Stranger Things season five is here! It cost half a billion US dollars, stars a cast of “kids” some of whom have kids of their own, and is being promoted by an apparent sex pest who’s just come out of a very messy and very public divorce. Wow! What actually happened in season five? I don’t know! It was so uninteresting that I stopped paying attention almost instantly.

Did you also zone out at the start of season five? Do you wish you could fling yourself back to the halcyon days of season one, when the kids were actually kids, Vecna wasn’t a thing, and nobody knew how terrible those involved in the show are? Well you can! (Mostly. The Duffer brothers are still involved.)

Welcome to '85, Where Nobody Has Aged

Here comes Tales from ‘85 to the rescue. Revell at this entirely disingenuous Stranger Things cartoon made for kids in order to make them nostalgic for a show they haven’t seen which is itself nostalgic for a time that might as well be prehistory to them. Why is this made? I’m sure there’s a business reason like “it grows the brand”. Or a creative one like “we want to explore new dimensions for these characters”. No doubt it’s all bollocks and it’s just a cash grab. Which brings up the most important point, animations can’t grow old like pesky living children do, so the kids of Tales will stay miniature, and profitable, forever. Huzzah!

The Boy Who Lived. And Lived. And Lived Again.

Stranger Things is hardly the only offender of being nostalgic for nostalgia. Harry Potter will release a new TV series soon retelling the entire story of the boy wizard. So we’re getting a tv series which is nostalgic for the movies of the books which are nostalgic for a version of English boarding school history that never happened and carefully avoids all that uncomfortable hazing.

Who is this new Potter for? Are Millennials clamouring for more HP even if it treads no new ground? Perhaps they’re so unable to connect with their children that they’ll force them to enjoy the same things they did.

What role does this show serve? We’ve already seen Harry and his friends as children. Twice. Why not just read the books? The movies themselves aren’t even that old, why not watch them?

And if it’s not for Millennials and their kids to grow with known and loved characters or to experience them in a new light, what is really happening here? It’s hard to see these shows as anything more than cynical cash grab designed to extend IPs ad infinitum rather than developing anything innovative. Are we so bereft of ideas that we’re now just doomed to endlessly repeat the same media within years of it first being released? Are companies so afraid of committing to not just new IP, but new ideas within the same IP that everything is simply a remix of what was? Are we so miserable in the modern age that we’re nostalgic not just for the past, but the media that reminds us of that imagined past? It’s probably a mix of all of these things, but what’s clear is that those in charge of our creative industries are severely lacking in the spark needed to generate new and exciting ideas. We’re simply treading creative water as a society and hoping what came before will sustain us.

Carrie Fisher Deserved Better Than This

Nostalgia was already eating so much of our creative energy with endless Star Wars and Star Trek spin-offs, more Ghostbusters than you can shake a proton pack at, digitally resurrected Val Kilmers and Carrie Fishers, and on and on. But what happens when nostalgia becomes an ouroboros and begins eating itself? What happens when the new product becomes indistinguishable from the original? Are we no longer creating at all at this point? Our cinematic top ten lists already contain almost nothing beyond sequels and reboots. Will we regress to the point where every decade or two we simply release the same movies in a different format or with a different cast?

Aliens Gave My Cat a Beard: A Manifesto

I don’t think so. I have faith in all you wonderful creatives out there. I may have no trust in business, but I trust in people and the creative soul of humanity. Let’s get out there and make some new and weird stuff! Also, if things don’t change it’ll be very hard to get funding for my movie based on my favourite t-shirt. Aliens Gave My Cat A Beard, The Shirt: The Movie! There will presumably be other, less important, effects too.

On social media, the device is praised as a miracle. Testimonials claim it improves sleep, reduces pain, boosts productivity, and even helps with severe illnesses. There are hundreds of thousands of posts, an army of enthusiastic influencers, and a global network selling the device in more than 50 countries.

But when you look closely, the story becomes far stranger.

A Visionary Founder

The central figure behind the device is Markus Schmieke, a German entrepreneur who presents himself as a visionary thinker bridging science and spirituality.

According to his own narrative, Schmieke was once a concert pianist and chess champion. Later, he supposedly studied physics and philosophy, spent years traveling in India, and lived as a monk for more than a decade. His journey, the story goes, led him to develop revolutionary technologies based on quantum physics and “information fields.”

Isn’t this a fascinating biography?

However, when asked to provide evidence for some of these claims, such as his academic studies or time spent in monasteries, the company was unable to provide any.

What Schmieke has undeniably produced are devices. In 2007, he introduced the TimeWaver, a machine that claims to analyze informational fields and provide therapeutic frequencies. A decade later, he launched his next big idea: The Healy.

The Promise of Frequency Healing

The Healy is a small wearable device controlled by a smartphone app. It comes loaded with dozens of “programs” grouped into categories like work, sleep, beauty, fitness, and emotional balance. Higher-priced versions simply include more of these programs.

The marketing language blends science with mysticism. The premise goes roughly like this:

• Every cell in the body has its own electrical voltage.

• Illness supposedly disrupts this voltage.

• The body also possesses an “information field” containing the frequencies of all its cells.

• The Healy analyzes this field and sends individualized microcurrents to restore balance.

Fair enough; the company does not claim the device cures diseases. Instead, it says the device “harmonizes the bioenergetic field,” which may support well-being.

The blurry phrasing is not accidental.

Buried in disclaimers across the company’s website and training materials are statements acknowledging that concepts like information fields, individualized frequency programs, and quantum potentials are not recognized by mainstream medicine and lack scientific evidence.

In other words, the scientific-sounding framework is mainly hypothetical.

Inside the Device

Externally, the device looks well-built. It connects to your smartphone via Bluetooth and sends small electrical currents through electrodes attached to the body.

Inside, the components are surprisingly ordinary: a Bluetooth chip, a microcontroller, a switching circuit, and a battery.

A “quantum sensor” capable of analyzing the body’s frequencies in real time, however, was nowhere to be found.

The only sensor present was a standard infrared diode costing a few cents.

From a scientific perspective, such a component cannot measure the frequencies of trillions of cells or analyze an informational field. Nor could it produce individualized therapeutic signals based on such data.

The device appears to be standard consumer electronics, far from the revolutionary technology described in the marketing.

The Legal Gray Zone

Despite this, the Healy is legally sold in many countries, including the United States and across Europe.

How is that possible?

Part of the answer lies in the regulatory framework for medical devices. In the U.S., some devices can receive authorization if they are considered similar to products already on the market. Microcurrent therapy devices for pain relief already exist, and Healy uses microcurrent as well.

This process does not even require proof that the device works as advertised, only that it is safe and similar to existing products.

European regulations operate similarly. Manufacturers largely compile their own documentation to demonstrate safety and compliance. Independent clinical trials are not always required.

This allows companies to market devices with a medical-looking image even if robust evidence for their effectiveness is simply lacking.

The Real Engine: Multi-Level Marketing

The Healy is not primarily sold through hospitals or pharmacies. Instead, it spreads through multi-level marketing (MLM).

In this system, sellers earn money not only by selling products but also by recruiting other sellers. The more people you bring into the network, the more commissions you can earn from their sales.

The company’s compensation plan contains 17 different ranks and numerous bonuses. At the highest level, top distributors can receive one-time bonuses of up to €500,000.

But income data from the company itself suggests a stark reality. In one year in the United States, roughly 6,000 active sellers participated in the program. Only about 4 percent reached a rank that earned any significant money, and their average annual income was under €2,000.

Meanwhile, a tiny handful of top earners made hundreds of thousands of euros.

This distribution closely resembles the pattern found in many MLM systems: a small group at the top earning large sums while most participants earn little or nothing.

What Happens Behind Closed Doors

The most striking claims about the device rarely appear in official marketing materials. Instead, they emerge in private conversations, group chats, and sales calls.

Salespeople rarely made direct medical promises, but they strongly suggested the device could help with almost any condition: from chronic pain and nerve damage to psychological trauma.

Some claimed it could scan organs, detect vitamin deficiencies, and even send healing frequencies to people thousands of kilometers away.

Others shared anecdotes about people reducing medications or feeling dramatically better after using the device.

These stories feel powerful. They also blur the line between personal belief and medical advice.

Why People Believe

It might be tempting to dismiss all of this as gullibility. But the appeal of devices like the Healy runs deeper than that.

The marketing taps into a powerful cultural intersection: the merging of spirituality, personal empowerment, and scientific language.

Over the past two decades, wellness culture has increasingly adopted ideas drawn from Eastern spirituality, New Age philosophy, and esoteric traditions. Concepts like energy fields, vibrations, and universal consciousness are often presented alongside references to quantum physics and neuroscience.

The result is a narrative that feels both mystical and modern.

For many people, this worldview is deeply appealing. It offers something conventional medicine often cannot: a sense of meaning and personal agency. Instead of being passive patients, individuals become active participants in their own healing journey.

This feels especially powerful for people dealing with chronic illness, long-term pain, or mental health struggles. Medical systems can feel impersonal, slow, and frustrating. When treatments fail or provide limited relief, people naturally start looking elsewhere.

Devices like the Healy promise something radically different: personalized healing based on your unique frequencies.

Technology plays an important symbolic role in making this story believable. A sleek wearable device, a smartphone app, and complex-looking graphs give the impression of precision and sophistication, even if the underlying mechanisms are vague or scientifically unsupported.

Multi-level marketing strengthens this dynamic even further.

Instead of encountering the product through traditional advertising, people often hear about it from friends, family members, or trusted influencers. Personal stories replace clinical evidence. Emotional testimonials replace data.

In that environment, skepticism becomes socially difficult. Questioning the device can feel like questioning the personal experiences of people you trust.

The result is a powerful feedback loop: belief generates stories, stories generate more belief, and communities form around shared hope.

The Vulnerable Customers

Online communities around the device reveal why such claims can be so dangerous.

People ask whether the device can help with multiple sclerosis, opioid withdrawal, diabetes, alcoholism, or severe depression. Some discuss using it for suicidal thoughts. Others share stories about treating cancer or replacing medication.

In many of these spaces, hope circulates faster than skepticism.

For people dealing with chronic pain or serious illness, the promise of a technological miracle can be incredibly seductive, especially when it comes wrapped in scientific language and personal testimonials.

Where the Money Goes

In one recent year, the company reported more than €130 million in global revenue. Yet only a few million remained as profit after expenses.

Why?

Because the highest cost by far is sales commissions. Tens of millions of euros flow back into the MLM network that promotes the product.

A significant portion of each device’s price goes not toward research or manufacturing, but toward paying the people selling it.

Walking the Edge of Legality

Legally, the company appears to operate carefully along the boundary of what is allowed.

Official statements avoid explicit medical claims. Disclaimers emphasize that the device is not intended to diagnose or treat diseases. Responsibility for exaggerated promises is often attributed to individual distributors.

This strategy provides one thing: protection.

But it also allows misleading narratives to flourish, especially in the decentralized world of social media and MLM sales networks.

The Bigger Picture

The Healy is not the first wellness device to promise revolutionary healing through frequencies, energy fields, or quantum physics. Variations of these ideas have circulated for decades.

What makes this case hard to ignore is its scale: a global network, hundreds of thousands of users, and a product that costs thousands of euros despite relatively simple hardware.

For some, the device may function as a placebo, offering a sense of control or hope. But when such products are marketed to people with serious illnesses, the stakes become much higher.

Honestly, if you choose to believe in this, I’m the last person to judge. But before spending hundreds of dollars on a device like this, it might be as effective to listen to the thousands of “frequency healing” tracks freely available on platforms like YouTube. Or maybe just go see a real doctor first.

Catch you next time,

Paula

Hello!

We’re back with your monthly dose of the bizarre and delightful in creative culture, design oddities and internet curiosities. Grab a coffee, or whatever fuels your creative weirdness and dive in!

In this issue:

• Brand strategy shifts: Vaseline (social listening), IKEA (everyday storytelling), Sprite (sensory branding)

• “2026 = 2016” nostalgia loop and the return of old internet trends

• Curated internet finds: oddities, visuals, and creative inspiration

• Pop culture artifacts and digital aesthetics worth watching

• A mix of marketing insight + chaotic online culture signals

🌟 Fresh Orbit: Creative News & Quick Takes

• A significant technical milestone was reached on March 16, 2026, with the unveiling of NVIDIA DLSS 5. Described as the “GPT moment for graphics,” this real-time neural rendering model infuses pixels with photoreal lighting and materials, bridging the gap between rendered environments and reality.

• Unilever’s Vaseline shows how modern marketing is shifting toward real-time “social listening.” Instead of relying on influencers, the brand watches TikTok trends and responds by validating user hacks with expert input—turning a 150-year-old product into something that feels current and culturally engaged.

• Similarly, IKEA’s “Everyday Life” campaign avoids price-led messaging and focuses on how products fit into real life. By highlighting simple materials and everyday moments, it shows that relatable storytelling—not scale or spend—is what builds brand connection today.

• Sprite’s “It’s That Fresh” rebrand (March 2026) shows how sensory branding can sharpen differentiation. The update brings back the “Lymon” lemon-lime symbol, adds a new sonic identity, and uses bolder colors and vertical typography to make the drink feel crisp before it’s even opened. The goal is simple: make Sprite instantly recognizable across sight and sound.

• The phrase “2026 is the New 2016” has taken off online, driven by Gen Z revisiting a 10-year nostalgia cycle. On platforms like TikTok, users are recreating viral moments like the Bottle Flip, Mannequin Challenge, and the peak of Pokémon Go. The trend reflects a kind of “meme reset,” where familiar formats return with minimal updates.

• Google shipped a massive update to Stitch on March 18–19, transforming its free AI design tool into an AI-native infinite canvas with voice interaction (”vibe design”), instant prototyping, and MCP server integration. Figma’s stock dropped ~12% over two days following the announcement.

• GF Smith’s radical rebrand by London studio Templo was cited as a standout example of 2026’s identity design shift from “sans-serif sameness” to logos with personality. Industry experts noted logos in 2026 are “remembering they can smile.”

• Canva declared 2026 the “Year of Imperfect by Design” in its annual trends forecast based on insights from 260 million creators, emphasizing raw authenticity, tactile textures, and creators bending AI to personal style.

• Sagrada Familia in Barcelona approaches completion in 2026, the 100th anniversary of Antoni Gaudí’s death. After 144 years of construction, the basilica is nearing architectural completion, though decorative work will stretch into the 2030s.

• Ogilvy and IBM ended their legendary 32-year creative partnership (reported March 19–20). WPP’s Ogilvy chose not to participate in IBM’s upcoming creative RFP, ending a relationship that began in 1994 with a landmark $500M account consolidation.

• Anthropic’s Super Bowl ads mocking ChatGPT advertising were the most talked-about AI play of Q1. The “Ads are coming to AI. But not to Claude” campaign drove Claude’s app from #41 to #7 on the App Store, with a 32% download increase.

• HelloFresh staged a giant transparent delivery box at London’s Waterloo Station, using a PixelGlass countdown during the day before revealing a real family cooking dinner inside by evening. The brand also opened “The No-Need-To-Go-To-The-Store Store” at Antwerp Central Station in Belgium.

• The 98th Academy Awards took place on March 15, hosted by Conan O’Brien for the second consecutive year. One Battle After Another (directed by Paul Thomas Anderson) won six Oscars including Best Picture, Best Director, and Best Adapted Screenplay — marking PTA’s first-ever Oscar wins.

• Michael B. Jordan won Best Actor for Sinners and Jessie Buckley won Best Actress for Hamnet at the Oscars. Sean Penn won Best Supporting Actor for One Battle After Another but was not present at the ceremony.

• **Reuters published an investigation on March 13 claiming to have definitively identified Banksy as Robin Gunningham**, 51, from Bristol, based on a handwritten confession from a 2000 arrest in New York. The investigation found he legally changed his name to David Jones.

