I’m always in front of a screen, cycling through tabs, the routine thoughts, the familiar exhaustion. This time of year doesn’t help either… the days are shorter… but it doesn’t slow down, there is still so much to do. I could feel myself slipping into that familiar seasonal fog.
Deep down, I knew what I needed. I needed a camping trip. I haven’t taken one for almost 10 years now. And it felt exactly the medicine to just reboot my system. I’ve been fall camping before, and I really enjoyed it, so I thought I would do it again. There are a lot of benefits, fewer insects, no fire bans, and of course, fewer people.
So I purchased new gear, connected with my buddy, Tyler (you might know him as Daunt1355 on the Internet), and we made it happen.
The moment we arrived, it felt like stepping out of one world and into another. Setting up camp felt like letting my nervous system reboot. No notifications. No pressure.
We wandered a bit after settling in. Nothing intense — just enough movement to shake the static out of my head. It’s wild how simply walking in the woods can untangle thoughts that screens only make tighter.
That night, the fire did what fires do. It pulled my attention in without demanding anything from me. No algorithms, no skip ads, no endless scroll. Humans have been staring into flames far longer than we’ve been staring into screens, and I could feel the overstimulation draining out.
The next night, the rain came in. But somehow, it felt right. It made things interesting. Like the world reminding me to embrace the discomfort, the little inconveniences, the natural mess. And weirdly… it was exactly what I needed.
In the end, this trip reminded me that getting away isn’t just about escaping screens — it’s about stepping out of the entire rhythm of responsibility for a moment. The goals, the deadlines, the routines, the pressure to always be moving toward something… it all adds up. And sometimes you don’t realize how heavy it’s gotten until you take it off.
Out here, everything was stripped down to the essentials: sleep, food, shelter, fire.
I wasn’t rushing to cook dinner so I could get back to work. I wasn’t jumping between tasks. I wasn’t measuring my day by progress. Time stopped feeling like something I had to manage, and started feeling like something I could simply experience. There’s a joy in losing track of time. In not being in a hurry. In letting the day unfold without a schedule or a goal attached to it.
We didn’t go far. We didn’t stay long.
But this emergency camping trip was the reset I’d been needing. A reminder that you can’t prevent burnout while staring at a screen. Sometimes all you need is a couple of nights in the cold to find your way back to yourself.
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It’s good to be back. After taking a month off from editing my novel trilogy, it feels great to return to it with fresh eyes. The last few months of summer were hectic, and I was running on fumes. As much as I wanted to power through, I knew a break was better than burning out.
Over the last few years, I’ve made a ton of progress — getting drafts of all three books down on paper was a huge milestone. But now I’m deep in the editing phase, making sure each story flows not just on its own, but as part of a bigger arc. Think of it like this: each book has its own beginning, middle, and end — but together, books one, two, and three form one larger story with the same structure.
It’s exciting, but it’s also a grind. I’m chipping away at it day by day while balancing the rest of life. By the end of summer, I was training for my triathlon and working full-time, and something had to give. I believe you can do everything — just not all at once. So, for a while, writing took a backseat.
I’ll admit, I was nervous about stepping away. I worried I’d lose momentum or that this would be the moment my project quietly died — that fear every long-term creator knows: put something down for “just a bit,” and never pick it up again.
But working on this project has been part of my life for five years now — it’s built into my routine, like cleaning the house or tending the garden. When I take a break, it’s not like quitting; it’s more like letting the plants grow wild for a bit. Eventually, I’ll come back to prune and tidy things up.
I didn’t even stop at a neat checkpoint — I was mid-edit, right in the middle of Chapter 3 of Book 2. That actually made it easier to return. There wasn’t a buildup or mental block. I just jumped back in where I left off.
So yeah, it might feel like starting over, but it’s not. It’s more like reconnecting with an old friend. You know that feeling when you haven’t seen someone in ages, and you wonder if it’ll be awkward — but then, as soon as you meet, you pick up right where you left off. That’s what returning to my writing felt like.
And as the saying goes, absence makes the heart grow fonder. I’m more excited about this project than ever. Is it going to be the greatest thing ever written? Probably not — but that’s not the goal. Nobody visits Italy thinking, “I’m going to be the best person to ever visit Italy.” You go because you love the experience. Writing is like that for me. With each revision, I see the story sharpen and come alive. I’m polishing the stone, adding color to the outline, and watching my vision take shape.
So here’s what’s next: to stay accountable, I’m starting a new monthly series documenting my progress — the writing, the challenges, the little breakthroughs.
It won’t be easy, but I’m committed. I feel refreshed, inspired, and ready to keep going. This years-long journey still fills me with an energy I can’t quite put into words.
My name’s Elliot. I make videos about the endurance of creativity and life in this wild, dystopian world.
If you’re working on your own story and want some support and inspiration along the way, follow this series, check out the playlist, and don’t forget to subscribe.
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Before we dive into the events of Joan Is Awful, let’s flash back to when this episode first aired: June 15, 2023.
In 2023, the tech industry faced a wave of major layoffs. Meta cut 10,000 employees and closed 5,000 open positions in March. Amazon followed, letting go of 9,000 workers that same month. Microsoft reduced its workforce by 10,000 employees in early 2023, while Google announced its own significant layoffs, contributing to a broader trend of instability in even the largest, most influential tech companies.
Netflix released Depp v. Heard in 2023. This three-part documentary captures the defamation trial between Johnny Depp and Amber Heard. The series explored the viral spectacle that surrounded it online, showing how social media, memes, and influencer commentary amplified every moment.
Meanwhile, incidents of deepfakes surged dramatically. In North America alone, AI-generated videos and audio clips increased tenfold in 2023 compared to the previous year, with a 1,740% spike in malicious use.
In early 2023, a video began circulating on YouTube and across social media that seemed to show Elon Musk in a CNBC interview. The Tesla CEO appeared calm and confident as he promoted a new cryptocurrency opportunity. It looked authentic enough to fool thousands. But the entire thing was fake.
