Who are you going to believe?

The cynical refrain that nothing matters, or your own big, dumb, beautiful heart

[Left] Hundreds rally in Rogers Park, Chicago, after ICE arrested four people in the neighborhood two days prior. (Block Club Chicago/Thom Clark) [Right] Graffiti over an ad for the "friend" pendant (Hiroko Masuike/The New York Times)

If you haven’t heard about the creepy AI necklace that claims to be your friend, the first half of this sentence tells you just about everything you need to know. They are real, I guess, though they exist less as actual physical objects than as subjects of discourse. Avi Schiffmann, the creepy necklace’s 22-year-old wunderkind founder, spent an unholy sum of money on a search engine optimized web address and splashy advertisements in New York City and Los Angeles. He made a terrifying video about young people talking to their sycophantic necklace buddy. He wants you to talk about his creepy AI necklace. He doesn’t care what you say. He may have already pivoted away from the necklaces, actually, towards a run-of-the-mill dystopian chatbot. It’s hard to keep track. He’s smarter than you, you see. He understands not just that all publicity is good publicity but that, in this moment, attention is the most valuable currency.

You know what Schiffmann claims to love? The fact that New Yorkers vandalized his subway advertisements. He can’t get enough of their scrawled missives about how AI sucks, about how big tech won’t make you less lonely, about how nobody asked for this. Well, the jokes on them, Schiffmann insists. He’s not mad. He’s laughing. He’s playing four-dimensional chess. The subway billboards didn’t matter, in and of themselves. The point, he claims, was for people to take pictures of the defaced billboards and for those pictures to spread everywhere, first via social media and then via aggregation. "YOU WON’T BELIEVE WHAT NEW YORKERS ARE DOING TO THESE AI ADS,” the headlines blare. When reached for comment, the CEO whose ads and products everybody seems to hate replied, in essence, LMAO.

Maybe he’s just lying to save face. I’m no Stanford MBA, but it seems to me that even in the wretched funhouse mirror that is the current AI bubble, you eventually need somebody to actually want to use your product. But maybe I’m wrong. Perhaps this steroidally confident young man is in fact a Malcolm McLaren for the TikTok age. After all, I, a resident of a town nearly a thousand miles from New York, have never commented on any MTA ads. Until now, that is. Attention, baby. Schiffmann got mine. He'd claim, no doubt, that he knew I was going to take the bait. It was all pre-ordained. He’s laughing, maybe not all the way to the bank, but at least to a future Series B raise.

I have been told, over the course of the past year, so many stories like this. Stories of misanthropy and inevitability. The rise of AI. The cultural hegemony of swellheaded tech boys in baggy t-shirts and chains. The return of slurs as the supposed height of American wit. Trump, both the man and the authoritarian political project. We can hate all we want, but we are powerless to stop any of it.

Not surprisingly, Schiffmann has thoughts. When asked to explain his commitment to the marketing equivalent of a dunking booth, he pivots to the broader cultural moment. It’s only the dinosaurs who care about whether one’s contributions to society are moral or immoral. The point is virality for virality’s sake. “Nothing is sacred anymore, and everything is ironic,” repeats the jaded CEO, in interview after interview.

Truth be told, I don’t care that much about the creepy AI pendant (at least any more than I care about the rot at the heart of the broader generative AI industry). I’m also not that interested in critiquing a single blustery CEO. I was once a dumb 22-year-old myself. Maybe Schiffman will grow up. Maybe some day he’ll once again use his skills for the benefit of society (the tragedy of his recent turn is that his first fifteen minutes of fame came from building a legitimately useful COVID-tracking website). Maybe he’ll realize that life’s greatest joys aren’t money and power, but running into buddy at the park at 5:30.

I do care about that theory of the world, though, that jaded epistemology of dirt. “Everything is ironic," which is to say “nothing really matters.” I trust that Schiffmann truly believes it, and that he’s not alone. And while that particular brand of nihilism feels especially Gen Z bro-coded (what is the manosphere podcast circuit if not a Mobius strip of guys repeating “lighten up, dude, don’t be such an uptight r******”), this particular flavor of cynicism isn’t reserved for any single demographic group.

It is, I fear, in the jaded air we all breathe. Conscious pop culture consumption has been replaced by an attention-seizing (and now increasingly AI-generated) stream of front facing videos of gawkable strangers. Our lives are dependent on companies whose products we now actively resent, but that show no signs of relinquishing their stranglehold on our lives. And then there’s the Trump regime itself, less an ideological project than a group of schoolyard bullies who’ve long forgotten what it is they’re for, but who have a vivid understanding of what actions piss off their opponents.

