There was a time—not long ago—when Nashville was still about the music.

Not the influencer photo-ops. Not the rooftop bars with $18 bourbon spritzers. Not the bachelorette parties running wild down Broadway in coordinated fringe and faked-up Southern twangs. No, this town used to bleed authenticity. It wasn’t a backdrop for content. It was a living, breathing song—gritty, worn, imperfect, and real as rain.

The CMA Fest used to feel like a celebration of the genre. Even that feels different now. A million out-of-towners flood into our streets with the same enthusiasm they bring to Times Square. Cowboy hats from Amazon. Pre-worn boots from Nordstrom. TikToks in front of the same neon sign that’s seen more selfies than guitars. Not bad, just different.

And don’t get me wrong— if you haven’t been. The festival slaps and I sure ain’t mad at the success. I love the money! The city deserves it too. That’s the push and pull. Our stars are the biggest in the world now. Luke, Morgan, Jelly—hell, even Miley came up off our dirt. The whole world wants to sound like us, dress like us, be us.

But that’s the part that cuts.

They want our flavor but not our history. Our style, not our struggle. Our image, not our integrity.

Nashville’s industry used to be music. Now it’s tourism.

And tourism don’t love you back.

Tourism don’t stay up late writing songs that keep you alive. It doesn’t raise kids in double-wides or teach Sunday school or run cables in a honky tonk. Tourism ain’t got calluses or stage fright. Tourism only wants a selfie and a souvenir.

We traded the soul of this city for bottom lines and hotel taxes. And what’s worse? We smile and welcome the change like its progress.

But if you’ve been here a while… you know better.

They even put an Apple Store on Broadway.

Let that sink in.

Where there used to be grease-stained blue jeans and worn-out work boots, there’s now Apple Watches and auto-tuned playlists. The rough edges got sanded down into commercial polish. The roadies and union crews who built this city now work behind the scenes for tourists who don’t know the difference between pedal steel and pop radio.

I don’t play music. But I move with the men and women who make the stage go up.

Stagehands. Freight crews. Real damn labor.

I see the old road dogs—replaced by a new class of failed musicians who found a second life in scene-chasing and brand-building. We used to celebrate the working class. Now we’ve commodified it.

I see it everywhere now—fake Southern drawls from Ohio, fake grit from LA influencers trying to play cowgirl. Folks pretending to be from here just to soak up the shine that comes off our people. They’re cosplaying a culture that we were born into. That we bled for.

Is this how old-school New Yorkers felt watching Times Square turn into Disneyland? Watching the soul of their city get swallowed by spectacle?

Because that’s what this feels like.

I moved here for the music. For the sweat in the writers’ rooms and the heartache in every baritone note. For the early mornings on a dock and the late nights listening to a guitar. I loved the old Nashville—the one with a busted neon sign and a bar tab you could pay in quarters. The one where nobody wore cowboy hats unless they’d earned the right.

That Nashville?

She’s gone. Head on down to Memphis. 🤔🤔🤔

Tags: #Nashville #RunTheDamnDock #OldNashville

They don’t warn you about the nights.

The ones where you’re pacing a hotel hallway at 2:13 a.m., trying to decide whether to rewrite the plan or just gut it out and hope the day doesn’t collapse on you. They don’t mention that being “in charge” often means being the only one too tired to sleep and too responsible to quit.

We were taught that leadership was a chair you earned. That it came with a nameplate and a nod of respect. Something you step into—like a uniform. But the old-timers never explained that real leadership has nothing to do with position. And everything to do with pressure.

They called it a promotion.

But they don’t tell you the truth:

The promotion is just being who you already were—and being held responsible for it.

Because leadership, for this generation, isn’t a badge. It’s a burden. It’s figuring out how to carry four people’s worth of weight without making a sound. It’s walking into a high-stakes day on half an hour of sleep, smiling through exhaustion while mentally running diagnostics on team morale, resource gaps, and what might break first.

And here’s the kicker: all my life, the people who matter in my world—those who built this thing from the ground up—have told me I’m the future of our industry.

But what they don’t say out loud is that a lot of folks are scared of the future.

They fight to keep things the same. Cling to the pre-pandemic playbook like it’s gospel. They scrap over the smallest decisions, desperate to preserve a version of this business that doesn’t exist anymore.

Meanwhile, I’m not here to relive the past. I’m here to rebuild it. To resurrect something bigger.