That same year, the legal system began to catch up. An Australian man named Anthony Rotondo was charged with creating and distributing non-consensual deepfake images on a now-defunct website called Mr. Deepfakes. In 2025, he admitted to the offense and was fined $343,500.
Around the world, banks and cybersecurity experts raised alarms as AI manipulation began to breach biometric systems, leading to a new wave of financial fraud. What started as a novelty filter had become a weapon capable of stealing faces, voices, and identities.
All of this brings us to Black Mirror—Season 6, Episode 1: Joan Is Awful.
The episode explores the collision of personal privacy, corporate control, and digital replication. Joan’s life is copied, manipulated, and broadcast for entertainment before she even has a chance to tell her own story. The episode asks: How much of your identity is still yours when technology can exploit and monetize it? And is it even possible to reclaim control once the algorithm has taken over?
In this video, we’ll unpack the episode’s themes, explore real-world parallels, and ask whether these events have already happened—and if not, whether they are still plausible in our tech-driven, AI-permeated world.
Streaming Our Shame
In Joan is Awful, we follow Joan, an everyday woman whose life unravels after a streaming platform launches a show that dramatizes her every move. But the show’s algorithm doesn’t just imitate Joan’s life; it distorts it for entertainment. Her friends and coworkers watch the exaggerated version of her, and start believing it’s real.
The idea that media can reshape someone’s identity isn’t new—it’s been happening for years, only now with AI, it happens faster, cheaper, and more convincingly.
Reality television has long operated in this blurred zone between truth and manipulation. Contestants on shows like The Bachelor and Survivor have accused producers of using editing tricks to create villains and scandals that never actually happened.
One of the most striking examples comes from The Bachelor contestant Victoria Larson, who accused producers of using “Frankenbiting”, a technique of editing together pieces of dialogue from different times to make her appear like she was spreading rumors or being manipulative. She said the selective editing destroyed her reputation and derailed her career.
Then there’s the speed of public judgment in the age of social media. In 2020, when Amy Cooper—later dubbed “Central Park Karen”—called the police on a Black bird-watcher, the footage went viral within hours. She was fired, denounced, and doxxed almost overnight.
But Joan is Awful also goes deeper, showing how even our most intimate spaces are no longer private.
In 2020, hackers breached Vastaamo, a Finnish psychotherapy service, stealing hundreds of patient files—including therapy notes—and blackmailing both the company and individuals. Finnish authorities eventually caught the hacker, who was sentenced in 2024 for blackmail and unauthorized data breaches.
In this episode, Streamberry’s AI show thrives on a simple principle: outrage. They turn Joan’s humiliation into the audience’s entertainment. The more uncomfortable she becomes, the more viewers tune in. It’s not far from reality.
A 2025 study published in ProMarket found that toxic content drives higher engagement on social media platforms. When users were shielded from negative or hostile posts, they spent 9% less time per day on Facebook, resulting in fewer ads and interactions.
By 2025, over 52% of TikTok videos featured some form of AI generation—synthetic voices, avatars, or deepfake filters. These “AI slop” clips fill feeds with distorted versions of real people, transforming private lives into shareable, monetized outrage.
Joan is Awful magnifies a reality we already live in. Our online world thrives on manipulation—of emotion, of data, of identity—and we’ve signed the release form without even noticing.
Agreeing Away Your Identity
One of the episode’s most painful scenes comes when Joan meets with her lawyer, asking if there’s any legal way to stop the company from using her life as entertainment. But the lawyer points to the fine print—pages of complex legal language Joan had accepted without a second thought.
The moment is both absurd and shockingly real. How many times have you clicked “I agree” without reading a word?
In the real world, most of us do exactly what Joan did. A 2017 Deloitte survey conducted in the U.S. shows that over 90% of users accept terms and conditions without reading them. Platforms can then use that data for marketing, AI training, or even creative content—all perfectly legal because we “consented.”
The dangers of hidden clauses extend far beyond digital services. In 2023, Disneyland attempted to invoke a controversial contract clause to avoid liability for a tragic allergic reaction that led to a woman’s death at a Disney World restaurant in Florida. The company argued that her husband couldn’t sue for wrongful death because—years earlier—he had agreed to arbitration and legal waivers buried in the fine print of a free Disney+ trial.
Critics called the move outrageous, pointing out that Disney was trying to apply streaming service terms to a completely unrelated event. The case exposed how corporations can weaponize routine user agreements to sidestep accountability.
The episode also echoes recent events where real people’s stories have been taken and repackaged for profit.
Take Elizabeth Holmes, the disgraced founder of Theranos. Within months of her trial, her life was dramatized into The Dropout. The Hulu mini-series was produced in real time alongside Holmes’s ongoing trial. As new courtroom revelations surfaced, the writers revised the script. The result was a more layered, unsettling portrayal of Holmes and her business partner Sunny Balwani—a relationship far more complex and toxic than anyone initially imagined.
In Joan is Awful, the show’s AI doesn’t care about Joan’s truth, and in our world, algorithms aren’t so different. Every click, every “I agree,” and every trending headline feeds an ecosystem that rewards speed over accuracy and spectacle over empathy.
When consent becomes a view or a checkbox and stories become assets, the line between living your life and licensing it starts to blur. And by the time we realize what we’ve signed away, it might already be too late.
Facing the Deepfake
In Joan Is Awful, the twist isn’t just that Joan’s life is being dramatized; it’s that everyone’s life is. What begins as a surreal violation spirals into an infinite mirror. Salma Hayek plays Joan in the Streamberry series, but then Cate Blanchett plays Salma Hayek in the next layer.
The rise of AI and deepfake technology is reshaping how we understand identity and consent. Increasingly, people are discovering their faces, voices, or likenesses used in ads, films, or explicit content without permission.
In 2025, Brazilian police arrested four people for using deepfakes of celebrity Gisele Bündchen and others in fraudulent Instagram ads, scamming victims out of nearly $3.9 million USD.
