, although not the typical format for which legacy media is known. Taking a page from the underground publishing playbook, PublicSource is releasing neighborhood-focused zines intended to meet communities where they are – at coffee shops, community centers, their neighbor’s home – and create a hyperlocal publication with impact.

Zines are independently published, noncommercial publications that are often handmade and focus on very specific subject matter. They carry a storied history, with some scholars tracing zine lineage back to Thomas Paine’s political pamphlet Common Sense in 1776. The modern era of zine culture in the U.S. was ushered in during the late-19th century’s amateur press movement and carried through the 20th century with help from the Harlem Renaissance, science fiction fandom and punk rock movements.

PublicSource’s foray into zine publication is in the spirit of these previous movements, but also brings with it a reaction to the digiral culture of our day. Halle Stockton on the rationale:

We intentionally chose the zine format: a small, printed publication you can hold, flip through, pass to a friend or tuck into your bag. It’s low-tech and high-touch. It slows you down just a little. It doesn’t ping or scroll. And it doesn’t require an algorithm to find its audience.

There’s something profound in Stockton’s phrase “high-touch.” The tactile experience of paper creates engagement that’s very different from media that’s mediated through a glass screen. The physical act of flipping pages, the inability to hyperlink away to endless distractions, the constraint of finite space – these aren’t limitations. They’re features. They force both writer and reader into a more intentional relationship with the stories.

I think this is an interesting move for a media outlet like PublicSource. Journalism needs to become more local. It needs to connect with people on the issues that directly impact them, their neighbors and their neighborhoods. It’s smart PublicSource considers the zine project to be one element of a broader strategy to “inform and inspire the Pittsburgh region through the power of deep, independent journalism,” because the artisanal nature of the format does raise questions about scalability.

While most of our information these days arrives through algorithmic feeds and endless scroll, there’s something quietly revolutionary about a folded piece of paper that exists entirely outside that system. PublicSource’s zine experiment reminds us that sometimes the most innovative approach is also the most ancient one: putting words on paper and handing them directly to your neighbors.

Whether this model can scale remains to be seen, but perhaps that’s missing the point. Zines were never about scale – they were and continue to be about connection, community, and the radical idea that everyone has a story worth telling. Maybe what modern journalism needs isn’t more reach, but more touch.

The Leadership We Need Right Now

Retail Brew analyzing how REI is doubling down on diversity, equity and inclusion:

While REI is affirming its values now, the company, by its own admission, betrayed them earlier in the current Trump administration.

Full disclosure: I work for REI and what follows is my personal view from the inside.

Earlier this year the Co-Op signed on to an outdoor industry letter sent to The Senate Committee on Energy and Natural Resources supporting the nomination of Doug Bergum for Secretary of the Interior. Many REI employees were left confused, upset and feeling somewhat betrayed by a company whose primary purpose was to protect our public lands and work tirelessly to ensure the outdoors is accessible for all. We felt the letter was in direct conflict with the values that drew us to work at REI.

Since that letter was published, REI has a new CEO. In one of her first public statements as CEO, Mary Beth (MB) Laughton announced clearly and transparently that it was a mistake signing the letter:

Signing that letter was a mistake. The actions that the administration has taken on public lands are completely at odds with the long-standing values of REI…I’m here to apologize to our members on behalf of REI, to retract our endorsement of Doug Burgum, and to take full accountability for how we move forward.

At REI’s annual member meeting held on May 8th, MB made another public statement affirming REI’s commitment to DEI, even in the face of mounting pressure from the current administration:

In a time when our public lands and values like diversity, equity and inclusion are under threat, I want you to hear from me that REI believes these are essential to our business.

I feel like this is the kind of leadership REI needs right now. Admitting mistakes, owning the accountability for those mistakes, and charting a path forward honoring the core values that make the Co-Op a special place work. Most of us who work at REI don’t work there because we love selling tents. We work there because we love the outdoors. We want to protect it. We want to ensure people of all backgrounds and abilities can experience it. We want to make a positive impact in the world. With leadership like this at the helm, I still believe all of that is possible.

The retail industry is tough business. It’s even harder when the political current is working against company values. As I survey the room of other retailers and notice their actions related to the politics of the day, it’s very easy to see which companies are willing to sell out for political favor. I’m glad REI is not one of those.