There was a time when large-scale industry was the stage for greatness. The World’s Fair was once the crown jewel of innovation. The Olympics, a global marvel. These weren’t just events or ideas—they were declarations of what was possible.

And I believe we can bring that kind of thinking back.

But not with positional leadership. Not with fear. Not by clinging to the rusted gears of an outdated machine.

Ted talks won’t save us if we forget to motivate while Ted is speaking.

The greatest generals in history planned flawless operations—only to watch them fail because they stopped listening when they started leading.

You can have the blueprint. You can have the title. But if you don’t rally the people, if you don’t inspire action—your plan dies on the table.

So no, the hardest part of leadership isn’t the work. It’s not the 4 a.m. calls or the long days or even the stress.

It’s the silence. The kind that creeps in after the radios are turned off and you’re alone with the weight of everything you didn’t get right.

Leadership is a skill, not a status. A discipline, not a destination. And in this business—whatever your business is—it’s damn sure not a trick. It’s a way of life.

It’s knowing that no one taught us how to lead.

But we’re out here doing it anyway.

One sleepless night at a time.

SMM. 1:48 AM

Cut weight, move freight.

We move freight for a living. We lift crates, we dodge forklifts, and we eat like hell when the day’s done. You’d think that’d keep us in shape—but the truth is, it doesn’t. At least not anymore.

So this is Week 1.

And this one’s personal.

I’m not starting this journey to impress anyone. I’m doing it because my health has been the lowest thing on my priority list for too long. And I’ve got four mouths at home that count on me being around—not just working, but present. I’ve got an entire branch that rides on my energy, decisions, and stamina. And some weeks, that weight feels heavier than anything we load on a dock.

The truth is, weekends aren’t rest days for guys like me. They’re just more chaos, more catch-up, more caffeine. I haven’t had a Saturday morning sleep-in since Obama was in office. Being in leadership doesn’t mean a bigger office—it means your whole family sacrifices. It’s missed meals, calls from the show floor at dinner, and trying to be Superman when you’re running on fumes.

That’s why I’m taking this seriously.

I’ve started training at a boxing gym. Not because I think I’m gonna go pro, but because I need to fight something that won’t call me at midnight. I need a space where it’s just me and the work. I’m not worried about six-packs or macros. I’m just trying to outlast the guy I was last week.

Diet? It’s hard. Real hard. Fast food wrappers in the floorboard and 12-hour show days don’t leave room for kale. But I’m starting small: more water, less Zaxby’s, and making sure at least one thing on the plate didn’t come out of a deep fryer.

We’ve got a gym at HQ, and that’s in play too. But the fight gym—that’s where the soul work happens.

Now listen—I was once ready to jump in Rough N’ Rowdy just for fun. I thought I’d get in, piece up an enemy or two, and put on a show for charity. My guy Large at Barstool even said he’d help set it up. But these days, I’m not chasing that. This ain’t about clout. It’s about survival. It’s about longevity. It’s about being here for the long haul—for my people, for my family, and for myself.

This blog is about accountability. Writing it down. Posting it publicly. Holding my own feet to the fire.

This isn’t some fitspo fantasy. This is for freight men, tired dads, road dogs, and anyone carrying too much but still showing up.

See you in Week 2. I’ll either be lighter, meaner, or more sore than before. But I’ll be here. Btw check out the biscuit blog.

We’re not Adam. We’re not Eve.

We didn’t eat the fruit. We were born after the bite.

Didn’t walk the garden path, didn’t talk to no serpent, didn’t defy the Creator.

But we carry the cravings anyway. The shame. The constant ache of not knowing why it’s so damn hard to be human.

None of us got a clean slate. We were born into a system that was already cracked down the middle—then told to be perfect or else.

You ever feel like you showed up late to a fight but still left bleeding?

That’s this life.

We inherit addiction, bills, bitterness, trauma, and theology—all secondhand, and none of it gently used.

We’re told to color inside the lines, but the page was ripped and waterlogged before we ever picked up a crayon.

So when someone talks to me about mercy—about grace—I don’t hear a loophole.

I hear a damn miracle.

Because maybe it’s not about escaping judgment—it’s about surviving the weight of what we never chose.

Most of us were born into chaos with our backs already against the wall.

Some of us learned to fight young. Others got quiet. Real quiet.

But all of us? We’re doing our best to patch holes in a boat we didn’t build.

And here’s the thing: grace ain’t cheap. It costs pride. It costs the illusion of control.

