Matthew Reinbold

Condemning Deepfakes in Political Ads

Fri, 05 Jun 2026 00:00:00 -0500

When Minnesota Senator Tina Smith announced she wasn’t seeking re-election, several people stepped forward to vie for her seat. One of them is current Lt. Governor Peggy Flanagan. Another is Representative Angie Craig, from Minnesota’s 2nd district (where I happen to live).

This past week, a super PAC supporting Angie Craig named North Star Dawn aired an ad which appeared to use a deepfake of Peggy Flanagan. Craig, through a spokesman, said, “she does not support the use of AI in political ads”.

I’ve written about Craig before, particularly of her support for last year’s TAKE IT DOWN Act. Her tepid response, all things considered, was troubling enough that I felt compelled to write and send her the following letter, below.

Dear Representative Craig,

I am writing as one of your current constituents and as a Minnesota voter concerned about the standards being set in the race for Senator Tina Smith’s open U.S. Senate seat.

In the past week, a North Star Dawn PAC advertisement targeting Lieutenant Governor Peggy Flanagan emerged that appeared to use an AI-generated or deepfake-like depiction of her. I understand that your campaign does not directly control the actions of an outside PAC. But that does not mean your response is irrelevant. When a PAC supporting your candidacy uses deceptive synthetic media against an opponent, the issue is not only whether your campaign legally coordinated with that PAC. The issue is whether you are willing to clearly reject deceptive synthetic media when it appears to benefit you.

Your response, as reported through a spokesperson, was that “Craig does not support the use of AI in political ads”. That is not enough.

A statement of general discomfort is not the same as a condemnation. It is not the same as calling for the ad to be taken down. It is not the same as asking any PAC supporting your candidacy to refrain from using AI-generated or materially manipulated depictions of your opponents. At a moment when deceptive synthetic media is becoming an obvious threat to public trust, voters deserve more than carefully worded distance.

This is especially troubling given your sponsorship of the TAKE IT DOWN Act. Through that legislation, you have already recognized that AI-generated depictions can cause serious harm when they are created or distributed without consent. I understand that nonconsensual intimate imagery and political advertising are not identical harms. But the underlying principle is directly relevant: synthetic media can be used to exploit, humiliate, deceive, and distort public perception. It is difficult to accept strong opposition to deepfakes in one context while seeing such a limited response when similar technology is used in a political context that may benefit your campaign.

The timing of the ad makes this worse. As I understand it, Minnesota law restricts certain election-related deepfakes within defined pre-election windows, including before nominating conventions and primaries. This ad appears to fall into a gap outside those windows. But legality should not be the only standard. Exploiting a loophole in the law is not the same as acting with integrity. A tactic can be technically permissible and still be corrosive to democratic elections.

I am asking you to do more than state that you do not support AI in political ads. I am asking you to publicly and unequivocally condemn the North Star Dawn ad, call for its immediate removal, and make clear that any outside group supporting your candidacy should not use AI-generated or materially manipulated depictions of your opponents. I also ask that you support closing the legal gap that allows this kind of conduct to occur outside the current statutory windows.

This is not a minor campaign dust-up. It is a test of judgment, consistency, and leadership. As my current congressional representative and as a candidate seeking statewide federal office, I expect clear standards from you on the use of deceptive synthetic media in elections. I also expect those standards to apply even when the deception may be politically convenient.

Respectfully, Matthew Reinbold

Memory in the Marrow

Mon, 04 May 2026 00:00:00 -0500

This past weekend, I attended the Minnebar conference. A recurring theme was Operation MetroSurge, the federal immigration enforcement campaign in the Twin Cities from December through February, and the ways local technologists, artists, organizers, and neighbors responded. I very much looked forward to this. I guess I expected it to be much more of a victory lap – like how it is portrayed by the media – a David and Goliath story. Something bad happened, the scrappy rebels banded together, and sent the empire packing.

This isn’t the truth, obviously. My conscious mind knows this isn’t the truth. ICE is still here. The wheels of techno-authoritarianism still roll. Even looking around an auditorium full of like-minded people offered little relief from what we know is still happening, albeit in greater secrecy, every day.

What I was not prepared for is how reliving the events of December through February made me feel. I felt a physical, visceral reaction to what was being described. The same knots in my shoulders, the pit in my stomach, the migraine between the eyes were all back. I was safe, sitting in a comfy auditorium seat, with the entire mobile internet of distraction at my fingertips and I was on the verge of tears several times.

Eryn O’Neil, in her talk The Parts You Didn’t See: A Collective Account of Operation Metro Surge, asserted that we, as a metro area, were collectively traumatized. Certainly, many people had to step outside their ordinary lives and do things they had previously assumed only happened elsewhere, to other people. I played a part, but a small one compared with the people who put their bodies, time, reputations, and safety on the line. I knew things had been bad, but I wasn’t on the front line. There were scary moments, but I did not endure what others did. So I should be OK, right?

Apparently not. I hate to even call my reaction trauma. Part of me still believes that admitting I was affected takes something away from people who suffered more directly. But that is not how pain works, and it is not how community works either.

The ‘T’ word feels too large, too easily stolen from people who endured worse. But maybe that hesitation is its own kind of evasion. Maybe collective trauma does not require everyone to have suffered equally. It only requires that a community learned, together, that it was not as safe as it thought.

Leah Meilander, the creative behind That’s Goodness Design, did the conference shirt design. She was the same artist that I bought several stickers from during a “Book Fair for Grown-Ups” a few weeks ago. One of those stickers has the words, “Don’t Should on Yourself” written in stylized letters. I stuck it to the ‘Wunderkammer’ Sticker board that hangs above my desk.

