Webworm regular Hayden Donnell with an essay about the incompetent executive class.

Much has been written about the structural factors accelerating the media’s demise. Tech giants have hoovered up its ad revenue like the sandworms from Dune. Its audiences have migrated to TikTok, or worse, X, where they routinely mistake the deranged inner monologue of @MAGAJackie28743781 for objective journalism.

Less has been written about the incompetence of the media’s executives. Vice was home to some of the world’s most principled and talented journalists, but it was also run by cartoonish charlatans who blew half the op-ex on jobs for their friends, cocaine and general horndoggery.

Mostly though, media bosses have demonstrated more mundane strategic ineptitude.

Enjoy the episode, and see you in the comments over at https://www.webworm.co/p/buffoons

Note: A lot of you seemed to appreciate that I recorded last week’s story, “Gary”, as a mini-podcast. So I’ve done that again today. I can’t do this every time, but when I can, I will. Listen or read, you choose.

Hi,

Greetings from Austin, Texas. I’ve been lucky enough to run into a few Webworm readers here, and also got to meet some pretty great animals — which is my therapy.

I also ended up at an amazing little store called ‘We Luv Video’, which had an amazing array of DVDs (and VHS tapes!) to rent. And there on the shelf as I walked in was Tickled — something I’ve never seen in the wild here in the US.

There was a short staff recommendation taped to the cover: “I’m not a big fan of true crime documentaries, but this is just bizarre. Highly recommended,” said Clarke.

Thanks, Clarke. Clarke made me realise I’ve never really thought of any of my stuff as “true crime” — more “here’s another story goes that down the rabbit hole”. But I guess Tickled was sort of true crime, as was Mister Organ. As was last week’s Gary.

So I suppose this is, sort of, a true crime addition of Webworm. Because the story I told last week about brushing up against death seemed to really resonate — and I wanted to share some of the stories you shared with me.

I was surprised how many of you have interacted with people who went on to kill — in the case of one reader, an hour after you decided not to give them a lift in your car.

My intent isn’t to create a salacious edition of Webworm, but perhaps just as a reminder of how interlinked we all are, with the good and the bad. And that we all have this very unexpected stuff in common. Maybe that’s to be expected — we’re all doing this whole “being human” thing together after all.

It’s also another chance to explore that thing I fear so much: Dying.

My pet theory is that I spent about 20 years of my life firmly believing in an afterlife, and when that belief went away I felt deeply uneasy about the alternative: The very natural act of simply ceasing to exist. Hardly seems fair. I like being alive.

Of course I also spent 20 years absolutely convinced that an eternity in hellfire was a real possibility (I think a lot of conservative Christians don’t actually believe this bit, they just say they do), and when you believe something that long — a little stain remains deep inside your brain.

That stain is fear.

But enough about me. This one is about you. And these stories you told me.

Some of them are a little light hearted, some of them less so. Please read with care.

Kath

I thought finding a meth addicted drug dealer living in my ceiling was as wild as it could get, but to my knowledge the meth addicted drug dealer had never openly murdered anyone.

He must have been up there for at least a couple of months.

In my defense, it was in Brisbane and if you’ve ever had possums in your ceiling space they do sound like a person banging about up there.

I noticed the hard-wired smoke detector wasn’t working and called our building maintenance man to come and have a look, and he could see sunlight and sky through the hole the detector was wired through. Which should not happen.

The dude had ripped roofing tiles out to give himself ventilation.

I am eternally grateful that there were no access hatches in my flat.

Lauren

As a kid, my Dad’s parents both worked so he often stayed at the house of a woman who was his Boy Scout leader. He would stay there after school until his parents got off work.

Fast forward a few years: Turns out, after seeing her face plastered on the front of the newspaper and seeing most wanted posters around town, his babysitter became one of the most wanted fugitives in San Francisco.

She had killed a couple of people and buried them in her garage. I believe in the timeline this was a couple years after she babysat him, so there weren’t bodies buried while he was there.

Sara

Me and my girlfriends meet a bunch of lads at a festival. They were fun and rowdy, and some were single — which the other singles in my gal gang were keen on.

We kept in touch and were invited to a Halloween party a few weeks later.

It was a Saturday and the night before the Rugby World Cup final, so [it was] a big call to have a party then, when everyone would be up at 4am to watch the cup.

My boyfriend didn’t want to come for that very reason, and he also raised concerns about us not really knowing these people that well.

But we felt safe, we had good judgment, so me and the girls all went. Dressed up, I was a crazy cat lady (my favourite Halloween costume to date), the other girls were a hippy, medusa, and the black swan ballerina.

The party was in a house of a guy dressed as Superman and everyone came dressed up. It was a great effort! There was a pirate, cookie monster, a big cuddly teddy, and so on.

It was a balmy October night, and things were looking fun. There was just this one niggle though. Superman’s flatmate, who also lived in the house, was not at all dressed up. He was tense, he was erratic, and he had meticulously laid plastic all over every carpeted part of the house.

He made strange jokes and he switched between friendly and strange constantly. I got bad vibes from him, but no-one else really noticed. They found him funny. “Was he just being funny?” I thought to myself.