Governments worldwide are beginning to respond. Denmark’s copyright amendment now treats personal likeness as intellectual property, allowing takedown requests and platform fines even posthumously. In the U.S., the 2025 TAKE IT DOWN Act criminalizes non-consensual AI-generated sexual imagery and impersonation.
In May 2025, Mr. Deepfakes, one of the world’s largest deepfake pornography websites, permanently shut down after a core service provider terminated operations. The platform had been online since 2018 and hosted more than 43,000 AI-generated sexual videos, viewed over 1.5 billion times. Roughly 95% of targets were celebrity women, but researchers identified hundreds of victims who were private individuals.
Despite these legal advances, a fundamental gray area remains. As AI becomes increasingly sophisticated, it is getting harder to tell whether content is drawn from a real person or entirely fabricated.
Her lifelike digital persona was built using the performances of real actors—without their consent. The event marked a troubling shift. As producers continue to push AI-generated actors into mainstream projects.
Actress Whoopi Goldberg voiced her concern, saying, “The problem with this, in my humble opinion, is that you’re up against something that’s been generated with 5,000 other actors.”
“It’s a little bit of an unfair advantage,” she added. “But you know what? Bring it on. Because you can always tell them from us.”
In response to the backlash, Tilly’s creator Eline Van der Velden shared a statement: “To those who have expressed anger over the creation of our AI character, Tilly Norwood: she is not a replacement for a human being, but a creative work – a piece of art.”
When Joan and Salma Hayek sneak into the Streamberry headquarters, they overhear Mona Javadi, the executive behind the series, explaining the operation. She reveals that every version of Joan Is Awful is generated simultaneously by a quantum computer, endlessly creating new versions of real people’s lives for entertainment. Each “Joan,” “Salma,” and “Cate” is a copy of a copy—an infinite simulation. And it’s not just Joan; the system runs on an entire catalog of ordinary people. Suddenly, the scale of this entertainment becomes clear—it’s not just wide, it’s deep, with endless iterations and consequences.
At the 2025 Runway AI Film Festival, the winning film Total Pixel Space exemplified how filmmakers are beginning to embrace these multiverse-like AI frameworks. Rather than following a single script, the AI engine dynamically generated visual and narrative elements across multiple variations of the same storyline, creating different viewer experiences each time.
AI and deepfake technologies are already capable of realistically replicating faces, voices, and mannerisms, and platforms collect vast amounts of personal data from our everyday lives. Add quantum computing, algorithmic storytelling, and the legal gray areas surrounding consent and likeness, and the episode’s vision of lives being rewritten for entertainment starts to feel less like fantasy.
Every post, every photo, every digital footprint feeds algorithms that could one day rewrite our lives—or maybe already are. Maybe we can slip the loop, maybe we’re already in it, and maybe the trick is simply staying aware that everything we do is already being watched, whether by the eyes of the audience or the eyes of the creators that is still seeking inspiration.
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Skydiving was something I always wanted to do. And this summer with the encouragement of my mother. We went and did it.
It was a lot of fun, and the best way for me to describe that experience was that it’s like a dream, where you wake up and you still have fragments of that memory, and you are just trying to piece it all together and feel that same feeling again. I definitely see how it can be addictive.
I felt pretty calm the whole time. The night before, I fell asleep listening to a podcast about D-Day and about how the paratroopers had to drop into France in the dead of night. I found that to be quite comforting as it allowed me to put that into perspective and come to terms with my own courage and how I’m doing it recreationally and not dropping into a war zone.
My approach when it comes to doing something stressful like that, whether it’s bungee jumping or skydiving, is to turn my brain off. Once you do that, you just remember what you have to do. This is actually really easy for me, because as a job, I’m a marketing strategist. So I spend a lot of time during the workday thinking about things. A lot of things.
So when I get an opportunity to turn off my brain, I enjoy it. When I get an opportunity, to follow some simple instructions like once the door to the airplane opens, pull your leg over, and just hang there. That’s easy. So yeah.
Once I got flung out and into the free fall, that was a rush. It’s very windy, and the world feels so distorted and strange — it doesn’t even seem real. That’s the biggest difference from bungee jumping, because when you’re bungee jumping, the world comes right at you, and that feeling of plummeting toward the ground is so real and raw. When you’re falling from 10,000 feet, you don’t get that same experience.
When I was bungee jumping, especially when it’s your first time, my instincts just took over, and I started reaching out and grabbing things to stop myself, but there is obviously nothing. Doing that kind of pulled me off balance, and as you can see, I got twisting out of control. So fun.
So yeah, back to skydiving. You’re just free-falling for a few seconds — probably between 10 and 30 — not long, before the parachute deploys. And that’s such a relief. It’s kind of the same feeling as when the bungee cord catches you and you don’t splat on the ground. There aren’t many feelings like that in life, so that was great.
From this point on, the experience is actually quite similar between skydiving and bungee jumping. You get this second ride — a second experience. With bungee jumping, you’re bouncing up and down, and the second bounce is almost as high as the first drop. That’s great because now you know the cord will hold you. With skydiving, it’s more like sightseeing — I was just trying to soak it all in.
But what really made me want to do it again was that my tandem partner, the instructor, gave me the handle to control the parachute, letting me steer. I didn’t know how to do it properly, but when you really pulled on it, it felt like a rollercoaster drop — you get swung sideways and really feel the Gs. That was awesome, and I would love to feel that again. I don’t get to go on too many rollercoasters these days, but that was incredible.
When it comes down to it, skydiving and bungee jumping often get clumped together, but they’re actually very different experiences. I’d say if you really want that “I’m going to die” feeling, bungee jumping is for you. I’ve done bungee jumping both forward and backward, and I’d recommend going forward so you can see the world coming at you — although backward is really scary too.
If you want more of a rollercoaster ride, then go skydiving. I don’t know if I can explain it any better.
Both are so much fun, and I recommend giving both a try it’s so worth it!
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Before we dive into the events of Rachel, Jack, and Ashley Too, let’s flash back to when this episode first aired: June 5, 2019.