But it also frees you from the lie that you broke something you were simply born into.

Jesus didn’t hang on that cross because people made bad weekend choices.

He did it because the world was already groaning. Already broken.

And we needed someone to show up in the mess and say,

“I see you. You didn’t start this—but you’re still worth saving.”

I’m not here to preach. That shit is for the birds.

But I’ll say this: if you’re out there trying to be a father, or a man, or just not collapse under everything you inherited—

you’re not weak. You’re not lost.

You’re just born after the bite.

And mercy? That’s not a handout. That’s your only shot at breathing in this rigged system.

Keep showing up.

Keep building.

Keep hauling your weight.

Grace ain’t a loophole. It’s a feature.

And it’s yours whether you think you deserve it or not.

SMM.

The Why Behind the Freight

A birthday reflection on legacy, fatherhood, and the miles between where we’re from and who we become.

Cutler turns 10 today.

Ten years of being a dad. Ten years of learning what really matters. I’ve built a career in freight — the kind of work most folks never see, but can’t live without. We move the things that make the world tick, behind the scenes, under pressure, and on time. I’ve earned my stripes running freight through tough cities — solving problems on the fly, managing chaos with a clipboard and a forklift crew. I’ve built something I’m proud of.

But none of it compares to what I’ve built at home.

Cutler is my heart. My reason. My life.

And he didn’t just change me — he saved me. More than once.

I grew up in Atlanta. The real Atlanta. A city that’ll either make you or break you, and sometimes both in the same day. My father was one of the solid ones. A man’s man. No shortcuts. No excuses. I watched him navigate tough jobs, tougher people, and even tougher moments without flinching. He led with calm, stayed late without complaint, and still managed to show up for his family every day. That was my blueprint.

Now I’m the one leading. Not just a team — but a family.

When I moved to Nashville, it wasn’t to escape. It was to carve out space. Room to breathe. Room to raise my son. Nashville’s changed since we got here — more noise, more concrete. But somehow, our family’s grown tighter through it all.

I’ve moved further north for a reason. There’s more opportunity up there — and if I’m not home by dark, you can bet I’m out building something in the Northeast. Not for ego. For legacy. I want to be king of that corridor — not for the crown, but for the kid who’ll inherit the castle.

Cutler’s always loved New York. There’s something in him that feels connected to the skyline, the sound, the size of it all. And one day, I want to give it to him — all of it. I want to build something big enough that when he’s ready, he won’t have to ask for permission to dream.

Shaboozey said it best —

“Horses and Hellcats, riding on gold paths.”

That line hits hard. That’s what I’m trying to build — horsepower and heritage. Accept my Horses, are 8k pounds of Steel and soul. Something that roars when it moves and means something when it stops.

Some days I feel like Jason Isbell’s Last of My Kind — walking into rooms I never thought I’d be in, holding onto my roots like armor. Freight can feel that way. So can fatherhood. Trying to be the one who remembers how it used to be, while building what comes next.

So here’s to Cutler — 10 years old today. My son. My anchor. My future.

Every dock I run, every deal I close, every late-night haul I take on — it’s all for you. I may be the one laying the bricks, but the kingdom’s got your name on it.

This is what legacy looks like.

Not freight totals. Not fancy titles.

Just a father, a son, and a promise to show up — even when the road leads uphill.

#RunTheDamnDock

#FatherhoodFirst #BlueCollarLegacy #FreightLife #CityRaised #AtlantaToNYC #HorsesAndHellcats #LastOfMyKind #SouthernRootsNorthernDreams #MyWhy #BuildTheKingdom

By a man who’s worn out more biscuit bags than socks and still believes in breakfast redemption.

Let’s not overthink it. Some people start their day with yoga mats and green juice. Others—the real ones—start it with a sack of biscuits heavy enough to tear your truck seat. This list isn’t for tourists. It’s for folks who still eat standing up.

This is for the dock crew running on two hours of sleep and six hours of grit. For the boys in Tecovas, Zyn locked and loaded, praying for the second wind that usually comes around biscuit #2.

This is the Biscuit Belt, and these are its undisputed champions.

1. Martin’s (Georgia)

The biscuit that baptized me.

Hiram Martin’s raised me—back when life was slower but still felt fast. That parking lot saw me more than some of my teachers. Every biscuit felt earned, like a trophy for surviving another early morning.