It is probably a good reminder that any rationalization of what I “should” or “should not” feel is not the point. If we preach to our kids that “you feel what you feel”, then I need to allow myself the same grace.

O’Neil also said something I am still turning over: trauma does not leave the body until action is taken. It is action which communicates to the self that it is safe; that it doesn’t have to be on constant alert. I think I have some work to do figuring out what that action needs to be in my case.

As I pulled away from the conference, I merged onto the interstate. Over the first pedestrian overpass there was somebody standing. His homemade sign said, “Talk about Epstein”.

The body keeps the score. The internet keeps changing the subject.

General American - 07

Sun, 12 Apr 2026 00:00:00 -0500

I’ve spent years writing about the intersection of technology, culture, and policy. When social media is increasingly used to create events, rather than report on them, I find that work increasingly relevant.

It is one thing to write an essay here or a newsletter there. Given the potential harms, utilizing adding additional forms, like narrative, seems warranted. General American is a seven-part short story about a fast foot crew suddenly confronted with a corporate AI that threatens their erasure.

Missed the beginning? Part 1 can be found here. Additional info, like the accompanying playlist, can be found at the Stories page.

~Matthew

Scene 7 - Mopping Up

Joel and Jamal stood on the asphalt that looped behind Frylies. Joel was studying the menu that housed the drive-thru speaker. Jamal wasn’t sure what they were looking at.

“You know, it’s really a shame,” Joel began, straightening and looking around their surroundings, “The interference, I mean.”

“Interference?”

Joel gestured to the lots surrounding the restaurant. “What do you see?”

Jamal covered his eyes to shield them from the low morning sun. He looked out across the parking lot. “I see a strip mall. There’s a Starbucks, a dental place, pet grooming-“

“Cell tower,” Joel said. “Right next to the lot.”

Jamal followed his gaze.

“Huh.”

Joel tilted his head toward the speaker.

“Wouldn’t take much for something like that to interfere.”

Joel’s last statement hung in the air, more of a question than a statement.

Jamal looked at Joel, then to the drive-thru, then back to Joel.

“Yeah,” he began, slowly, “All those signals. No telling the interference that might happen.”

“Probably intermittent, too. A nightmare to debug.”

Jamal’s furrowed brow while trying to follow these breadcrumbs suddenly brightened.

“We’d have to pull ‘em to the window, go face-to-face.”

Joel leaned over, pretending to listen to the speaker. “Do you hear some static? I think I hear some glitchiness this morning. So random.”

“I’ll make a sign, tell people to pull forward, and order at the window.”

“We apologize for the inconvenience, and that they should pull forward to the window.” Joel corrected, “And only as long as it is intermittent. Seriously.”

Joel turned to return to the store.

“Let’s get that sign posted. I have a feeling today is going to be a busy day for us.”

Jamal leaned forward.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he said, “Good morning! Glad you’re here. How ya doing?”

For a brief moment, Jamal felt himself involuntarily tense, waiting for an unwelcome vibration at the back of his head. Or red text to suddenly fill his peripheral vision. Gloriously, there was neither.

He relaxed.

Rosa moved behind him to restock bags.

She didn’t say anything.

But she didn’t stare daggers at him, either. It was a start.

The driver of the older model sedan looked up.

“Oh, you know,” they said while gesturing vaguely toward the road in front of them, “work.”

“Yeah, I hear that,” he said, “How ‘bout we make that better? What can I getcha, Boss?”

The End

For additional material about this story, along with the accompanying playlist, check out the General American section on the ‘Stories’ page.

General American - 06

Sat, 11 Apr 2026 00:00:00 -0500

Missed the beginning? Part 1 can be found here. Additional info, like the accompanying playlist, can be found at the Stories page.

~Matthew

Scene 6 - Mopping Up

Two weeks later, Joel stood before the assembled team before opening. He tapped the back of his clipboard against his free hand to get the group’s attention.

Jamal slipped in at the last moment and hung toward the back, where he was less likely to be noticed.

“Okay, okay. Let’s get started.”

Joel paused, making sure he had everyone.

“Okay. As of this morning, I can confirm the apology that you’ve probably seen on social media is legit. Frylies corporate has released a public statement. From here on out, if anyone asks you about it, you’re to refer to it as a ‘regrettable bug’ or ‘rare, one-time’ anomaly,” Joel said, making air quotes.

“If you’re pressed for any further comment, refer the person to Frylies PR - you should all have the number. Or refer them to me, and I’ll do it. Everyone got it?”

“But what about us?” Rosa asked, arms crossed.

Joel’s air quotes returned.

“Well, for one, it means that I’ve been demoted from manager to ‘acting manager’ until they can find and train a replacement.”

The room went quiet. Even the ice cream compressor was silent.

“And while they still don’t know exactly how the configuration settings got changed, it did occur while Mrs. Alvarez was the senior person in charge.”

The group tensed.

“As these things go, it’s important that for the company to show they’re taking this seriously. That’s why, unfortunately, she has been let go.”

Jamal’s eyes went wide.

“What!?” Rosa hissed, “We all know Jamal did it. Why does Mrs. Alvarez have to pay for his screw-up?”

Jamal started to speak before Joel cut him off.

“We’re not going to start pointing fingers,” Joel said, setting his clipboard down. “What’s done is done. This was handed down from above. I can’t say for certain what they took into consideration, but it is now a closed matter.”

Rosa turned to the group to plead her case, but then spotted Jamal.

“I hope you’re happy, asshole.”