“Nothing is sacred,” the administration continues to say, each time they issue another Executive Order about how the official name for such and such holiday or body of water or Federal Agency is now whatever proper noun will most infuriate an imagined MSNBC anchor. “Everything is ironic,” they repeat, as they post AI-generated videos of Russell Vought as the grim reaper or Stephen Miller as Rambo or parade Pam Bondi out to say that Antifa and MS-13 got gay married to each other and need to be stopped. And then, downstream from the non-stop Executive Branch troll fest, an ICE agent raids an apartment complex in the middle of the night, dragging kids out of bed and hauling them, zip-tied, into unmarked vans. “F*** them kids,” the agent sneers. Tough talk, I guess, but also a familiar Internet meme.

There is so much talk, in moments like this, about cruelty. But that’s only part of the story. There are indeed those among us who've sold their souls to the dark faith of pain for pain’s sake. But you only win a sliver of the populace with pure hate. To the rest of us, the pitch isn’t really “the cruelty is the point,” it’s “whatever, everything sucks, just deal with it.” We are constantly told (not just by the administration, but by the dying embers of the fourth estate and its cursed successor, Youtube shows with titles like “one liberal guy with glasses against 50 literal Nazis”) that every action is debatable and that our neighbors are too numbed by misinformation and slop to notice anyway. A two-bit insult comic can call Puerto Rico a garbage island at a Trump rally, only to have his chosen candidate increase his share of the Latino vote a couple weeks later. Elon Musk can retain his joint status as least popular and richest man on the planet in perpetuity. The Trump regime can toss U.S. citizens in foreign jails and the new Editor in Chief of CBS News, a supposed free speech warrior, responds not with a full-throated denunciation (those she reserves for non-binary Barnard undergraduates), but with another tepid point-counterpoint column about whether his moves were justified or not.

What an immensely depressing and destructive worldview, this nihilism. I’m not surprised by its appeal. We are all simultaneously over-stimulated and under-connected. I understand why even those who reject the ideology of Trumpism would fall sway to the broader fatalism of the moment. I get why we are frequently fooled into believing that, in a world of oligarchs and strongmen, all we have left is gallows humor about how Pete Hegseth is a drunk and JD Vance is a try-hard loser.

What a miracle, then, that somehow, against tremendous odds, a counterculture is stirring. A collective goodbye to timid apathy play-acting as cool sophistication. We are confessing to each other, more and more of us each day, what we truly crave. We want something more than just the chance to roll our eyes at haters and losers on the other side of the divide. We want to reject the lie about nothing mattering.

We want to say a single firm no. And then, to each other, a million ecstactic yeses. Everything matters. Every place matters. Every single blessed one of our messy, beautiful, infuriating, sacred, flawed, confounding neighbors matters. How can we remain ironic about any of this? Not us, not now, not when we get to be alive, together, overwhelmed by the immensity of beauty and potential and heartache and potential that surrounds us.

You can see it in Chicago. Oh my God Chicagoans, I love you so much right now. The story on your streets isn’t one of irony-pilled pessimists epically roasting an abstract set of villains. It’s neighbors actually taking care of each other. Alerting each other to threats. Walking other people’s kids to school. Supporting beloved local businesses. Being absolutely terrified, because how can you not be, but still gathering together in massive block parties and car caravans and prayer circles outside detention facilities. Every day, you find a new way to explode with brilliance and warmth.

You can see it in a new generation of political candidates. Yes, newly minted national icons like Zohran Mamdani, but also soon-to-be household names like

Rep. Aftyn Behn

(who just won a competitive Democratic primary in Tennessee and has a real shot to flip a deep red seat). They are strong communicators, but the difference is what they’re communicating. Mamdani, Behn and their ilk are organizers at heart. They don’t waste time on abstract pufferies about “risks to democracy” and sick burns of their opponents. Mamdani built a movement talking about grocery stores and free buses. Behn, in turn, knocks on exurban doors to chat about fixing roads, feeding kids, and funding hospitals. Their message isn’t focus-grouped rhetoric. It’s a reminder: the people around you matter, the systems and institutions you depend on matter, your hopes and dreams matter. If Zohran in particular is the future of the left, it’s a future of scavenger hunts and heartfelt history lessons about Nellie Bly and Sylvia Rivera.

You can see it in the marches and rallies. In the face of constant attacks from MAGA sycophants about “paid protestors” and astroturf, every new call to action brings millions more people to the street. Elders and youth. Longtime activists and newbies. Holders of painfully earnest signs and goofy inflatable frogs (the latter’s message: fascism is laughable, but our care for each other isn’t). We are filled with outrage, yes, but not just. We come out into the streets because we want to see each other. We want to be part of a teeming mass. We want the world to know that this thing we’re doing together, this collective primal scream of rage and hope, may be derided as overly cringey or ineffectual, but it’s enough to fill thousands of streets coast-to-coast.