As time moved and freight pulled me closer to Atlanta, I found the Austell Martin’s. And the biscuits? Same sermon, different pulpit. This place doesn’t serve food. It feeds your soul.

2. Biscuitville (NC/VA/SC)

Built Different.

I didn’t grow up with it—I found it during a short stint living in Burlington, North Carolina. Didn’t know the town. Didn’t know the roads. But I knew I’d found something true.

They drop biscuits every 15 minutes like it’s a sacred duty. Everything is fresh, fast, and feels like it’s coming from someone who gives a damn. I was figuring out life in that season. Biscuitville helped. That’s not hyperbole—it’s biscuit therapy.

3. Bojangles (Southeast)

Sweet Tea and Chicken Grease.

Where a Cajun Filet Biscuit is basically a Red Bull with a crust. Nothing fancy. Just spicy chicken and a golden, slightly crumbly biscuit that feels like a middle school fist fight in the best way possible.

4. Loveless Cafe (Tennessee)

Grandma’s House with Better Parking.

Since 1951. You go in tired, broke, and a little jaded. You leave believing in jam again. These biscuits are a long hug from a woman named Dot who once cured a fever with butter and will still whoop your ass for skipping Sunday service.

5. Jack’s (AL, GA, MS, TN)

The People’s Biscuit.

Zero marketing. All flavor. It’s not trying to be hip. It’s trying to be there—when you’ve got 30 minutes before call time and you need a biscuit to remind you why you do this job in the first place.

6. Rise Biscuits (NC origin)

Righteous Rebellion.

It’s bougie. It’s chaotic. It’s beautiful.

Pimento cheese, jalapeños, honey drizzle—this is the biscuit version of a Southern rock solo. Not for purists, but if you’ve ever poured syrup on hot chicken and called it breakfast? Best Biscuits close to Broadway I Nashville.

7. Tudor’s Biscuit World (WV, KY)

Mountains & Mayonnaise.

Every biscuit’s named after a dude who sounds like he’s on probation and owns a backhoe. You get the Peppi, and you better clear your calendar. Tudor’s isn’t food. It’s weight training.

8. Maple Street Biscuit Co. (FL origin)

Instagram With Heart.

Looks like a church café. Feels like a startup. Tastes like the second coming. That Squawking Goat? Changed lives. You’ll laugh at the interior, then cry over your sandwich.

This is brunch for men who still believe in torque wrenches.

9. Bill & Louise’s (GA – Closed)

Gone but Never Forgotten.

This place was sacred. Cobb County nostalgia with sausage gravy on top. Shut down for a damn roundabout. But anyone who ate there knows: you didn’t just get breakfast—you got blessed.

10. Stilesboro Biscuits (GA)

A Time Capsule with Butter.

No app. No hype. Just biscuits in a building that’s seen more sunrises than your favorite band. It’s quiet biscuit greatness. You pull up, nod to the regulars, and get right.

Honorable Mentions:

Chick-fil-A

The clean-cut church kid of biscuits. Dependable. Polished. You won’t dream about it, but you’ll still eat it 3x a week and lie about it.

Cracker Barrel

The Sunday-after-a-bender biscuit. You’re hungover, mad at yourself, and their gravy might just fix all of it. Just prepare to wait behind someone buying a scented candle and rocking chair.

Mrs. Winner’s

A biscuit relic. She’s hanging on, like the last VHS tape in your mom’s cabinet. But if you find one open? Pull over. Order two. Say thank you.

This one’s for the guy who forgets his lunch three days a week but never forgets to punch in.

For the man who talks like a mechanic and thinks like a poet when he’s alone on the dock.

For the crew lead who can’t remember what day it is, but sure as hell remembers where the nearest Martin’s is.

You’re tired. You’re sore. But you showed up.

And these biscuits? They show up for you too.

Forget brunch.

Forget vibes.

This is Southern fuel.

This is tradition.

This is what we eat when the world still hasn’t opened its eyes.

Run the dock.

Run the floor.

Run the damn biscuit belt.

This is going to get weird… ish.

I’m not saying I believe any of this.

But if you follow the logic, it kinda holds.

Let’s start with a simple idea:

What if Earth is the Garden of Eden?

Not metaphorically. Not spiritually. Literally.

What if the story of Adam and Eve wasn’t the beginning of humanity—

but the beginning of us as Earth-bound beings?

The Fruit Wasn’t Sin. It Was the Trigger.

Imagine this: long ago, beings—humanoids—landed on Earth.