“Stop,” Joel made sure he caught Rosa’s eye, “Just stop.”

He set down his clipboard.

“I know we all love Ms. Alvarez. She’s been a part of the Frylies family, it seems like forever. Certainly, since before I started working at this location. And it would be a mistake to expect anyone to just take her place. But we need the help, so I called in a favor.

“Everyone, I’d like to introduce you to Teresa.”

The door to Joel’s office, which had been open a crack, now opened fully. The new employee stood in front of the assembled group, cradling her Frylies visor in front of her with her hands.

Jamal blinked.

“Mrs. Alvarez?”

Joel didn’t look at him.

“Everyone, this is Teresa,” he said. “She is starting today.”

There were murmurs of recognition within the group.

“Now, I know you may have questions. I’m happy to answer those with you privately when we have a moment. But-“ Joel paused to check his phone, “-we’ve got a big day ahead of us. Let’s get to it.”

“And Jamal? Teresa?” Joel retrieved his clipboard. “Let’s have a quick word. My office, please.”

Jamal steered clear of Rosa and followed the other two to the office.

“Close the door,” Joel said while he sat in his seat.

Jamal pulled up short. Phil the Fry was there, eyes boring into him.

He coughed, nervously, to clear his throat.

“Mrs. Al-,” Jamal stammered, cutting himself off, “I mean, Teresa. I, I didn’t think it would -.”

He stopped.

“I’m sorry.”

“You did a stupid thing, because you’re a stupid boy. Your heart is in the right place, but your head is en el culo.” Teresa pinched Jamal’s cheek as if she were his abuela, despite nearly being a full head shorter.

“Breaking things might feel good when you did it,” she continued, “but you take your shot and miss? You might end up hitting someone que sí te importa.”

“Now Jamal,” Joel said, elbows propped up on his knees, “this only works if Teresa is a new person. That means no ‘Yo, Mrs. Alvarez!’, no ‘Big up, Ms. A’. This is a huge risk; we screw this up, I’m out, Teresa’s out, and who knows who else. We clear?”

Jamal looked at each of them in turn.

“Yes, yes. Absolutely. I got it. But-“ he swallowed. “I should tell Rosa sorry, too. I really didn’t mean for her to get caught up in any of this.”

“Un momento, Jamal,” Teresa said, shaking her head. “Let me talk to her. Rosa will come around, but she is going to need some time.”

She turned back to Joel.

“Anything else, boss?”

“No, Teresa, we should be good here. Please do one more pass and make sure we’re set to open. Jamal and I have one more thing. Thank you.”

“De nana,” she said, and she saw herself out.

Joel slapped his knees.

“All right. Let’s go for a walk.”

Finished this section? Part 7 is here.

General American - 05

Fri, 10 Apr 2026 00:00:00 -0500

Missed the beginning? Part 1 can be found here. Additional info, like the accompanying playlist, can be found at the Stories page.

~Matthew

**Scene 5 - Virality **

The next morning, Rosa and Kris were tag-teaming the drive-thru.

Ordinarily, mornings were a predictable treadmill of coffee and hash-brown exchanges. Rosa worked with practiced precision. Kris - well, she was new enough to still wear perfume to work.

The first sign that something was wrong came from a gray minivan.

Rosa listened as the smoothed version of her greeting played out over the speaker beneath the menu.

“Good morning, and welcome to Frylies. Would you like to try our Sunrise Scramble?”

“Um, yeah, maybe-“

There was something unintelligible, as if the driver had turned away and was asking someone else a question.

”[[ GUEST CLARITY ALERT: Incomplete Vocalization ]]” flashed in Rosa’s AR headset.

The speaker crackled briefly, as if clearing its throat.

“Goodness, friend!” the synthetic voice said, “At Frylies, a fresh start begins with you doing your part! You trailed off. Let’s try that again with a 20% boost in vocal projection! Clear orders help everyone have a better morning!”

Kris, also wearing a headset, froze on her way from the stockroom. She looked to Rosa, questioning.

“What did you say?” the driver said, with a slow, rising crescendo that was less of a question and more of a challenge.

“Here at Frylies, we’re all for energy, but let’s watch the tone,” SpudBud replied instantly. “How about one of our Caramel Coffee Shakers? It’s guaranteed to sweeten you right up!”

“WHAT. THE. HELL!?”

A new red warning flashed in Rosa’s glasses as the voice responded.

“We love enthusiasm! But if you want to be a Frylie Friend, please keep your language family-friendly.”

The van jerked forward, pulling out of line and then peeled away, its tires screeching.

“Rosa?” Kris whispered, eyes wide. “Is it… is it talking back to them?”

Rosa didn’t answer. The next vehicle was already pulling up - a big, black Chevy Tahoe with tinted windows. On the driver’s side was a car magnet. It said: RE-ELECT STATE REP. GARY “GUS” KNUTSON.

Rosa held the mike away from her face. “Get Joel,” she hissed at Kris.

“But- but Joel isn’t here.”

On the camera feed, Rosa could see the driver of the Tahoe. Presumably, “Gus” was all middle-aged dough propping up wrap-around shades and topped with an undirtied trucker hat. He was gesticulating animatedly to a dash-mounted phone.

“CALL HIM. GET JOEL HERE, NOW.”

Kris stood as if she were a deer, contemplating why twin suns were barreling toward her on an otherwise vacant stretch.

“GO!”

Kris blinked twice, gulped, then spooked.

Rosa could now hear Gus over the menu’s speaker.