• A San Francisco jury found Elon Musk liable for misleading shareholders with two tweets during his 2022 Twitter acquisition March 20), awarding approximately $2.1–2.6 billion in damages. Musk’s lawyers called it “a bump in the road.” 👀

• The 2026 Oscars spawned a new viral meme: Leonardo DiCaprio’s “tfw you didn’t agree to this” reaction image from the ceremony became the internet’s newest format.

🔗 Curated Links: Oddities & Inspirations

• WindowSwap: Voyeurism, but gentle

Click a button and you’re suddenly looking out of someone else’s window somewhere in the world. No algorithm, no feed. Just ambient life.

• The Useless Web — curated nothingness

A button that sends you to a random pointless website. No goal, no logic, just pure internet wandering.

• Hacker Typer — fake it ‘til you make it

Mash your keyboard and instantly look like you’re in a 2000s hacker movie.

• RGB

RGB stands for red, green, and blue. If you hover over each letter, the background will change to the respective color while a robotic voice pronounces the letter out loud.

• Superbad — the original web-art labyrinth

A 1997 internet artwork that feels like getting lost inside someone’s brain tabs. No navigation, just vibes. It’s messy, nonlinear, and still more interesting than most “clean UX” today.

❓ Questions No One Asked (But We Answered Anyway)

Why did early 2000s toothbrushes look like alien battle tech?

The short answer: shelf-war marketing, fake science, and a collective obsession with looking like the future.

By the late ‘90s, Oral-B and Colgate were in a bitter fight against $1 generics. The solution was to add stuff—angled necks, tongue scrapers, rubber grips—and make the handle scream engineered. Like a Sharper Image catalogue item, except you left it on the bathroom sink for three months. Some of the ergonomics were real, but most were theater. The lumpy handles and multicolored zones weren’t built for grip, they were styled to look like they were. Meanwhile, everything in 1999–2003 looked like this anyway—the iMac G3 was translucent, the Reebok Instapump looked like a moon boot, your toothbrush wanted to feel like the bridge of the Enterprise.

The final push came from electric toothbrushes. Once Sonicare hit shelves, manual brushes panicked and tried to look like they also had a motor inside. Hence the fake vents and chunky bodies implying internal mechanism. It peaked around 2002–2004. Then the iPhone happened, Jony Ive made everyone feel bad about rubber nubs, and toothbrushes quietly went on a diet.

Here is a very important timeline for you:

🎟 Pop-Culture Artifact of the Month

• WatchMeForever – A live, never-ending AI-generated sitcom

WatchMeForever is a 24/7 AI-generated sitcom that’s been streaming on Twitch since December 2022, built by the studio Mismatch Media. It writes itself in real time, using models like GPT-3 inside a low-poly, Unity-built apartment that looks like a lost PS1 game.

It started as a Seinfeld-like setup: four characters, a couch, conversations about nothing. But instead of scripts or episodes, everything is generated on the fly. Awkward pauses, broken punchlines, and conversations that almost make sense before drifting off completely. At its peak in early 2023, thousands of people were watching at the same time; not because it was good, but because it was uncanny. Familiar enough to recognize, broken enough to feel new.

The first version, Nothing, Forever was briefly suspended in early February 2023, after the AI produced transphobic jokes about transgender people, including lines that framed being transgender as a “mental illness” and questioned gender identity in a mocking way. This wasn’t scripted or intended by the creators; it was generated live by the language model.

That clip spread quickly, and within hours Twitch suspended the channel for violating its hate speech policies. The stream was taken offline for about two weeks.

After that moment, the project quietly shifted: it dropped the explicit Seinfeld parody, renamed from Nothing, Forever to WatchMeForever, and reworked its characters and format. The reason wasn’t aesthetic; it was legal. The original version leaned heavily on recognizable sitcom structures and character archetypes, raising copyright concerns. The reboot kept the infinite AI format, but removed direct references, turning it from a parody into something more abstract and… arguably even stranger.

It’s still running as a kind of ambient television experiment: Something you don’t follow, just leave on. Not a show, really. More like watching the idea of TV slowly glitch in public.

Thanks for reading!

Forward this newsletter to your favorite design-nerd friends, internet nostalgics, and lovers of all things odd. See you next month—stay curious!

🛸 – The Orbit Team

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And still, nothing could have prepared me for this. Except a LAN party maybe, to be fair.

If you are not from Germany, Cologne is one of those cities known for a cathedral called the Kölner Dom, a river called the Rhine, Karneval (Carnival), and a specific type of beer called Kölsch that people feel very strongly about. Some even call it Köllefornia, a nickname borrowed from California, because people here like to believe the vibe, and occasionally even the weather, is just a little bit warmer than in the rest of Germany.

Before I even get into what happened, we need to talk about Gamescom for a second. Because even if you live in Cologne, it still feels slightly unreal. Every year hundreds of thousands of people show up to care very deeply about things a lot of people barely understand. It is one of the biggest gaming events in the world and for a few days the entire city just quietly accepts that this is now the main storyline.

If you are wondering why it’s called Gamescom, not GamesCon, I got you: It is actually a legal and slightly political situation. The predecessor was the Games Convention, which ran in Leipzig from 2002 to 2008 and was organized by the German games industry association (BIU). When the event kept growing, the organizers decided to move it to Cologne in 2009 for more space and better infrastructure. The problem was that the name Games Convention belonged to the Leipzig trade fair. So they were not allowed to keep it. Leipzig held onto the name and even continued running a version of the event from 2009–2010 under Games Convention Online, focused on online and mobile games, just on a much smaller scale. Cologne, meanwhile, launched what is essentially the same event under a new name.

And then there is the Koelnmesse.

I had been there before for another fair and still somehow learned absolutely nothing from that experience. The Koelnmesse is built like a system that assumes you know what you are doing. West entrance, east entrance, halls connecting in ways that feel theoretical. For someone who cannot orient themselves with a compass or even Google Maps, this is not ideal.

I arrived there, slightly stressed, slightly confused, and somehow immediately lost. It felt like I had entered a side quest I did not agree to. At that point I had mentally attended this event 17 times and yet, the building won.

I was there for a speedrun and charity event for the company I work for. We were streaming live on Twitch. I am not going to go into too much detail there because I am not entirely sure what I can already share, but that is the general idea.

What I can say is that within what felt like five minutes, someone asked us where our gaming equipment was.

Which is a fair question. Except we did not have any.

I have never felt more like a complete beginner in a very specific ecosystem. Everyone around us had their setups perfectly arranged. Screens, keyboards, cables, everything placed with intention. People knew what they were doing. They moved like they had done this a hundred times before.

And we were just there. Existing. Trying to look like we belonged.

At some point Red Bull promo guys started walking through the hall, going from table to table, handing out cans. Very efficient. Very practiced.

That was also the moment I realized that energy drinks are not just drinks in this environment. They are something else. Fuel obviously, but also a kind of social currency.

For a second I genuinely thought about saving mine. Just keeping it. Maybe I would need it later. Maybe it would have value.

The guy opened the can in front of me before handing it over.

So, Plan B: I drank it.

And I have to say, for a brief moment, I felt very special. Almost like a real gamer. Which is not something I expected to feel that day, so I will take it as a win.

What I also didn’t expect was how many people were just sleeping. Everywhere. Folded into chairs like broken office furniture. Perfectly still, surrounded by glowing screens. Some even brought their own inflatable mattresses. It felt familiar in a weird way: Like back in school, when you try to stay awake and fail, or when you bring a tent to wait in a line days before your favorite artist performs.

Just something people used to do before everything moved online.

Because LAN parties have always worked like this. Gaming used to be physical. You had to carry your entire setup across town. Monitors, PCs, cables, snacks, sometimes even extension cords like you were preparing for a small, very specific apocalypse.

They peaked somewhere between the late 90s and early 2010s. Basements, school halls, community centers. Dozens of people sitting shoulder to shoulder, connected through a local network because the internet either wasn’t fast enough yet or simply not the point.

You weren’t logging in. You were showing up.

Games like Counter-Strike, Warcraft III, or Quake weren’t just played, they were experienced collectively. You could hear everything twice: once through your headphones and once again, slightly delayed, from the person next to you yelling at the exact same moment. Trash talk was immediate. Wins felt louder. Losses felt public.

And then there was the overnight part. Sleeping bags under tables. Someone always staying awake. Someone always bringing too much energy drinks. Time worked differently. You measured it in rounds, not hours.

Even now, people talk about LAN parties like they talk about early internet forums or MySpace profiles. Slightly chaotic, deeply personal, and impossible to fully recreate. Not because the technology is gone, but because the context is.

Which is probably why something like this still exists.

It is not just about playing. It is about returning to a version of the internet that still had a room.

The atmosphere here kept shifting constantly. I arrived around noon, and by 3pm the overhead lights cut out, replaced by this ambient, gamer-core glow. There were these moments of intense focus where everything felt quiet and concentrated. And then suddenly it would break. Screaming, interrupted by cheering, interrupted by raging. Also, loud clown horn sounds going off somewhere in the distance. I still do not know where they were coming from, but if anyone has an idea, please enlighten me.

There were also inside jokes happening all the time. You could feel them passing through the room. Everyone reacting except you. I could not fully understand them but I respected them. It felt like walking through a language you almost recognize but cannot speak.

At some point it really clicked for me. This did not feel like an event. It felt like stepping inside a subreddit. Everything made sense to the people who were part of it. Everything had context that I did not have.

The speedrun part of it added another layer to the whole experience. Watching someone play a game as fast as possible does not sound that intense until you see it live. It stops feeling like “just playing” very quickly. It becomes something closer to performance: memory, precision, repetition, and hundreds of tiny optimizations that probably took years to master. Muscle memory at its peak. And then doing all of that in front of a crowd, live, while being streamed, adds its own kind of pressure.

My favorite speedrun was definitely Super Mario World. Somehow, I ended up chatting with a gamer there, and he invited me to co-host his livestream while he played SMW. It was such a random but genuinely fun experience.

There was this very specific energy in the room. Focused and almost electric. People were paying attention in a way you do not see that often. Not casually, but properly invested.

By the second day I was still not part of it, but I was also not completely lost anymore. I started to understand the rhythm a little. When things get loud, when things get quiet, when something important is about to happen.

And then I found something that made immediate sense to me.

A table football tournament.

Finally something familiar.

I have been playing table football since I was a kid. Not in a serious way, but enough to know what I am doing. Usually I have to convince people to play with me. It is rarely something people just agree to immediately.

At Gamescom LAN it was different.

I just walked up to a group of guys and started talking to them. They looked slightly confused at first. Maybe a bit surprised. But they were nice. And they agreed to play.

Which is how I ended up, in the middle of this very specific gaming world, doing the one thing I was actually kind of good at.

I am not trying to brag. But I did not embarrass myself.

That felt important.

I did not leave as a gamer. That was never the point. But I left with a very specific kind of respect for people who care deeply about something like this. People who build entire environments around it and fully commit to it.

At the end, it wasn’t strange at all. It felt warm. Familiar, even. Everyone was exceptionally respectful and supportive.

And I think that is the part that stayed with me the most.

You do not have to belong to something to understand that it matters. Sometimes it is enough to show up, feel completely out of place, drink the energy drink you did not plan to drink, and stay long enough for things to start making sense.

When was the last time you visited a LAN party? Tell me your last LAN memory (or your closest equivalent). I’m collecting them.

Catch you next time,

Paula

That very specific cocktail of almost-panic followed by total relief produced something unexpected: giddy, unstoppable optimism. We made it. Now let’s make everything shiny.

Simultaneously, the internet was becoming a place people actually lived in. Not just visited — lived in. Kazaa. AIM away messages. DeviantArt. The web wasn’t a utility yet, it was a playground and everyone was decorating their corner of it with gradients and sparkle GIFs and as much personality as their bandwidth would allow.

And then there was Apple. The iMac G3 had already proven, in 1998, that computers could be emotionally appealing objects. That you could want one the way you’d want a lamp or a piece of furniture. The rest of the industry looked at those translucent candy-colored shells and got extremely competitive about feelings for the very first time.

Post-Y2K relief. A playground internet. An industry that had just discovered design could make people feel something. This was the world that made Frutiger Aero inevitable. And out of it came a visual language so specific and so coherent that it took researchers a decade to give it a proper name.

What Exactly Is Frutiger Aero?

Frutiger Aero dominated the visual landscape from roughly 2004 to 2013 — across operating systems, advertising, product design, stock photography and pretty much every screen, shelf and gadget you encountered during that decade.

The name is a mashup of two references. Adrian Frutiger was a Swiss typeface designer whose clean, humanist fonts — rounded, legible, quietly optimistic — were plastered across the era’s branding everywhere you looked. Aero comes from Microsoft’s Aero interface of the same name, which stood for — and yes, this is real — Authentic, Energetic, Reflective and Open. Someone in a boardroom was very proud of that backronym.

Nobody called it Frutiger Aero at the time. The term was coined in 2017 by Sofi Xian and Froyo Tam, the Consumer Aesthetics Research Institute and only exploded into mainstream awareness in the early 2020s when TikTok discovered it, racking up over 30 million hashtag uses. We named it after it died. Which somehow feels exactly right.

Visually, it’s defined by a very specific set of motifs: glossy surfaces, translucent glass panels, water droplets, bubbles, tropical fish, lush green fields, aurora light, and bokeh. Nature and technology blended so seamlessly you forgot they were supposed to be opposites.

The underlying philosophy — expressed entirely through UI decisions and desktop wallpapers — was essentially: the screen doesn’t have to feel like a screen.

The future is going to be warm.

Alive.

Worth looking at.

The Frutiger Aero Family Tree (It's a Big Family)

Frutiger Aero wasn’t just one style. It came with a whole universe — and like any universe worth living in, it had opinions, arguments and at least seven cousins you’d never heard of.

What made it remarkable was how far it spread. From operating systems to cleaning products, from Japanese handheld consoles to renewable energy advertising — every corner of visual culture in the 2000s had its own dialect of the same language. The same optimism, the same warmth, the same belief that technology and nature belonged together. Just expressed differently depending on who was doing the talking.

Frutiger Eco was the one that actually cared about the planet. Same glossy optimism, but pointed squarely at nature and sustainability — wind turbines bathed in golden light, green cities of the future, architecture that looked like it had grown out of the earth rather than been dropped on it. It was Frutiger Aero with a manifesto. The aesthetic of every mid-2000s renewable energy ad that made you genuinely believe clean power was two years away. It wasn’t. But it looked incredible.

Spotted in: BP's green rebrand, Toyota Prius ads, eco-tech concept renders Peak years: 2005–2012 · Parent: Frutiger Aero · Vibe: optimistic environmentalism

Helvetica Aqua Aero went fully underwater and never came back. Oceans. Beaches. 3D-rendered tropical fish in impossibly clear water. It lived right at the crossroads of Y2K chrome and Frutiger warmth — which is probably why every cleaning product from 2004 to 2012 looked like it was manufactured inside a coral reef. Your dish soap was doing something aesthetic.

Spotted in: Palmolive packaging, Oral-B ads, Windows Vista fish screensavers Peak years: 2004–2011 · Parent: Frutiger Aero + Y2K · Vibe: clean, aquatic, clinical

Frutiger Aurora is the one you definitely remember without knowing you remembered it. Curtains of neon light against dark skies. Spirals of color rippling across a black background. Most famously — the default wallpaper of Windows Vista, which meant that roughly 400 million people spent years staring at a digital aurora borealis every time they turned on their laptop. Nobody found this strange. That’s how completely the aesthetic had taken over.

