Revisiting the 365 Songs Project—November 4th, 2026
I used to think that this was my town
What a stupid thing to think
I hear you're fighting off a breakdown
I myself am on the brink
Two years ago tomorrow, I stumbled down Oakland’s Piedmont Avenue carrying a bottle of whiskey and writing drunken “I quit social media” posts. And then I did just that, disappearing for 18 months.
That was hard for me. I felt disconnected from the world, lost without community. I read, a lot, and that was lovely, but a desert island is still a desert island.
What I didn’t expect was that when I re-entered the online world earlier this year, I’d feel worse. That sense of community I’d missed so much didn’t exist. In its place were bots, AI slop, and tech sycophants proselytizing about all the ways AI would swipe away our collective purpose.
Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.
There was a moment late last night, after the surprises were in, when the darkness lifted. And only then could I identify a foreign feeling: hope. 2020 was relief, and short-lived, but I hadn’t felt hope since that night in Chicago’s Grant Park so many years ago.
The irony’s not lost on me. Back then, social media was an infant, a place where we spent more time commenting on actual infants than on our political differences. That came later, and when it did, we didn’t even realize how the platforms were screaming “connection” while designing our disdain for one another.
The thing is, I’m a Bourdain at heart. I’ve been moving from city to city for over 30 years, starting over in new neighborhoods and new jobs, and traveling the world to interview people I’d never have met any other way. I always found a path to connection, some conversational inroad that expanded beyond wherever our differences rested.
That all changed in mid-2016, even as I was meeting more people from various places than at any other period in my life. As Trump’s cult-leader persona swept through American politics, those of us who opposed him celebrated Clinton’s “deplorables” line, ran into our echo chambers, distanced ourselves from our families, closed the doors, ended the conversations, and for the most part haven’t spoken since.
Listen, I’m not here to get ahead of myself. We’re as divided as ever, policed and educated by tech companies, spitting talking points at one another without considering nuance. We have a lot of work to do to siphon that venom. The algorithms are still doing their thing, and we’re still falling for it.
But for this moment, at least, I do think it’s worth celebrating what’s possible, and worth listening again.
I've heard enough of the white man's blues
I've sang enough about myself
So if you're looking for some bad news
You can find it somewhere else
I wrote over 150 essays in 2024, each built around a song, and at the time I thought I was connecting with an audience. In retrospect, I was ranting, spinning my pent-up frustration and anger into accusations instead of inroads.
I was my own worst algorithm.
Last year was a son of a bitch
For nearly everyone we know
But I ain't fighting with you down in a ditch
I'll meet you up here on the high road
I drank whiskey last night, too, and it felt a whole lot different. A celebration, sure, but a moment of reprieve and relief, inviting in what’s become an unfamiliar feeling.
My friend Chris says I need to write a pitchforks-in-the-streets post, a “give me anybody but rich white male capitalists” post. He’s half right, and I love him for it. So give me the first Black woman governor, the first Native American woman governor, Texas’s first Latina governor, the first openly gay man in the Senate, the first Muslim senator, and the democratic socialists. And give me my family back, the old friends I stopped calling, my classmates from high school and college, the farmers, and the Christians and the rest of the faithful, whose religions are built on values that aren’t so far apart. Give me anybody who isn’t getting rich by keeping us apart.
This is for you. I spent years talking at you, and I helped keep that distance between us. I understand if you stopped listening.
I know you're tired
And you ain't sleeping well
Uninspired
And likely mad as hell
But wherever you are
I hope the high road leads you home again
I’ve spent 30 years walking into places where I didn’t know anyone, and I’ve always found a way in, so I’ll go first. If my number’s still in your phone, use it.
You’ve got someone too. Maybe it’s the brother you stopped calling in 2016, or the guy down the street whose yard sign has kept you from ever saying hello. Reach out to them today. You don’t have to agree on anything before you do.
Let’s just start listening again. Bring the whiskey, or whatever they’re having.