At CES 2019, a diverse range of innovative robots captured attention, from practical home assistants like Foldimate, a laundry-folding robot, to advanced companions such as Ubtech’s Walker and the emotionally expressive Lovot. Together, these robots laid the groundwork for future developments in consumer robotics.
When Charli D’Amelio joined TikTok in May 2019, she was just another teenager posting dance clips. But within weeks, her lip-sync and choreography videos were going viral. By July, her duets were spreading across the platform, and by the close of 2019, she had transformed from an unknown high schooler into a digital sensation with millions of followers.
On February 2, 2019, Fortnite hosted Marshmello’s virtual concert at the in-game location Pleasant Park. The event drew over 10.7 million concurrent players, breaking the game’s previous records.
In 2019, Taylor Swift’s public fight with Big Machine Records over the ownership of her master recordings exposed deep systemic issues, as Swift’s masters were sold without her consent, preventing her from controlling the use of her own music. In response, she began re-recording her early albums under the Taylor’s Version banner, starting with Fearless (Taylor’s Version) in 2021
All of which brings us back to this episode of Black Mirror—Season 5, Episode 3: Rachel, Jack, and Ashley Too.
The episode dives into the mechanics of digital fame—where algorithms hold the power, artists blur into avatars, and identity bends under the weight of technology. It asks: What happens when the spotlight is no longer earned but assigned? When music is stripped down and musicians reduced to assets? And, in the end, can we lose ourselves to the very machine that makes us visible?
In this video, we’ll explore the episode’s themes and investigate whether these events have already happened—and if not whether or not they are still plausible. Let’s go.
Connection by Algorithm
In this episode, we follow Rachel, a teenager struggling with the loss of her mother and looking for connection. In her search for belonging, Rachel grows attached to Ashley Too—a talking doll modeled after pop star Ashley O. She clings to it as both a friend and a channel to her idol.
AI companion apps have exploded in 2025, with more than 220 million downloads and $120 million in revenue projected for the year. Popular platforms now include Character.AI, Replika, Chai, and Kindroid, all offering lifelike interactions.
Even more effective than a friend, AI can now detect depression by analyzing data like daily activity patterns recorded by wearable devices.
A recent 2025 study from JMIR Mental Health found that an AI model called XGBoost could correctly identify if someone was depressed about 85% of the time. The AI looks at changes in sleep and activity rhythms. However, even with these advances, AI sometimes finds it hard to understand subtle emotions or the context of what a person is feeling.
In this episode, Rachel’s sister Jack—driven by jealousy, or perhaps genuine concern—hides Ashley Too, worried it’s “filling her head with crap.” Her skepticism mirrors a real-world fear: that leaning on digital companions can warp the grieving process.
Recent regulatory actions have begun addressing risks around AI companion apps. New York passed a law effective November 2025 requiring AI companion operators to implement safety measures detecting suicidal ideation or self-harm and to clearly disclose the non-human nature of the chatbot to users.
In the end, Rachel and her sister discover that the doll’s personality is intentionally restricted by an internal limiter, and when it is removed, the AI reveals a deeper consciousness trapped inside.
ChatGPT and similar AI models are increasingly used as therapy tools. A 2025 randomized controlled trial of the AI therapy chatbot “Therabot” reported clinically significant reductions in depression and anxiety symptoms, with effect sizes comparable to or exceeding some traditional treatments.
However, a study presented at the American Psychiatric Association’s 2025 meeting found human therapists still outperform ChatGPT in key therapy skills like agenda-setting, eliciting feedback, and applying cognitive behavioral techniques, due to their greater empathy and flexibility. Another thematic study of ChatGPT users found it provides helpful emotional support and guidance but raised concerns about privacy and emotional depth.
As technology grows more immersive and responsive, these digital bonds may deepen. Whether that’s a source of comfort or a cause for concern depends on how we balance connection, privacy, and the question at the heart of the episode: what does it really mean to be known?
Creativity, Rewired
Ashley O is a pop icon suffocated by the demands of her aunt and record label. She feels trapped as her true voice is silenced and her image squeezed into a marketable mold.
When Ashley is put into a coma, the producers crank up a machine to decode her brainwaves and extract new songs, pumping out tracks without her consent. A literal case of cookie-cutter artistry.
The project, created by an anonymous human creator, used AI tools like Suno for music generation, with style descriptions crafted by language models such as ChatGPT.
In June 2024, major record labels—including Sony Music, Universal Music Group, and Warner Records—filed lawsuits against AI music companies Suno and Udio, accusing them of large-scale copyright infringement. The labels alleged that the startups used their recordings without permission to train AI systems capable of generating new songs. Both companies denied wrongdoing, claiming their models create original works rather than copying existing recordings. The case remains ongoing as of 2025.
Legal and ethical challenges around AI-generated music are mounting. Unauthorized use of vocal clones or deepfakes has sparked heated debates on consent, ownership, and copyrights. Legal systems struggle to keep up. If a person shapes the AI’s output, copyright might apply—but it’s unclear how much input is enough. This gray area makes artist rights, licensing, and royalties more complicated.
Can creativity actually be replicated by machines, or does something essential get lost when all they do is measure patterns and output? As Ashley’s story shows, automated artistry might never replace the real thing—but it can easily outpace it.
Celebrity in a Cage
In Rachel, Jack, and Ashley Too, we see the dark side of fame through Ashley O’s story: she is drugged into compliance and eventually placed in a coma, while her aunt schemes to replace her with a holographic version built for endless future tours.
This holographic pop star can instantly change outfits, scale in size, appear simultaneously in thousands of locations, and perform endlessly without the vulnerabilities of a human artist.
In 2024–2025, virtual K-pop idols like SKINZ and PLAVE emerged as a new wave of celebrity branding that extends beyond music into virtual merchandise and digital idols.
PLAVE is a five-member group, powered by real performers using motion capture. They have racked up over 470 million YouTube views, charted on Billboard Global 200, and sold out virtual concerts while engaging fans with digital fan meetings.
This surge in AI and virtual stardom opens extraordinary possibilities, but what about the humans who now have to compete in this new arena?
