You’ve probably noticed something about my posts.

I’m constantly name-dropping. Not celebrities. Not influencers. Cousins. Colleagues. Random friends. That guy Steve Hoechester who said one thing at lunch that hijacked my brain for a week.

Here’s why: I genuinely believe that credit is a form of currency, and I like to be rich in the stuff that actually matters.

Yes, I can come up with ideas on my own. Hell, I’m good at it. (Like, "could monetize it in my sleep" good.) But the truth is, something special happens when you let other people into the process. A conversation. A book. A line in a podcast. It’s not just inspiration, it’s ignition. These interactions don’t just give me ideas. They accelerate them. Sharpen them. Sometimes they slap me in the face and say, "Hey dummy, go this way."

Every once in a while, someone drops a sentence so simple, so unpolished, so delightfully obvious that it hits you straight in the soul like a folding chair in a WWE match.

For me, it happened last week.

I was talking with my cousin. She’s cool. She’s fun. She’s wildly successful in that effortless “Oh, I didn’t realize you were on that board” kind of way. We were bouncing around ideas about travel and food and all the things that make life feel like more than just a to-do list.

Then she said this.

“Do you know why they call things better? Because better is better. That’s why they call it better.”

I swear to you, time froze for a second.

Every once in a while, someone drops a sentence so simple, so unpolished, so delightfully obvious that it hits you straight in the soul like a folding chair in a WWE match.

For me, it happened last week.

I’m uninspired.

Not creatively blocked. Not out of ideas. Not “searching for my muse.” I’m just worn down. Pneumonia has been riding me like a rented mule, and on top of that, someone I love, a family member, is reaching the end of his life. It’s a double-header you don’t train for. And yes, I know I’m the guy known for having energy that borders on cartoon physics… but even Wile E. Coyote hits the canyon floor sometimes.

And when life starts to wobble like this, my mind does what it always does. It goes straight to my dad.

I saw a post today from Stephanie Agresta talking about SXSW and how they have reimagined the footprint of the festival. The post caught my eye because SXSW is a big part of my career.

I’ve been to SXSW eight times and seven of those were in a row, mostly with FreshBooks , but also tagging along with two other startups hellbent on making noise. And every damn year we managed to stir things up so well that we’d get a polite (but clearly annoyed) email from the organizers: "You got us this time, but we’re closing that loophole for next year."

For me, it happened last week.

I was talking with my cousin. She’s cool. She’s fun. She’s wildly successful in that effortless “Oh, I didn’t realize you were on that board” kind of way. We were bouncing around ideas about travel and food and all the things that make life feel like more than just a to-do list.

Then she said this.

“Do you know why they call things better? Because better is better. That’s why they call it better.”

I swear to you, time froze for a second.

Here’s the rule I live by: If your idea doesn’t make someone nervous, it’s probably not good enough.

The best marketing ideas don’t live in the middle of the road, that’s where roadkill happens. They live on the edge. They make people feel something. They make people talk.

Strap in kids, cause I’m going to lay it out plain and loud: community is the only growth strategy worth your brand’s sweat and sleepless nights. And I should know, after speaking at over 300 conferences in the past 20 years, crafting a new 70‑minute keynote every single year (yes, even while sleeping half‑dead in airports), and starting with a slightly eyebrow‑raising talk titled Making Love To Your Customers (yes, that’s what it was called), I’ve come to this truth: all the flashy “growth hacks” will fade, but a fiercely loyal tribe will endure.

AI isn’t coming for the future. It’s already here. It’s rewriting how we search, how we work (Amazon annouced a 30k layoff the other day, directly related to AI), how we communicate, and yes, how we market, sell, and build brands. We’re not waiting for disruption anymore. We’re living inside it.

But in all the noise, all the shiny tools, the GPTs, the copilots, the endless parade of "content at scale," something essential is quietly slipping through our fingers.

Trust.

When I founded The Idea Integration Co., it was just me, a lot of cream soda, and a healthy appetite for McDonald's. I started this thing with nothing but the confidence that I could eat like a raccoon out of garbage bins if I had to, and I’ve done it more than once. Because when you’re building something from scratch, survival is part of the budget.

And yeah, I took massive risks. The kind of risks that make people either whisper "that guy’s unhinged" or ask for my card. Like when I bought a billboard that said, "Need a Traci Lords Idea?"