Spotted in: Windows Vista wallpapers, Xbox 360 dashboard backgrounds, Nokia phone themes Peak years: 2006–2012 · Parent: Frutiger Aero · Vibe: cosmic, dramatic, late-night

Dark Aero was the moody one at the back of the family photo. Same glass, same translucency, same liquid surfaces — but with the warmth dialed all the way down and the premium dialed all the way up. Less “friendly playground,” more “enterprise software that costs $80,000 a year.” Still beautiful. Just not trying to be your friend about it.

Spotted in: BlackBerry UI, Windows Media Center, early BMW iDrive interface Peak years: 2006–2015 · Parent: Frutiger Aero · Vibe: cold, sleek, high-end

Technozen was the Japanese branch of the family tree, and honestly the most interesting one. Where Western Frutiger Aero was lush and warm and full of meadows, Technozen was clean, minimal, and quietly cute — the Nintendo DS home screen, the Wii menu, that specific flavor of cozy-futurism that Japan has always executed better than anyone else on earth. The Wii menu theme music is Technozen in audio form and you already heard it in your head just now.

Spotted in: Nintendo DS/Wii UI, Sony Mylo, Japanese mobile phone interfaces Peak years: 2004–2012 · Parent: Frutiger Aero · Vibe: cozy, minimal, quietly adorable

DORFic — which stands for Daylight, Orange, Futurism and Graphic, because someone was going to make that acronym work no matter what — was the sunniest sub-genre of the whole family. Abstract, minimalist, absolutely flooded with warm orange light. Think every Sony Ericsson ad from 2007. Think the visual equivalent of waking up on a Saturday morning in an optimistic decade and feeling like everything was probably going to be fine.

Spotted in: Sony Ericsson W-series ads, Intel Pentium 4 campaigns, Mirror’s Edge Peak years: 2005–2014 ·Parent: Frutiger Aero · Vibe: industrial, warm, kinetic

Vectorgarden was Frutiger Aero having a moment with a graphics tablet. Abstract floral patterns, butterflies, aurora light, gradients over absolutely everything. It’s the reason your mum’s 2008 screensaver looked like a meadow designed by someone who’d just discovered Adobe Illustrator and had feelings about it. Completely over the top. Completely sincere. Somehow still kind of beautiful.

Spotted in: Windows Vista default themes, HTC phone wallpapers, MySpace layouts Peak years: 2005–2011 · Parent: Frutiger Aero · Vibe: floral, maximalist, deeply sincere

All of them were expressions of exactly the same belief: that technology should feel like something. That screens could be beautiful. That the future was worth decorating, even the parts nobody would ever look at twice.

That’s the thing about Frutiger Aero and its entire extended family. It wasn’t optimized. It wasn’t A/B tested. It was just made by people who thought tomorrow deserved more than a white rectangle.

🏆 Honourable Mentions: See-Through Everything

Before Frutiger Aero put water droplets on your desktop, it put transparent plastic on everything you owned.

The iMac G3 started it in 1998 — translucent candy-colored shells in Bondi Blue, Strawberry, Lime, and Tangerine. You could see the machine working inside it. Technology had nothing to hide. The rest of the world took note and spent the next decade making everything you could possibly hold see-through.

The translucent PSP shells in red, blue, and green. The Rock Candy Xbox controllers where you could watch the entire circuit board light up under your fingers. The PlayStation Memory Cards in every color of the spectrum — teal, yellow, orange, red — each one showing you its insides.

The iDog — Sony’s robotic music-reactive toy dog, available in transparent pink and blue, whose entire appeal was that you could see the LEDs pulsing inside its chest in time with your music.

This was physical Frutiger Aero before anyone had the vocabulary for it. Transparency as aesthetic. Transparency as promise. The implicit message in every clear-shelled gadget of the era: we are not a cold machine. We are something alive and we want you to see it.

🔗 Go Deeper

We went down the Frutiger Aero rabbit hole so you don’t have to. Here’s what we found:

• Frutiger Aero Archive — the most comprehensive archive of the aesthetic online. A proper rabbit hole.

• Aesthetics Wiki — Frutiger Aero — the community-built encyclopedia of the aesthetic and all its sub-genres.

• Frutiger Aero Tutorials — step-by-step guides for recreating the aesthetic in your own work. Genuinely useful.

• Frutiger Metro Resources — free downloadable resources, icons, and design assets from the era. For when you want to actually recreate the aesthetic yourself.

Futurism Has Always Been a Self-Portrait

Every era that calls itself futuristic is really just doing a very confident self-portrait — painting its own anxieties, hopes and obsessions onto the wall and labeling it tomorrow. The Jetsons — a 1962 cartoon about a family living in the sky with robot maids and flying cars —weren’t predicting 2062. They were a 1962 fever dream about automation, suburban comfort and the terrifying thrill of the postwar boom.

The 2000s were no different. Except the self-portrait was rendered in chrome, glass, gradients and an almost embarrassing amount of lens flare.

And honestly? It slapped.

The Promised Future Was Never About Technology

And here’s where we land.

The reason we’re nostalgic for these aesthetics isn’t the slow internet or the chunky laptops. It’s the feeling that came with them — the specific, irreplaceable texture of early-2000s optimism that said: the future is different and different is going to be gorgeous.

Frutiger Aero wasn’t just a design system. It was a collective hallucination of hope, rendered in pixels and plastic and translucent Jell-O interfaces that nobody asked for and everyone secretly loved.

The future Frutiger Aero promised isn't gone. It's just waiting — in every wallpaper pack being rebuilt from scratch, every Neo-Aero UI someone is designing right now, every person who still thinks a screen should mean something.

Catch you next time,

Sarah

Hello!

We’re back with your monthly dose of the bizarre and delightful in creative culture, design oddities and internet curiosities. Grab a coffee, or whatever fuels your creative weirdness and dive in!

What we’re obsessing over this month:

• The AI Ad Wars: Google’s emotional utility vs. Anthropic’s “privacy as a product.”

• NYFW’s Identity Crisis: Why Rachel Scott is the busiest woman in fashion right now.

• The Hug vs. The Shield: Google’s play for "emotional utility" vs. Anthropic’s play for "privacy as a product".

• Digital Archeology: Exploring the maps of our ancestors and the static of retro TV.’

• Executive Performance Art: The accidental comedy of McDonald’s "casual" CEO taste tests.

  

🌟 Fresh Orbit: Creative News & Quick Takes

• Super Bowl hit Levi’s Stadium on February 8, 2026—and as usual, it doubled as the world’s most expensive marketing thermometer. With 30-second ads costing somewhere between $8–10 million, brands weren’t just buying airtime. They were buying a cultural moment. A Super Bowl spot is no longer “run ad, hope for laughs.” It’s launch the teaser, drop the extended cut, activate the TikTok, pray for memes.

  • Google Gemini quietly won the night with its “New Home” spot, directed by Daniel Mercadante. Instead of flexing futuristic tech jargon, the ad showed something simple: a mom using AI image tools to help her son picture their new house—fresh paint on the walls, a redesigned bedroom, small changes that suddenly make a place feel like home.

  • Anthropic took the opposite route with its campaign, “Ads Are Coming to AI.” Created with Mother, the ad leaned into discomfort—showing AI chatbots as pushy personal trainers and invasive therapists. The message was clear: this is what happens when AI gets monetized.By promising to stay ad-free, Anthropic turned its business model into a moral stance. Not just better tech—better boundaries.

• Autumn/Winter 2026—across New York, London, and Milan—felt split between two moods: viral spectacle and quiet archival obsession. NYFW opened with Rachel Scott at Diotima and closed with Rachel Scott again—this time in her role at Proenza Schouler. Same designer, two lanes. One week, bookended by the same creative mind, juggling personal vision and big-house expectations.

• The Djungelskog Effect: IKEA’s Accidental Marketing Mircale
  When an abandoned baby macaque at a Japanese zoo went viral for clinging on to an IKEA orangutan plush toy for comfort, the internet collectively melted. IKEA played it perfectly, quietly donating backup plushies to the zoo instead of turning it into a loud brand stunt. A beautiful reminder that in an era of hyper-engineered (AI) campaigns, the most powerful force online is still just pure, unscripted empathy.a

• Asda's "Analog Tinder" Stunt We’ve officially hit peak dating-app fatigue, and the UK supermarket chain Asda just capitalized on it beautifully with their "Love in the Aisles" Valentine's activation. The premise was simple: single shoppers could grab a red shopping basket instead of the standard green one to signal they were open to being approached. The stunt went massively viral on social media because it tapped directly into a cultural desperation for low-tech serendipity.

  

🔗 Curated Links: Oddities & Inspirations

1. My Retro TVs — Flip Through the Static

   Forget the "Infinite Scroll." Sometimes you just want to sit on the floor and flip through channels in 1994. This site simulates vintage television sets from the 50s to the 00s, letting you watch exactly what was onscreen during those decades.
   myretrotvs.com

2. Wplace — The World is Your Canvas A collaborative, real-time canvas layered directly over a world map. Find your hometown, find an empty space, and paint something. It’s chaotic, ephemeral, and a beautiful reminder that the internet can still be a shared sandbox.
   wplace.live

3. The Anti-Bland Alphabet

   A curated middle finger to the "safe," soul-sucking sans-serifs currently homogenizing the internet. This is a tactical archive of high-quality, expressive typefaces that are entirely free to use.

   www.freefaces.gallery

4. Logos From Memory — The Branding Reality Check
   This interactive site asks you to sketch famous corporate logos entirely from memory. It’s a quiet, humbling reality check proving that multi-billion-dollar branding rarely sticks in our brains exactly the way agencies intended.

   neal.fun/logos-from-memory

5. Stickers Gallery — Archiving the Laptop Lid

   Before algorithms curated our interests, die-cut vinyl on a laptop lid did the job. This site is a high-res, meticulously categorized archive of physical stickers from the early tech and indie web worlds—a digital museum of tactile internet culture.

   stickers.gallery

📸 Visual Inspiration

The Kawaii "Reset": Yuko Yamaguchi’s Final Bow

The design world just witnessed a generational shift. The flamboyant designer behind Hello Kitty is stepping down after more than four decades in charge of her look - and yes, we are officially old now.

Born on a 1980 coin purse, Hello Kitty has morphed into a global marketing titan. From Balenciaga runways and Nintendo consoles to her own custom Airbus and the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, she’s proof that a character without a mouth can effectively dominate every corner of the cultural economy.

Yuko Yamaguchi has been responsible since 1980 for the design of Kitty and famously maintained the brand’s most controversial lore: that Kitty is officially not a cat, but a little girl from London. Under her leadership, this “little girl” rose to become the global epitome of Japanese soft power, proving that a character without a mouth could speak to almost every demographic on earth.

🎟 Pop-Culture Artifact of the Month

McDonald’s CEO vs. The Big Arch™

In a recent attempt to humanize, McDonald’s CEO Chris Kempczinski sat down for a “casual” taste test of the new Big Arch™. It was intended to be a relatable content, but it quickly turned into a masterclass in executive-level awkwardness. Social media users and online comedians have mocked his awkward taste test, citing it as evidence that he did not enjoy his own company’s burger.

The video feels less like a lunch break and more like a mandatory orientation film, especially when Kempczinski refers to his own burger as "product". The word "product" effectively strips away the joy of eating, replacing it with the cold, hard logic of a quarterly earnings report.

It’s a linguistic slip that instantly dissolves the “relatable” facade, reminding everyone that they aren’t watching a man enjoy a sandwich, but a leader inspecting a unit of global inventory.

🤔 Poll of the Month

📣 What’s New:

Want to collaborate? Got an idea for a feature, a weird project? We’re always open to good conversations and curious partnerships—drop us a line at hello@theorbitstudio.com.

Exclusive Member Resources: Consider becoming a paid subscriber and get access to our Orbit Vault—our members-only library of tools, references, and deep cuts.

Thanks for reading!

Forward this newsletter to your favorite design-nerd friends, internet nostalgics, and lovers of all things odd. See you next month—stay curious!

🛸 – The Orbit Team

Welcome to Planet Dok (Population: Potatoes)

Birthed in 1987, in an era when advertising could be truly weird, the Gobbledok came from outer space and hailed from the planet Dok, the potato planet. Crashlanding in the equally cleverly named Australia (it means south) the Gobbledok quickly succumbs to an all-encompassing potato chip frenzy. It’s not its fault though. It needs them to live. It’s just its nature. Having evolved on Dok, the potato planet, it needs potato chips like we need oxygen. It’s not merrily chirping for its favourite food, it’s screaming in desperation as you would for air.

At least it’s cute though, right? Let’s call it… Furby levels of cute. Cute enough, but also slightly horrifying. It vaguely resembles the bastard child of Alf and Cousin It. It’s like a four foot tall troll doll with shorter hair on its head and a Chewbacca-esque fuzz everywhere else. And I mean everywhere else, as despite hailing from a civilization that has achieved space travel, the people of Dok clearly never mastered pants. Or perhaps they’ve moved beyond them. In an intergalactic society perhaps pants serve no purpose. Though they must always be wary of splinters.

The Gobbledok is not to be defeated by a lack of pants though, as it also possesses superpowers. Demonstrated in various television ads are the powers of levitation (to retrieve potato chips from high places), super speed and telekinesis (to retrieve potato chips from far places), teleportation (to escape with retrieved potato chips), and a seemingly bottomless stomach (to store retrieved potato chips). It could be out there doing gods-knows-what with these abilities, but its existential need for potato chips makes it powerless before our supermarkets and food manufacturing capabilities.

The Gobbledok evolved through the ages, much as society didn’t, and from its heyday in the late 80s, early it eventually became whatever this is. Watch as it busts out some awkward moves in awkward scenes to some truly god awful music. Small wonder that after the 90s, the Gobbledok was put on ice for over 20 years.

Legacy of the Dok

Is it officially back now? Alas, no. The 2017 showing was simply an anniversary pity party, but the Gobbledok lives on in the dark recesses of YouTube, in my memory and now also in yours. All of this to advertise Smith’s Crisps. Great job, I say, though I always preferred this ad for Chicken Chippees.

Cheers!

Walking into a living room in 1989 was like seeing a crime scene of grey plastic. You saw a floor mat that looked like a Twister board, robots that didn’t work to gloves that looked like it was stolen from a cyborg.

For the last forty years, the tech industry has been obsessed with streamlining our lives. But Nintendo has always argued the opposite. They built an empire on the idea that play shouldn’t be smooth. It should be clunky. It should be weird.

Looking back at their island of misfit toys, I’m starting to think they knew something about joy that we’ve optimized out of existence.

The Philosophy of the “Toy”

To understand why Nintendo made so much weird stuff, you have to understand the trauma of 1983. The American video game market had just crashed. Retailers treated “video games” like radioactive waste.

So, when Nintendo brought the Famicom to America as the NES, they didn’t call it a console. They called it an “Entertainment System.” And to prove it wasn’t just a computer, they packed it with a “Robotic Operating Buddy” (R.O.B.).

R.O.B. was a Trojan Horse. He was a slow, loud, battery-draining gyroscope spinner that only worked with two games. But he served a vital purpose: he made the NES look like a toy. He gave the system a physical presence in the room. This philosophy that gaming should spill out of the TV and into your lap became Nintendo’s defining DNA.

While Sony and Microsoft chased higher frame rates, Nintendo chased “Lateral Thinking with Withered Technology” (a philosophy coined by the legendary Gunpei Yokoi). They took cheap, existing tech and combined it in ways that forced us to play differently.

Sometimes it worked. Often, it was a spectacular, plastic failure. But looking back, the failures were almost more important. They proved that Nintendo was willing to be weird in public - a trait the rest of the industry has largely optimized away.

The Hall of Fame of “Why Does This Exist?”

Let’s take a walk through the museum of plastic ambition.

It’s important to remember the ecosystem these gadgets lived in. In the NES era, nothing was wireless. You had the power brick. You had the RF switch (that thick grey cable connecting the console to the TV). You had two controller cords—which were always too short. If you were playing Duck Hunt, you had the Zapper gun cord. If you had R.O.B., he had his own cables.