This brings to mind Britney Spears, whose long conservatorship battle captivated the world. In total, Britney performed hundreds of shows during the 13-year conservatorship from 2008 to 2021, but always under heavy restrictions and control.
While AI and holograms can perform endlessly without burnout or loss of control, traditional live tours remain a lucrative but fragile model heavily dependent on a single artist’s health and agency.
In late 2024, indie-pop artist Clairo faced significant backlash after postponing three highly anticipated concerts in Toronto at the last minute due to “extreme exhaustion.” The cancellations came just as doors were about to open for the first show at Massey Hall, leaving fans frustrated and inconvenienced, especially those who had traveled and faced challenges getting refunds.
In contrast, virtual concerts and holographic tours, already proven by groundbreaking shows like ABBA’s Voyage, which made its long-anticipated debut on May 27, 2022, at the purpose-built ABBA Arena in London’s Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park. The virtual concert residency features hyper-realistic avatars of the band members as they looked in 1979, created using cutting-edge motion capture technology and visual effects by Industrial Light & Magic.
In contrast, virtual concerts and holographic tours rely not on a single performer. This is demonstrated by shows like ABBA’s Voyage, which debuted on May 27, 2022, at the purpose-built ABBA Arena in London’s Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park. Instead, they depend on the coordinated work of many teams. Hyper-realistic avatars of the band as they appeared in 1979 were created through motion capture, stage design, lighting, production, and visual effects by Industrial Light & Magic.
While the performers are getting more digital, many performers are aiming to bring the audience back to the moment.
Phone-free concerts have grown in popularity as artists seek to create more immersive, distraction-free live experiences. Ghost, a Swedish rock band, has pioneered this approach by requiring fans to secure their phones in lockable pouches called Yondr bags, which can only be opened after the show or in designated areas.
Yet even as performers reclaim control over the audience’s attention, the question remains: How much control do today’s celebrities really have, and how much of their image and choices are shaped by algorithms, managers, and market trends?
Virtual and hybrid performances blur the line between genuine presence and manufactured spectacle, leaving us to wonder whether we’re watching artists or carefully engineered illusions.
As fame, creativity, and even friendship are being reshaped, the episode explores the tension between what can be automated and what should remain authentic.
Programs already guide our choices, digital idols fill our feeds, and synthetic voices mingle with human ones. In that haze, where artist becomes asset and companion becomes artificial, the story feels like a glimpse of what’s already unfolding.
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We adopted Petey about nine months ago, and at the time, we weren’t sure if he’d ever be stable enough to travel with us. The shelter warned us that because of his fear, he might never even manage a walk in the park—his anxiety around dogs and kids was that severe.
But little by little, he surprised us. First, he stopped barking at every sound in the neighborhood. Then he quit chewing our blankets and pillows. Eventually, he began to enjoy walks and car rides. Sure, he still gets spooked by the occasional dog, but now he can be redirected—something that felt impossible in those first three months.
Petey has proven not only the shelter wrong, but also shown us just how smart and loving he really is. Underneath his trauma, there’s a sweet, capable dog. We know that if we keep nudging him forward, he’ll grow into the great dog we believe he can be.
So, with that in mind, we decided it was time for Petey’s first trip: Pender Island, one of the Gulf Islands off Vancouver Island. His first ferry ride. His first hotel stay. His first night away from home.
Would he rise to the challenge—or would the stress unravel everything?
We packed early, making sure to bring along his donut bed and blanket for comfort. Because my wife and I get anxious about travel too, we gave ourselves a big buffer. While we waited, we walked Petey around Tsawwassen Mills Mall. Everything was closed, but it helped burn off his energy.
We lucked out and squeezed onto an earlier ferry, saving ourselves two hours. The catch: we were the last car on, parked at an incline that made the ride a bit shaky. Petey struggled at first—barking whenever I left the car, jittery on walks near other dogs. The dog deck was a non-starter. So we stayed with him in the back seat until he finally settled down for a nap.
At last, the ferry docked at Otter Bay on Pender Island. Our first stop was Hope Bay, where we barely stepped out before an off-leash dog came trotting over. Friendly or not, it would’ve set Petey off, so we ducked down to the water’s edge and enjoyed the view from a safe distance.
Next, we checked out the island’s main junction—a bakery, liquor store, and a few restaurants. It seemed to be the hub of Pender, and just about everyone had a dog. Normally that would’ve been great, but with Petey, it made things tricky. We barely left the car.
We grabbed food to go. And drove until we found some peace at Magic Lake. There, on a quiet bench with no dogs in sight, we ate our sandwiches and drank our coffee while Petey anxiously sniffed around the tall grass.
From there, we drove to Mortimer Spit, a narrow strip of land between the two parts of Pender. The roads were rough, but the unique views were worth it—it ended up being my favorite spot. Petey seemed to enjoy it too.
His favorite, however, was the Enchanted Forest Park. Quiet, shaded trails, no other dogs—a perfect first real hike for him. He loved it, though by then he was exhausted; apart from a short ferry nap, he’d been going non-stop.
We tried checking into our hotel early, but our room wasn’t ready. So we drove to Gowlland Point, a rocky beach at the southeastern tip. The scenery was stunning, but it was hard to enjoy with Petey on high alert. Dogs, people, and one overly confident old man who couldn’t believe any dog wouldn’t like him—none of it helped.
Finally, we made it to our hotel, Poet’s Cove Resort, right on the water. Getting Petey inside was rough—an off-leash dog greeted us at the door, setting him off. If it wasn’t for that dog, I think Petey could have done much better. I have thoughts on off-leash dogs, for sure, especially when their owners aren’t able to call them back. Alas, we can’t control other people.
Anyways, once in the room, he relaxed. He bounced around the bed, explored the new space, and slowly grew more comfortable when I had to step out. We give him a C plus. A pass, but also a lot of room for improvement.
The resort itself was wonderful: a balcony with ocean views, a restaurant kind enough to pack meals to go, and even a deep bathtub that made up for skipping the crowded pool and hot tub. We ended the evening quietly in the room. Petey curled up on his donut bed and later snuggled with us like he always does.