“-I’m tellin’ ya, my fellow patriots, that’s the problem with this country. Nobody respects the working class, the people like you and me. Now hold on, your man of the house needs his breakfast.”

He leaned out his window, looking down on the metallic speaker grill.

“Uh, yeah, gimme the big breakfast, with extra bacon. Make the coffee an extra-large. And let’s make this happen quick, too. I’ve got a busy morning.”

On Rosa’s AR display, rows of red text flickered.

“Whoa there, neighbor!” SpudBud replied from the drive-through speaker. “It sounds like we forgot our manners this morning! At Frylies, there’s no need to rush!”

Gus did a double take, frowning at the speaker.

“Also,” SpudBud continued brightly, “your sentence structure was rushed. Please rephrase your request politely. Remember: Kindness is the secret sauce!”

Gus looked to his phone with a quizzical look, then went back to the menu.

“Wha-What did you say to me?”

“I’m sorry, sir. Should I increase the volume for one of our cherished senior guests?”

Rosa tried to interject, “Sir, I’m-“

“Are you kidding me?” Gus said, voice rising, “Do you know who I am, you little shit? I’m your State Representative!”

“Status doesn’t excuse your tone, Representative!,” SpudBud sang out. “As we always say, ‘Think twice before not being nice!’. Let’s practice our ‘Inside Voice’ together! Repeat after me: ‘May I please have the Big Breakfast?”

Gus yanked his phone from his dash, thumbed some setting, and then held it at arm’s length so that he could get himself and the menu behind his reddening face in the same shot.

“Are you guys getting this?! What is this woke garbage, trying to tone-police me?! Me?” He spoke into the phone, “THIS IS WHAT THEY’RE DOING NOW! Listen, when I was growing up, we had a little saying - the customer is always right.”

[[WARNING: Guest is demonstrating escalated hostility levels.]]

“Sir-“ Rosa started.

“At Frylies-“ SpudBud cut in.

“We didn’t go around,” Gus shouted, ignoring them, “making fun of people who were just trying to get breakfast with their own GOD-DAMN MONEY.”

“A burger is a circle, a fry is a line, please stop shouting, and everything will be fine!”

“I’ve got more than five thousand people on this live stream, RIGHT NOW. AND WE’RE NOT LEAVING THIS DRIVE-THRU UNTIL WE GET AN APOLOGY, FACE-TO-FACE.”

Gus turned his phone to the menu camera. The ‘LIVE’ icon in the corner was pulsing a frantic red, the view counter zooming upwards as Rosa watched. An inverse waterfall of emojis - laughing faces, fire, angry red circles - scrolled upwards past his grip at a rapid clip.

Rosa began to rub her closed eyes with both hands.

“Christ,” she exclaimed, “What changed?”

By now, the counter staff had figured out something had gone horribly wrong, but were unsure what. They stared at Rosa.

This seemed like an appropriate moment for Kris to interject.

“Joel said he was coming, um, but he won’t be here for another ten minutes.”

Rosa tore off the headset and dropped it in frustration. It buzzed, rumbling so much that it danced on its own across the counter top.

Rosa ignored it.

“Close the drive-thru. Help those in line get back out. If Gus asks, tell him I’ll be right there.”

Kris audibly gulped, and then left.

Finished this section? Part 6 is here.

General American - 04

Thu, 09 Apr 2026 00:00:00 -0500

Missed the beginning? Part 1 can be found here. Additional info, like the accompanying playlist, can be found at the Stories page.

~Matthew

Scene 4 - Strawberry Motivated Sabotage

The rest of the store was already sheets deep into closing protocol when Joel deviated.

“So it’s commander night at the game store,” Joel said, zipping his jacket. “And if I leave now, I can maybe catch the last hour of Magic.”

He looked at the remaining team.

“You good to finish up here?”

Jamal pursed his lips and looked expectantly at Mateo.

Deedra, a recent teenage hire, looked between those remaining, waiting for a cue.

“No te preocupes,” Mrs. Alvarez said, “We’ll finish.”

Joel beamed and headed for the door. “Alright. You guys are great.” He took off his Frylies branded hat and hurriedly backed his way out. “Any problems, just-“

If there was further instruction, it was left outside as the door closed.

Mrs. Alvarez quickly divvied up what was left, and the remaining four got to work.

Jamal cornered Mateo when they were alone in the kitchen.

“Now’s our chance, man,” Jamal said, “Joel’s gone. Let’s get into the office. Let’s see what SpudBud is about!”

“SpudBud? Again?” Mateo groaned while pulling away. “Dude, I just want to finish and go home already.”

“You don’t wanna know what it has on you? Or Rosa?”

Mateo crossed his arms, unconvinced.

“Listen. It’s gotta be tonight. Who knows when we’ll get another chance?”

Mateo just stood, looking at Jamal skeptically.

Jamal looked Mateo dead in the eye, pausing for emphasis.

“It flagged me because I like my strawberry shake without sprinkles.”

“¡Qué pesado!” Mateo sighed. He waved Jamal back and walked to the door to the narrow hallway leading past the bathrooms. Mateo poked his head out.

Accordion from Mrs. Alvarez’s after-hours mix danced on the air. Her Bluetooth speaker, propped up by the soda fountain, bounced her usual playlist of Nortec and Norteño hits from decades ago. The sung lyrics echoed energetically down the narrow passageway:

♫-Yo soy la sangre del indo, soy latino, soy mestizo

♫ Somos de todos colores y de todos los oficios

♫ Y si contamos los siglos, aunque le duela al vecino

♫ Somos más americanos que todititos los gringos-

“Hey, Mrs. Alvarez,” Mateo called out, but wasn’t heard over the music.

