Filibuster Store Pick finished in Sherry cask

@erichultgren

Eric Tries a Filibuster Store Pick finished in Sherry casks, and it got much better after an hour of sitting.

♬ original sound - Eric Hultgren

The Terminator Effect

Every Sunday night, we’d gather around my grandmother’s table like clockwork. Aunts, uncles, cousins, casseroles. It was messy and loud and full of love. Sometimes, we’d top it off with a movie—rented on VHS, played on a VCR the size of a microwave. Together, we'd press play… and magic.

One summer evening in 1985, my uncle arrived with a film in a crinkled black case: The Terminator. He was grinning, evasive about the rating. The popcorn was passed. The lights dimmed. For 45 minutes, it was electric—robots, gunfights, the future unfolding in front of us.

And then... the eye scene.

My mother stood up like a switch had flipped. “If he cuts that eye, we’re leaving.”
He did.
We left.

The next day, while our parents were at work, my brother and I biked to the video store. Our friend behind the counter didn’t ask questions. He just handed over The Terminator. We watched it. Rewound it. Returned it before dinner.

My mom tried to shield us from something. But she ended up unlocking something else: curiosity.

In 2023, fewer than 14% of 13-year-olds in America read every day.
Fewer than one in seven. Meanwhile, PEN America has documented nearly 16,000 book bans in public schools nationwide since 2021, a number not seen since the McCarthy era of the 1950s.

It's not a coincidence.

You can’t hand kids a locked door and expect them not to look for a key.

When we shield kids from difficult truths or complex ideas, we don't protect them. We isolate them. We tell them their questions and experiences aren't valid. We push them to find answers elsewhere, often in less thoughtful, less nuanced spaces.

Fear never fosters curiosity.

Curiosity blooms in access, in experience, in open doors.

Perhaps the question isn’t whether the kids are ready for the story.
Perhaps the question is whether we’re willing to trust them with it.

Is that all of them?

An hour into the road trip, the gas tank dinged with the kind of urgency that demands a decision.

We had options. I asked my daughter where we should stop.

“What’s a Love’s, Dad?”

“Well,” I said, “if Buc-ee’s is the Disneyland of gas stations, then Love’s is Disney+ on a school night. Fun, but not life-changing.”

From the backseat, her brother shouted: “Let’s do that!”

Minutes later, we’re filling up. Everyone goes inside for snacks. I start scanning shelves for something strange enough to qualify for Eric Tries.

That’s when my son grabs my arm.

“Dad, you have to see this fountain!”

It’s a soda fountain, but not just any. A cross between a Coke Freestyle and a Pepsi Spire. A choose-your-own-adventure in syrup form.

He grabs a cup. Begins doing the math. How many flavors can one cup hold?

He sets to work. Laser-focused.

And then—an employee walks over.

I brace for disappointment. Maybe she’s going to say “one at a time” or “that’s not how it works.”

But she doesn’t.

She stops. Watches. Smiles.

For a full minute, she forgets whatever her shift told her was urgent. She just… watches.

My son is oblivious. He's deep in creation. Punching buttons, solving his flavor puzzle.

The result? A liquid that looks like if a Jell-O cup married DayQuil.

He turns, proud. Beaming.

She leans in and asks, “Is that all of them in there?”

He nods, pauses, and says the most “him” thing ever.

“Want to try it?”

Her smile somehow grows.

“That is so sweet,” she says. “But I think you should enjoy all of that.”

He does.

And she goes back to work.

But for three minutes, in a Love’s off I-55, we all remembered what it feels like to be 9 years old and totally delighted.

We're surrounded by these micro-moments of magic - they don't require expensive tickets or elaborate planning. They happen at gas stations, waiting rooms, and grocery store aisles.

The question isn't whether these moments exist. The question is whether we'll notice them when they do.

One for Me

There's this unwritten rule in creative circles: "one for them, one for you."

What does that mean exactly?

It's the tension between art that serves others and art that serves you. Between what sells and what challenges. Between what they expect and what you need.

A friend called me about a presentation he was recycling. Same audience, similar content. He wasn't excited. We spent an hour finding ways to inject his newest thinking into the framework they expected.

Dave Chappelle once revealed he writes jokes backward - starting with the punchline, then crafting a seemingly unrelated story that somehow, miraculously, arrives at that exact line. The audience delights in the surprise connection.

But that's Dave's "one for me." It's arguably the hardest way to write comedy, not the most crowd-pleasing approach. He's challenging himself because it's interesting to him.

My friend called back this week saying “it worked” and that he was energized leaving the conference with new material already forming from the audience response.

Rick Rubin famously says "the audience comes last." This sounds backward until you realize that serving yourself first often creates the spark that ultimately serves others better.

When was the last time you created just for you?

What did it teach you?

That space - the gap between "for them" and "for you" - might be exactly where your next breakthrough is hiding.

Stochastic Parrots

Each morning, my daughter and I drive to school. On days when we're not solving the world's problems, music fills our car.

This morning, our soundtrack was interrupted. A morning show host delivered what could only be described as a generic Seinfeld bit.

"What's the deal with _______?"

When the commercials finally played, we both felt relief. We might get one more song before reaching school.

Then my daughter turned to me and asked, "Was that AI?"

Her question revealed something important.

She wasn't literally asking if the voices were computer-generated. She was questioning whether the content deserved our attention.

Emily Bender coined "Stochastic Parrots" to describe how AI generates human-like text without understanding meaning. A simulation of human thought.

I worked in broadcast radio for two decades, and on my way out, noticed something similar happening. Many shows have become simulations of what radio once was.

The black-and-white nature of predictable segments—"War of the Roses," "10 Things About _____," "Is This Normal"—fails to capture how real humans connect.

These formats aren't new. What's new is our awareness of the difference between simulation and authenticity.

Sure, we could have turned on Spotify. But we both love those 10 minutes of surprise, not knowing if we'll hear a terrible song or something transcendent.

In my professional life, I often say we don't need more content. We have enough. What we need is better content, something that creates resonance with your audience.

On this particular morning, you could have simply played another song.

And perhaps that's the lesson for all creators: sometimes the best thing you can offer isn't more talking, but the space for something meaningful to happen.