Seth Godin:

It’s so tempting to write for everyone.

But everyone isn’t going to read your work, someone is.

Can you tell me who? Precisely?

What did they believe before they encountered your work? What do they want, what do they fear? What has moved them to action in the past?

Name the people you’re writing for. Ignore everyone else.

Wrestler Sid Eudy has died. The WCW and WWE champion wrestler, who went by Sid Justice, Sid Vicious, and Sycho Sid throughout a three-decade career, most recently wrestled in 2017, but his best-known years were in the mid-’90s.

WWE remembers Sid Eudy.

Sad.

Ryan Cook says sometimes you just gotta play Rick Springfield.

Mark Leibovich spends time in the Pete Buttigieg bubble and learns a few things.

The next day, in the final hours of the convention, I was granted brief access to the inner swirl of this particular dust cloud. “Keep moving, keep moving,” someone called out as the entourage wound its way through a clogged concourse area. This was quite an exhilarating and exhausting 60-second interval, for me at least, trying to keep up with the Buttigieg Bubble as it moved through a wall of political-celebrity shrieks and convention chaos.

“Pete, photo, photo!” “Hi, Peeeete!” “Woooooo!”

“Make room, make room! Coming through, coming through!”

“Peeeeete, over here, over here!”

We turned a corner. Buttigieg ducked through an open door, and I was directed to follow him. Suddenly it was just the two of us in a quiet holding space, an oversize closet adorned with chairs and empty soda cans. I was sweating and out of breath. Buttigieg is not a sweating-and-out-of-breath kind of person. Still, he admitted to me, “This is probably the least sleep I’ve had since before the kids started sleeping through the night.” (He and his husband, Chasten, have 3-year-old twins.)

Buttigieg has always been a gifted communicator, but he has become renowned lately for his subspecialty of jumping into pro-Trump media hornet’s nests and delivering tidy, often viral Democratic messages while simultaneously eviscerating his often hostile hosts. “Here’s a sentence I never thought I’d hear myself saying,” he began his convention-stage speech in Chicago. “I’m Pete Buttigieg, and you might recognize me from Fox News.” The crowd responded with an immediate and knowing roar.

For a few seconds, I thought Harris might actually pick Buttigieg for vice president. Of course, she’s much smarter than me and went a different route. There’s no doubt Pete Buttigieg should have a significant role in a potential Harris administration. I vote for Secretary of State.

Dr Angela Collier, a Star Trek fan, eviscerates Star Trek: Picard for nearly four hours. This is a long runtime, but it seems to fly by much faster and in a more entertaining way than an episode of the aforementioned Picard.

I get this point of view, but I dug the last season.

Will Leitch on the Harris-Walz ticket, the DNC, and most importantly, the legacy of Barack Obama.

There are many reasons the Harris-Walz campaign has caught fire, that it has conjured up those 2008 feelings, that there is a sense that, if we can follow this through, we can finally slam the door on this last decade of callousness and cruelty and downright foolishness and, at last, move forward. There’s Trump disdain. There’s Biden exhaustion. There’s Harris’ maturation as a candidate, her unique ability to be a better messenger, her disciplined, creative political mind. But in the end, I do think it comes back to that initial Obama message: That fundamental belief - I am my brother's keeper, I am my sister's keeper - that makes this country work. It's what allows us to pursue our individual dreams, yet still come together as a single American family. You leave the world a little bit better than how you found it. You believe this country can be better. And you love it enough to try. You won’t get it perfect; you won’t even be close. But you’ve got to try. And you’ve got to believe.

I believe that Kamala Harris believes this. The convention was a clear sign that she is rejecting the dead-end-ism of that “decadent interregnum” cynicism. Obama was right then, and he is right now. That she understands that, and may in fact be the ideal person for this particular moment, is the most encouraging thing I saw this week. And it’s why I think she’s going to win.

Maybe I’ll be wrong. Trump could still very well eke out this election. Maybe it will all go to shit. But that’ll just be another reason to keep fighting then too. Losing the hope that things can get better, and that desire to push to make them so, isn’t clever or wise. It’s just self-destructive. I need this world to be better than it was when I found it. So do my kids. So do you. Believing it can be so isn’t foolish or cringeworthy. One might even call it audacious.

Pitch perfect.

Ray Ratto, writing for Defector, has a column about the new Pete Rose documentary and Rose himself.

Up front, Rose was banned from baseball and the Hall of Fame for gambling on his own team as the manager of the Cincinnati Reds. More to the point, though, he remains banned because of the enemies he made, and keeps making. His inability/refusal to take the knee then and now leaves him a tragic, comic, and sometimes even weak figure wrapped in self-absorbed bravado. But charming? Not really, and certainly not here.

Therein lies the real story of Pete Rose. HBO manages the gift of showing highlights of 60-year-old baseball games, the time-machine stuff that sells every sports documentary. There he ladles on his version of charm in that face-first way of his, using his fiendish competitive streak as his personality. And frankly, it works. He isn't a sympathetic figure as much as an indomitable one, and it is a quirk of the American psyche that we are willing to forgive all of it for someone that outwardly crazed.

But then the story loses itself—because Rose continues to be the one telling it. He could make a compelling case for baseball's newfound love of gambling and how it holds him in the hypocritical grip of grudge-holding, but that would convince none of the people maintaining his ban. The Hall of Fame has always been a compromised concept. But Rose can’t help himself. Indeed, the closest he comes to getting the depth and breadth of his conundrum is when he says, "Jesse James was a nice guy away from the banks." Evidently it was the banks' fault for keeping money around.

I’m not going to watch this documentary. Pete Rose means little to me.

I thought he’d get into the Hall of Fame as soon as he’s dead and buried. I was wrong.

He will never be included in the Baseball Hall of Fame. Like Shoeless Joe Jackson, he is on the “permanently ineligible” list.

He also, you know, raped a 15 year old. So, no.

Bryan Adams has unveiled a video for his new song, “War Machine.”

Except it isn’t a new song. He wrote it with Gene Simmons and Jim Vallance for the KISS album, Creatures of the Night.

The whole thing feels like a cover of a KISS song, but can it be a cover when you are one of the writers? I have no idea.

As a fan of his other tracks, this version is… not good. The solo is all over the place and is quite unmelodic.

This tree stump has been vexing me for years. It took me a while, but I dug the son of a bitch up.

Take me home.

Then, you know, why call the film Joker? https://t.co/S2sZ3cY9Jw

— Sean McDevitt (@sean_mcdevitt) July 27, 2024

Hate to bring this up in the middle of a heist but when I said I was a safe cracker I meant I'm a chill white guy

— Hanch Tarchup Jr. (@misharipov) June 16, 2024

And while we're on the subject, let's all practice some more. Repeat after me.

yah-koo-CHOH-nis. yah-koo-CHOH-nis.
EE-vee-sitch. EE-vee-sitch.
HUM-rick-house. HUM-rick-house.

— Robert Rosenthal (@ALionEye) June 25, 2024

Keep it for reference later.

Uncle Ed, Uncle John, Katie, and Dad