I Posted About a Former Crime Lord & You Argued About Aerosmith

Jun 12

“That driver had me literally leaning forward in my seat eating up every word. Speaking of Aerosmith. I didn’t want to miss a thing.”

Fifty thousand impressions. A comment section that turned into a full Aerosmith band member identification debate. One person said it looked like a “rough Steve Perry.” Another said Joe Perry’s mom was their elementary school gym teacher. Someone else was absolutely convinced it was Joe and not Steven and they were not letting it go.

Nobody read the words.

And I’m not even mad. I’m a little mad. I posted about the most interesting human I’ve met in years and the thread became a rock band roll call because I used an AI image that apparently looks like an aging guitarist.

Cool cool cool.

Buckle up because here’s the story: I got in an Uber in Hawaii and within forty-five seconds I knew this man had a story. You can just tell. He grew up in organized crime in Honolulu. Started at fourteen. Yakuza. In and out of prison until a judge turned mid-sentencing, shut down the prosecutor, and let him walk.

He runs halfway houses now. He showed me a photo on his phone — massive tattooed Samoan men, former drug runners and gang members, all holding hands. The whole story in one image. No explanation needed.

A Hollywood producer once turned off the app mid-ride, handed him a hundred dollars, and said finish the story. This is what movies are made of.

I’m sitting in that backseat writing my own book. That line went straight to the sternum.

And then I posted about it, and the internet argued about Aerosmith.

I’ve been thinking about that all week — not in a wounded way, more in a huh way — because that driver had a story begging to get out and it landed on every single person in that car. That driver had me literally leaning forward in my seat eating up every word. Speaking of Aerosmith — I didn’t want to miss a thing.

Mine got stuck in the caption box and fifty thousand people walked right past it into a Steven Tyler conversation.

Some stories hit home, some don’t. The ones with big moments, the deep ones — those are my jam. They’re the difference between sorta kinda interesting and lean-in worthy. That’s what I’ve been trying to build inside this manuscript for months. The story makes complete sense to me — I lived it, I know which parts matter, I know the weight of it. But knowing your own story and being able to hand it to someone else so they feel it are two completely different skills. I am diligently working on the second one and making very little progress some weeks.

Two chapters left. Chapter 17 done. Two to go and then I close this phase and open the next — agents, publishing, all the things I know nothing about and am absolutely ready to learn.

Hawaii was unreal. Jacob and I pulled up Zillow on the beach like delusional optimists — 2M to 60M. We texted my SIL for sh*ts and giggles to see what the insurance would run and good Lord in heaven above, that alone is a mortgage. We looked at each other and kept scrolling. Dream on, obviously.

We got tattoos, not matching ones, I would rather move into a lighthouse alone. I wore dresses instead of yoga pants and drank wine I never drink. Jacob poured me a giant glass that finished the bottle and I looked at him and said “I really shouldn’t.” He just laughed and said “Drink.”

I wish my mom brain could turn off but it’s not how we’re wired and that sucks sometimes. Especially when you’re supposed to be doing, ehrm, adult things.

But I kept coming back to that driver.

Dude, there is something truly beautiful about getting a glimpse into people’s lives and hearing all the dirty details. Maybe it’s vicariously living through their drama, maybe it’s just learning from their lived experience. Either way — go all in when it comes to telling your story. Keeping it to yourself is no fun.

Two chapters left to make sure this one lands.

Still becoming. Still not resolved. Still here. 🤍