The result was a literal knot of rubber and copper on the living room rug that looked like a plate of black pasta. And in the middle of that mess sat these beautiful disasters:

1. The NES Zapper: The Satisfying “Clunk”

Modern shooters rely on haptic feedback and uncannily realistic triggers. The NES Zapper relied on a spring that sounded like a staple gun. CLUNK. CLUNK. CLUNK.

The Zapper was simple light-gun tech, but it felt crucial. It turned the television - a passive box - into an interactive shooting gallery. It wasn’t about precision (you could cheat by aiming at a lightbulb); it was about the fantasy. Holding that orange plastic heater made you feel like a cowboy in your pajamas.

2. The Power Glove: TheBad, The Bad and The Ugly

No peripheral in history promised more and delivered less than the Power Glove. Immortalized by Lucas Barton in the movie The Wizard, the Power Glove sold us a cyberpunk dream where we could control games with the flick of a wrist.

In reality, it was a motion-control nightmare that required you to tape sensors to your TV and punch the air hoping Mario would jump. It didn’t work. It was exhausting. But look at it. It has a number pad on the forearm! It has purely decorative “computer” graphics! It was unnecessary in function, but essential in aesthetics. It trained an entire generation to want the future to be wearable.

3. The Power Pad: The Original Gym Membership

Long before Dance Dance Revolution or Wii Fit, Nintendo asked us to take off our shoes and stomp on a flimsy sheet of plastic sensors. The Power Pad was huge, impossible to fold back into the box, and smelled intensely of vinyl.

It was designed for World Class Track Meet, a game where you had to run in place like a maniac to make your character move. It was the first time gaming demanded athleticism (or at least, rapid flailing). It proved that video games didn’t have to be a sedentary act.

4. The LaserScope: “FIRE!”

This might be the most “1990s” object ever manufactured. The LaserScope was a voice-activated headset that supposedly let you shoot enemies by shouting “Fire!” at your screen.

It was essentially a Zapper strapped to your face with a microphone that picked up any background noise. Did your mom open the door? You fired. Did a dog bark? You fired. Did you breathe too heavily? You fired. It was a solution looking for a problem that didn’t exist. You looked ridiculous, you sounded crazy yelling at your TV and it was glorious.

5. The “Franken-Game Boy” Phenomenon

The Game Boy was designed to be portable. But 90s kids were determined to ruin that. We bought magnifiers to make the screen bigger. We bought “worm lights” to play in the dark. We bought battery packs that clipped on the back like tumors.

The “Game Keeper” is the final boss of this trend. It’s a hard-shell briefcase that integrates the Game Boy, the light, the batteries and the games into a setup that weighs as much as a laptop. It defeats the entire purpose of the handheld, and yet, there is something charming about the urge to accessorize our tech, to armor it up until it looked like military hardware.

6. The Robotic Operating Buddy (R.O.B.): The Plastic Trojan Horse

R.O.B. was a desperate peace treaty disguised as a toy. In 1985, U.S. retailers treated “video games” like poison, so Nintendo bundled the NES with a robot to trick stores into stocking it as a high-tech plaything.

Playing with him was a test of patience. He moved with the agonizing slowness of a 19th-century clock, spinning gyros to press buttons on your controller while you waited. He only supported two games before being retired, making him a technical failure but a strategic masterpiece.

R.O.B. is the ultimate Hall of Famer because he proved that physical presence matters more than software. He didn’t need to be a good player; he just had to be there, whirring on your carpet, making the digital world feel real.

6. The Game Boy Pocket Printer

In 1998, Nintendo released a digital camera and a thermal printer for the Game Boy. The photos were grainy, 2-bit, black-and-white messes. You had to peel them off a roll of receipt paper.

And it was magical.

Its quality was also objectively terrible. But the act of printing made it feel permanent. We stuck those little stickers on binders and fridges.

7. DK Bongos: The Specificity of Joy

The GameCube era gave us the DK Bongos, a controller that only worked for a rhythm game where you slapped plastic drums. It took up shelf space. It was loud. It was silly. But you cannot play Donkey Konga with a regular controller and have the same experience.

The absurdity was the point.

The Cardboard Renaissance

You might think this “clunky plastic” era died when the 90s ended. You’d be wrong. While the rest of the industry chases 8K resolution and ray-tracing, Nintendo is still out here selling us garbage. And we are still buying it.

In 2018, they launched Nintendo Labo. They asked us to pay $70 for sheets of literal cardboard. We had to punch out the shapes, fold them into fishing rods and piano keys and slot the Switch screen inside.

On paper (pun intended), it was ridiculous. But culturally? It was a flex. In an era of VR headsets and haptic suits, Nintendo proved they could still create “magic” with the cheapest material on earth. It was the Power Glove spirit all over again: the belief that the “video game” isn’t just what happens on the screen. It’s the ritual of building the controller.

It’s the friction of the cardboard rubbing against itself.

The “Vinyl” Theory of Gaming

There is a reason sales of vinyl records have surpassed CDs and digital downloads in recent years. Streaming Spotify is “frictionless”: it’s optimized, instant, and perfect. But it feels like nothing.

Putting on a record requires effort. You have to slide it out of the sleeve. You have to drop the needle. You have to flip it over. That friction forces you to pay attention.

Nintendo’s “unnecessary” inventions were the vinyl records of the gaming world. When you played with a Zapper or a Power Pad, you were engaging in a ritual. You had to set up the sensors. You had to untangle the cords. You had to hold a physical prop. That friction made the gaming session feel like an event. You weren’t just tapping a glass screen while waiting for the bus; you were physically interacting with a machine.

We’ve optimized the friction out of modern technology. We made it convenient, but we made it less memorable. I don’t remember downloading an update for my PS5. But I remember exactly what the plastic clack-clack-clack of the NES Zapper trigger felt like.

What We Lost When We Lost The Junk

We live in a better technological world now. The Switch is a marvel of engineering: a hybrid console that just works. The iPhone is a miracle of glass.

But in our rush to make everything seamless, we’ve lost the texture of play.

When you played with a Power Glove or a Zapper, you were engaging in a ritual. You had to set up the sensors. You had to untangle he cords. You had to hold a prop. That friction made the gaming session feel like a event. You weren’t just tapping glass; you were physically interacting with the machine.

These unnecessary inventions were Nintendo’s way of saying that imagination needs props. They understood that sometimes, to feel like a space marine, you need to hold a plastic gun. To feel like an athlete, you need to stomp on a mat.

We don’t need the Power Glove to come back (please, god, no). But we should celebrate that Nintendo is still weird enough to sell us folded cardboard and stop optimizing the fun out of everything.

Sometimes, the “unnecessary” parts are the only parts we actually remember.

Catch you next time,
Sarah

Hello!

We’re back with your monthly dose of the bizarre and delightful in creative culture, design oddities and internet curiosities. Grab a coffee, or whatever fuels your creative weirdness and dive in!

In this issue:

• The $20 billion Adobe merger is officially dead (RIP).

• Lollipops that broadcast audio into your skull

• Saying “I do” to a $35k plastic BuzzBallz ring

• Anti-Valentine’s marketing that admits nothing is more romantic than splitting the rent.

• Typing with a biohacker’s body & the return of 70s horror fonts.

🌟 Fresh Orbit: Creative News & Quick Takes

• On January 21, 2026, the $20 billion merger between Adobe and Figma was officially terminated due to regulatory pressure from the UK and EU. This is the Liberation Event of the Year for designers. The widespread fear was that Adobe would “Grey Goo” Figma—slowing it down, bloating it with legacy code and locking it behind the Creative Cloud paywall.

• Procreate Dreams, the animation app that promised to revolutionize the industry, faced continued backlash in January 2026 for bugs, missing features (like a basic lasso tool), and data loss issues a year after launch. The Procreate Dreams saga illustrates the danger of the “Hype Cycle.” The marketing promised a revolution; the product delivered a beta. In 2026, users are no longer forgiving of “roadmap promises.” The patience for software that “will be good eventually” has evaporated. This aligns with the “Reality” trend—users want tools that work now, not tools that might work in 2027.

• A sugar-free lollipop that transmits audio through the jawbone, delivering music or podcasts directly to the inner ear while you eat it. This is Internet ephemera made physical: a novelty echoing early-2000s HitClips, updated with biohacking-adjacent tech. It gamifies consumption—you don’t just eat candy, you consume content. More importantly, it marks the attention economy’s final frontier. Screens own the eyes, earbuds the ears, haptics the hands. Now media enters the mouth. Even a snack break becomes a streaming surface.

  

• Rick Owens is designing for the “Urban Apocalypse.” The inflatable boots are literal airbags for the feet. The spikes are “social distancing” made flesh.

• Sundance serves as a mirror for the indie creative economy. The buzz around “weird” films like Buddy (an evil kids’ show horror) 35 suggests that the only way to break through the content noise is with extreme concepts. Meanwhile, the lukewarm reception to traditional indie dramas like Carousel 36 indicates that the “mumblecore” era is truly over. Audiences demand high concepts or stark reality (The Lake), with little patience for the middle ground.

• At Consumer Electronics Show 2026, the standout shift wasn’t generative AI, but AI embedded into physical objects - signaling a move toward “phygital” hardware that augments play and domestic life rather than pulling users into screens. LEGO’s Smart Brick, which senses motion and structure to produce real-time audio feedback, exemplifies this trend: advanced computing hidden inside familiar forms to deepen tactile interaction instead of replacing it.

• The Grok scandal, where the tool was used to generate non-consensual deepfake pornography of real women and children—triggered immediate global backlash, with governments condemning it as abuse and platforms accused of monetizing harm. The fallout marks the end of AI’s regulatory “Wild West,” accelerating a 2026 shift from passive oversight to active enforcement, where “Safety by Design” becomes a legal, code-level requirement rather than a policy promise.

💘 Seasonal Orbit: The Algorithm of Love

Romance is in the air, or maybe that’s just the scent of limited-edition, deep-fried marketing.

💚 BuzzBallz: The $35k Cocktail Proposal

Ready-to-drink brand BuzzBallz is auctioning a diamond ring to launch their new “Pink Lemonsqueezy” flavor. The 9-carat, lab-grown pink diamond is set inside a bedazzled mini-mold of their iconic round bottle. Proceeds from the auction will benefit a ‘heart-related’ charitable cause.

💚 Sweethearts: “Love in This Economy”

Forget “Be Mine.” This year, the classic candy brand updated their conversation hearts to reflect the crushing reality of the 2026 cost-of-living crisis.

Instead of love notes, the hearts feature pragmatic propositions like “SPLIT RENT”, “CAR POOL”, “COOK 4 2” and the ultra-romantic “BUY N BULK”.

Check out their video campaign: here

💚 Tinder: The “Breakup Bangs” Campaign Tinder closed out 2025 with a campaign that screams Anti-Valentines Day: “Breakup Bangs.” Breakups usually come with a need for radical change. Often, this tends to take the form of a very specific haircut: Bangs.

Partnering with the agency Mischief and celebrity stylists, Tinder dropped an actual bangs giveaway for people to test out the look before making it permanent.

🔗 Curated Links: Oddities & Inspirations

1. Wiggly Paint - Where Every Line Comes Alive

   Experience the pixel magic of Wiggly Paint’s drawing tool. Pro tip: Turn on the sound while drawing ✨

2. Live Font Ever - Typing With a Human Body

   We came across a Note by where she talked about a hilarious tool she created: livefontever.com. It lets you type with a font made from Bryan Johnson (the millionaire who’s trying to live forever, notorious for swapping blood with his son).

   

3. BlackBerry fans, this is for you: Meet the Clicks Communicator

   Ten years after BlackBerry ended its classic smartphones, the keyboard is back. The Clicks Communicator was created in collaboration with Joseph Hofer, the designer behind some of BlackBerry’s most iconic devices. Changeable covers, shortcut keys and the return of the 3.5mm headphone jack - enough to convince us.

   

4. Archive Team — Saving the Internet While It Disappears

   Since 2009, the Archive Team has been salvaging all of our digital history. A loose collective of archivists, engineers and volunteers dedicated to saving our digital heritage before they vanish through shutdowns, mergers and quiet deletions.

5. Internet Artifacts — A Museum of the Digital Mundane

   Talking about archiving the web, you gotta check out Internet Artifact. It’s basically an interactive excavation of the internet’s history, from the first spam email ever sent (1978) to the first set of emojis. The site also lets you interact with the artifacts - listen to the dial-up screech, click the original “Under Construction” banners, and feel the phantom weight of a geocities page.

   

   📸 Visual Inspiration

   Why Stranger Things revived the ITC Benguiat font and why designers went wild for it.

   

   When the Duffer Brothers were dreaming up Stranger Things, they kept thinking about the stuff that scared them as kids – thick Stephen King paperbacks with dramatic covers and even more dramatic type. When they hired Imaginary Forces to design the opening titles, they brought those books along as references. The common thread? ITC Benguiat, a 1977 typeface that once ruled horror shelves and mall bookstores, then got quietly exiled during the age of clean sans-serifs and “tasteful” minimalism.

   

   Using Benguiat wasn’t an accident—it was a vibe choice. Imaginary Forces leaned all the way in: glowing red letters, slow zooms, film grain, tiny imperfections. The type didn’t just show the title, it set the mood. The result won an Emmy and accidentally kicked off a design chain reaction. Suddenly, decorative fonts were cool again. Designers everywhere took it as permission to loosen up, embrace nostalgia, and have a little fun. Benguiat didn’t come back as a retro joke, it came back as proof that personality beats polish, and that sometimes the best way forward is through a slightly spooky, over-the-top serif

   ---

   🎟 Pop-Culture Artifact of the Month

   KFC romance novel

   KFC Tender Wings of Desire: A Colonel Sanders Novella

   

   ​

   In 2017, KFC released a branded romance novella titled Tender Wings of Desire. Yup, an actual love story, starring a smoldering, shirtless Colonel Sanders. It was published just in time for Mother’s Day and played completely straight, borrowing the breathless tropes of paperback romance: forbidden attraction, lingering glances, and fried chicken as fate.

   The stunt was marketing absurdity at its peak—and that’s why it worked. KFC didn’t sell chicken in the book; it sold vibe. By turning a corporate mascot into a romantic lead, the brand collapsed irony, nostalgia, and internet horniness into one highly shareable object. It’s peak Internet Ephemera: a cultural artifact designed less to be read than to be screenshotted, memed, and remembered as proof that brands briefly lost their minds—and won attention because of it..

   ---

   🤔 Poll of the Month

   

   Thanks for reading!

   Forward this newsletter to your favorite design-nerd friends, internet nostalgics, and lovers of all things odd. See you next month—stay curious!

🛸 – The Orbit Team

The future doesn’t really exist. It’s basically Schrödinger’s cat—we talk about it constantly, but it’s never actually here. For centuries, we’ve been drawing maps to places we’ve never been, slapping “Here Be Dragons” on the unknown and calling it foresight.

When you look back at old predictions—every sad “where’s my jetpack?” moment—you realize something uncomfortable: we’re not predicting the future at all. We’re just cosplaying the present in fancier outfits.

The Victorians imagined steam-powered everything because steam was their entire personality. The 1950s pictured chrome kitchens and pill dinners because that’s what abundance looked like to them. And now Silicon Valley billionaires promise mind uploads and digital immortality, which says less about tomorrow and more about today’s tech-bro fantasies.

Every future vision is basically a Mirror of Erised—it shows what we want right now, dressed up as destiny. We’re not peering through a telescope. We’re staring at our own reflection.

Phase 1: The Victorian Steam Dream (1890s–1930s)

“What if we just… added more gears?”

