Here’s the origin story.

Last week I was driving with my brother in his ‘83 BMW coupe. The thing is a collectible, dubbed the Baltic mob mobile — all black, dark tint, not a spec of chrome.

We were chasing the afternoon sun in the north end of Bogota. The breeze was hitting just right. Talking a mile a minute, my brother was urging me to “get back out there.”

Whenever I found myself in a hole, I could count on him to snap me out of it. God bless him.

The purpose of the Bogota trip then was two-fold. First, we would go to Casa, his new favourite restaurant, and order something expensive. Despite how much I loathed a loud room full of strangers, I always came back to myself with a cocktail pressed against my lips. Secondly, the trip to Bogota promised a celebratory date with some very attractive women — none of whom, I should mention, would be my type.

So there I was, half-sloshed on the back terrace staring at the DJ, eavesdropping on a table of high-heeled pageant queens recently returned from “El Club.” The pursuit of romance was not lost on me, but my God was it exhausting.

I found myself dozing off, my neck bent deliciously towards the exit.

Then it occurred to me that in thirty minutes I’d be reunited with the fluffy white king-sized hotel bed that awaited me— alone, stuffed, and happy once more.

When did I become old and irritated? And further — why couldn’t I enjoy myself?

That must’ve been what my brother was thinking. Eleven p.m. on a Friday night, waiting for the valet. I was ready to defend myself. Eager to make my case.

After all, my brother and I were excellent debaters. We fought about everything. And this was a fight I could win.

Look, I would say earnestly. I haven’t been myself. I’m creatively busted. And when we Cancers aren’t feeling fulfilled workwise, we tend to hibernate. That’s all I’m doing here— exercising my astrological right.

The truth was after labouring pitch after pitch to editors’ desks around the globe, travelling from place to place, slugging away on two failed television projects, and sending out what I considered to be a very promising book proposal, I was professionally and socially bankrupt.

I needed a break. I needed to find myself again.

I could write op-eds, I suggested. Or maybe essays on mom and dad. Or maybe on El Salvador or the Colombian presidential candidate. I have a lot to say.

Then my brother did the unthinkable.

He turned to me and said: What do you have to say about anything?

That was it. The gloves were off. I’d never been so offended in my life.

Not because he was wrong. But because he was right.

For months—years, maybe—I’ve felt like I’ve been bottling something. Not a book or some writing project, but just… myself. My tone. My voice. The one that’s too pointed for the left, too earnest for the right, and too cynical for self-help culture. The kind of voice that doesn’t test well with focus groups but might—on a good day—say something useful.

So I did what any reasonable person would do. I shaved my head and started a new Substack.

This Is My Argument will be that resting place. A newsletter where I can self-destruct at my own pace and prove to my brother — and nobody else — that I do have something to say.

Believe it or not, I happen to have a very pleasant and outgoing personality tucked inside this messy bear cave. And it’s beautifully furnished with all of my favourite things: Cultural criticism, social commentary, travel reportage, political quips.

I’m coming for it all. It’s time to get real.

Lately I think I’ve been writing from behind a scrim—tidying the mess, rounding the sharp corners, hoping to be liked.

But this is different. This is the version where I care less.

And maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll write something that makes a few of you feel less alone—or at least more entertained

— THIS IS MY ARGUMENT on Substack

The Argument Starts Here