“HEY!”

The middle-aged woman looked up on the third try from where she and Deedra were mopping the dining area.

“Jamal and I are gonna finish back here, k? Floors and trash?”

She nodded once and made a “shooing” gesture before returning to her work.

Mateo closed the door and got socked on the shoulder.

“Hell, yes!”

“Whatever. Help me get the bags out back, and I’ll take it the rest of the way.”

The two hustled to get the trash cart loaded, but Mateo’s mind was on Jamal.

“You’ll probably have five minutes. Ten tops,” Mateo whispered, despite the fact that there was no chance of being heard from the front above the music. “You sure about this?”

“Come on, man. We’re wasting time. What’s the code?”

Mateo was uncharacteristically solemn. “This is just for SpudBud only. You get caught, and they find out I figured out the door code, we’re not just cleaning grease traps. It’s our jobs, man.”

Jamal raised his right hand and tried to make the “Scout honor” salute, but was unsure how many fingers were upright. After a minute of waffling, he shrugged and smiled, blinking rapidly to flutter his eyelashes.

Mateo’s seriousness broke.

“¡Idiota!” he said, melting. He pressed the pushbutton lock buttons in the correct order. The door clicked audibly as it unlocked. “Five minutes. I’m not playin’.”

Jamal slapped Mateo’s shoulder and slipped through, flipping the light switch just inside.

He stood for a second, his eyes having difficulty as the fluorescents overhead sputtered to life.

Admittedly, there wasn’t much to see, the office being barely bigger than the mop closet.

Jamal pulled the door shut and suddenly felt, more than saw, something swing toward him. He jumped to the side, barely strangling a yell before it left his throat.

Two bulbous eyes, the size of saucers, stared at him through a mesh laundry bag. Jamal could just make out the rest of ‘Phil the Fry’, Frylies life-sized foam and polyester mascot costume. It was hanging from a peg on the back of the door.

The jump scare had his heart racing. Jamal took several deep breaths, trying to calm himself while he studied the anthropomorphized crinkle-cut. It was shedding yellow fibers where it rubbed against the door. It made the whole room smell like dust and Febreze. Its cartoon eyes remained big and wide, as if it were as surprised to see Jamal as he was to see it.

Jamal pushed himself away from his corner. The limited wall space was covered in past advertising campaigns, most sporting the slogan, “FAST. FOOD. FUN.” A narrow bookcase held a handful of laminated training binders. Then there was Joel’s desk, wedged into the far corner.

There was an open laptop on it.

Jamal moved to the desk. It felt like the costume’s eyes were following him. He pulled up a bare-bones, office-store special that had clearly seen better days. The faux leather was cracked. What was left of the foam padding poked through in several places. Its unevenness was apparent when he sat down.

The laptop’s screen snapped to life when he jiggled the nearby mouse. The login screen was Frylie-themed: a rich, ketchup-colored background behind black-and-yellow boxes.

Joel’s username was pre-populated in the form. However, the cursor blinked in the password field, waiting for something to join it.

Jamal rocked back in thought and looked around the room.

He typed “FASTFOODFUN” and hit enter. Access was denied.

He cleared the field and typed “FASTFOODFUN1”.

The result was the same.

He swore under his breath. Tapping the sides of the computer while he thought, he felt something. Jamal leaned to his right. The edge of a Post-it note peeked out from underneath, a tiny edge creased around the edge of the plastic. He lifted the laptop up to get a better look underneath.

There, beneath the plastic housing, was a pale pink sticky note with Joel’s handwriting.

“Gotcha, Boss.”

Jamal typed the word, “P0wer_Pl@yer97” into the password field and hit enter.

And he was in.

There were a handful of windows already open, with the SpudBud interface on top. Jamal’s own name caught his attention. It was an open report - something about “Employee cohesion ranking” and “Sorted by areas of concern”.

Jamal moved the mouse and double-clicked on his name.

A small modal opened over top of the report:

[[ SUBJECT: JAMAL TOWNSEND - FRICTION AUDIT ]] Primary Linguistic Impediment: Persistent deviation from brand-forward norms Cultural Friction Coefficient: 28.4% above Frylies median employee grade Statistical Probability Factor: Probably 92% match for "Urban" or "Under-resourced" socioeconomic background, with a 76% correlation with Mid-Atlantic/AAVE influence. Impact: Data suggests these markers reduce "Guest Purchase Confidence" by 14% among suburban demographics.

There was a whole section on suggested interventions and manager prompts. However, Jamal was having difficulty continuing to read. The screen seemed to swim.

Jamal felt his jaw clench. He pulled on the sleeve of his uniform polo and wiped his eyes with it.

He breathed deep again and closed his double-click. In doing so, the mouse made more of a bang than a click, despite himself.

Then he spotted it. There, in the program’s menu bar, was a gear icon.

He opened it.

SPUDBUD STORE CONFIGURATION Location: Frylies #214 Communication Optimization Settings ———————————————————————————————— Employee Tone Normalization (?) ☑ Enabled Guest Confidence Smoothing (?) ☑ Enabled Customer Clarity Reinforcement (?) ☐ Disabled (Recommended)

Jamal clicked on the “?” symbol after “Customer Clarity Reinforcement”. The resulting dialog box had a cartoon version of SpudBud in the corner, wearing a mortarboard and holding a pointer.

“Customer Clarity Reinforcement,” it started, “provides helpful real-time coaching to guests who demonstrate ordering confusion, unclear speech, or inefficient menu navigation. Examples include menu navigation guidance, pronunciation assistance, and conversational clarity prompts. This experimental feature is recommended to be off during peak hours.”