Rearviewmirror

As a pre-teen in the early ’90s, few things lit me up like the newly emergent Seattle grunge scene. I had been playing guitar for several years by then and most of those early years were spent idolizing hair metal shredders and learning Guns N’ Roses solos note for note. But then at some point in 1991 I heard the four-chord intro to Smells Like Teen Spirit and my life changed.

Those four chords showed me that music was meant to move you. Forget formality. Forget the polish. Those four chords opened up a new world of bands who wrote songs with raw emotion and intensity. One of those bands was Pearl Jam.

The first Pearl Jam song that hooked me was Alive. That intro lick was (and continues to be decades later) so fresh. Shortly after hearing it, I bought the Ten cassette and played it on repeat. It was in the walkman. It was in the deck of my parents’ 1988 Dodge Caravan. I played it in my room over and over and over learning the hard-panned guitar parts played by Mike and Stone. Pearl Jam had become my favorite band.

When the lineup for Lollapalooza ‘92 was announced, with Pearl Jam playing in the 2nd slot between Lush and The Jesus and Mary Chain, I knew I had to find a way to be there when the tour came to nearby Scranton, Pennsylvania. Being only thirteen, getting there would not be easy. I had no friends that could drive and my parents were not keen on the idea of dropping their thirteen year-old son off into a grungy mosh pit.

I’ve written before about how supportive my dad was in my musical endeavors. After weeks of badgering him to go to the show, he relented and agreed to go with me. It wasn’t the coolest thing to go to a rock show with your dad, but nothing would stop me from being there.

Long story short, the concert was located at Montage Mountain Ski Resort in the Pocono Mountains and the parking situation was a nightmare. We couldn’t park near the venue and needed to park several miles from where the concert was taking place. Concert organizers were bussing attendees from remote parking locations up to the base of the mountain where the bands were performing. It took us several hours to get from where we parked to the location.

As we stepped off the yellow school bus at the base of the mountain, I heard in the distance the familiar sound of one of my favorite Pearl Jam songs, Porch. They were already playing. Back in those days there was no setlist.fm so I had no idea how far the band was into their set. Turns out, they were pretty far into it. By the time we got to a vantage point of the band, they were well into Rockin’ in the Free World, which would be their final song. I was bummed to miss most of their set, but to this day I feel extremely fortunate to have caught a glimpse of their brilliance at that stage of their career.

Fast forward 33 years. Between 1992 and 2025, I never had the chance to see Pearl Jam again. I continued to follow and admire the band, but getting to a show just never worked out. That all changed last Sunday night.

Earlier this year when the band announced a pair of Pittsburgh dates, I made it a mission to attend. The tickets were hard to get (thanks Ticketmaster) and a bit pricey, but I would not be denied. I scored two upper level tickets, and Jilly and I circled the date on the calendar.

To say Sunday night’s show was worth the wait is an understatement. It was the final show of their Dark Matter world tour, and the band blew the roof off PPG Paints Arena to a more-than-capacity crowd. The air was electric – a mix of die-hard fans who’d seen them dozens of times and people like me who’d waited decades for this moment. You could feel the anticipation building as the lights dimmed and the crowd roared.

Early set highlights included an urgent & powerful version of Why Go that folded perfectly into Deep, two of my favorite tracks from Ten. Elderly Woman… was amazing as well, especially when Eddie turned over vocal duties to the crowd for the outro. Hearts and thoughts, they fade away. Chills. As expected, Even Flow whipped the crowd into a frenzy for the remainder of the first set, which culminated in a frantic rendition of Rearviewmirror that left the crowd dizzy.

The band left the stage for a few minutes and came back to play a 10-song encore that included unexpected songs like Hunger Strike (dedicated to Chris Cornell) and Crazy Mary, setlist staples like Alive, Lukin and Yellow Ledbetter, and covers of Rockin’ in the Free World and Little Wing, which closed out the night.

Eddie’s voice was so good and the band was super tight, seemingly firing on all cylinders. The energy was electric. It seemed like they were actually having fun. That’s rare to see in a band nearly four decades into their run. Pearl Jam is something truly special.