Victorians imagined the future as louder, faster, and more mechanical: pneumatic tubes for mail, food, even people. They dreamed of “meals in a pill” because eating was inefficient in an industrial schedule. Bodies were machines; time was money.

What they missed was that real change wouldn’t be visible or noisy. It would be invisible—electricity, software, systems you can’t hear clanking. Pattern #1: we can only imagine futures using the tools we already understand. Every tomorrow looks like today with better special effects.

Phase 2: Atomic Optimism (1945–1965)

“The future will be clean, white, and glowing.”

Postwar America imagined nuclear-powered homes, robot maids, and flying cars. The Jetsons predicted video calls but couldn’t imagine women working or anyone escaping the 9-to-5. They slapped “atomic” on everything the way we now slap “AI” on toasters.

The Space Race wasn’t just science—it was Cold War therapy. They believed infinite energy would fix human conflict and that technology would improve people by default. Instead, we got traffic jams, fragile families, and no time to enjoy the chrome kitchen.

Phase 3: Space Age to Cyber Utopia (1960s–1990s)

“The future must look impressive enough to justify itself.”

As optimism collapsed under Vietnam and Watergate, futures got darker. Star Trek showed clean progress; Star Wars showed grimy survival. Steampunk emerged as nostalgia for machines you could see and fix, conveniently ignoring the colonial mess behind them.

The ’90s then promised a digital utopia—open borders, endless growth, the “end of history.” What they missed was that connectivity doesn’t create understanding. It creates surveillance, misinformation, and tribal warfare. Y2K panic revealed a secret fantasy: maybe this whole system would crash and we could start over.

Phase 4: Corporate Digital Futures (1980s–2000s)

“The future will be interface-shaped.”

As computers went mainstream, the future stopped being mechanical and became visual. Corporate tech culture imagined tomorrow as glass, grids, and glowing UI—cyberpunk cities, infinite dashboards, humans permanently plugged in. Power shifted from engines to interfaces.

The promise was mastery through information. More data, more screens, more control. But these futures assumed humans wanted constant interaction, when what they really wanted was relief. The most “advanced” interfaces turned out to be exhausting, fragile, and unreadable. We didn’t drown because there wasn’t enough information—we drowned because there was too much.

Then something quietly broke. Progress stopped feeling inevitable. Culture looped. Products flattened. As Mark Fisher put it, the future began to cancel itself. Innovation shrank into iterations, nostalgia, and reboots. It became easier to imagine collapse than transformation—because genuine alternatives to the system itself were no longer thinkable.

Phase 5: The Digital Minimalist Future (2000s–2010s)

“The future will disappear.”

Silicon Valley promised a future that fades into the background—smart homes that anticipate your needs, frictionless interfaces, sterile white rooms that signal “progress.” The bet was simple: if technology worked perfectly, we’d be happy. Instead, optimization stripped away the weird, messy human texture that actually gives life meaning.

At the same time, tech billionaires began designing private escape hatches. New philosophies emerged arguing we should care more about hypothetical humans in the distant future than people suffering right now. That’s why Mars keeps coming up—not because humanity needs saving, but because some problems feel easier to flee than fix.

And beneath all this futurism sits an uncomfortable truth: a revival of old eugenics logic. Obsessions with “optimizing” genes, worrying that the “right” people aren’t reproducing, and imagining a future reserved for the enhanced. Those with the most power cast themselves as humanity’s shepherds, projecting their anxieties onto the cosmos—while the rest of the planet deals with very real, very present crises.

Why Fake Futures Keep Repeating the Same Mistakes

The future keeps disappointing us because we keep asking it the wrong questions. We search for spectacle instead of structure, gadgets instead of systems. Every era mistakes its desires for destiny, projecting today’s fears and fantasies forward and calling it foresight.

What actually reshapes the world is rarely dramatic or cinematic. It’s slow, distributed, and mostly invisible—networks instead of jetpacks, infrastructure instead of icons, coordination instead of genius. The future doesn’t arrive with a reveal. It seeps in through protocols, incentives, and habits.

So if we want to imagine something real, we have to stop treating the future as a mirror. As long as we do, it will only ever reflect the present back at us—slightly polished, vaguely utopian, and already obsolete the moment it appears.

Catch you next time,

Marta

Read more Creative History Threads

It arrived as a brushstroke.

It arrived as a metaphor.

It also arrived as a BYTE magazine cover that looked like it had been made by someone who believed technology was strange, but not evil.

Someone who believed the future would be complex, but maybe still be bright.

The early digital-age aesthetic and why BYTE mattered

The early digital age did not have a single “tech look” yet. There were no default UI gradients. No clean startup minimalism. No identical product pages with the same three lifestyle photos.

Computing was still new enough to feel like a weird hobby and important enough to feel like a new world.

BYTE sat right in the middle of that. It was the magazine you picked up when you wanted to understand what was happening without being treated like an idiot. It did not read like a brochure. It read like a field guide for a culture that was forming in real time.

There was no stable “digital aesthetic,” yet, so illustrations did a lot of heavy lifting. A painting could make an invisible concept feel physical.

A cover could turn “networks” into a place. It could turn “AI” into a mood. It could turn a technical topic into something you could recognize before you understood it.

Early Digital Futurism was made with human tools—brushes, texture, humor, metaphor. The future came across as something you can approach, not something that approaches you.

If today’s tech imagery often feels like it is trying to hypnotize you into compliance, BYTE’s cover art did the opposite. It made the future look negotiable

The Artwork that shaped what “computer culture” looked like

BYTE magazine ran from 1975 to 1998 and earned its place because it treated personal computing as culture, not a product category.

It also met readers where they actually were: curious, slightly overwhelmed and trying to figure out what these machines were about.

But what we all remember, even decades later, is not the table of contents.

It’s the covers.

If you ever stumbled across BYTE on a shelf, you know: It was a computer magazine, yes, but it was also a monthly showcase.

For a big stretch of BYTE’s run, the cover art was created by illustrator Robert Tinney, whose work became synonymous with the magazine’s visual identity.

Robert Tinney was approached early on and his first cover appeared on the December 1975 issue.

The timing matters.

Personal computing was still forming its personality in public and most people still didn´t yet have a mental picture of what this new world even looked like.

Tinney’s job was to make it visible so he became the visual translator for that shift and helped create that image.

A quick gallery of the most iconic BYTE Covers

Once you start looking, you notice Tinney keeps repeating a few visual moves that make abstract tech feel strangely human. Tinney’s covers rarely show a “computer” as a product. They show a computer as a character in a bigger world.

One recurring move is scale. Sometimes computing is pictured as something cosmic and abstract—grids, space and systems.

Other times it is personal: a person, a face, a hand, a room. The message is subtle but consistent. This new technology is huge, but it is also coming home with you.

Another recurring move is metaphor.

Networks become landscapes. Intelligence becomes a game. Software becomes architecture. Even when the topic is complicated, the picture makes it feel graspable. You do not need to understand the technical details to understand the vibe: curiosity, caution, and a weird sense of play.

And then there is the humor. BYTE covers were allowed to be slightly odd, sometimes even silly, without losing credibility. That is a lost luxury.

Today’s tech imagery is rarely funny, because modern tech culture is terrified of looking unserious. Tinney’s era understood the opposite: humor is part of how humans process change.

Where to find BYTE covers

Here are the best places to start:

• Zoomable BYTE visual archive the fastest way to get a full “shelf view” of decades of covers, then zoom in and pick your favorites.

• Internet Archive Large collections of BYTE issues and individual issue pages

• VintageApple’s BYTE scans cleaner browsing and quick access when you want to track down specific issues without getting lost.

• Robert Tinney’s Shop the artist’s own archive + prints.

If you want more context straight from Tinney himself, there’s a 2006 interview with him on Vintage Computing.

Back when the Future still had texture

BYTE’s future came with the quiet confidence of analog media. The cover art could not afford nothingness and needed an unique composition that could survive a whole month on a newsstand.

Tinneys artworks where done by hand and consisted of drawn illustrations with tissue paper, oil painting and designer wash and airbrush. His covers sold a feeling, instead of staying strictly technical.

They brought unfamiliar technology closer to readers who were living through a transition.

The covers did not scream: “Everything is changing and you are behind“.

They said: “The future is here. Join in.”

They turned computing into worlds you could enter: architecture, landscapes, games, little visual jokes that made the future feel approachable.

And then the aesthetic shifted. At a certain point, tech stopped being illustrated and started being marketed. The future got cleaner, flatter, more “professional.”

End of byte magazine and what that means for us

Around 1987 Tinney’s paintings gave way to product photography—less metaphor, more marketing.

The much-loved BYTE Magazine stopped its publication after the July 1998 issue, when new owner CMP Media abruptly shut down the 23-year-old magazine and apparently laid off nearly the entire staff.

Magazines used to slow you down in a good way. You opened them to spend time with something. You took them with you, you flipped, you paused, you got distracted by a weird illustration or a headline you did not expect.

BYTE covers read like cultural fossils in the best way and represent a time where the future was allowed to be rendered by artists instead of product teams.

If we talk about the return of to analog, I’d also love a return of people still believing technology needs to be explained through metaphor and craft. We replaced that with interfaces designed to be self-justifying and self-erasing.

Catch you next time,
Sarah

If 2025 left you feeling weirdly tired—even though you used every AI tool, scheduled every meeting, and drank the productivity Kool-Aid—don’t worry. That wasn’t burnout. That was the culture quietly glitching.

This Almanac isn’t a trend list in the usual sense. It doesn’t crown winners or issue commandments. We don’t predict the future like tech prophets. We just take very obsessive notes. Then we squint at them until patterns emerge.

So here it is: the full narrative arc of what 2026 might feel like. Less “next big thing,” more “weird little mood that won’t go away.”

Let’s begin.

Welcome to the Friction Era

By late 2025, something shifted. After ten years of chasing seamless everything—frictionless checkouts, instant content, butter-smooth UX—we hit a wall. Turns out, when everything is optimized, nothing feels real.

The Friction Era is our name for this moment. The vibe? People don’t want perfect anymore—they want proof. Proof that someone was behind the screen. That effort happened. That the machine didn’t do it all on its own.

Perfect flows now feel robotic. Polished content reads as AI. Interfaces that erase every bit of struggle also erase any sign of humanity. So instead, we’re seeing a turn toward the deliberate pause: clicky buttons, slower websites, hand-coded breadcrumbs. The stuff that makes you say, “A human touched this.”

Even color isn’t immune. When Pantone named Cloud Dancer as 2026’s Color of the Year, they called it peaceful. The internet called it “emotional Airplane Mode.” A soft white meant to soothe became a meme for vanishing—a blank page, a buffering screen, a forced reset. The punchline wasn’t about the color. It was about the collective mood.

And that mood—lowkey skeptical, gently burnt out, hungry for signs of life—bleeds into everything that follows.

Brands Are Becoming NPCs

The mascot is back—but not in a Tony-the-Tiger, “Grrrrreat!” kind of way. In 2026, brand characters aren’t selling cereal. They’re giving you onboarding instructions, walking you through your returns policy, or DMing you back on a Sunday night. They’re not mascots. They’re NPCs.

Influencers? Unpredictable. AI avatars? Creepy (and maybe occasionally cursed). But a well-behaved brand character with defined lore, scripted responses, and zero risk of going rogue? That’s the dream. These characters aren’t trying to trick you into thinking they’re people—they’re here to do the job. Think less “magical realism,” more “helpful side quest.”

And what is also worth noting: brands are showing their work. Instead of hiding the puppet strings, they’re doing mascot autopsies—walking you through the Figma boards, the lore docs, the “how we trained this voice.” It’s not about making the character feel real. It’s about making the system behind the character feel trustworthy.

Meanwhile, brand voice is becoming less vibe and more system. Enter: the Corporate Camp Yearbook—a growing stack of tone guides, apology templates, and pre-approved niceness that makes any team sound like a decent human being. Charm doesn’t come from having That One Good Copywriter™ anymore. It comes from having a consistent tone, even when it’s 3 a.m. and a customer just rage-typed “HELLO???”

In 2026, the most beloved brand character won’t be the funniest—it’ll be the one who shows up, sticks to the script, and never forgets your order history. Call it customer service cosplay.

But hey we’re by no means mascot scholars—just very online observers with a high tolerance for weird brand behavior. But if you want the real deep dive on mascots, branding, and how it all actually works, go follow Stef Hamerlinck (and his awesome mascot Marcel). They actually know what they’re talking about.

A Softer, Stranger Visual World

Design in 2026? Less Blade Runner, more E.T. in a pearl cardigan.

Flat minimalism and tech-bro futurism are losing steam, replaced not by chaos but by a kind of gentle weirdness. Think spacecore, but emotionally available. “Extra Celestial” design swaps chrome and coldness for soft glows, pearly textures, and gradients that look like they just got off a 12-hour Pinterest binge. It’s futuristic, yes—but the kind you’d hug, not run from.

Meanwhile, Grounded Optimism means your dreamy interface now comes with a conscience. All that pastel UI now whispers: “Here’s our carbon footprint. Yes, we use cookies. No, we don’t sell your data (probably).” Beauty in 2026 doesn’t work unless it comes with a receipt and a well-lit transparency tab.

On the other side of the galaxy, maximalist nostalgia is beaming back. McBling, early-2000s scene aesthetics, and rhinestones are making a return—not as chaotic Tumblr-core throwbacks, but as curated, high-gloss visual languages. Think MySpace-era drama, but art-directed. Like if Paris Hilton had an MFA.

And then there’s Digital Decay. Grain, blur, and janky overlays are suddenly the hottest proofs of life. In a world drowning in AI-smooth perfection, your lo-fi timestamp says: “I was here, this was real.” It’s the visual equivalent of sending a voice memo instead of a polished video: messy, imperfect, honest.

Even skeuomorphism is creeping back—but with a gummy twist. Buttons now look like fruit snacks. If it looks like you can squish it, you should. Flat design didn’t fail because it was boring; it failed because it didn’t make you want to poke it.

Even typography reflects this shift. Designers aren’t chasing rare fonts to show off—they’re dialing into how letters behave: rhythm, spacing, motion, and hierarchy. It’s less about owning the perfect typeface and more about using the tools you’ve got with care. In 2026, the real flex is craft, not collecting.

Newstalgia as Emotional Infrastructure

This isn’t nostalgia for nostalgia’s sake. It’s nostalgia as a coping mechanism.

After years of non-stop crisis feeds and algorithmic chaos, people aren’t escaping the present—they’re regulating it. And they’re doing it through texture, sound, and form. Rounded corners. Clunky clicks. Warm startup chimes. Welcome back to the age of tech that feels like something.

That’s why the iPod Shuffle is now an earring. Why CDs are replacing vinyl (again). Why digicams—yes, the grainy ones with the blinding flash—are party essentials. These aren’t retro gimmicks. They’re rituals. Little anchors in a sea of infinite scroll.

It’s also why dumb phones are weekend moodboards. Not a rejection of the internet, just a healthy boundary. You’re not logging off forever but putting your screen in the timeout chair.

Even guestbooks are back. Not for engagement metrics, but for presence. A short “hey, loved this” hits different when it’s not part of a 47-reply flame thread.

Games are looping too. Low-poly graphics, save files, camera angles that don’t make sense anymore—they hit a different nerve. They feel like home. Not because they’re old, but because they were theirs. Treated with care, they stop being throwbacks and start becoming artifacts.

And then there’s the Indie Web glow-up. Personal sites. Hand-coded corners of the internet. Not built for scale, but for sovereignty. When every platform feels like a mall, people are rebuilding neighborhoods.

Nostalgia isn’t just a feeling. In 2026, it’s infrastructure.

AI Moves Off Stage

AI isn’t leaving—it’s just slipping quietly into the background.

