Tag: Subscriptions

The Analogy-Industrial Complex

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Good evening, my fellow citizens.

Three decades ago, the creators of content were few and proud, toiling under the noble constraints of gatekeepers, editors, and that most ancient of traditions—actually needing to prove one’s worth. But today, my friends, we find ourselves at the mercy of a new and insidious force: the Analogy-Industrial Complex, a sprawling, self-perpetuating ecosystem where one man’s half-baked comparison is another man’s paid subscription.

In the councils of the thought-leadership elite, we must guard against the acquisition of unwarranted influence, whether sought or unsought, by the Analogy-Industrial Complex. The potential for the disastrous rise of intellectual mediocrity exists and will persist.

Every day, thousands—nay, millions—of individuals, once ordinary citizens, wake up to discover they have “a take.” With reckless abandon, they forge dubious historical parallels, likening the fall of Rome to their Uber driver’s bad attitude or claiming that the decline of jazz radio proves the death of the Western mind.

We face a grave moment, my friends, where Substack has enabled a proliferation of minds so free they need not be burdened by research, coherence, or the faintest notion of historical accuracy. Who needs expertise when you have a paywall? Who needs a publisher when you have a thousand fervent believers sending you $5 a month to confirm what they already think?

But the gravest threat, my fellow Americans, is not just the unchecked spread of these dubious think pieces but their alarming entanglement with the economy itself. We are building a world where GDP may no longer be measured in raw materials or even in clicks, but in the production of ever-more strained metaphors.

No longer do we produce steel, wheat, or even reality television. Instead, our greatest industry is the newsletter, where any man with a keyboard and an inflated sense of self can convince himself he is standing on the shoulders of Tocqueville, when in fact, he is merely riding shotgun with Malcolm Gladwell.

The Analogy-Industrial Complex is, after all, much like a kudzu vine—expanding unchecked, suffocating all other intellectual flora, and thriving best where nothing of real substance is left to grow. Or, if you prefer a more modern lens, it’s like an Amazon warehouse filled with takes instead of packages, each one delivered overnight with the speed of someone who read half a Wikipedia article and now considers themselves an authority.

But let’s not stop there. The Analogy-Industrial Complex is the algorithmic ouroboros, forever consuming its own tail in a feedback loop of diminishing insight. It’s a magician who keeps pulling the same rabbit out of the hat, insisting each time that it’s a brand-new trick. It’s an opium den for the overeducated but underemployed, a place where one can chase the next intellectual high by reframing the same five historical events to explain why vibes are now a legitimate economic indicator.

And, of course, like any self-sustaining ecosystem, it has its own natural predators. Just as the buffalo once had wolves, and the sea has sharks, so too does the Analogy-Industrial Complex have its critics—those rare voices who insist on boring, old-fashioned concepts like “evidence” or “historical accuracy.” But, much like a declining species in a mismanaged wildlife preserve, these critics are increasingly outnumbered by the ever-proliferating pseudo-intellectual influencers who can, with great confidence, explain why Ted Lasso is actually a perfect metaphor for 17th-century mercantilism.

And this is the danger, my fellow citizens. The machine no longer produces anything real; it simply feeds on itself. It is an infinite jest, a Wikipedia citation loop, a seminar where every speaker is quoting a speaker who is quoting a speaker who is quoting a speaker who misread the original source. It is the intellectual equivalent of a photocopy of a photocopy of a photocopy—where, at some point, no one is quite sure what the original image was, but everyone agrees it was probably profound.

So what can we do? Is there an escape? Or are we, too, merely characters in an overextended analogy, doomed to wander this Substackian purgatory forever, searching for an original thought like medieval alchemists seeking gold?

I leave that question to you. But if you happen to come up with an answer, don’t forget to put it behind a paywall.

The Analogy-Industrial Complex isn’t just a self-replicating machine; it’s a hall of mirrors inside a snake eating its own tail inside a fractal where every iteration is a LinkedIn post about the fall of the Republic. It’s a funhouse where every door leads to another, slightly worse version of the same argument, until finally, you exit back where you started—but now there’s a paywall and a call to action.