Reflecting back on this experience, I think it was worth the wait. It’s pretty cool that 33 years after I first saw the last bars of Rockin’ in the Free World at Lollapalooza, I got a chance to see the full version at a distinctly different stage of life. I lost my dad a long time ago, but Little Wing was one of his favorite songs of all time and I can’t help but think the universe was smiling at me at that moment. He would have loved to hear Pearl Jam’s version.

I’m not sure if I’ll get the chance to see Pearl Jam again. To be completely honest, I’m not sure I want to. The experience from Sunday will be a lasting memory and part of me wants to leave it at that – captured and catalogued alongside the 1992 memory for decades to come.

On Care, Craft and Quality

Few things in life are actually urgent. True emergencies do happen, but hopefully they are rare. The urgency I’m referring to is fabricated. A modern myth.

Our culture has evolved to value instant gratification, instant response and instant turnaround for most things. The faster your synapses get feedback, the better.

It doesn’t need to be this way. In fact, this faux urgency creates conflict with several of the personal pillars I hold dear: care, craft and quality.

Caring about something requires that you get to know it over time. A relationship is necessary for care to exist, and relationships don’t take shape instantly. They’re built on connection, trust and empathy – all elements difficult to nurture quickly.

Likewise, craft requires practice. And by definition, practice is working toward perfection over time. A craft is not developed overnight, but over years. Sometimes decades.

I think quality is the summation of care and craft. A thing of quality can only be the result of time spent caring about an outcome and crafting a response to that care.

All of this requires that we slow down. Turn off the firehose. Preference the signals that matter. Notice the details. Ask nuanced questions. Make space for diverse perspectives. Take on difficult conversations. Become intentional about our actions. By living this way, we’ll be able to center the care and craft required to deliver the quality the world deserves.

Protocols as Pillars

The social web is at an inflection point. After years of centralized platforms dominating our digital lives, we’re witnessing a resurgence of alternatives built on open protocols. I believe this is something to celebrate, yet I’ve noticed a recent rift of technologists, developers, and early adopters engaging in debates about which approach is more “pure” or “truly open.”

The Mastodon/ActivityPub camp points to federation and existing implementation. The Bluesky/AT Protocol proponents highlight architectural advantages and planned interoperability. They’re both right and each side has compelling arguments, but they miss a fundamental truth: the web was never meant to be a monoculture.

The early web thrived because it wasn’t beholden to a single implementation or approach. HTTP, HTML, RSS and other foundational web technologies weren’t prescriptive about how they should be implemented. They simply defined interfaces that allowed different systems to communicate. This protocol-first approach created a healthy ecosystem where experimentation was encouraged and diversity was a strength, not a liability.

If today’s web is built in the spirit of the web we were given by its creators, platforms simply shouldn’t matter. Protocols should.

When Tim Berners-Lee gave us the web, he didn’t dictate which software to use or which browser was the “true” implementation. Instead, he offered protocols that allowed for interoperability while encouraging innovation at the edges. The result was a renaissance that transformed human communication. The web we knew and loved.

The challenge we face today isn’t deciding which social platform is more ideologically pure. It’s building systems that return agency, privacy and control to users while maintaining the convenience and network effects that drew people to centralized platforms in the first place.

This isn’t a zero-sum game where one protocol must “win” while others fade away. Let’s take email as an example. Email has thrived for decades with multiple protocols working in concert. Different implementations serve different needs, and the ecosystem is stronger for it.

The real metric of success shouldn’t be which protocol gains dominant market share, but whether users regain control over their digital identities and social connections. Can I own my data? Can I choose which clients I use to access the network? Can I move between providers without losing my social graph? These questions matter far more than whether a particular implementation uses federated servers or a distributed approach.

As someone who’s been thinking about the intersection of technology and human experience for years, I’ve come to believe that technical debates often obscure the more important human questions. In reality normies don’t care whether their social media runs on ActivityPub or AT Protocol — they care about connecting with friends, sharing ideas, and being part of communities.

Perhaps what frustrates me most about the current discourse is how it forces people to choose sides in a battle that shouldn’t exist. The brilliant minds crafting today’s open web are wasting energy fighting each other rather than working together to build alternatives to the centralized offerings from big tech.

What if, instead, we embraced a both/and mindset? What if Mastodon/ActivityPub and Bluesky/AT Protocol were seen as complementary approaches, each with strengths and weaknesses, each contributing to a richer, more resilient social web?

