Kevin Bacon, Cancel Culture, and the Death of Slow Art.

There was a time—not that long ago—when culture felt shared. When MTV didn’t just show music videos; it shaped the moment. We all tuned in. We all talked about it the next day. It didn’t matter if it was weird, slick, political, or raw—it meant something because we experienced it together.

Now we scroll past everything. Autoplay. Algorithm. Doomscroll. TikToks flash for two seconds. A thousand songs queue themselves without ever asking what you need. Nothing lands. Nothing lingers.

And even when something does spark—when a show or a song dares to take its time, to be human, to grow—it gets killed before it can breathe.

Kevin Bacon just released a show called The Bondsman. Strange. Gritty. Southern gothic. I sampled it. I liked it. I wanted more. But there won’t be more. Amazon canceled it just weeks after it premiered. Not because it was bad. Because it didn’t go viral. Because the algorithm said “not fast enough.”

That’s the world we live in: good work dies quietly while corporate heads—people you’ve never heard of, who’ve never made a damn thing in their lives—get to decide what stories are allowed to survive. And when those stories don’t take off instantly? They blame us. The audience. The creators. The world. Never themselves.

It’s not just entertainment. That same logic poisons everything.

Can’t see a doctor because of paperwork? Can’t get a loan because of a number? Can’t get your work seen because the platform changed its rules again? It’s all the same machine—fast, cheap, and soulless.

And it’s not broken. It’s working exactly as intended.

That’s why I’m building something different. Something slower. Holistic. Messy. Human.

A memoir about cancer and faith. A metaphysical novel about grief and memory. A coffee shop grounded in real community. A hundred posts about mental health, survival, addiction, and art. Bagels. Mirrors. My dead cousin. Kevin Bacon. It’s all one body of work. One signal in the noise.

Right now I’ve got momentum. People are showing up. Reading. Writing back. And I’m grateful—so grateful. But I also know I can’t keep this pace forever. I’m not a content machine. I’m just one person, trying to tell the truth before the algorithm buries it.

So if you’ve found this—if you’ve stopped to really read—thank you. That matters more than I can explain.

They can cancel the show. They can shut the platform down. But they can’t kill the why. They can’t take away the story. Not unless we give it to them.

And I’m not giving up a damn thing.