I was at the grocery store today, and I heard a guy actually say, “fuck Doritos.” Not quietly, not muttered under his breath, this was a declaration. He told four people in the aisle. Then he called someone to keep the rant going. I have no idea what triggered him, a price hike, a stale bag, an existential crisis over Cool Ranch, but the man was on a mission.

My last post got the least number of views I’ve ever received. Lesson learned: don’t post a half-naked photo of yourself, apparently the algorithm doesn’t love dad bod chic.

So to make it up to the internet (and boost my numbers), I’m taking a page from the Unabomber (not the bombing part, just the manifesto part) and writing one of my own.

This one isn’t about tearing down society. It’s about why you should buy my book: The Only Creative Process That Matters.

Let’s get this out of the way: the phrase "executive branding" feels gross. It sounds like something your niece does on TikTok. Something with ring lights and hashtags. But here’s the truth, and it took me two decades online to realize it: Posting a lot and kinda sharing a lot of stuff isn’t about ego. It’s about access.

The first rule of comedy is: tell a joke once and it’s funny. Tell the same joke five times and it’s not funny anymore. Tell that same joke nineteen times to the same people, and suddenly it’s awkwardly hilarious.

That’s brand storytelling.

A funny thing happens every time a brand does something bold: social media loses its mind.

Take the recent Cracker Barrel situation. They make a simple logo change, and the comment section fills with people swearing they’ll never set foot in a Cracker Barrel again, and our beloved LinkedIn becomes well, I don't know how to describe it. From the reaction it got you would think they added plant-based sausage to the menu or told the world that the old guy in the logo is named Hershel and may be Jewish. Sales tank and then spike as new audiences discover them, and eventually the brand cements its relevance (again). The truth is this: no matter what you do, social media will scream. That’s its job, so make sure they are busy.

I am a pioneer of the internet. Literally one of the early ones who discovered new land and how to make a career because of it. I was there with Mitch Joel, Chris Brogan, and others and while I admire these people and hang on their every observation to this day, now I am not sure they will tell you what I am about to say. A long time ago, on what feels like a planet far far away, “social media” was about connection, and it was beautiful. In high school, I met other They Might Be Giants fans online and realized I wasn’t the only person in the world obsessing over accordion-driven nerd rock, and it made me feel less alone. Later, I met people who were doing the kind of work I wanted to do, and they gave me tips and encouragement. It was human, messy, and, yeah, sometimes even weird in a way that felt authentic.

Let’s talk about Ryan Reynolds.

Actor? Yes. Charming? Sure. Canadian? Absolutely. But marketing genius? Pump the brakes, ADWEEK .

Once again, the advertising world is tripping over itself to praise the man like he’s the second coming of David Ogilvy, all because of a shiny little PR diversion masquerading as a brand campaign. If you missed it, Ryan Reynolds' agency (Maximum Effort — ironic name for what amounts to TikTok-level commitment) recently dropped an ad for a tech company featuring Coldplay’s “X&Y” era emotions and, get this, the Coldplay singer's ex-wife Gwyneth Paltrow is in the creative. That’s right, they used a connected celebrity as a smokescreen to rewrite the headlines and change the public narrative on the CEO cheating scandal.

And everyone’s clapping like trained seals at SeaWorld.

I keep Google Alerts for a handful of things: my name (obviously), my book title, a few brands I admire (or envy), and the term “experiential marketing.”

That last one used to be my favourite alert.

Every few days, I’d get a little gem in my inbox, a recap of a jaw-dropping installation in Tokyo, a campaign that took over an NYC subway station, or some mind-bending immersive stunt in London that made people stop in their tracks and feel something.

So why did I write a book? Truthfully, it is not because I thought the world needed another book about creativity. (There are already too many that say the same high-level thing in different fonts.) I wrote it because I’ve spent 25 years in the trenches, the foxholes, the back alleys launching brands, blowing minds, and building ideas that actually work, and I wanted to finally put everything I know into one place.

It’s called The Only Creative Process That Matters. And yes, the title is pretty tame compared to the content inside.

I have been doing 1:1 personal branding coaching with people, and one of the exercises I ask them to do is write their obituary. Pretend it is 25 years in the future and write about what they accomplished. It is part aspiration (looking forward) and part self-reflection (looking backward) so people can list accomplishments that are earned and desired.