To understand it, we must analogize the very act of analogy-making. It’s like a restaurant that serves only the menu, a cookbook that only describes other cookbooks, a recipe where the ingredients are other recipes. It is an industry built on the manufacture of metaphorical scaffolding, except no one remembers what the building was supposed to be. We are not constructing insights; we are endlessly refining the tools with which we might, someday, perhaps, in theory, construct them.

But the truth, my fellow citizens, is even worse. The Analogy-Industrial Complex is not just a self-licking ice cream cone; it is a self-licking ice cream cone that has written 3,000 words explaining why self-licking ice cream cones are a perfect metaphor for late-stage capitalism. It is the intellectual equivalent of an Escher staircase where every step is a TED Talk about how Escher staircases symbolize the paradox of modernity. It is the content economy’s perpetual motion machine, powered only by confidence, midwit energy, and the inability to let an idea die in peace.

And so we must ask: is there an escape? Or are we merely trapped inside an analogy for the trap of analogies, endlessly layering meaning upon meaning until all meaning collapses under the weight of its own self-referential cleverness? Are we just passengers on a Möbius strip of overthought, desperately searching for an exit that turns out to be another newsletter?

Perhaps we are. Perhaps, in the end, all we can do is embrace it. Perhaps, my fellow citizens, we must become the thing we fear most: the people who, after all this, still hit “Publish.”

The Subscription Economy

The shift from acquisition to subscription models has changed more than just how we acquire goods and services—it’s reshaping our relationship with time, identity, and even culture itself.

Acquisition, traditionally seen as the ultimate form of possession, is a finite experience. You acquire something, use it, and then move on, satisfied that the need has been met. Time, in this framework, is linear. There’s a clear beginning, middle, and end: you buy something, you use it, and eventually, you move on to something else. It’s a process that allows for closure, progress, and the feeling that you’ve advanced in some way.

Subscription, however, introduces a radical shift. By design, subscription models prevent closure. They keep you tethered in a continuous loop of consumption. Instead of acquiring an item outright, you pay for access to a service or product that you never truly “own.” The expectation is that you’ll be constantly engaged, always paying for the privilege of ongoing use. In this model, time becomes cyclical, not linear. There’s no definitive start or end to your relationship with the service, no moment of satisfaction or finality. You’re perpetually involved, always consuming, always dependent on the service for fulfillment.

This shift in the way we interact with time and acquisition has profound implications for our culture. Acquisition provided a sense of resolution, a break from the past, and the space to move on. Subscription, on the other hand, anchors us in the present, preventing closure and growth. We’re stuck in an endless loop of consumption, with no true endpoint in sight.

Culturally, this has led to a kind of stasis, a regression. The subscription economy fosters a constant cycle of nostalgia, reboots, and recycling. We’re consuming the same things over and over again, trapped in a loop of the past, unable to progress to something truly new. Whether it’s music, movies, or even technology, we’re often stuck revisiting what’s already been done, rather than creating or discovering something that moves us forward.

In this sense, the subscription model doesn’t just limit our financial autonomy; it limits our cultural potential. It keeps us engaged in the present moment but prevents us from ever truly moving on or evolving. The promise of novelty, personal growth, and transformation becomes more elusive when everything is designed to keep us tethered to the present, forever engaged in a process that never reaches its conclusion.

The subscription economy, in its perpetual cycle of consumption, redefines not just how we spend money—but how we spend our time. And in doing so, it has created a culture that feels stuck, unable to break free from the never-ending loop of the same. It’s time to ask: What happens when we stop moving forward and settle into the rhythm of endless consumption? Is the price we’re paying too high?

While subscription models may offer an illusion of access, they often create a mirage of participation in the creative process. When we subscribe to a service, we’re led to believe that we have some degree of involvement in the content we consume—whether it’s through user-generated feedback, personalized recommendations, or the ability to influence trends through consumption patterns. We’re given the sense that our ongoing engagement makes us part of a larger creative ecosystem, an active participant in shaping the culture around us.