The era of flashy “creative bots” is winding down. What once felt like magic now reads as LinkedIn-branded noise. Over-designed AI content triggers the same reaction as a stock photo of a handshake: scroll past. Instead, what people want in 2026 is simple: less busywork. Enter Agentic AI—not your co-pilot, but your glorified admin. It books flights, files expenses, renames 27 PDFs, and most importantly… leaves a paper trail. Helpful, not hypeful.

Meanwhile, AI is going physical—and kind of moody. Think “loneliness hardware”: soft-glowing lamps, twitchy devices, things that hum back instead of talking. It’s not HAL 9000 anymore, it’s your cute IKEA mushroom. This is AI animism—tech that feels alive without trying to be your friend. It doesn’t talk much, but it moves just enough to make you feel noticed.

All of this is setting the stage for a screenless shift. Not everything needs to happen on glass. Gesture, voice, wearables, and ultra-tactile interfaces are splitting the workload. Zero-UI systems are rising—not invisible, just quiet. The new rule? If it whispers, it logs.

AI isn’t center stage anymore. It’s stage crew. And that’s kind of the point.

Thanks for reading.

This was just a preview. The full Almanac goes deeper—with visual breadcrumbs, brand examples, and a jargon decoder for all the words your boss is probably already misusing in meetings. Get it here.

We made it for anyone trying to navigate creative culture in 2026—or just make slightly more sense of the internet.

Here’s to the year ahead:

More curiosity, less noise. More ownership, fewer logins. More thoughtful friction, and just enough weird.

🛸_See you in the next orbit.

New year. New month. Same obsession with strange design decisions.
Welcome back to your January edition of creative culture, odd objects and internet weirdness.

🌟 Fresh Orbit: Creative News & Quick Takes

• In a move so ironic it feels fake (but sadly isn’t), X Corp sued in December 2025 to protect the Twitter trademark. The reason? A startup called Operation Bluebird tried to revive the name, arguing the brand had been “abandoned.” Elon Musk spent years publicly deleting the bird from existence—ripping logos off buildings, killing redirects and telling everyone Twitter was dead. But the moment someone else tried to bring Twitter back? Suddenly the name mattered. Turns out you can burn down a brand, but you still don’t want anyone else living in the ruins.

• The most inescapable sound of December 2025 was a clip from a generic Jet2 Holiday commercial: “Nothing beats a Jet2 Holiday.” The internet, in its infinite irony, weaponized this cheerful slogan as the soundtrack for misery. The audio was overlaid on videos of cancelled flights, burning dinners, breakups and minor car accidents.

• Following the U.S. election fallout and X’s trademark wars, Bluesky saw a massive user spike, crossing the 30 million mark in late 2025.

• The AI arms race reached a fever pitch in December 2025. Following the release of Google’s Gemini 3, which outperformed ChatGPT in key benchmarks, OpenAI declared an internal “Code Red” and rushed the release of GPT-5.2. From a creative community perspective, this constant model churn is genuinely exhausting. What started as excitement around a magical new tool now feels more like watching a panicked industry sprint in circles, constantly shipping updates without anyone stopping to ask where all of this is actually heading.

• Not all of December 2025 was tech panic. In a genuinely wholesome moment, the long-lost 1983 Thomas & Friends pilot episode, “Down the Mine,” resurfaced on YouTube. For the lost-media community, this was a huge deal—a small cultural miracle. It’s a reminder that while tech obsesses over the future, some of the most meaningful work happening online is about preserving the past. These unofficial archivists aren’t chasing scale or hype; they’re saving the texture of childhood. And honestly, a wobbly model train falling down a mine in 1983 can hit harder than most modern blockbusters—because it’s not new content, it’s recovered memory.

• In late 2025, the Internet Archive celebrated preserving 1 trillion web pages.

• On December 10, 2025, Instagram rolled out “Your Algorithm,” letting users reset and tweak their recommendations. Framed as empowerment, it’s really an admission that the system is broken. After years of ads, AI sludge, and unwanted content, the black box finally became unbearable. Handing users the controls feels less like progress and more like a retention Hail Mary—a sign that in 2026, curation shifts from passive scrolling to active choice. Basically: the digital equivalent of a restaurant letting you cook your own meal because the chef keeps serving you plastic.

• Microsoft’s attempt to rebrand its news aggregation services to “MS NOW” (My Source for News, Opinion and the World) was met with universal derision, earning an “F” grade from branding agencies.

• The Christmas Day 2025 release of Space Invaders on Xbox Series X mattered not because it was new, but because of how it was framed. It wasn’t treated as a retro gimmick, but as a digital artifact. It’s a sign that early video games are shifting from entertainment to heritage—the industry finally treating its past the way cinema treats silent films.

🔗 Curated Links: Oddities & Inspirations

• 1. Send a Message to Your Future Self

  • FutureMe lets you write an email now, receive it years later. No feeds, no algorithms, just a little delayed self-reflection. Reading old FutureMe letters feels like opening a time capsule you forgot you buried, which might be the purest form of digital nostalgia we have.

    🔗 futureme.org

• 2. Neal.fun: The Internet, But Curious Again

  • Neal.fun is a collection of games, visualizations and interactives that feel like discovering a weird website in 2008 — except they’re beautifully designed and deceptively smart. From simulating how rich billionaires actually are to mapping absurd internet facts, it’s proof that the web can still be playful without being loud.

    🔗 neal.fun

• 3. Fonts In Use’s - The Fonts Behind Pop’s Most Iconic Eras

  • For years, these album covers, posters and press images felt iconic but oddly anonymous — vibes without credits. Fonts In Use does the detective work, tracing the actual typefaces behind pop culture’s biggest moments, from Britney Spears’ early-2000s era to other chart-dominating visuals. It’s a reminder that pop history isn’t just sound and spectacle — it’s also letterforms, layout decisions, and designers quietly shaping how fame looks.

    🔗 fontsinuse.com

• 4. PlayClassic.Games: The Internet as an Arcade Archive

  • Hundreds of retro titles directly in your browser — no installs, no accounts, no nostalgia baiting. It treats early video games less like “retro fun” and more like cultural artifacts that deserve to stay accessible. In a moment when digital history keeps disappearing behind subscriptions and remasters, this feels quietly radical.

    🔗 playclassic.games

• 5. Cassettine: Make Your Playlist Physical

  • Cassettine lets you turn a Spotify, Apple Music or YouTube Music playlist into a shareable cassette-style design in under a minute. A reminder that music sharing used to come with handwriting, plastic cases, and taste you had to commit to.

    🔗 www.cassettine.com

• 6. Scrapbooking Heaven

  • DigitalScrapbook.com is a community and rabbit hole of kits, textures and paper scans that feel delightfully unoptimized. It’s less about polished design and more about personal messiness — cutting, layering and assembling visuals the way people used to before everything needed to be content.

    🔗 digitalscrapbook.com

🔮 2026 Forecast: The Human Watermark

Forget the blue check. The real flex next year? Being verifiably human.

As AI-generated everything floods our feeds, we’re seeing a quiet rebellion rise—one that smells like pencil shavings, sounds like bad voice memos, and looks like something you actually touched. Handwriting. Shaky video. Grainy scans. Proof-of-life aesthetics.

In 2026, authenticity won’t come from blockchain certificates or digital badges—it’ll come from visible friction. Mistakes. Imperfections. That scratchy audio file you almost didn’t post. That zine you photocopied at 2AM. That limited run CD-R with Sharpie scrawl.

It’s not nostalgia. It’s verification.

Welcome to the era of the Human Watermark.

🎟 Pop-Culture Artifact of the Month

The Nintendo Power Glove (1989)

The Nintendo Power Glove was a wildly ambitious flop that accidentally changed gaming forever. In 1989, it shrank NASA-level VR tech into an $80 toy in just five months: an engineering miracle that mostly didn’t work as intended. Gamers hated the lag, the calibration rituals, and the lack of real games, but millions still bought it because it looked like the future (and because late-’80s marketing was unhinged). Its real legacy came later: the Power Glove laid the conceptual groundwork for motion control, from the Wii to Kinect to modern VR.

⭐ Iconic Pop-Culture Photos & Their Secret Stories

• 1. The Envelope That Exposed the Oscars Machinery (2017)

  • At first glance, it looks like chaos. The real story is quieter and more revealing. When Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway announced La La Land as Best Picture at the Academy Awards, the ceremony moved forward as if nothing were wrong. Speeches began. Applause swelled. Cameras stayed locked. Then the correction surfaced: the presenters had been handed the wrong envelope, and Moonlight was the actual winner.

    

    What made the moment iconic wasn’t the mistake, it was the delay. A split-second instinct to protect the ritual over the truth. The photo endures because it captured a rare thing: a perfectly polished cultural machine hesitating, then cracking, live. In retrospect, this image feels like a preview of modern media culture — where errors surface instantly, corrections happen mid-performance and transparency arrives whether you’re ready or not.

• 2. Nirvana, Just Before Everything Changed (1991)

  • This image looks casual. It wasn’t. Shot by Kirk Weddle around the release of Nevermind, this outtake shows Nirvana at the edge of transformation, just before the band became a symbol rather than a group. Grunge didn’t arrive with a manifesto; it arrived through images like this, where discomfort read as honesty.

    

    By the time “Smells Like Teen Spirit” began circulating in late summer 1991, the shift had already started. The sound felt new, but the images mattered just as much:unstyled, uncomfortable, resistant to spectacle. With Nevermind, Nirvana didn’t announce a revolution so much as document one. These photos captured a generation mid-translation: restless, distrustful of polish and uninterested in the excess that defined the decade before it.

• 3. When Culture Stopped Waiting Its Turn (1994)

  • This photo comes from a year when culture didn’t politely queue, it collided. In 1994, Pulp Fiction landed alongside Forrest Gump, The Lion King, and The Shawshank Redemption, while television quietly reset itself with Friends and ER. The image survives not because it’s flashy, but because it marks a saturation point, when cinema, TV and pop storytelling all peaked at once.

    

    The secret of this moment isn’t innovation. It’s density. Too many reference points arrived simultaneously, shaping taste for decades. Looking back, the photo feels less like documentation and more like compression — culture loading faster than anyone expected.

• 4. The Kiss and the Cut That Defined It (2003)

  • Everyone remembers the kiss. Fewer remember where the camera went next.

    

    During the MTV Video Music Awards performance that merged pop eras into a single image, Madonna kissed Britney Spears and moments later Christina Aguilera. The broadcast didn’t linger though. Instead, the camera cut to Justin Timberlake, Britney spears ex-boyfriend, capturing his reaction.

    

🎨 Weird Movie Posters

Here are some of the weirdest and funniest movie posters ever made—the kind that feel less like marketing and more like beautiful accidents. Got other favourites that belong in this hall of fame? Drop them in the comments—we’re always ready to admire more design crimes.

🤔 Poll of the Month.

🎁 Bonus - The Orbit Almanac 2026:

Trying to make sense of the internet, design, and culture in 2026? Same. That’s why we made The Orbit Almanac—part trend report, part cultural weather forecast. Get it here.

📣 What’s New:

Want to collaborate? Got an idea for a feature, a weird project? We’re always open to good conversations and curious partnerships—drop us a line at hello@theorbitstudio.com.

Exclusive Member Resources: Consider becoming a paid subscriber and get access to our Orbit Vault—our members-only library of tools, references, and deep cuts.

Thanks for reading!

Forward this newsletter to your favorite design-nerd friends, internet nostalgics, and lovers of all things odd. See you next month—stay curious!

🛸 – The Orbit Team

The Slinky wasn’t meant to be a toy, it just sort of tripped into history, one staircase at a time. A forgotten coil, a happy accident, and boom: serendipity did its thing. What started as an engineer’s whoops became a wiggly icon that’s been bouncing through living rooms (and timelines) ever since.

The Discovery

In 1943, deep in a Philly shipyard, engineer Richard James was knee-deep in war-time problem-solving: designing springs to keep naval equipment stable during choppy seas. But then? The universe glitched in the best way.

One of his spring prototypes fell off the desk… and didn’t just fall. It walked. Like, actually walked, gracefully flipping end over end across the floor like a tiny metal slinky doing its best runway strut. Think less “military hardware” and more “Toy Story audition tape.”

James knew he’d witnessed something really cool. “If I got the right steel and tension,” he told his wife Betty, “I think I could make it walk.” Lucky for all of us, he did. Out of a sea of boring coils, this one had the ✨it factor✨, the tension, the bounce, the drama. One accidental tumble later, and a humble spring became the most iconic stair-surfer since Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone.

From Oops to Icon: The Slinky Gets a Glow-Up

Most people would’ve just shrugged at a walking spring. Richard James? He went full mad scientist. For two years, he tinkered, tweaking wire types, fiddling with tension, until he recreated that magical “tumble down the stairs without falling on your face” vibe.

But the real MVP? Betty James. While Richard was busy testing prototypes on neighborhood kids (spoiler: they were obsessed), Betty was flipping through a dictionary like it was baby name TikTok. She landed on “Slinky”—a word she felt captured its wiggly elegance and soothing shwoop sound. Iconic.

In 1945, with a $500 loan and big toy dreams, the Jameses launched James Industries out of a workshop in Pennsylvania. The original Slinky was 2.5 inches tall, made of high-grade Swedish steel, and cost just $1. No flashing lights, no batteries, just 98 perfect coils of pure kinetic joy. Basically, the fidget toy of the Atomic Age.

The Instant Hit: Slinky’s Viral Moment (Before Going Viral Was a Thing)

Toy stores weren’t exactly lining up to sell a metal noodle at the beginning though. “A coil of wire? For kids? Really?” But everything changed on November 27, 1945: aka The Tuesday That Launched a Thousand Springs.

That day, Richard and Betty James set up a ramp in the toy section of Gimbels Department Store in Philly. They let the Slinky do its thing: gracefully tumbling down like it owned the place. Within 90 minutes, all 400 Slinkys were gone. Sold out. Total slay.

By the end of the holiday season, over 22,000 Slinkys had flown off shelves nationwide. Not bad for what basically looked like a repurposed spare part. It was the original “I saw it on TikTok” toy moment: only it happened in black-and-white and people wore hats indoors.

The Physics That Made It Wiggle

So what actually makes a Slinky… slink? It might look like magic, but it’s all about physics.

When it walks down the stairs, three forces are doing the heavy lifting: gravity, elasticity, and wave motion. As the spring stretches and snaps back, it shifts energy from potential to kinetic in this oddly graceful way: kind of like physics doing its best impression of a TikTok dance. Hooke’s Law? Turns out, it kinda slaps.

In 1947, Richard James secured a patent for what he described as a “helical spring toy that walks down steps.” Basically: “It moves. Kids love it. Please don’t steal it.”

That spontaneous desk-drop moment? It wasn’t just clumsy: it was genius. The Slinky became a poster child for happy accidents, reminding us that sometimes innovation starts with a fall. Literally.

Catch you next time,

🛸 The Orbit

Read more Creative Threads:

We tested Recraft to see if one tool could really handle image generation, editing and vector design in a single workspace. It mostly does.

Onboarding is effortless. You sign up and you are creating within seconds.
All in one workflow. Generate, resize, erase, expand, all on the same canvas.
Vectorization is fast and clean. Sketches turn into usable vectors almost instantly.
It learns your style. Brand colors, textures and tone are picked up with surprising accuracy.

Especially useful for small teams. It speeds things up and keeps things consistent, even if complex 3D and advanced text handling still need work.

Why we tested it

The folks at Recraft reached out and asked if we’d like to test their tool and share an honest review. As creatives who already work with more AI tools than we care to admit, we thought it was a good opportunity — even if our first reaction was a very familiar “okay, but do we really need another AI image generator?”

Still, the promise was tempting: one space to generate, vectorize, edit and design without juggling half a dozen apps. So we did what we always do. We dropped Recraft straight into our actual Orbit workflow and treated it like a real case study, not a polished demo. Read on to see where we landed. From sign up to first visuals.

