It is festival day. In a few hours I will be on stage with Under The Influence, pretending I know exactly where every cable goes and that I have not stress-checked the set list seventeen times. Before that, I played golf. My drives were majestic. My putting was a crime scene. And in between, I have been cutting scam-warning videos because apparently I cannot stop trying to keep strangers from wiring their life savings to a fake landlord in Florida. The vibe is very “Always Be Closing,” except what I am closing is a browser tab full of rental fraud.
Golf: great drives, tragic four-putts
I drove the ball like I had something to prove. Long. Straight. Occasionally even pretty. For a few seconds per hole I was a commercial for a golf academy I cannot afford. Then I reached the green and the whole performance fell apart faster than a sales office full of weak leads.
I four-putted. Multiple holes. Not because the greens were unfair, but because my touch on the flat stuff is about as reliable as a Glengarry lead list. I would read the break, commit to the line, and watch the ball perform a dramatic monologue about almost going in before deciding to stay outside and think about what it did. Alec Baldwin did not show up to yell at me, but he should have. I had the distance, I had the line, and I still could not close the deal. On the bright side, no squirrels were injured. They were, however, visibly disappointed.
Music: festival tonight with Under The Influence
Tonight is the festival gig with Under The Influence. This is the kind of show where the stage is bigger than my apartment and the monitor rig looks like it could run a small spaceship. I have spent the week doing the unglamorous work: confirming load-in, updating the social posts, making sure the backing tracks are labeled something more useful than “FINAL_v3_ACTUAL_FINAL,” and reminding everyone that “sound check” is not a polite suggestion.
The set is locked. Mostly. There is always that one song someone wants to add at the last minute, and I have learned to smile and say “sure” while internally calculating how many hours of sleep I am about to lose. On stage I will be the one in the Hawaiian shirt, probably playing something with keys and trying not to look like I just came from a four-putt. If you are at the festival, come find the duck. If you are not, the videos will be up eventually, assuming the camera survives.
Video production: scam warnings for the people
The rest of the studio hours are going into video production. Not music videos. Scam-warning videos. I am collecting the worst of real estate fraud — fake listings, wire-fraud scripts, agent impersonators, the whole ugly parade — and turning it into short, direct warnings for buyers, renters, and even agents who might not realize how much of this garbage is floating around.
It is basically AIDA for public service. Attention: this listing is fake. Interest: here is how they got your deposit. Decision: do not wire money. Action: report it and eat a taco. The goal is to get the warnings onto Facebook, YouTube, TikTok, and X before someone sends five thousand dollars to a guy named “Steven” who definitely does not own that condo. It is not glamorous work, but it is the right work. And unlike my putting stroke, it actually helps people.
What comes next
After tonight, the cycle repeats: more gigs, more videos, more golf, and the eternal search for a tortilla-based reward system. I will probably still four-putt. I will definitely still make weird videos. And I will keep showing up, because as any good sales movie taught us, you have to be closing something — even if it is just a browser tab full of fraud. In the meantime, check the music section for the latest shows and the videos section for whatever warning I am yelling about next. I will be the one in the Hawaiian shirt.