But this sense of access is, in many ways, an illusion. While we may feel empowered by the ability to choose, influence, or personalize what we consume, the reality is that we’re still following a pre-set path—curated and shaped by algorithms, market trends, and the interests of those who control the subscription model. We’re not so much contributing to the creative process as we are being shaped by it. The choices we make within a subscription economy are not free; they are influenced by external forces, designed to keep us engaged, paying, and consuming.

In this sense, the idea that subscription allows for creative participation is a facade. The subscription model isn’t designed to foster true collaboration or innovation; it’s structured to maintain a steady flow of consumption. The more we engage, the more we’re drawn into the cycle, but we’re not actually helping to create anything new. We’re merely co-opting the illusion of involvement while remaining passive recipients in a system that thrives on our dependency.

This is the crux of the mirage: the subscription economy offers us the appearance of access, but it does little to challenge the structures that limit our ability to truly innovate, create, or break free from the cycle of consumption. Instead of facilitating genuine participation in cultural production, it creates a feedback loop that leaves us perpetually involved, but never truly empowered.

The Library Model: Access Without Ownership or Subscription

Libraries represent a middle ground between acquisition and subscription, offering access to knowledge without the transactional or perpetual costs we associate with both models. Over the past two to three centuries, libraries have served as critical spaces for intellectual engagement, not as a form of ownership or subscription but as a space of shared, free access to ideas and resources. It’s a model that encourages both individual exploration and collective enrichment without requiring either the permanence of acquisition or the ongoing costs of subscription.

The library has long been a place where thinkers, from scientists to artists, could access a wealth of knowledge and ideas without the burden of ownership or the restrictions of subscription. The beauty of this model lies in its balance—it grants access, but not through the lens of an ongoing transaction. Unlike subscription, where access is tied to an ongoing fee and often shaped by algorithmic or corporate interests, libraries offer an open, public space where anyone can engage with materials based on their own curiosity and needs.

This access is, in a sense, free-flowing and non-permanent, but it’s not endless either. The library doesn’t claim to own your relationship with the materials, nor does it demand continuous engagement. It gives you what you need at a given time and allows for personal reflection and contemplation, without the pressure of ongoing consumption. It’s a shared, communal pool of resources that encourages deeper thought and exploration.

In libraries, knowledge is not commodified. It’s a space for exploration that allows for intellectual development and understanding without demanding ownership or a perpetual subscription. When someone borrows a book or journal from a library, they are not merely participating in a transaction or subscribing to an ongoing service. They are engaging in an active, temporary process of learning and discovery. The process is defined by exchange, not by a transactional model that asks for ongoing payment or the promise of continuous access. Knowledge is accessible in a way that doesn’t bind the individual to endless cycles or force them into passive consumption.

In this model, intellectual engagement is shaped by an ethos of shared access and collaboration, where the flow of information is reciprocal rather than transactional. It’s a profound departure from subscription models that place financial or material barriers on access to knowledge. Here, individuals can engage with ideas freely, contributing to their own personal development and to the broader cultural conversation without being tethered to a subscription fee or ownership burden. Libraries represent a collective resource, a temporary, non-committal access point that enables deep thought, creativity, and progress.

The Disconnect Between the Library and Subscription Models

The key distinction between libraries and subscription services lies in this non-transactional nature of access. In subscription models, your relationship to the service is one of continuous consumption, often shaped by algorithms or commercial interests. You pay to consume, and the system actively seeks to keep you engaged. Libraries, on the other hand, do not operate under the same financial imperatives. They do not need to generate ongoing income for access to knowledge, nor do they need to constantly draw people back with new content. They provide knowledge in an open-ended way, where ideas can be explored freely, with no obligation to return to the service or renew the relationship.

This gives the individual space to think critically, move forward, or even walk away without being tethered to a financial commitment. It allows the time and space for true intellectual freedom, unlike subscription models that often keep people in a loop of perpetual engagement.

In this sense, libraries represent an idealized version of access: one where ideas can be explored without the pressure of transactional relationships, allowing individuals to grow and evolve in their understanding without the limits imposed by ownership or subscription. It’s a space where knowledge is freely shared and meant to be used, not consumed in a transactional way. It fosters intellectual independence rather than dependence, making it a rare and valuable model of access in a world increasingly dominated by subscriptions.