Every direction I turn, I am poked and prodded to buy. Once upon a time, ads broadcast into the void. Now, the Algorithm calls us by name.
An ad I heard this morning began with the question, “Who doesn’t want more of… everything?” Me, for one.
Another was from one of the big AI firms, interrupting a video about the Sony TC-D5 cassette field recorder — which, just between us girls, I think could fix me. In the ad, a father asks a chatbot, “How do I get my 2-year-old to eat his breakfast?”
“He likes funny faces,” the AI replies. So the father, relieved to outsource the act of getting to know his child to the machine, serves up whimsical pancakes with mouse ears.
A USC study found that people see roughly 5,000 ads per day, up 10x from what they saw in the 1970s. And: “On average, children see 20,000 thirty-second commercials each year. Adults see an average of 2 million of those on a yearly basis.”
Which leads me to the question I’ve been asking myself nearly every day, with no answer: How should I live in a culture that relentlessly pushes me toward the Cliff of Consumption?
My siblings, all born in the 1970s, remember when they had to wait for Jordans to make it in bulk to the hinterlands of southwest Missouri — or twiddle their thumbs patiently while their coveted limited-edition G.I. Joe shipped on special order.
My kids, born almost 50 years later, want it (all) now. Acquiring the latest thing — or replacing it when it’s carelessly damaged — is no longer out of the question because of access, it’s now an issue of how many times you can say no.
The consumption works unnervingly on me, too. Maybe the analog tape deck really could solve all my quandaries. Or the $19 post-swim martini with $18 caesar salad (+$12 add chicken). Or the IKEA catalog that says, “No matter what goes wrong, at least you’ve got that sofa problem handled.” (I am the byproduct of Jack’s lifestyle obsession.)
Kurt Vonnegut used to tell a story about a party he attended with Joseph Heller at a billionaire’s home on Shelter Island. Vonnegut remarked that their host had made more money in one day than Heller’s bestseller Catch 22 had throughout its entire publication.
“But I have something he’ll never have,” Heller replied. “Enough.”
While we’re doing old saws, here are some more: They say the quickest way to double your salary is to halve your expenses. (Good luck finding places to cut, though.) And Thoreau famously described the true price of anything as “the amount of life you exchange for it.” (Must. increase. shareholder. value. to finance The Vibe ™️.)
There is a tension here. I have a modicum of taste. I like objects. As an editor, I’m continually questioning where the things I’m coveting (and recommending) fall on the spectrum of need-versus-envy.
Disappointingly, I am left with the same old questions: What does it mean to successfully cultivate a philosophy of “enough” — even while we are held in the boa-constrictor embrace of a system designed to efficiently squeeze every last cent out of us? And how do you defend yourself in the small, quiet moments when the Algorithm visits your boudoir just before you drift off to sleep?
Are you there, Algorithm? It’s me, Seth. Please serve me recommendations for a stylish fanny pack for my EDC that can hold fair-trade, organic fruit snacks, AirPods Pro 1, Opinel No. 8 folding knife, and my existential dread (without making me look like a tourist).
This just in from the Algorithm: It’s the Trail 2 Waist Pack from REI in Apex Blue!
away we go.
The Analog Wonder of Perfect Days
By Sam Holden for Dispatches From Post-Growth Japan
My take: I watched this movie — about the simple daily routine of a toilet cleaner in Tokyo’s Shibuya neighborhood — over the course of a few late nights this week. Highly recommend, 10/10.
Best line: Analog technology is everywhere in Perfect Days, mediating relationships between humans, and between humans and their physical and metaphysical surroundings, beyond just the murmur of cassettes or a payphone call. The protagonist plays a days-long asynchronous game of tic-tac-toe with a stranger on a folded up, hidden sheet of paper. He buys second-hand paperback novels from an overstuffed bookshop to be read in dim lamplight, and uses an old 90s point-and-shoot and black-and-white film in his quest to capture pleasing compositions of tree shadows.