They weren’t like us. Not exactly. They didn’t need food. Didn’t age. Didn’t crave. They were pure, balanced, and maybe even immortal in their own right. But Earth? Earth was wild. Overflowing with resources, sensation, form, and flame.

When these beings consumed Earth’s “forbidden fruits”—maybe not apples, but real, biochemical triggers—they changed. They began to evolve into something else.

They became us.

Eve Got Hot. Adam Followed. The Rest Is History.

Eve tasted first. Her body changed. Adam saw her—maybe for the first time as a body—and followed. What was once a partnership of equals became the seed of a species rooted in desire, ego, love, pain, art, and death.

They didn’t sin.

They chose.

And Earth became both heaven and hell—a place where souls could burn and bloom.

We are the children of that choice.

What If the Aliens Are Just the Ones Who Never Ate?

The beings we call “aliens”? Maybe they’re the humanoids who never took the bite.

They don’t need ships, cities, food, or sex. They don’t build, crave, or change. They exist in a state of stillness—advanced not because of technology, but because of perfect detachment.

They don’t evolve.

They are.

Timeless. Silent. Balanced.

And that’s why we never find buildings on the moon or ruins on Mars.

They don’t leave tracks. They don’t live like us.

They appear. Then they’re gone.

We’re the Wild Ones. The Curved Ones. The Creators.

Earth didn’t curse us.

It woke us up.

Everything we call art, love, war, sin, greatness—it all came from choosing to stay. We gave up stillness for sensation. We became mortal, but also meaningful.

Maybe death is the trade-off for depth.

And maybe the real irony is that the ones we call “advanced” are just the ones who never got their hands dirty.

Then there’s Jesus.

According to the scriptures, he didn’t stumble into Earth like we did—he was sent. But while here, he walked the full path.

He felt. He bled. He broke bread and broke down.

He died.

And then he returned—back to the realm the originals never left.

But with something they didn’t have: understanding.

He’s not just a savior.

He’s the bridge. The only one who truly experienced both worlds—and remembered.

So What About UFOs?

This is where it gets sharp.

We think we’ve seen aliens. Lights in the sky. Triangles. Fast-moving discs.

But in this theory? That’s not them.

That’s us.

More specifically, that’s governments—every country building their own version of what they think they saw.

They caught glimpses of the real humanoids—flickers of form, strange movements, disappearances—and tried to reverse-engineer it.

The U.S. builds flying triangles. China builds black discs. Russia builds quiet blimps.

But they’re all wrong. They’re just guessing, building machines to replicate something that never used machines in the first place.

They Think They Have Ships

But the real beings?

They don’t need ships.

They don’t need sleep.

They don’t need anything.

They phase in and out, because they’re not bound by need, desire, or gravity.

And the greatest irony? The governments think they’re catching up, when really, they’re chasing ghosts. They’re creating the myth of the alien through a misunderstanding of something far more ancient—and far less material.

What If the Goal Isn’t to Leave Earth—But to Understand It?

Maybe Jesus wasn’t trying to pull us out of here. Maybe he was showing us how to walk it right. Maybe Earth isn’t the exile—it’s the training ground.

A place where souls burn off the static.

Where the sharpest minds and hearts are forged.

Where the fruit still tempts. And still teaches.

Maybe we can go back.

Or maybe we already have everything we need—right here, where heaven and hell touch.

I don’t know if I believe it.

But it seems logical.

And logic, when followed far enough, always starts to feel a little like faith. Regularly scheduled freight programming to return Monday.

— Stu

By someone who’s seen every corner of the show floor

It’s time we talk about the real MVPs of the trade show and corporate event world: forklift operators.

They don’t show up in keynote photos. They’re not on speaker panels. But if you’ve ever watched a show floor transform from a sea of crates into a polished experience in just a few days — you’ve seen their work. These crews are the heartbeat of the dock. They run on pride, precision, and pure grit.

Over the years, I’ve had the privilege of producing some of the largest and most complex events in the world — from Sweets & Snacks to McDonald’s Worldwide, Google activations, and even the LinkedIn global corporate event. Across every show, one thing has become clear: not all forklift ops crews are created equal.

So, just for fun — and with a deep appreciation for the trade — here’s my unofficial, unapologetically biased power ranking of the best forklift operator teams in the country: Oh and here’s my dads in the video…

1. San Francisco Teamsters

Deep talent, bold innovation, and unmatched drive. They move like a symphony and problem-solve like engineers. The gold standard.

