loud cars. fragile egos. and the masculinity crisis no one admits. | musing no. 2

what hole are you trying to fill, brother?

The weather’s finally nice, which means two things:

1. Your allergies are back.

2. Insecure men are about to make everyone else’s life louder (cuffed PSA to young men.)

You know exactly who I’m talking about. The guys who rip down the street in what sounds like a decommissioned fighter jet. The Harley bros in $1,500 denim who dress like they’re auditioning for a very specific parade—big beards, leather vests, and not a shred of irony. Nobody ever talks about how weirdly homoerotic the “biker look” is, except for South Park—and they nailed it.

But here’s the thing: this isn’t just about motorcycles or douchebag cars.

It’s class performance. It’s masculinity on display. It’s ego and insecurity—and it cuts across every income bracket.

Rich guys don’t usually ride obnoxiously loud Harleys. That’s more of a working-class “I need you to hear me coming” move. But don’t get it twisted—rich guys peacock too. They just do it with cars that scream, “I don’t just have money—I need you to know I have money.” Think bright orange Lambos, custom exhausts on Ferraris, or $300,000 McLarens they barely know how to drive.

And every time I see it, I think the same thing:

What hole are you trying to fill, brother?

Because here’s the truth: it’s all coming from the same place.

The loud engine. The aggressive flex. The extra watch. The third car.

It’s not confidence. It’s the lack of it.

It’s pride. Ego. Scarcity mindset.

It’s men trying to convince the world—and themselves—that they matter.

But let’s be honest… most of them don’t even like the car that much.

They like the reaction to the car.

They don’t love driving. They love being seen driving.

Which is why a Tesla Model S Plaid is the perfect antidote.

I drive one. Just one car. No collection. No backup.

I’ve pulled into valet lots where 19-year-old kids say, “What else do you have? This thing is insane.”

I tell them, “This is it. Why would I need more?”

They look confused—like I’ve just told them I don’t like oxygen.

But here’s the thing: I’ve bought the toys. And I’ve realized this:

Every luxury eventually becomes a burden.

The first watch is exciting.

The second one is less so.

By the third, you’re just storing value on your wrist like a portable safe—but you don’t care anymore.

It’s all diminishing returns.

And the faster you learn that, the freer you are.

I’m not anti-success. I’m not anti-money.

I just don’t want to be tricked into chasing happiness down a path paved with empty flexes and engine noise.

Because the world doesn’t need more loud men.

It needs men who are quietly secure.

Men who’ve done the work, paid the price, and realized that the real power isn’t in the exhaust—it’s in the silence that comes after.

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