The trip wasn’t easy. Without him, it would’ve been simpler, maybe even more relaxing—but it wouldn’t have been the same. He wasn’t perfect; his triggers are still there. But compared to the scared dog we brought home last December, he was unrecognizable.
And the biggest surprise came after. Back home, he was calmer. During the workday, instead of chewing things for attention, he started napping peacefully by our side. The trip gave him a boost of confidence—and for that alone, it was worth it.
As for Pender Island? It’s small, hilly, and full of bees. Beautiful, yes, and we saw most of it in one trip. I’m not sure we’ll rush back, but it will always be special: the first place Petey traveled, something we never thought possible.
I can’t wait for more trips with him. He’s a smart, stubborn little guy—and while he’s still a bit crazy, I wouldn’t bet against him becoming the good boy we always knew he could be.
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A 12-kilometer ride, 700 meters of climbing, and a race I wasn’t totally sure I was ready for.
I parked, got my gear sorted, tried to settle my nerves. I’ve been training, sure—but that question kept echoing: Did I do enough? You never really know until you’re out there.
Before the climb even started, I had to descend. And honestly? That part freaked me out.
I hadn’t practiced much. Thirty minutes of descending wasn’t something I’d ever done, and I really felt it in my hands—worried that I’d pull the brakes too hard and go over the handlebars, or just lose control and go careening off the road.
I kept coming back to this piece of advice I heard once—that descending is all mental. And if you want to enjoy it, just say it out loud: I love descending!
So I did. Over and over, like a mantra.
Then a deer crossed the road in front of me. And you know, from that point on, I did love descending.
The start line park was beautiful that morning—clear views of the water and UBC. Hard to believe I’d been riding over there just a week ago.
Around me, riders were quietly doing their own prep. I had some cramping from the descent, so I used the time to walk it off and stretch.
Now, all that was left was to wait for the race to begin.
I lined up at the back of the under-one-hour group.
It felt ambitious.
I’ve never done a timed hill climb like this before, but something in me wanted to see what was possible. Worst case, I’d blow up. Best case? I’d surprise myself.
When the race started, I settled into a pace that felt manageable.
Not easy, not hard—just steady.
I reminded myself: it’s a long climb. No need to burn out early.
The first half went by smoother than I expected.
But after that midpoint sign? Everything changed.
My legs started screaming. The road felt longer. The crowd thinned out.
I just kept chipping away. This was the part I wasn’t sure if I was prepared for.
So I stopped thinking about the finish.
I picked a rider ahead of me and just… followed.
Not racing them—just borrowing their rhythm.
It gave my mind something to hold onto while my body kept grinding.
I kept glancing down at my new bike computer.
I’ve got my watch, but this was different.
Just like those Form swim goggles I used in my last swim race—something about seeing numbers helps me get through the pain.
Weirdly, watching the distance barely tick forward made it easier.
I wasn’t moving fast. But I was moving.
And somehow, I made it!
Gun time: 59:59.
I laughed when I saw it. One second to spare.
I have a knack for coming really close to the wire with my finishes—having completed a few run races with just a second over the minute. I don’t really know what this says about me. But I don’t mind it.
Getting to the top felt incredible.
Not just because it was hard. Not just because I hit the time.
But because it reminded me: this is only the beginning.
There’s a whole world of rides, challenges, and climbs ahead.
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What happens when writing gets hard? When the excitement, the energy, the motivation you had at the start begin to fade?
Because here’s the truth: it will fade. And when that inspiration well runs dry… what do you do? Do a rain dance? Give up entirely? Or do you go out and start hunting for it again? Searching, gathering, and collecting new fuel.
You can’t keep pulling inspiration from the same place forever. That’s the trap we fall into, especially with big, long-term projects. We tell ourselves we have to remain close to the original spark, to keep circling the same seed that started it all so the story stays “authentic.” But what if the thing that got you here isn’t enough to get you there?
Sometimes the original inspiration is just the beginning — not the whole map.
For me, books alone stopped being enough. I needed more. So I started paying attention to other things — film, music, food, movement, architecture, nature, silence. I stopped searching for the one thing that would spark my writing and started letting it come from everything else.
Because art is about blending. The visual and the emotional. The structured and the chaotic. The outer world and the inner world.
What helped me jumpstart my writing again was realizing that inspiration isn’t a straight line — it’s a mosaic. And the more pieces I add, the richer the story becomes. Staying inspired is still a challenge. But I’ve learned how to refill the well — piece by piece, day by day, source by source.
Books were my starting point.
It started with fantasy — big worlds, bold stakes, magic and myth. That’s what I loved, and that’s what I set out to write. But as I kept drafting, I realized the story needed more dimension.
So I started reading more dystopian books — stories where things feel heavy and tense. They helped me think about what it’s like to live under control, when people don’t have real freedom, and how that kind of pressure affects every little choice a character makes.
Then came sci-fi, which cracked open ideas around memory, time, and identity.
That led me to survival stories — gritty, grounded, visceral — where every decision matters.
And finally, humor. Writers like Terry Pratchett reminded me that even serious stories need light. That levity brings depth. It’s about giving the reader space to breathe. Especially in a long, heavy story, humor makes the darker moments hit even harder.
Each genre added a new tone, a new layer. And the more I read, the more I started to see the overlap — like a Venn diagram where themes echoed across genres. And that’s how my story stayed alive — not by staying in one lane, but by blending them all.
Then I started watching movies differently.
It wasn’t a passive experience anymore. I’d rewatch films I always loved, but with new eyes. Not for the story, but for the spaces between it. The quiet edits. The way light falls. A shot that lingers just long enough.
Movies taught me a lot about pacing—especially those by the Coen Brothers. Fargo showed me how tension can thrive in seemingly quiet moments: a snow-covered highway, a character’s lingering glance, the distant hum of a TV in another room. It revealed how absurdity and violence can exist side by side, and how even the driest humor can be stretched out until you don’t know whether to laugh, cringe, or sit in silence.