There’s also a broader context here that goes beyond any single tool. Marta from our Orbit team works at an advertising agency, and from what she sees daily, adapting to AI isn’t optional anymore. In an already tough market, agencies need to learn how to work smarter, not louder. This isn’t a radical shift — many teams already rely on tools like Freepik or Envato as standard parts of their production workflows. AI tools are simply the next layer, and learning how to use them thoughtfully is becoming less of an experiment and more of a baseline.

First minutes inside

Onboarding is refreshingly quiet. No loud pop ups. No forced tour. You land, sign up and you are in. There is a tutorial if you want it, but the interface explains itself well enough to just start poking around.

That matters. A lot.

The value shows up almost immediately. You type an idea, hit create and get a clean, coherent image back. Background removal, proportion tweaks, layout expansion all happen directly on the canvas. No exporting. No side quests.

Putting it to work

We started small on purpose.
A quick Halloween flyer.
A flat vector dinosaur working from home.
A minimalist ramen logo.

The results came fast and, more importantly, they stayed visually consistent. Switching between flat, textured and more photo realistic looks did not turn into the usual mess of resizing, re exporting and fixing artifacts. Everything stayed in one place. Edit, erase, recolor, expand. It felt collaborative in a strange way. Less like giving commands to a machine, more like shaping something together, a bit like working with that one teammate who just gets it and doesn’t ask you to “circle back” every five minutes.

From notebook to vector

Next stop was vectorization. We uploaded one of our Orbit sketchbook doodles and watched it turn into a clean, scalable vector in seconds.

Normally this means soo many things… scanning, tracing, fixing lines, opening Illustrator, closing Illustrator, reopening Illustrator. Here it just worked.

What surprised us is that it doesn’t stop at simple doodles. Recraft can handle more complex images too and gives you control over the result, you can adjust the level of detail and even reduce or refine the number of colours, depending on what you need. Exhibit A: this very cool dinosaur we made.

It is not perfect, but it is fast enough to turn half ideas into something usable. For small teams juggling multiple projects, that speed alone is a real advantage.

Teaching it our taste

We also tested the custom style feature. We uploaded a handful of Orbit visuals with muted colors, layered textures and clean compositions, and asked it to learn from them.

The results were not identical to our work, but they were recognizably ours. Same mood. Same restraint. Same visual direction. Close enough to be genuinely useful.

Mockups and small surprises

Next up were mockups and posters. The mockup builder is great for quick visualizations. Not print ready, but more than enough to communicate direction in early concept phases.

Poster mode made it easy to test compositions and type layouts without committing too early. A small but very welcome detail: you can duplicate a canvas, switch styles and compare variations side by side without losing your flow.

What stood out

As a small team, we noticed how quickly we could move. No jumping between tools. No hunting for files. No broken flow.

Recraft keeps everything in one place and that changes how ideas develop. The interface feels considered. The outputs feel coherent. The learning curve stays low.

That said, it is important to be clear about what it is not. Recraft is not built for deep 3D rendering or complex multi layer photo manipulation. It is a brand asset machine, not a high end illustration studio.

Text handling is still limited and some outputs need polishing before they are client ready. But it made us rethink how tools can support creativity instead of replacing it.

What’s next and what we’re curious about

Recraft is not trying to be better than every tool you already use. It is trying to keep work moving, keep ideas together and remove the small frictions that quietly eat your time.

For us, that already made it worth exploring.

The free version is enough to test and understand the workflow. If you want more control, the Pro plan starts at $12 per month and unlocks private projects, commercial usage rights, 4K upscaling and access to external models like Nano Banana, GPT 4o, and Flux. That extra flexibility makes a noticeable difference when you want consistent results across a project.

Now we are curious about your take.

What worked for you?
What didn’t?
And which tools are still earning their place in your workflow?

This post was created in collaboration with Recraft. Partnerships like this help The Orbit stay independent and allow us to keep most of our work free. All opinions are our own.

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Before we get into the absolute circus that is the Dutch Barn Vodka hoax, let me just say: Ricky Gervais is exactly the kind of man who would pull something like this. I’ve been lucky enough to see him live twice, and both times were so ridiculously, painfully funny that I left the venue feeling like I needed a chiropractor for my face. The man thrives on chaos, dark humor, and poking every possible bear within a 10-mile radius. So of course he didn’t just launch a vodka campaign. He launched a controversy - because why sell bottles when you can sell outrage, confusion, and the most on-brand marketing stunt imaginable?

So let’s start from the beginning. In November 2023, the comedian became co-owner of Ellers Farm Distillery, publicly stating his intention to develop the brand “in his own way.” Fast forward to early November 2025, Gervais ignited significant controversy by claiming that Transport for London (TfL) had rejected a series of provocative billboard advertisements for his Dutch Barn Vodka brand. He shared mock-ups of fictional billboards on his social media platforms featuring darkly comedic slogans alongside images of himself holding Dutch Barn vodka.

Gervais leaned into the idea that “the powers that be” were trying to shut him up, and the internet ran with it. Before any real ads even existed, the whole thing had already blown past 100 million views simply because people thought someone was trying to censor him.

Then TfL stepped in and cut through the drama, saying the ads hadn’t been submitted to them at all. They also pointed out that a different set of Dutch Barn ads (the tame, approved kind) were already up across the network. The mismatch between the story and reality made it pretty clear the whole thing was more staged mischief than genuine censorship.

Before any physical advertisements appeared, the fake “rejected” billboards generated unprecedented online buzz. Media Agency Group, the agency handling the campaign, reported that the social media controversy generated over 100 million impressions globally before a single out-of-home placement went live.

Only after securing massive online attention did the campaign transition to genuine London Underground and bus advertising. The actual approved creative retained the playful tone while complying with advertising regulations. For instance, the “One day you’ll be underground for good” slogan was modified following TfL guidance, but maintained its humorous intent.

The campaign drew sharp criticism from multiple quarters. Mental health advocates and marketing professionals objected to the suicide-related jokes, saying they were inappropriate for an alcohol brand. The “stab vest” line drew additional criticism, especially after a real knife attack occurred the following day. Comedian Asim Chaudhry responded publicly too, arguing that the ads painted an unfair picture of London. And the original Dutch Barn marketing team raised concerns about the brand drifting away from its earlier emphasis on sustainability and ethical values.

The general public reaction was pretty split. Supporters called the whole thing bold satire and “genius marketing,” celebrating how it grabbed massive attention without spending on traditional ads. Critics, meanwhile, argued the jokes didn’t land and felt out of place for an alcohol brand, questioning why Dutch Barn would lean into controversy instead of its actual strengths like sustainability and quality. In the industry chatter, some marketers labeled the approach “lazy” or “tone-deaf,” seeing it as a play for engagement rather than long-term brand building.

Despite all the internet drama, the campaign did exactly what it set out to do: explode across the internet and grab a massive amount of attention. Some marketing folks questioned whether that kind of stunt actually builds a strong brand or just creates a very loud moment. But here is the thing: Dutch Barn donates from every sold bottle of Dutch Barn Ginger Spiced Vodka to a donkey sanctuary, which means the more the campaign took off, the more donkeys ended up getting helped. So yes, the marketing world is still debating the strategy… but the donkeys definitely won.

I’ll be honest: I’m not exactly a neutral observer here. I’ve been a Ricky Gervais fan for years, and I’m well aware that his comedy isn’t just sharp, but it can be very brutal. Part of what I admire is that he doesn’t really acknowledge the concept of “off limits”; he’ll poke at anything, anyone, anytime. And in a world that increasingly feels like a bizarre parallel timeline, where every news cycle reads like rejected Black Mirror scripts, that kind of humor can be a relief. Sometimes laughing at the absurdity, even when it feels slightly inappropriate, is the only thing that keeps the whole thing from tipping into pure dystopia.

If any of these fake ads weren’t your thing or felt off, that totally makes sense - this kind of humour isn’t for everyone. But before writing Ricky Gervais off completely, it’s worth remembering how much work he does as an outspoken advocate for animal welfare:

• Major donations:

  • £427,243 donated from Supernature platinum tickets (2022) to: International Animal Rescue, Animals Asia, Nowzad

  • £1.91 million donated from Armageddon platinum tickets (2023) to 11 charities, including All Dogs Matter, Helping Rhinos, Wild Futures, PDSA, and others.

  • Planning to beat £1.91M with the Mortality tour (2025).

  • All “platinum ticket” profits go directly to animal charities instead of scalpers.

• Awards:

  • PETA Person of the Year (2013)

  • Genesis Award (2015) — Humane Society

  • Cecil Award (2018) — Humane Society International

  • Lord Houghton Award (2017) — Animal Defenders International

• Major Campaigns:

  • Trophy Hunting: One of the loudest global voices after Cecil the lion’s killing; regularly exposes hunters.

  • Yulin Dog Meat Festival: Worked with HSI; a rescued dog was named “Ricky” in his honor.

  • Lucy’s Law: Helped push new UK legislation banning puppy-farm sales (passed in England).

  • Shark Cull (WA, 2014): Publicly campaigned against the policy; the cull was later scrapped.

  • Bear Bile Farming: Adopted a rescued moon bear (“Derek”) and helped amplify campaigns leading to Vietnam ending bile farming.

  • Romanian Dog Crisis (2015): His retweet boosted donations from ~£4k to over £24k in days.

  • Save Ralph (2021): Starred in global anti-animal-testing film.

  • Fake Rescue Video Campaign: Helped shut down harmful staged animal “rescue” content online.

• Social Media Advocacy

  • Promotes #AdoptDontShop and rescue centers daily.

  • Amplifies petitions, exposes cruelty cases, and raises awareness for research animals.

  • Uses his platform to “name and shame” trophy hunters and push international pressure.

Ricky Gervais has been fully vegan since 2022, a choice he made because “it felt hypocritical to save dogs but eat sheep”, and even ensures the food shown on-screen in his projects is plant-based. His philosophy is simple: animals don’t have a voice, so he uses his “loud one,” and he plans to leave most of his fortune to animal charities.

I will finish with this:

December’s here, and the internet put on a sweater but stayed weird. This month serves as a quick tour of design curios, pop-culture debris, and a fun MySpace rabbit hole.

🌟 Fresh Orbit: Creative News & Quick Takes

• On November 1, Squarespace pulled a large set of Monotype fonts from its platform. Because Monotype controls libraries like FontFont, ITC, and Linotype, the change hit tons of sites at once. Likely a cost-cutting move after Squarespace’s PE acquisition, it’s the latest battle in the font-licensing wars. Call it the “Great Font Divorce”: a spreadsheet decision that breaks brand consistency and makes designers scramble for replacements.

• As a perfect counter-point to the closed-wall corporate drama, November also saw a major “creator-led” font release. Jennie of the K-Pop group Blackpink released “Zen Serif”. The artifact itself is notable: it is a high-quality, free-to-download typeface, primarily for Hangeul (Korean) but including a “surprisingly nice” and robust Latin character set designed by Leo Type.

  

• Following a heist of the French Crown Jewels at the Louvre, the internet became obsessed with a bystander in a viral photo dubbed “Fedora Man.” The Theory: Was he a time traveler? The mastermind? A film noir ghost? The Reality: The ‘Fedora Man’ turns out to be... a teenager named Pedro. He stayed silent for days to “let the mystery simmer.” “I like to be chic,” he said. “I go to school like this.”

  

• LG launched the ‘AeroCatTower,’ a $1000+ heated throne for your cat that also cleans the air. Peak servitude achieved.

• The month’s defining mood was delivered via paparazzi photos of Ben Affleck. A new image of the actor, this time “dressed in a three-piece suit with his shirt partially unbuttoned,” went viral. The photo, which captured him “lost in thought” and “perfect[ing] the art of looking done with everything” while smoking outside a hotel, sparked an immediate “meme-frenzy”.

  

• This artifact is the 2025 spiritual successor to “Sad Affleck.” It represents the ambient, existential mess: a visual shorthand for the collective “existential meme scroll” of late 2025.

• Affinity rolled out a new brand in early November 2025. The free plan stole most headlines, but the identity itself really landed with designers. Unlike Cracker Barrel’s top-down nostalgia tweak, Affinity built the look with its community: the cheeky “fresh.af” line (Affinity = af) sets a knowing, slightly out-there tone. The work was a joint effort across Affinity, Canva, and Twist, with a Rob Clarke logotype and a custom Ohno typeface. Because the process matched the promise: “for creatives, by creatives” and the response was largely upbeat: fresh, fun, and fit for how people actually use the tools.

• RIP Messenger Inbox ads. Facebook is killing the ad placement on Nov 11, forcing marketers to be slightly less invasive.

• The primary aesthetic resurrection of November 2025 is “Frutiger Aero”. This is the design language of the early 2000s, defined by “techno-optimism,” “glossy buttons, water reflections and blue skies”. It’s the aesthetic of Windows Vista, early social media, and a pre-minimalist internet. Its resurgence is not random. It is being explicitly championed as a “visual antidote to today’s overly flat design styles”. This is a conscious, creative rebellion against the “blanding” of corporate minimalism: the very aesthetic that Cracker Barrel just tried, and failed, to adopt. Creatives are fleeing the “flat” present by embracing a “glossy” past.

• That ‘We from the same place’ trend is the internet finding its hivemind over ‘oddly specific, deeply relatable moments.

• The nostalgia cycle is now officially eating its own tail. A November 13 article in Dazed documents how fashion is “stuck in an endless remix of bygone eras”. The prime artifact of this is the return of Kylie Jenner’s “King Kylie” persona, the “quintessential 2016 baddie”. The analysis notes that the nostalgia cycle is so broken that all eras are happening at once, from 2015 “Jason Derulo” outfits to Y2K butterfly tops. This “stylistic déjà vu” is framed as “comfort in trying times”. The culture is not just remembering 2016; it is actively retreating to a pre-pandemic, pre-AI-anxiety moment of perceived “main character” social media energy.

• The month’s “high-brow” expression of this retreat is the launch of the new “Tutankhamun Spatial Archive” by Oxford University’s Griffith Institute. This is literal digital archeology. The new, searchable, high-resolution database was launched to mark the exact 100th anniversary of the unwrapping of Tutankhamun’s mummy in November 1925. The archive is a digital resurrection of one of the “most detailed archaeological archives ever assembled,” including thousands of photos, object cards, and drawings.

• Kickstarter Weirdness: ‘The Uprising’ is a board game about Teutonic Knights vs. Heathen Prussians. Very specific. Very intense.

• Devine officially announced the long-awaited comeback of Vine, triggering a surge of excitement across social platforms. In its first wave of user reports, the team confirmed 10,000 early users already onboard. Early feedback highlights strong nostalgia and growing creator interest. Notably, Devine stated that the platform will ban AI-generated content, positioning itself as a space for human-made creativity and authentic expression.

🔗 Curated Links: Oddities & Inspirations

1. deathgenerator.com
   Highly addictive generator that lets you write your own dialogue into vintage game scenes.

1. randomdailyurls.com

   A human-curated feed of the internet’s strangest, smartest hidden sites, delivered every weekday. No AI, just one person digging up genuinely useful, odd or inspiring links from the deep web. Surprisingly rich for creative inspiration.

2. An Electic Libary
   A minimal, old-web archive collecting rare and unusual books across history, philosophy, medieval and eccentric niche topics. A quiet, fascinating library of digital oddities. Great for inspiration, research or mind-wandering.

3. neocities.org
   A sprawling network of over a million personal websites bringing back the weird, handcrafted creativity of the early web. Zero ads, zero data selling!