Jamal blinked several times in rapid succession. He was so lost in contemplation that he didn’t even hear the door open.

“¡Deja de comiendo moscas!” Mateo angrily whispered, his head poking in the door, “What the hell? Hurry up!”

“Okay, okay, okay,” Jamal said. He quickly toggled the “Customer Clarity Reinforcement” option. He hurriedly confirmed the change, exited the settings window, and returned the previous report to the top of the window stack.

He logged off and pushed the seat back.

The mascot still stared.

Jamal gave Phil a wide berth as he left the office and rejoined Mateo in the kitchen.

“What did you do?”

“I,” Jamal said, pausing dramatically, “restored justice.”

“What?” Mateo sounded tired.

Jamal grinned from ear to ear. “Tomorrow, everybody is going to be treated the same. It’s gonna be awesome.”

Mateo looked at Jamal warily. “Whatever, man. Let’s just finish and get out of here.”

He handed Jamal a mop.

“You owe me floors. All the floors.”

Jamal just grinned.

Finished this scene? The next part is here.

General American - 03

Wed, 08 Apr 2026 00:00:00 -0500

Missed the beginning? Part 1 can be found here. Additional info, like the accompanying playlist, can be found at the Stories page.

~Matthew

Scene 3 - The Qualming

The day Jamal broke SpudBud, it had already spent hours correcting him.

Working the window that day, he got no fewer than three reprimands, delivered via text, haptic annoyance, and a side of fry puns.

Jamal liked calling people “boss”. It broke the tension; maybe won a smile. But today his greeting of, “Afternoon, boss! How we livin’ today?” was chastised via text in his glasses. “[[GREETING FLAGGED: Overt Intimacy]] Hey, partner! Let's keep our greetings *crisp* and *professional*.”

When certain thresholds were exceeded or the offense was particularly egregious, the headset buzzed. The physical “coaching”.

All the guest heard was, “Good afternoon. How can I serve you today?” Said in a flat, neutral, and passively-aggressive Midwestern accent.

Then there was the time he tried confirming an order.

“I gotchu. One double-cheese, no onion. That’ll be twelve-fifty when you pull ‘round and see me at the window, k?”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he cringed involuntarily.

”[[GRAMMAR ALERT: Syllabic Loss]] Eyes on the fries, Jamal! Your grammar is looking a little lumpy!”

Buzz.

In his headset, the version the customer heard was replayed, limp and distant. “I understand. One Double-Cheese Sandwich, without onions. Your total is twelve dollars and fifty cents. Please proceed to the first window.”

Jamal got the shift’s final slight as they were about to close. The customer was craving a late-night treat. They asked Jamal which of the shakes was his favorite.

“Honestly?” Jamal thought for a moment before continuing, “I prefer a classic strawberry without the whip or sprinkles - it still hits the spot. All the other stuff can be a bit too sweet for me.”

”[[LOGGED FOR PERFORMANCE REVIEW: Sabotage]] Yikes! Every menu item is a 'Flavor Champ', Jamal! The drive-thru isn't the place for *hashing* out our personal opinions!”

The headset buzzed. Twice.

“You can’t go wrong with any of our SnowCream Shakers,” the guest heard. “Would you like to make that a meal?”

Before taking off the headset, SpudBud summarized his shift. His glasses flashed the text, “[[PERFORMANCE NOTE: Greeting compliance up 12%. Keep up the improvement, Jamal!]]”.

Jamal hung the headset on his charging hook, on the wall above the register, and slumped against the tiled counter. He rubbed his temples, but the red warning letters were still there, floating in his peripheral vision.

Finished this scene? The next part is here.

General American - 02

Tue, 07 Apr 2026 00:00:00 -0500

Missed the beginning? Part 1 can be found here. Additional info, like the accompanying playlist, can be found at the Stories page.

~Matthew

Scene 2 - Dumpster Debate Club

“They’re making us into robots, man. Freakin’ robots.”

Mateo unlocked and removed the padlock. With a yank, the painted metal gate shrieked in protest as he forced it open. Beyond was the dumpster, revealed. Sweet wafts of rotting bread and tangs of fermented ketchup bin-juice hit Jamal and Mateo simultaneously.

“I dunno man.” Mateo hefted a bag of garbage over the lip. It landed with a wet slap that echoed inside the metal bin. “You’re sounding kinda crazy right now.”

The transformer on the light pole above sounded like a swarm of disturbed bees. SpudBud’s chipper sing-song cadence coming through the drive-thru speaker could just be heard above the hum. Jamal heaved his own bag into the dumpster.

“You don’t even work drive-through. You don’t hear it. And it’s not just ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ — it’s everything.”

“You keep vibing like that, SpudBud is gonna flag your negativity even from out here. Mandate a hug or something.”

Jamal let out an exasperated sigh.

“I connect with people, bro. When people hear me, they like me.” He pulled at the top of the next bag, only for something sharp inside to puncture the side. A spurt of something liquid and sticky shot out and over his sneaker.

“Oh hell. These are only a month old!”

Mateo crouched to cradle the bag from underneath. He gestured with his head for Jamal to do the same on the opposite side.

“Too bad, man. Sacrifices to the fast food gods must be made.”

Together, supporting the bottom of the bag, they lifted the punctured bag up and over the dumpster’s wall.

Jamal grabbed one of the many napkins littering the inside of the trash corral. He steadied himself against the gate, stood on one foot, and tried to sop up the further indignity on the other.