2. Chicago Riggers

Masters of machine rigging. If you’ve got a 20,000-lb CNC machine or a giant custom structure, this is the team you want on the floor. Their rep is ironclad.

3. Atlanta (IATSE 834)

Best large-show crew in the country. That’s not just my bias talking — it’s reality. They’re fast, disciplined, and rock-solid under pressure.

4. Philadelphia

Rugged, no-nonsense, and reliable when it matters most. A crew that gets it done without the fluff.

5. Dallas

If it has an axle, they can drive it. Adaptive, hardworking, and always in motion. You’ll rarely find them standing still.

6. St. Louis Teamsters 600

A proud legacy with real muscle behind it. These operators carry a rich tradition — and a serious skill set.

7. New Orleans (IATSE 39)

Experienced and dependable. Deep bench strength, especially in tough setups with tight windows.

8. Nashville (IATSE 46)

Not the biggest crew, but home to some of the sharpest operators in the industry. Pure talent at the top.

9. Las Vegas

No denying the depth here — Vegas can throw hundreds on the floor. But with that scale comes some inconsistency. When they’re on, they’re elite.

10. Kansas City Teamsters

This crew doesn’t get enough love. Prideful, fast, and gritty. They show up with a chip on their shoulder — and it shows in their work.

This list isn’t about who’s “best” — it’s about recognizing excellence in all its forms. Each of these crews has their own culture, their own hustle, and their own way of making a show run. They all deserve their flowers.

What keeps me hooked on this work is exactly that: labor relations. Getting to know these operators, learning their strengths, building trust, solving problems side by side — that’s what I love most about this business.

So yeah, this list is all in good fun. If you’ve ever moved freight, flagged a truck, or built a booth from the dock up — you’ve got a place in this conversation.

Who would you move up?

Who’s missing entirely?

Let’s hear it from the people who keep the docks running and the booths standing.

#TradeShowLife #ForkliftOps #UnionPride #EventProduction #LaborMatters #CorporateEvents #RunTheDamnDock

So the show Landman has crossed my desk recently and I can’t help but see myself in the dust and diesel of Ole Billy Bob… A guy walking into rooms full of suspicion, trying to do a hard job in a harder world. The difference? My oil is freight. My wells are trade shows. And the land I cover isn’t Texas—it’s the cracked pavement of cities like Memphis, Nashville, St. Louis, Indy, Columbus, and Louisville.

I run the freight operations for the largest geographical region in my company. That means I’m the one on the hook for making sure millions of dollars in show freight moves in and out of convention centers on time, without getting lost, broken, or caught in union gridlock. I navigate labor politics in places where the handshake doesn’t matter if your last name isn’t known. And I do it at an age when people still ask, “How long have you been doing this?” as if experience can only be measured in decades, not disasters avoided.

The truth? This isn’t glamorous work. It’s long nights, unpredictable freight schedules, and 4 a.m. warehouse calls. It’s solving problems most people don’t even know exist—like making sure a client’s booth doesn’t get buried behind crates or helping a trucker make a 2-inch turn through a 10-foot dock door while half a dozen departments argue over who’s responsible. It’s not sexy, but it matters.

I’ve heard it all.

“You’re young.”

“You sure you know what you’re doing?”

“Are you Mack’s son?”

And then five minutes later they’re asking me to fix something their department couldn’t handle.

There’s a strange kind of resistance in this industry when you come in young but competent. They like your energy, but they doubt your judgment. They want your hustle, but not your opinion. What they don’t realize is that age doesn’t teach you how to survive when four departments collapse onto the freight desk at once, or when a 40-foot trailer disappears in a union yard. Experience does—and I’ve earned that the hard way. Not to mention if it’s true your frontal lobe does not develop prior to age 25, but is molded by life experience. My brains decision making mechanism is strictly grounded in trade show logic. Which is as blue collar as it gets…

Like Bill the Landman, I didn’t get here by accident. I earned every mile of this territory. I’ve walked docks in the middle of the night, stood between feuding departments, and taken the heat for problems I didn’t cause. And I still show up early and stay late—because even if the industry hasn’t caught up to me yet, I’m already ahead of it.

This isn’t a complaint. I love my job. It’s my life. I love the grind. But don’t mistake youth for weakness. We’re the ones who will change the way this work gets done—and still carry the load while we’re doing it. Stay tuned.