You Do You
On finding happiness and belonging in a world of judgment
I am a frugal man.
Not frugal with others. I’m happy to spend the little money I have on giving others experiences they wouldn’t otherwise have. Little gestures and gifts that make them feel valued, important, and seen. That all goes so far for me.
As for myself? I had the same iPhone 4 from 2011 through 2016 (the sales associate literally said “welcome to 2014” when I bought my upgrade). I’ve been using the same podcast microphone for 11 years, and the same mixer model since I was in high school.
Don’t get me wrong. You find me a YouTube chef who is pawning off some new flavorful seasoning, I’ll probably bite. But beyond that, you won’t see me spending much on myself. It’s just not in my nature.
My fulfillment comes from finding the extraordinary in the ordinary, the niche deep dives into some pop culture fad from the aughts, some wild combination of inherent curiosity and hot nerd energy. I preach authenticity, and you bet your ass I practice it.
A part of me has been missing for a long while, though—the performer.
You may say to yourself, “Jon, you’re on TV. Isn’t that performance?”
Sure! There is a performance element to it. I abide by the principle that anything can go wrong on camera, and when all else fails, you may as well try tap dancing. So every night I’m on-air, I bring my dancing shoes, make a pop culture reference you’d need serious brain rot to recognize, and insert painfully self-referential and deprecating material to get you, the viewer, in on the bit.
Performance, right?
But that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about musical performance.
At my heart, I’m a rocker. Sure, I could be a killer Corny Collins in Hairspray if it ever comes back around. Yes, I bumped Sabrina Carpenter on loop my entire flight the other day. But damn’t, I grew up under the teachings of Malcolm Young, and the gospel of Bruce Frederick Joseph Springsteen.
Picking up a guitar was transformative for me, actually. Fifth grade me tried with my first axe, a cheap black and white Yamaha with a wildly distorted amp that likely drove my parents wild. I took about four weeks of lessons with a man whose breath I can still smell to this day, hated every second of it, and quit.
Gone were the dreams of being the next Hendrix. I’d focus on the sportscasting thing instead. That is, until that one fateful October afternoon in eighth grade.
I ventured into my dad’s CD closet in search of another album to listen to, and came across a copy of AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell.” I, of course, had heard the title track before, but now it was time to listen. And I mean, really listen. So I did.
Then, it happened. Two minutes, 12 seconds into the tune, Angus Young slides into that Chuck Berry-inspired solo under that iconic A-D-G-D progression. I was entranced. I was mystified.
That was the big bang. I had to pick up a guitar again.
By now, YouTube had been invented, and lessons were…free?! So I watched. I listened. I practiced. I watched. I listened. I practiced. More importantly, though, I felt.
I would spend the next eight years of my life performing in bands, bad bands (appropriately named “Incapable”), good bands, and playing all over the place. I played legendary club stages like The Stone Pony, El Mocambo, and beyond. I attended every show I possibly could, both local and large. The very essence of the live music experience consumed me, and it found me a space that I felt both comfortable and confident in.
It was here that I developed what I believe to be my most important trait I have carried with me into adulthood: I truly have no shame whatsoever. I am deeply passionate about the things I love, and I have no issue expressing that.
Authenticity. Right?
Unfortunately, my decision to pursue my career left me without an avenue to play music. And thus, the next best solution became my most viable: go to every concert I can.
If you’re a routine reader of this page, you know I never shy away from making a music reference. Hell, half of my pieces here are born from a musical or lyrical motif. All of that introspectiveness is built from my experiences with live music.
I believe live music is the most intimate form of art that a creator can have with an audience. Be it a highly scripted pop concert or an entirely loose and improvised singer-songwriter showcase, there is a beautiful rawness in the connection that is formed between performer and consumer. Maybe it’s vibing to a DJ at an EDM festival, or maybe it’s possibly questioning your sexuality for the first time after seeing Nick Jonas and Joe Jonas sing “Jealous” in Atlantic City (one of these happened to me, you figure out which). No matter the arena, there is something about live music, for me, that is essential to my soul’s search for meaning.
That is, after all, something I have struggled with in my adult years. Heartbreak, heartache, and the journey in finding your home. Through all of the things that would change, one thing remained consistent: live music would be there.
Then, the world shut down. This avenue that had become so critical for my mental well-being (and that of many others) was no longer possible. It was tormenting in ways, because not only was this a form of entertainment gone, but it was a critical piece of my expression vanished as well. I had to resort to air-drumming and karaoke to get me through.
With that, I made a commitment. If the world resumed spinning, my shameless ass was going to go to as many concerts as he could. My brain, my body, and my spirit needed it.
I would go on to get laid off from work twice in three years, but my concert fund remained unchanged, no matter my aforementioned frugality. Springsteen saved my life, as you’ve no doubt figured out by now, and I spent 2023-2024 following him around and attending 11 shows (to the point where I quite literally went viral).
The experience was life-changing, and I never hid from enjoying each moment to the fullest I could (I felt confident I could perform the shows in their entirety).
I didn’t hide my enjoyment. This was mental, spiritual, and physical liberation in real-life, tangible form! If I want to rock out in the rain, I’m going to! If I want to spend hundreds of bucks to fly down to Tampa to see my favorite band for the final time like I did last week, I’m going to!
Because why change me, right?
Last fall, a major media outlet in New York City caught wind of my, shall we call it, “free spiritedness” at concerts. While I’ve always joked you get two events for the price of one when you’re near me at a show, I’m always cognizant of those around me. Still, for some reason, in a city that has every major sports league in the country taking up headlines each day, my love of concerts managed to be the lead story mockery.
I received threatening messages, hate tweets, Instagram harassment, you name it. All for enjoying the shared experience of something that makes me and so many others feel worthwhile. It was unfathomable to me that something so innocent could be the subject of such cruelty. Sure, it’s an indictment of the world in which we live now, but what harm does one’s enjoyment inflict on someone else’s life?
Then, I remembered something I told someone important to me once: who fucking cares what anyone thinks about what makes you YOU? You like what you like because it feels right to you. You express yourself how you want to because it is authentic to you.
You, my friend, are entitled to indulging in what makes you your best self. Chances are, your best self is infectious to others.
So, whether it’s a concert, going to the gym, painting, taking a trip, watching Happy Tree Friends videos from 2005 at 2:33 a.m., attending a group screening of “The Room” and laughing at Tommy Wiseau, or anything in between, the message should remain the same.
You do you.
Have fun doing so.