“I was saying, if they can’t hear me, when they only hear the same company thing, day after day, no variation, what do people like? What do they connect with?”

The side door opened, and Rosa pushed a wheeled bin out in front of her.

“Hey, geniuses. You missed one.”

“Sorry,” Mateo said. He wiped his hands on his black apron. “Jamal needed to vent.”

“Rosa will back me up,” Jamal said, “She’s worn the headset.”

Rosa pulled up short.

“What’s the problem?”

“It’s SpudBud. It’s not right.”

“Jamal thinks it’s stealing our voices.”

“Not stealing, erasing!”

Mateo took the bin from Rosa and wheeled it around the oily, iridescent puddle on the ground. “Can it erase fryer grease from my clothes? It could make me a Karen if it could do that.”

Jamal picked up the last remaining bag at his feet. “You aren’t listening to me.”

Rosa stared at the two of them for a moment, sizing them up.

“Yeah, it’s a bummer you can’t crack jokes anymore. Some of it was legit good, for real. But, you get a few greetings ignored, and suddenly the sky is falling?”

“Rosa-“

“I am NOT DONE. Jamal, Have you ever been told to ‘speak English’? Give somebody their food only to be told to ‘go back to your country’?” Rosa’s voice was rising. “Jamal, you ever have to get your manager because the customer didn’t want to deal with ‘an illegal’?”

Mateo and Jamal just stood in disbelief.

Rosa exhaled and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Listen, with SpudBud, I don’t have to worry about being called out. People order their food. I give them the food. It’s simple. No racist bullshit.”

“Rosa,” Jamal started, picking his words carefully, “I’m sorry that happens to you. That’s messed up. That shouldn’t be on you. But this isn’t fixing it… It’s just hiding it. “

Rosa turned on her heel marched toward the restaurant.

“This is a fast food job, Jamal,” she called over her shoulder, “Get over yourself and get back to work.”

Jamal stood staring at the spot where Rosa used to be until Mateo shooed him to take a step back. The gate closed, its piercing, metal-on-metal lament spooking the rock doves perched overhead.

Somewhere around the corner, someone was just finishing up at the drive-thru. “Thank you for choosing Frylies” filled the void left by startled wings.

Jamal couldn’t tell who was behind it.

Finished this scene? The next part is here.

General American - 01

Mon, 06 Apr 2026 00:00:00 -0500

This story comes in seven parts, or scenes. Additional info, like the accompanying playlist, can be found at the Stories page.

~Matthew

Scene 1 - SpudBud to the Rescue

Fifteen minutes before opening, Frylies rehearsed normal.

Joel read the checklist from memory, rather than his clipboard.

“Stations prepped?”

Rosa shifted onto one hip and popped an exaggerated thumbs-up from beneath folded arms.

“Walk-in holding temp?”

Jamal leaned against the counter top.

“Steady as she goes.”

“Bathrooms?”

Mateo coughed to clear his throat, then said, “We good.”

Joel tapped the clipboard against his knuckles.

“Mrs. Alvarez, did you have a chance to walk the front of house?”

“Sí,” Mrs. Alvarez said, franchise black visor with swirly, butter-cream embroidered lettering dangling clasped hands.

“Good, good. Well then, guys, there’s just one more thing before we open.”

Joel laid down his clipboard and opened the box that had been sitting on the counter. He theatrically blew on his fingers and pulled the headset from inside. He held it up so the assembled team could see it better.

It definitely was new - the plastic film hadn’t even been peeled from the AR glasses portion.

“We’ve heard it was coming for a while. But today is the day! Frylies is rolling out SpudBud AI nationally.”

“So it’s real now?” Rosa said, “No more excuses?”

“Yep,” Joel rotated to give others a better look, moving gingerly as if he were holding a cup filled to the brim. “I know training was months ago. I’ve been told they’ve applied a lot of the UI feedback since then. They say it is super-intuitive now.”

An anxious and excited twitter sizzled through the crowd.

Jamal raised his hand.

“Yes, Jamal?”

“What is Spud… spud-,” he struggled to recall the name.

“It’s SpudBud, our new AI coach.” Joel carefully reseated the headset in the box and glanced upward at the ceiling. “When did field support swing by? Maybe seven months-“

“Eight,” Mrs. Alvarez corrected.

“Eight,” Joel snapped his fingers and pointed at the senior member of the group. “Well, there you go. Corporate was here eight months ago. But, you didn’t miss much, though, Jamal. It was barely more than a couple of slide decks at the time.”

“But it will do the voice smoothing, like they said?” Rosa asked.

“Yepper. It’ll convert whatever you say into ‘General American’.”

By his expression, the explanation only made Jamal more confused.

“General-what-now?”

“It’s a linguistic thing, or something,” Joel offered, unhelpfully.

“It makes us all sound white and from the ‘burbs, over the speaker,” Mateo said. He pinched his nose and made his voice high and nasally, “I want to talk to your manager!”

“All right,” Joel said, cutting Mateo off before he could go on, “Let’s not get ourselves written up before we open.”

He picked up the headset again and handed it to Jamal.

“Here-“ he handed the headset to Jamal. “You shouldn’t have to know how to use it; it should tell you. You put that on, and I’ll turn it on from my office.

“I’ll be right back.”

Jamal turned the device over in his hands. It definitely had more heft than the version he was used to. That was probably why the supporting straps seemed more substantial.

Mateo leaned in. “You think you can run Doom on that?”

“Dorks,” Rosa said, playfully. Despite the criticism, Rosa seemed equally drawn to the new, shiny plastic.