It’s already this way for me. By leveraging the POSSE (Post on your Own Site, Syndicate Everywhere) philosophy via Micro.blog, I am able to post & reply on both Mastodon/Fediverse & Bluesky without ever seeing or touching either platform. Because the underlying protocols for each are well architected and documented, Micro.blog’s creator Manton Reece can build his platform above their protocols. The Ghost blogging platform is heading this direction too. This is the future.

The path forward isn’t choosing between competing visions of openness. It’s embracing the plurality of approaches while insisting on core values of user agency, data ownership, and interoperability. In that spirit, let’s redirect our energy from debating protocols to building the web we want to see — one that’s truly open to everyone, regardless of which particular technical approach gets us there.

Mother’s Day 2025

We had a wonderful day honoring and celebrating Jilly. First, we made our way to the South Side to check out the Neighborhood Flea. There were tons of vendors and people out and about, largely due to the splendid weather. I scored some artisanal Ginger Beer and the Jilly scored some prints from a local artist.

Next, we took a ride on The Gateway Clipper. We’ve been living in Pittsburgh for 25 years and have never done it. It was fun, and again, the weather was absolutely perfect. As we were deboarding, we even saw a beaver on the river bank. All the years I’ve been running through the woods, I have never crossed paths with a beaver. But the first time I take an urban cruise, there he is. Super cool.

We closed the day with a fabulous meal at Nicky’s Thai Kitchen. Pineapple Fried Rice for me, Pad See Ew for Jilly and Thai Fried Rice for the kids.

Happy Mother’s Day Jilly! We love you.

Designing for Chaos

I envy product thinkers who operate within the context of a lean and born-digital startup. Product strategy is never easy, but building technology in this environment becomes fairly straightforward. Write code, test, deploy. Rinse and repeat. Or some variation of this. But try bringing that same approach into a complex physical environment like a retail store, and suddenly you’re not just a product manager – you’re part ringmaster, part therapist, and part exorcist for technology that seems possessed by real-world demons.

I’ve spent the last two decades building tech designed to be used in physical space – first in museums, then in retail organizations – and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the gap between the digital roadmap and the reality of the floor is extremely wide.

First, there’s the idealism divide. Most technologists think about users as disembodied entities who interact with software in predictable, often ideal, ways. This is the happy path mentality. Meanwhile, most retail associates are often juggling many scenarios at once: a customer who’s trying to return a swimsuit they bought 6 months ago, a thief trying to steal an expensive piece of outerwear, a random question about product specs, or a manager who’s just informed them they need to be cross-trained on a new area of the store – all while attempting to use enterprise systems on six-year-old hardware.

Then there’s the physical environment itself. That sleek tablet kiosk we designed? It’s now positioned directly under an HVAC vent that drips condensation like a leaky faucet. That in-aisle digital display meant to guide customers? It’s been commandeered as a support pole for seasonal decoration. And the once-white customer-facing payment terminal now bears the fingerprint smudges of a thousand customers.

Let’s not forget connectivity. In the product requirements, the system requires a stable internet connection. In reality, we’re dealing with large-scale Faraday cages that create spotty Wi-Fi at best.

The gap between digital intention and physical implementation creates a special kind of cognitive dissonance. Most product managers are trained to think in terms of user journeys and personas, only to watch customers use the self-checkout as a surface to scratch off a lottery ticket. I’ve grown to love this dichotomy over the years.

Within this chaos lies a peculiar beauty. Unlike purely digital products, retail tech exists in a messy, human world – one where success is measured by metrics, of course, but also the absence of complaints. The most elegant product isn’t the one with the cleanest code or the most impressive AI; it’s the one that works when the Wi-Fi doesn’t, when the user hasn’t slept, and when reality refuses to conform to a carefully plotted customer journey.

I’ve found the best retail tech product managers develop a kind of zen-like mindset. We learn to let go of digital perfection and embrace analog reality. We don’t build for the ideal conditions of the demo environment. We build for the beautiful disaster that is actual retail.

So the next time you’re struggling to operate a seemingly simple piece of technology in a store, know that somewhere a product manager is observing, taking notes, and going back to the drawing board to try once again to bridge the gap between the binary code and the bricks-and-mortar – one humbling iteration at a time.