You see it too in the viral essays that keep popping up every few months.

Katherine Goldstein

on deep casual hosting.

Amanda Litman

on Sunday dinners.

Patty Smith

on stoop coffee. There’s a reason why more and more people are flocking to experts on belonging and gathering like

Priya Parker

and

Elise Granata

. We are tired of being told that we are powerless, that we have nothing meaningful to offer one another. We can’t help but reply, "but I have a living room, or a stoop, or a crock pot full of soup, or a few contacts in my phone… surely that’s something.”

We’re right, by the way. That is something.

Once you start looking, you notice it everywhere. Even in those billboards, the ones for the stupid AI necklace. Here’s what Avi Schiffmann couldn’t see. Sure, some of the vandals were just trolling him, giving him the kind of viral engagement loop he claims to crave. But people weren’t just scrawling penises and curse words on those godforsaken canvasses. They were reaching out to each other. They were giving instructions. About how to fight loneliness. About how to build a neighborhood. About how to love.

Once again, I couldn’t give two hoots about the dumb necklaces. But I am forty four years old and I never thought I’d see an American subway tunnel plastered with graffiti like this.

“Befriend a senior citizen— reach out into the world.”

“Do mutual aid or volunteer for a community garden. You will meet cool people.”

And listen, I get it. This is my beat. I’m always talking about earnestness and community-building and our commodious hearts. This sappy nonsense is my hammer, so of course I go to sleep dreaming of like-minded nails. But perhaps you see it too. Perhaps you’ve noticed more and more of us coming together and yelling “THIS MATTERS! LIFE TOGETHER MATTERS! AND WE WON’T LET THE FASCISTS AND CYNICS TAKE IT AWAY FROM US!”

If so, thanks for seeing it. I hope that my seeing it, my believing it, my not being able to shut up about it makes it easier for you to keep going.

But perhaps you don’t buy it. You only see the fascists tromping about in their riot gear. You look around at your neighbors, and you don’t see them forming ICE watches and inviting each other to potlucks. You think I’m a naive hope peddler in a dangerous time.

I don’t have any rejoinders to that. Perhaps I am just stuck in a saccharine echo chamber of rainbows and collective potential. But here’s an invitation. Wouldn’t you prefer hope to cynicism? Connection rather than fear? Earnestness rather than irony? I understand that, in your corner of the world, you might not see enough evidence of your neighbors giving it a go. All the more reason, then, for you to be the first.

And once again, I could be tremendously wrong. But I’d rather be wrong and in love than right and alone. I’d rather be a loser with an outstretched hand than the coolest person in the world with a closed heart. I’d rather build with you than despair alone.

End notes:

1. Guess what? You know how I keep telling you that I’m about to open enrollment for fall Barnraisers classes (back by popular demand, a redux of our spring course on how to build community)? What a tease. But today, it’s actually happening. Enrollment is open, friends! Read all about the (free, virtual) classes here and enroll here.

2. Those classes are free (as is this newsletter) but this is also my day job and I have a family to support. How does that work? Well, that’s where you all come in. I know not all of you are in a position to become paid subscribers, but if you are, you automatically become a hero to the broader community. Because of you, this space will keep on chugging along. And in return, I’ll try my best to shower you with perks to show my appreciation (a new merch shipment just came in, by the way, so stay tuned paid subscribers for more news about your chance at another round of POTLUCKS! hats and “love harder than the fascists can hate” shirts/totes).

3. Also, while becoming a paid subscriber helps a bunch, so too does sharing this with friends, in whatever way you see fit. Thanks for that too.

4. My family and I will be visiting relatives in the South Bay of LA this weekend, so I’m hoping to attend the Long Beach No Kings rally. What about you? Will you make it out somewhere? I hope!

5. Milwaukeeans: because I am in LA on Friday, I won’t do my normal “just come say hi” residency at the Daily Bird this week, but I’ll be back in the yellowest coffee shop in America the following week. Stop by sometime.

6. This Week in Breeders
   (the podcast I co-host with
   Sarah Wheeler
   on gender and parenting and fun nonsense) keeps rolling. Two free episodes and one bonus episode in the can. Are you subscribed? Are you listening? I hope so, because I think they’re fun and Sarah and I are more than happy to be the friends in your ears while you do chores.

7. Song of the week! Man, it’s always hard to pick one for my more hope-mongering essays, but here’s a Northern Soul classic that goes so hard. What are we doing, friends? We’re “Breakin’ Down The Walls of Heartache.” And who are we doing it with? Johnny Johnson and the Bandwagon. Oh hell yeah. I don’t always tell you to watch the embedded video but if you’re a fan of British people just getting after it on the dance floor, well, there you go.

   Oh, and while you’re at it, the full song of the week playlist (which I need to update) is available on Apple Music and Spotify].