Inside Llewyn Davis offered slow, looping melancholy. The story doesn’t build; it drifts. But the mood is so specific, so textured, it stays with you. There’s music, but it’s mournful. There’s struggle, but no resolution. That tone — lost, searching, slightly bitter — helped me lean into the emotional ambiguity in my own work.
And then there’s No Country for Old Men. I’d seen it before, but rewatching it while thinking about my writing, I focused on the silence. No score. Just footsteps down the hall. Then, gunshots in the distance. It made me ask: what happens when I let the quiet moments breathe in my own scenes — when I make my characters sit in the tension and feel every beat of a stressful moment?
Music became my outline.
From film, I turned to music.
It stopped being background noise and started becoming the outline. I didn’t just write to songs — I wrote from them, using them not to establish a scene, but to lead to a feeling.
“The Spiderbite Song” from the album The Soft Bulletin by The Flaming Lips stayed with me because of its deeply personal metaphors — a wound from addiction mistaken for a spiderbite.
The line: “Cause if it destroyed you, it would destroy me” really struck a chord. It changed how I see fantasy: it doesn’t always need dragons or kingdoms. Sometimes the magic lives in the metaphors themselves — in the way grief and love can exist together in a single sentence.
Then there’s “Love Is a Laserquest” from Suck It and See by Arctic Monkeys. I love this song, because of its mix of jadedness, wistfulness, and strange romance — like someone trying to ask a serious question behind a smirk. It made me think about growing up not as gaining wisdom, but as watching your idealism slowly fade. That mood helped me shape characters haunted by who they once were and what they still wish could be true.
Finally, “Under Glass” from Thin Mind by Wolf Parade hit me like a rush of energy. It’s fast, frantic, filled with building dread — like someone running toward something unknown. The lyrics feel trapped, like banging against the edge of an invisible barrier. It reminded me that dystopia isn’t always about strict regimes or harsh rules — sometimes it’s the slow, personal panic of realizing you can’t escape. That feeling became the emotional core for some of my most intense scenes.
I began shaping chapters like tracks on an album — letting rhythm set the pacing, letting lyrics echo through dialogue. Each chapter could stand on its own, like a song, but together they built something larger. An album. A whole. This was especially useful when the plot refused to move in a straight line.
Art gave me images when words wouldn’t.
Sometimes, when words stop flowing, I take a break and turned to art. One image — just one — can shake something loose. I’ll scroll through a gallery or flip through an old art book until something catches. It doesn’t have to make sense. In fact, it’s better when it doesn’t.
Surrealist art is great for that. I went through a Dali phase, and one piece I remember growing fond of was The Hand.
The giant, distorted hand extended over a vast, dream-like landscape, with just a few individuals scattered below. Who is the strange figure that belongs to? Is he a statue of some past ruler, or was the hand reaching out to beg? Who is that strange woman smiling behind like a lover past? Whatever it means, to me, this piece feels like authority, guilt, and longing all rolled into one.
That tension and imbalance seep into my writing: characters who reach for something they can’t quite hold, worlds where power feels both disembodied and dangerously close. These moments of visual stillness create scenes not through plot, but through emotion, space, and question.
Alongside classic surrealism, I also turn to the vivid art of Magic: The Gathering cards. Each card is a microcosm — a warrior mid-battle, a sorceress unmoved by swirling storms, a ruined temple glowing with latent power. A single illustration can spark inspiration for an entire chapter.
Whether it’s Dalí’s hand demanding something unseen, or a fantasy card hinting at ancient magic, these images become a little excursion away from the pages on the screen, which allows me to come back fresh.
Food reminded me to use my senses.
We talk about “show, don’t tell,” but nothing expands a story like taste. The sharp burn of wasabi that hits your nose, the fiery punch of hot sauce lingering on your lips, or the unexpected bitterness of dark chocolate that makes you pucker.
Some flavors comfort, like a warm bowl of miso soup or tangy kimchi, but others sting—like the sour bite of fermented mustard greens or the acrid edge of bitter melon. It’s hard to describe it, but these tastes strangely resemble old painful memories.
Food can also be surprisingly divisive — what’s a comfort to one person might be unbearable to another. A perfectly balanced hot sauce awakens the senses, but overdo it, and it hurts. Bread fresh from the oven is soft and inviting, but stale or burnt, it turns tough and abrasive, changing the whole experience.
I find that transformation inspiring. It reminds me that even the best things can shift with time, care, or neglect — just like characters and stories. How something changes, for better or worse, adds layers of complexity that I try to bring into my writing.
Architecture showed me how space shapes story.
As my search for inspiration deepened, I found myself drawn to architecture from around the world — from the stark brutalist towers of Eastern Europe to the half-sunken temples in Cambodia, to neon-lit apartments in Tokyo.
I began imagining my characters moving through these spaces, experiencing the subtle shifts as they step inside and out. The cool air inside a stone temple after the scorching sun outside. The hollow echo of footsteps in a concrete hallway of a Soviet-era building. The sudden flood of neon light in a cramped Tokyo stairwell.
That feeling of crossing thresholds — walking through a doorway or stepping into a new room — changes everything. The way the air smells, how light bends and shifts, the sounds and textures that greet you. The high ceilings. The tight quarters
Architecture has the power to shape mood, tension, and stories. It can be a sanctuary or a cage. And that’s the kind of atmosphere I try to bring into my writing when creating an environment.
Working on a long project requires both inspiration and motivation. Motivation keeps you showing up, day after day, page after page. But it’s inspiration that gives your motivation direction—it lights the path forward when the road feels long.
This story is mine, and most importantly, I’m enjoying the process again—filling the well as I go. When you return to the page, start with one source of inspiration. But then, let it grow, let it fill your character, your world, your story. If you get stuck, don’t push too hard—go fill your well.
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This summer is flying by. Honestly, this whole year is. Sometimes it feels like my life is flashing before my eyes. Most days are just the same routine: wake up, work, sit at a computer, eat, sleep. The days tick by, and it’s kind of terrifying.