I read all of these details as more than just the proclivities of a technophobic toilet cleaner. Recall the distinction between analog and digital: analog communication occurs using waves that are smooth and continuous. Digital signals, in contrast, are composed of zeros and ones: stepping, square, and discrete.
Vermont’s ‘DaVinci’: Mad River Valley architectural legend David Sellers dies at 86 by K. Fiegenbaum for VTDigger
My take: I missed the news of Dave’s passing a few months back. I had the…adventure of interviewing him for The Collective Quarterly just before the 50th anniversary of the design/build movement he helped kick off with his madcap experiments on Prickly Mountain — where the designs defy description (so be sure to check out the photos that accompany the article). In one of my reporter’s notebooks from our Vermont trip, I’m quite certain I still have notes on a different renegade architect from this group who regaled us with tales of running cocaine in Colombia. Perhaps fodder for a future issue…
Best line: In 1965, he and some friends moved to Vermont on a whim to start trying their hand at building. They chose the Mad River Valley sight unseen with the thought of building a vacation house for those living in the “manmade mountain” of Manhattan. (The natural valley, Sellers said, was the same size and shape of an upside-down Manhattan.) The friends managed to purchase 450 acres on an unnamed hillside in Warren with a $1,000 down payment, later calling it Prickly Mountain after architect John Lucas inadvertently sat on a raspberry bush.
The first house they built — the Tack House — was made entirely of plywood and found objects with no blueprints other than a rough sketch of the foundation. Soon, the vacation home plan was scrapped and Prickly Mountain turned into a longtime community of close friends and colleagues.
How Field Notes went from side project to cult notebook by Zachary Petit for Fast Company
Best line: Today, 20 years and more than 10 million sold notebooks later, what began as a casual side project with no real expectation has yielded a cult product that is in 2,000 stores worldwide, has a robust direct-to-consumer membership program, and, Coudal says, just came off its best year for sales and revenue. And 2025 is on pace, he adds, with hopes to surpass it.
It all goes back to Coudal’s light bulb—and, of course, Draplin’s before it. He had been drawing all his life and learned bookmaking at the Minneapolis College of Art and Design. When Draplin left the Midwest for the West Coast in 1993, he began collecting memo books that agriculture companies historically gave out as promos, and was taken with their lineage and practical design. He decided to make some of his own notebooks in 2005, and the pragmatism and charm of those promos—the vernacular type treatments, layouts, voice—found their way into Field Notes’ DNA.
Finding Ferris Bueller's seat at Wrigley Field 40 years later by Darren Rovell for cllct
Best line: The highlight on the television — which principal Ed Rooney misses in the pizza place — features Cubs reliever Lee Smith pitching to Braves outfielder Claudell Washington. Ferris catches a foul ball off the bat of Washington, and Granillo's search of the game logs revealed Washington only hit one foul ball off Lee Smith, which occurred in the 11th inning of a game June 5, 1985.
In the four decades since, no one has pointed out which seats the daring trio actually sat in at the Friendly Confines. So, cllct went to Wrigley Field this week to get it done.
home tour
Midwest on the Outside, Copenhagen on the Inside—These Cabins Prove It’s Possible
By Julie Vadnal for Domino
My take: Those who know me can attest I’ve been prattling on about building an outcropping of cabins, forts and other doo-dad structures in the woods (in Michigan, nonetheless!) for, oh, five-odd years now. So file this one under our recurring segment, it hurts to see someone else living your dream.
Best line: “The architectural vernacular of northern Michigan and the natural beauty of Leelanau were foundational in establishing the architectural and design vision for the project. We spent time driving the state highways, absorbing the unique forms of the native landscape, singular barns, humble family cabins, and long forgotten masonry foundations. We took direct influence from the region while carefully referencing the restrained character of the Scandinavian cabin.”
Seth Putnam is an editor and writer in Chicago. He lives with his wife, son, and daughter in a 1920s home that is the epitome of a work in progress.
"Instructions for living a life: Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it." —Mary Oliver