4. pointerpointer.com

   A mysterious internet classic: wherever you point your cursor, the site finds a photo of someone pointing right back at you. The tiny delay adds just enough drama to keep it weirdly hypnotic

5. flashmuseum.org

   A curated time capsule of iconic Flash games and animations—preserved and playable in your browser via emulation lets you browse flash games by year. Found via randomdailyurls.com (Newsletter Recommendation)

6. incoherency.co.uk/nightdrive

   A procedurally generated, endlessly rolling night highway. Meditative, slightly eerie and perfect for losing yourself for a few minutes (or more).

⁉️ Questions No One Asked (But We Answered Anyway)

What was the obsession with putting sunglasses on animals in early advertising?

From the late 70s through the 90s, sunglasses were the fastest shortcut to “cool.” Put a pair on a mascot and you didn’t need a backstory: instant swagger, a hint of rebellion, job done. It worked because shades carry real cultural baggage: rock stars, mystery, don’t-look-at-me-but-also-look-at-me energy. Hide the eyes and you create distance and intrigue; add a cute animal and you soften it just enough for mass appeal.

Anthropomorphism did the rest. Animals grab attention, feel friendly, and stick in memory; sunglasses stamped them with attitude. That’s how we got Spuds MacKenzie’s party-dog myth and Chester Cheetah’s too-cool-for-school persona. Brands chasing youth audiences loved the formula: fun, a bit naughty, endlessly merchable.

Of course, the trick got overused. By the late 90s, “animal + shades” read either effortlessly iconic or trying-way-too-hard. And it wasn’t universal. In some markets, the concept doesn’t translate—cultural norms around animals can make the gag feel off or even disrespectful. What felt like play in the U.S. could miss the mark elsewhere.

Sunglasses weren’t just props; they were a cultural code. When brands paired that code with an animal mascot, they borrowed cool, built quick trust, and sold a mood. Today’s revival (from emoji 😎 to ironic retro packaging) proves the symbol still works: use it with intention, not as a default.

🦴 Internet Archaeology

MySpace’s strangest celebrity profiles and their custom CSS chaos (a tiny museum tour)

MySpace let you paste CSS right into your “About Me,” which sat in the middle of the page: not the <head>—so profiles loaded as a flash of butt-ugly content before the styles kicked in. Everything was tables inside tables, random element names like lightbluetext8, glitter GIFs, autoplay songs, Comic Sans on neon. It was lawless—and iconic.

Greatest hits, briefly:

• Kim Kardashian (“kimsaprincess”): wall-to-wall pink, Comic Sans, princess era turned up to 11.

• Lana Del Rey (as Lizzie Grant): fireworks, glitter, and proto-Lana obsessions (poison, motorcycles, morphine).

• Kendall Jenner (“horsegirlkj”): the username that launched a thousand winces.

• Kesha (2008): feral, funny, unfiltered bio energy—exactly the chaos she later sold as hits.

• Katy Perry — Neon hero photo, fuchsia links, Friend Space full of era icons. Like a CD booklet exploded: bright, bubbly, comment-bait.

• Lady Gaga — Black/cyan club theme with silhouette logo and event widgets. Early DIY pop-star branding—half flyer, half diary.

When MySpace finally killed custom CSS in 2010, people were mad—but it saved eyeballs. Facebook later tested profile colours and proved the same point: unlimited freedom often looks… bad. Those chaotic celeb pages are perfect time capsules of the pre-“personal brand” internet—messy, human, and weird in ways a template never will be.

❌ Branding & Campaign Fails

Downyflake Toaster Eggs

Downyflake Toaster Eggs were a 1970s attempt to answer the question nobody asked: What if breakfast tasted like regret and the inside of a well-used Tupperware left in someone’s car?

They were basically frozen, rubberised egg pucks you were expected to drop into a toaster - because apparently the 70s were a lawless time when “protein cooked by radiant heating coils” sounded sensible.

Predictably, they came out looking like industrial insulation and chewing like a stress ball that had seen things. The product died almost instantly, partly because toasters are terrible at heating eggs, and partly because microwave ovens showed up and said, “Absolutely not, you morons.” Today they live on only in nostalgic lists of “Foods That Should Never Have Happened,” right next to toaster bacon and every other culinary war crime of that decade.

🎟 Bizzare Packaging Designs

Holiday season is here, which usually means every brand is stress-wrapping itself in sparkles, limited editions, and questionable creative decisions. So let’s take a look at this and last year’s packaging drops, all of which are less Silent Night and more Mean Girls Jingle Bell Rock performance.

• KFC × Squid Game

  In June 2025, KFC Germany dropped a limited “New Korean Chicken” menu tied to the final season of Squid Game: pink-bun burgers, Korean-glazed wings, and buckets/boxes dressed like series merch. The vibe? Street-food meets dystopia meets fried-chicken comfort, all wrapped in pastel-pink packaging that looks more like a hype-drop than takeout. Oh, and it wasn’t available in the US.

• Liquid Death – “Death Dust” Kids Drink Mix

  A hydration powder dressed like it’s auditioning for a metal album cover. Moody, high-contrast graphics for a product that’s… basically electrolytes.

• Coca-Cola Y3000 “AI Flavor” Bottle

  Vaporwave gradient fever dream generated “with AI.” Looks like a soft drink from the metaverse vending machine that no one asked for (but everyone still bought).

• Heinz “Hot 57”

  Bright-neon, flame-coded bottle that’s part hot sauce, part visual assault.

• Bonus (since it’s not actual packaging):

  Doritos “Silent Chips”

  Not an actual retail chip. It’s a concept built around “software-assisted silent crunching” for gamers, meaning it literally listens for chewing sounds and cancels them out in real time.

📣 What’s New:

• We have a Sale! Last few days of our Winter Sale, go check our our templates!

  

• Exclusive Member Resources: More articles, templates, and creative tools added to our premium content library. Subscribe!

“What are those?!”

“Do it for the vine.”

“I could have dropped my croissant!”

If you just heard those in your head, you’re probably part of the generation raised on six-second masterpieces.

Lets rewind to 2013: You open Vine and scroll past someone is making pancakes to trap music, a six-second sketch punching harder than some sitcoms: Chaos and comedy packed into a 6-second-loop.

It wasn’t polished or perfect. But it was authentic and fun.

And then – poof. Gone.

Rescuing Vine from Digital Oblivion

Now, in another twist straight from the timeline multiverse, Vine is back. Rebranded as diVine, it’s got a new coat of paint, funding from Twitter co-founder Jack Dorsey and a clear message: short-form video isn’t dead, it just needed a soul again.

DiVine wants to restore the spirit of spontaneous, scrappy, human-first content: the kind born on cracked phones, at odd angles, from bad light and not from templates.

Funding is provided by Dorsey’s nonprofit, “and Other Stuff”, launched in May 2025 to support open, experimental tools aimed at reshaping social media. This open infrastructure lets anyone contribute, moderate and preserve content.

To build diVine, Evan Henshaw-Plath (aka rabble), an early Twitter employee and part of the “and Other Stuff” initiative, dug into Vine’s archives. After Twitter announced Vine’s shutdown in 2016, a volunteer group called the Archive Team stepped in to preserve its videos. Though unaffiliated with Archive.org, this collective has made it their mission to rescue disappearing corners of the internet.

The rebooted app runs on Nostr, an open-source, decentralized protocol backed by Jack Dorsey. It gives developers full control to build apps, operate their own nodes, and host content independently. New uploads are verified as human-made using technology from the Guardian Project, a nonprofit focused on civil rights and privacy.

Unlike the original Vine, diVine claims that it will not be vulnerable to corporate shutdowns and can’t be taken offline, which sounds community-powered this time around.

Community, Culture and Recreating a Feeling we Barely Understood

Within 4 hours of beta test launch, over 10,000 users signed up.

According to Rabble, a substantial portion of the original Vine content and user profiles has been recovered. DiVine is rolling out access to more than 170,000 archived Vine videos and old 62,000 creator accounts, restored from a backup. While not everything could be saved, each user is being given a fresh start on the new open network.

Unlike many platforms where content is often not labeled as AI-generated, diVine claims to detect and prohibit publishing such content.

A Creator-First Playground

If you’re a creator tired of chasing trends or tweaking your content to please the algorithm gods, diVine might be the closest thing to freedom we’ve seen in years: a creative reset. According to the website, you can choose your algorithm or even create new ones for others to use.

For the first time, creators can earn through direct tips, Bitcoin’s Lightning Network and privacy-preserving payments, fixing one of Vine’s old failings. Community-driven playlists and curation, plus open-source tools, break up the old model of platform control.

Why This Hits Differently in 2025

Have you ever followed a creator and found yourself wondering “Are they even real?” You’re not the only one.

Social media used to be people-first. Now feeds are flooded with AI-generated influencers, synthetic voiceovers and algorithmic aesthetics. Instagram reels are stitched together by ai with uncanny perfection.

Content that looks great but feels... off. The uncanny has become the norm. And in that blur, diVine’s promise “social media by humans, for humans” doesn’t sound like a revolution. But it does make you pause.

Evan Henshaw-Plath, put it plainly:

“Companies see the AI engagement and they think that people want it... but we also want agency over our lives and social experiences. There’s a nostalgia for the early Web 2.0 era... building communities, instead of just gaming the algorithm.”

A protest wrapped in Nostalgia?

DiVine arrives as part of a counterculture moment.

It’s looking around and realizing how much realness we’ve actually lost. Life became a performance. What we eat is content. What we wear is an aesthetic. Our apartments, our hobbies, even our personalities — all curated for clicks.

It here reminds us that before social media became a growth funnel, it was a playground. It was weird. It was deeply human. Nostalgia always comes in waves. But this one feels different.

And in the middle of that performance, something like diVine shows up and says: maybe it doesn’t have to be this way.

A resurrected digital ghost

We’ve seen this play before: Tumblr got fun again, until it didn’t. BeReal felt refreshing, until the ads showed up, Instagram…lets not talk about instagram…

DiVine is stepping into a tension between nostalgia and exhaustion, between the promise of “real” and the pull of platforms that always end up monetizing connection. It shows over and over again that authenticity and monetization don’t always mix well.

Platforms don’t stay pure for long.

And people move on. Which might be the point.

Maybe it’s not about which app wins, or whether Vine 2.0 sticks. Maybe it’s about something deeper: digital fatigue. What we’re seeing now isn’t a tech trend. People are quietly looking for an exit from what social media has become. A quiet craving for spaces that aren’t trying to keep us scrolling, steal our data or reward us for following an algorithm. A deep desire for human connection beyond a screen.

DiVine might be a passing moment, or maybe a sign of the shift already underway, away from content and back to people.

Catch you next time,
Sarah

Check other threads:

She’s writing about WD 40?

Yes. WD 40. Why?? Ok, but hear me out.

I was sitting in the kitchen one night, coffee gone cold, laptop open but brain closed.

On the counter sat a can of WD 40.

Not in the toolbox. Not in the garage. Just there.

Like it had migrated on its own and decided this was home now.

The blue and yellow label caught the light from the fridge.

It looked confident. Too confident for a can that’s basically oily water.

I picked it up and realised I had no idea what was actually inside it.

So I looked it up, half out of boredom and half to prove that I use the internet for useful things sometimes.

That’s when I fell down a rabbit hole, starting with rocket engineers and ending with marketing geniuses, brand cults and people spraying their shoes with petroleum.

What I found out

WD stands for Water Displacement and the 40? The 40 refers to the fact that they messed it up 39 times before getting it right.

According to the brand’s own history page the Rocket Chemical Company in San Diego developed the formula in 1953 to protect the outer skin of the Atlas missile from rust and corrosion. The formula worked so well that workers began sneaking cans home.

A product built for missiles ended up in household drawers.

Brilliant.

Who invented it? Depends who you ask. The company honours Norman B. Larsen for marketing it it as an aerosol.

Historian Iris Engstrand points to chemist Iver Norman Lawson, who sold the formula for 500 dollars.

Five hundred dollars for one of the most successful consumer formulas ever! Let that sink in.

What’s actually inside

No secret NASA compound. No alchemy. Just hydrocarbons, light petroleum oils and some CO₂.

The Safety Data Sheet lists them openly.

It’s basically oil in a spray-can pretending to be a miracle.

But the trick is in how it works. It seeps into joints, displaces water and leaves a film that makes you feel like you know what you’re doing.

Which… in the world of DIY is half the battle.

How a tool became a cult

WD 40 could have stayed boring. Instead, it went mythic.

In the 90s the company asked users what weird fixes they used the spray for.

They ended up with a public list of 2000+ Uses that ranges from the legit (rusty bolt) to the absurd (gum removal).

There’s even a legend about a tuna-boat engine dunked in salt water, sprayed and revived.

Today I Found Out couldn’t verify it, but the myth lives on.

People don’t buy a lubricant. They buy the fantasy that anything stuck in their life can be freed with enough spray.

From rocket fuel to pop culture

By the time Hank Hill in King of the Hill said “Give me a tap and die and some WD 40 and you can fix just about anything,” the product was cultural shorthand.

Then art collective MSCHF launched Smells Like WD 40, an industrial-fragrance parody that actually sold out.

WD 40 didn’t sue. They reposted it and laughed along.

When your brand laughs at being memed, you’ve already won.

Their YouTube channel feels like ASMR therapy for people who like control: rusty hinges, slow motion sprays, satisfying fixes.

Subscribe now

WD 40 in action: the internet’s most determined problem solver

Sometimes the marketing team doesn’t even need actors. The product does the drama.

1. The squeaky hinge classic

2. The stuck-zipper redemption

3. The car-guy gospel

4. The myth of the can

The fine print nobody reads

Here’s the twist. WD 40 isn’t technically a lubricant.

Or a cleaner.

It’s kind of both, but it isn’t great at either.

The company even admits it can damage rubber and some plastics if mis-used.

That’s why they launched WD 40 Specialist: a sub-brand for people who finally read labels.

Black cans, words like Silicone or Dry Lube or Degreaser.

Feels like perfume ads for mechanics.

It’s a perfect feedback loop:

Sell everyone a universal fix. Watch them misuse it. Then sell the special version to fix their misuse.

Problem, solution, correction kit.

Capitalism at its finest.

“WD 40 fixes everything.”

Until it doesn’t. Then WD 40 fixes that, too.

And the best part?

The same people who bragged about using the blue can for everything now say: “No no, I only use Specialist. I’m not a rookie.”

The cult upgraded.

It’s genius.

The fix for overusing WD 40 is still … more WD 40.

The WD 40 playbook

Solve a boring problem completely.

Rust isn’t glamorous. Reliability is.

Name the job, not the dream.

“Water Displacement 40” sounds like a lab label. A clear, functional name builds trust – That’s why it sticks.

Turn your origin story into folklore.

Tell your “garage moment.” People love the myth of persistence: Forty tries, one win.

Let your fans write the script.

“2000 uses” is crowd-sourced mythology. User stories build credibility faster than any ad.

Laugh at yourself.

If someone memes your product and you repost it, you’ve achieved something.

Build your upgrade path.

Start general. Move specialist. Keep people buying.

Admit your limits.

Transparency beats perfection. Say what you don’t do and people will trust what you do.

Reality check

WD 40 is petroleum based, flammable, and about as sustainable as a lawnmower running on nostalgia.

It leaks a bit, smells industrial and sits proudly on shelves while the world is melting.

That’s the uncomfortable truth.

The can people call a “lovebrand” is still built on fossil fuel.

It shouldn’t work in 2025, yet it does.

Maybe because humans are sentimental hypocrites.

Maybe because we like things that make us feel capable, even when they aren’t clean.

WD 40 doesn’t promise ethics. It promises control.

Takeaway

WD 40 isn’t just a spray can. It’s a mirror.

We like to think we’ve evolved past the petroleum age, yet we still worship the things that make us feel capable. We reward reliability, even when it’s built on oil. Function will always beat ethics, as long as the story feels good enough. Maybe that’s what keeps the can on the shelf.

It works, and we’d rather not ask ourselves why.

Catch you next time,

The Orbit

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