FIELD NOTES #7 - MOJAVE PROCRASTINATION BREAKTHROUGH

Lake Periphery, California – January 8, 2026.

I'm writing this from the edge of a completely dry lake bed near Death Valley, just a few miles from the lowest point in the western hemisphere. I officially moved out of Los Angeles around three weeks ago to find solace and creative inspiration in this martian landscape, but the Mojave has turned me into a mute lizard-person who does nothing but smoke joints and rip dirt bikes through public land.

Well, I still possess an undying passion for journalism and have six projects on the one yard line that I'm preparing to lob into the end zone, but I truly believe that exiting standard American society is the only path forward — at least, for me. All I've wanted since parting ways with the RV lifestyle a half-a-decade ago was to be part of a functional, in-person community and I seem to have found it this strange desert town. The population here is 201, a fraction of what it used to be. During this town's heyday in the 1960s, over a thousand people called Lake Periphery home until the lake itself was drained by a distant city that felt they needed the water more than the people who lived here. In fact, I think it was the city I just moved from, where nearly everyone seems to think I'm "out of my god-damn mind for moving to a place with such toxic air."

Technically, they're right — sometimes. When the wind picks up around here, it carries toxic plumes of dust through the air from the exposed lakebed. Yet locals call these occasions 'dust days' and know to stay inside. Ironically, there's actually worse air quality in L.A. than L.P., but a variety of weaponized studies have kept the investment away as an excuse to let this community disappear. Yet it hangs on. My place here is a tan, double-wide trailer next to twelve others. I don't think any of my neighbors know who I am from a 'clout' standpoint, which I strongly prefer.

Wayne, who lives in a camo trailer behind me, was sentenced to thirty years in Folsom Street Prison as a teenager for murder. Behind the wall, he was pressured into joining the Aryan Brotherhood, which left him with a variety of tattoos that made even minimum-wage employment virtually impossible. He is here to lay low and save up cash to book as many tattoo removal appointments as it'll take.

Marsha, who lives to my left, was a cyber-analyst for the Department of Defense until she got DOGE’d out of a lifelong career earlier last year.

Dennis, who lives to my right, is a Silicon Valley cautionary tale walking. He built a startup from nothing right out of college. He sold it for a pittance to people who promised him a future with the company. They lied, and he was out on his ass from a company he’d built. Now he photographs sunsets and abandoned structures.

I truly hope an avant-garde documentary crew never discovers us out here, because our desert town would make for some Emmy-winning source material.

Everyone in this tight-knit community has their reasons for dropping out of society. Myself included. I've found my place and it's time to get back to work. There is simply too much on the horizon to spend another week smoking weed and riding bikes with Dennis, Marsha and Wayne.

I just signed a memoir deal with a major New York City publishing house – as in one of the 'big five.' Shane Smith and I are developing a show and currently trying to get ourselves into Iran, Venezuela, or Greenland within the coming weeks. All Gas No Brakes needs to be resurrected – we're sitting on three episodes. I also interviewed that kid Nick Shirley a few days ago in Utah and need to edit that footage down. Plus, the Canal Cinco team is waiting on a dispatch I haven't written them since Maduro was captured. The 5CAST, too, is in serious need of a reboot.

There's also a chance I hit Minneapolis tomorrow. We'll see.

I appreciate all you guys for your support and apologize for going ghost for the past weeks.

It's go time.

AC