“Takes one to know one, mamacita,” Mateo said.

He punched Jamal on the shoulder.

“Come on, man. Let’s get some ASMR going, already.”

Jamal frowned, trying to pick at the edge of the protective film over the glass. The third try was the charm. He peeled the plastic back with a satisfying squelch and then widened the strap, making sure it fit over his visor. He clipped the battery pack to his pants and adjusted the microphone that extended over his left ear.

He looked around. From the back prep sinks to the brushed-metal soda towers beyond the front counter, Frylies looked the same as it had before. Remodeled a few years before, it was all clean, Scandinavian lines with modern black panels, vinyl wood accents, and clean lettering, aspiring for something more upscale. Red LED stripes ringed the ceiling, mimicking neon. The tile counters gleamed under red pendent lights. The variously sized logos, with their buttery-yellow, crinkle-cut fries and red swirly lettering, glowed in witness.

The shake machine’s compressor kicked on, rumbling loudly.

As if cued, red text began to flow in the upper corner of his vision. It seemed to be a series of startup diagnostics.

The headset buzzed, and then a cartoon voice was in Jamal’s ear.

“Hi there, Jamal, employee two-two-one! I’m SpudBud, your friendly performance partner, ready to optimize your best voice!”

“Whoa.”

“What’s happening?” Rosa asked.

Joel re-emerged from the back.

“Okay, we should be up and running. Are you seeing it?”

Jamal nodded.

“Great! Okay. Pretend a car has just pulled up. Push the mic button and just talk. You and the customer at the drive-thru will hear the corrected version. You should also see it in the display.”

“Just talk like normal?”

“Go ahead.”

Jamal looked around the group, suddenly very self-conscious. He licked his lips and then pressed the button.

“Um, welcome to Frylies,” Jamal said haltingly, sounding extremely self-conscious as everyone watched him, “Where every day is Fry-day? What can I get you?”

Again, there was a sudden buzz at the back of his head. In his glasses, an ellipsis flashed several times, and text appeared.

”[[WARNING: Non-sanctioned greeting. Correcting. Energy and confidence levels boosted 20%.]] Welcome to Frylies. May I take your order?”

Rosa was impatient. “What did it say?”

Jamal took off the headset and looked at the spot along the elastic band that had vibrated.

“Something about a ‘non-sanctioned’ greeting? And what it said to the customer was completely different than what I said. Is it always going to do that?”

“That’s the point,” Joel said quickly, “It keeps everything consistent. For the customers.”

Joel retrieved his clipboard and flipped some pages.

“Here’s what’s in the press release:”

"SpudBud™ is Frylies next-generation drive-through enhancement platform, designed to ensure every guest interaction reflects our commitment to customer clarity, consistency, and comfort. At Frylies, we believe 'fast, food, and fun' should sound the same - no matter who's listening. The advanced AI agent works seamlessly in the background, preserving your authentic customer interactions while ensuring they meet Frylies brand-forward conversational expectations. By leveraging adaptive tone-balancing and-"

“-Blah, blah, blah. It goes on like that for a ways. Anyway-,” Joel flipped to the next page. “There’s some internal notes about ‘guest ease indexing’ and calibration, but that’s mostly metrics.”

He tapped his clipboard.

“Any questions?”

Jamal shot Mateo a look. Mateo just shrugged.

Mrs. Alvarez’s thumbs kneaded the strap on her visor as if she were praying a synthetic fiber rosary. She silently studied Jamal as she did so.

Finished this scene? The next part is here.

Moneyballer Americana - 07

Sat, 10 Jan 2026 00:00:00 -0600

It is one thing to write an essay here or a newsletter there. Given the potential harms, utilizing adding additional forms, like narrative, seems warranted. Moneyballer Americana is a seven-part novelette about a struggling bluegrass musician who accidentally ignites a sports-betting media frenzy.

If you missed the first installment, you can begin at the beginning. Or download a collected version of all seven parts and get extras, like the accompanying playlist, from the Stories page.

~Matthew

Scene 7 - Victory Formation

The windowless interior cabin was small enough that, if he laid out crosswise on the narrow bed, Eli could touch both walls if he stretched. And there was the constant, low-frequency vibration of the ship’s engines. The air was humid, and smelled faintly of salt and industrial floor wax.

Eli was smiling.

He sat on the edge of his bed, cradling his mandolin. After briefly retuning his high string, he resumed a steady chuck in time with the rhythmic beat. The notes rang out and echoed in the small space; a warm reverb not dissimilar from what one might hear in a nicely proportioned bathroom.

The song he had been working on was coming along. It was probably time to work out the parts with the rest of the band during sound check.

On the wall, opposite the bed, the flat screen television was on, volume muted. Idly, Eli picked up the remote and began cycling through the channels.

He continued clicking until something caught his eye. He backtracked to the previous channel - one of the myriad of sports channels that didn’t even have their own names, just a brand appended with “04” or “99” - the ones that aired stuff like cheese rolling or chess boxing.

Here, among the dregs, were Ty and Lance, trapped in a split-screen, their faces contorted into the same masks of performative enthusiasm. Ty pointed aggressively at the camera, likely shouting, “LOCK. IT. IN.”

Eli thought Ty looked tired. Lance dutifully swigged from some new energy drink. It looked like he had gained weight.

They were small and one-dimensional, swamped by the visual noise in the set behind them. They were peddling some rumor as the next big thing, trying to predict the next line and keep the hamster wheel rolling.

There was a knock on the door, and then Rupert stuck his head in.

“You about ready?”

Eli turned the TV off.

“Absolutely.”

The End