None of this is advice.
I don't know anything
I'm just recalling everything that happened.
Shapeshyfter reader,
You're a wild one I'm told. You've stumbled into the bourbon-drenched, head-scratching world of Shapshyfter. Welcome home my prodigal friend. Where have you been?
You found me. After clawing through digital swampland... doomscrolling Instagram, Threads, X, chasing meatier content that sticks to your ribs, something that doesn't poof away like buffet flatulence.
You're amongst friends now, loosen your iPhone grip.
I get it. I'm addicted to algorithm-fed lies also. I spend too much time on social, wasting back into dust like the crypt keeper... dying for soulful content. I tell myself I'm not wasting time – I tell myself doomscrolling is "research." All lies.
So, what's that garish, A.I fabricated image starting you down?👇🏿
Let me spin you back to the 19th century, when restless, stupidly creative weirdos with big feet and bigger rap sheets wandered through P.T. Barnum's black and white double doors.
His freak house.
A museum of bearded ladies, lion tamers, and conmen so slick they's sell you your last shadow for a nickel.
Barnum built his empire on sawdust and swagger – beasts roared, elephants stomping, and a top-hat wearing dandy just outside howling,
"What lunacy is P.T. cooking up now?"
I wish I'd been there in 1850. I'd have lost my marbles. Like that time in Romania when three pint-sized Gypsy preteens swarmed me on a subway in Old Town. Their tiny hands rifling my coat pockets. I let 'em.
It was horrifying, ticklish, hilarious and strangely alive.
Barnum, that magnificent grifter, that two-bit charlatan, convinced working stiffs to fork over their coins for his glorious lies.
Respect the hustle.
Shapeshyfter's my hustle... same game, different fashion, flavor. I'm not selling bearded lady tricks. I'm peddling the art of living with soul.
Here's the raw.
I'm 45.
Midlife's got me by the love handles. Slapping me with cold, hard fact.
I've been cosplaying as a faceless clone. Creating the same work. Dressing the same. Living the same as everyone else. Drifting like a defunct drone, floating in a sea of sameness for decades. Exhausting.
So, like every red blooded man staring down the barrel of crisis, I'm not buying a Porsche, I'm building a media publication.
Think Monocle or Kinfolk with more TMI, soul and grit. A scrappy, soulful rag tag tales of woe for the insatiably curious weirdos who crave living less cookie cutter, more colorful.
Clawing back further… 15th century.
Skinny Romans in druid-chic linen, obsessed with art, piling into Santa Maria delle Grazie like it's a T-Swift concert.
Why?
To watch Leonardo da Vinci paint The Last Supper, stroke by stroke. The guy took his sweet time, probably humming Renaissance era shanties or ranting about church gossip or spicy ragu.
Bleachers full of fans sat there, mesmerized, as he slathered his genius on the wall.
I'm no Leo, no Barnum.
I'm ManyFace. I wander. I wonder. I make. I break. I dive headfirst into culture, stirring up fun bits and drafting it out for you right here.
Leo and Barnum worked with the garage door flung wide. Me too.
My workplace? This is Shapeshyfter. My first and last shot at European-style media.
I know... lofty, late and a little ambitious.
That's all for now.... We'll delve into stories next round.
ManyFace