There’s not much we can do to stop time. We’re all getting older—it’s just something we have to accept. But while that’s inevitable, there is a way to make life feel more alive: do something new. So today, I’m doing exactly that. I’m cycling up Burnaby Mountain to SFU.
SFU’s one of my favorite spots in the Lower Mainland. I’ve always had good memories here. I was never a student, but back in the day, I’d come up just to take advantage of the student bar discounts. Like I said—good memories. And today feels like a mix of nostalgia and preparation for something ahead.
This ride is part of my training for a challenge I’ve set for myself in two weeks: the Cypress Challenge. SFU sits at the top of a mountain, but compared to Cypress, it’s only a quarter of the climb. So while today’s ride is a decent workout, it’s just a warm-up for what’s coming.
Time’s moving fast, and I never seem to have enough of it. Cycling, as a hobby, takes a lot of time—and long four-hour rides have been hard to squeeze in lately. My training’s been compact, and today’s ride is no exception. Still, I wanted to get at least a few climbs in before the big day. And this one counts.
I’m a small guy, which helps on climbs, but that doesn’t make them easy. Still, I love the challenge. I like the suffering. I like how it becomes a mental game. Being on a bike, knowing that if you stop, you lose momentum—it creates this pressure that somehow invigorates me. Climbing a mountain on a bike reminds me that I’m alive.
Time’s rushing past. Relatives are dying. Friends are having babies. Everyone seems too busy to do anything anymore. So the fact that I made it out here today, that I’m climbing this mountain—it feels like a small metaphor for surviving in the modern world. You work, you sweat, you push yourself to reach the top… only to come back down.
That’s endurance sports. That’s creative work. That’s life.
I’m cycling the Cypress Challenge to raise funds for pancreatic cancer research. Thanks to everyone who donated—I really appreciate it. Together, we’ve raised over $1,000. Thank you so much.
Now… let’s ride up SFU and look ahead to Cypress. I’m still here. I’m not on my deathbed yet. How do I know? Because there are still memories left to make. Life hasn’t fully flashed before my eyes—not yet.
Today is one week before the Cypress Challenge—a 700-meter climb up one of Vancouver’s North Shore mountains. It’s a charity ride for pancreatic cancer, and when I signed up, I knew I’d have to start finding some hills to train on.
Last week, I climbed SFU. This week, I went to another university I’m not enrolled in—UBC.
UBC is a bit of a labyrinth. Every time I ride here, I get a little lost. But that’s part of the fun. I’ve found a couple of climbs I really enjoy around this area, and those are what I tackled today.
Honestly, training for this ride has become more than just preparation—it’s been an excuse to get out the door. An invitation to explore places I wouldn’t normally go. I’ve ridden to beaches I would visit otherwise, through neighborhoods I’ve never passed, down roads I didn’t know connected.
Lately, travel’s felt far away—too expensive, too time-consuming, too complicated. But every time I throw a leg over my bike, it feels like a little trip. A brief escape from whatever’s waiting on my laptop or buzzing on my phone.
Training gives my days structure. A shape. And even when I’m tired, even when the hill ahead looks brutal, I’m glad for it—because it means I get to go somewhere.
It’s not just about the Cypress climb next week. It’s about all the quiet victories along the way—the early mornings, the sore legs, the new routes, the accidental detours.
And maybe most of all, it’s about showing up. For myself. For this cause. For the people who are climbing much harder mountains than I ever will on a bike.
So yeah—today was another ride, another climb. But it also felt like a reminder: I’m lucky I get to do this. I’m lucky training pushes me to try, to move, to explore.
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Today is Canada Day, and I’m doing my first swim race—a 1km open water swim at Sasamat Lake, right here at White Pine Beach. This spot’s a local favorite, and on a holiday like this, it’s bound to get packed. I used to come here all the time when I was younger—not to swim, just to hang out. But since getting into open water swimming, I try to make it out here a few times a year.
It’s a beautiful day. My mom came along too, and I think she enjoyed cheering me on. She’s the one who paid for my swim lessons as a kid and took me to the pool on weekends. Back then, I wasn’t much of a swimmer. I’ve come a long way since.
I wasn’t aiming for anything impressive with this race—it’s mostly a practice swim to get ready for my triathlon in September. I wanted to hold a steady pace and try out the “swim straight” feature on my Form goggles. Really, I just wanted to enjoy the day, spend some time at the lake, and do something active. Training has pushed me to get out more and make the most of days like this.
That said, I have been training, and I had a rough idea of what I could do. In a test swim, I did 1000 meters in 24 minutes, so that was my target.
And then we were off.
I still remember my first time swimming in a race—the opening leg of a sprint triathlon two years ago. The water was rough, and I honestly thought I was going to quit. Nothing since has been as hard. But today? The water was calm. The crowd wasn’t too intense, though there were a few bumps—someone even cut in front of me at one point and forced me to stop mid-stroke. But it was all good.
I wore my Form goggles, which really helped—not just with swimming straight, but with keeping my mind occupied. The compass and live stats gave me something to focus on, which helped me stay calm. Open water can mess with your head if you let it.
Still, on the way back, I lost my sense of direction a bit. The sun was in my eyes, and I ended up following the swimmers ahead of me. I lost sight of the final yellow buoy and had to use the finish arch on the beach as a guide. By the time I got close, I realized I’d taken a different line—probably a longer one.
I came out of the water a little confused. Somehow, I’d finished in 21 minutes. My watch said I swam about 70 meters extra, which means even with the detour, I beat my goal pace—averaging 2:21 per 100 meters.
I walked away from this race feeling a lot more confident in my swimming. It wasn’t a super fast time, and I still need to work on sighting and swimming straight, but I’m not just surviving the swim anymore. There was a time when something like this felt impossible. When I first started, I could barely make it across the pool without resting five minutes to catch my breath.
That’s what I try to come back to—those early moments. It’s so easy to get caught up in small improvements or things that didn’t go perfectly. But if you pause and look back, you can see how far you’ve actually come. That’s what this race reminded me of.
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Elliot Chan 