I kept a close eye on him. Whenever someone picked up a drink he would quickly wipe the cup ring off the kitchen bench before they put their drink down again. It became obsessive. He was irate whenever he found a discarded beer bottle not in the tiny plastic bag he had assigned as the empties bin.

He also started making creepy comments to my friend, the black swan ballerina.

When his flatmate finally took him outside and told him to stop being so weird, I heard him snap back and threaten him. I heard the word “stab”. Things were getting tense. I went inside and told my friend how uneasy I was feeling. I felt I wanted to leave.

The party was humming, all the guests were having a blast in the kitchen, but I felt danger. I took my friend outside to say that something was about to happen. As I began to tell her, I looked in the window to see the strange flatmate storm purposefully into the kitchen, and with horror-movie precision he pulled the biggest knife from the knife block and charged towards his Superman flatmate.

Immediately the pirate and Cookie Monster grabbed him from behind, muscling the knife from his hand before he could cut Superman, and they pinned him down.

As the costumed party goers were piecing together what was happening, everyone ran outside screaming and I called the cops. We all waited for them to come from a fair distance away.

The Armed Offenders squad came in as the strange flatmate sat on the lit up stairwell with a hammer in his hand. There was a fair bit of adrenaline surging after that. The guy was taken away, and most of the party cracked on with their adrenaline high.

The next day, the All Blacks won the World Cup final in the early hours. I cried all through halftime. I couldn’t stop replaying the scene in my head, over and over — seeing him pull the knife from the block, and then rewatching Cookie Monster wrestle the blade out of his hand, saving Superman.

J

I was told a story once by a musician, who said as a child, he and some friends had killed a man. It was an accident, but it still haunts him. He made me vow never to tell anyone how it happened, and I’ve kept my promise.

Amanda

My boyfriend at the time woke me up in quiet glee to softly tell me he’d been to a party and beat the living shit out of a guy. The next day there was a news story: someone had beaten a stranger to death at a local party.

I had some form of cognitive dissonance around it; it couldn’t be the man I was kissed so gently by who loved his two-year-old daughter so much (and did meth, had an illegal gun, and soon outlined to me his plan to try to kill me in a way so that nobody would ever suspect him).

Yeah, we broke up.

I made a police report but they seemed to think I was an angry vengeful ex and nothing ever came from it.

(Amanda has written more about her story here, as a type of closure.)

Miranda

I hate how much I relate to this — but one of my dear friends from high school, who sadly went undiagnosed (and thus, untreated) with severe schizophrenia in our early college years and, in the midst of an episode of psychosis, murdered a local Pastor.

In the tiny rural Appalachian town I grew up in, this was quite the shock. But mainly a shock because it was her. My friend.

Hell, everyone’s friend — this was a lovely, bubbly, stylish and popular girl that everyone absolutely adored.

And one day, she simply up-and-left a hair appointment mid-session and, in her telling, went on the “command of God” to go break into this man’s home and attack him repeatedly with a blunt object.

Please do not be quick to pass judgment. This is a tragic story at its core, for she, her family, and the victim and his family as well.

Anna

In my early twenties I moved into a flat with a group of people I didn't know.

A snarling guy who refused to talk to me and played records loudly at 2am, a friendly gay guy who was never home, and the leaseholder — a woman who ran a second hand clothing shop.

She didn’t let us have a TV in the lounge, and was angry if the house didn’t stay immaculately tidy. I was not tidy.

One day I was in a bit of distress because my goldfish were sick, they had begun swimming on their sides and I didn’t know what to do.

The woman confidently told me she would handle the situation. She fished them out of their tank, carried them into the kitchen and proceeded to cut their heads off with a steak knife.

I moved out soon after.

James

[I’m reminded] of this story:

A demolition crew yesterday ripped down the house in Oriental Bay where 38-year-old Dean Browne was bashed to death with a hammer on January 21 last year.

Mr Browne, from Auckland, was staying with a woman in an upstairs flat in the rambling two-storey house when the small-time drug-dealing Killer Clown Fiends gang plotted to kill him after an argument over money.

At the time I was trying to date a girl who lived in that house, and had visited a couple of times.

She was asleep in her room when her flatmate was murdered, rolled into a carpet, and driven to Taranaki.

L

I once made out with a guy who subsequently murdered his dad. Whenever I’m in one of those ‘get to know you’ things where you do two truths and a lie, I always use that one as one of the truths. I’d say people guess it’s the lie 80% of the time.

Ashley

My mother’s father was murdered when she was 22. I wasn’t quite born yet.

He was shot in his office by a client of his who was on some intense drugs. He shot himself right after and died...so he didn’t exactly get away with it I guess.

It’s weird to think how many lives are affected by brutality just within our small circles.

Lynette

At high school during the fifties, a classmate — due to mental illness — killed his two younger siblings.

We were informed at assembly and just had to get on with it. No counseling or anything soft like that. So we talked amongst ourselves trying to put things in perspective.

I didn’t realise how deep this memory was until now.

I got a very clear picture of a gentle quiet boy that didn’t harass us girls standing on the edge of the rugby field, not allowed to join in because of his parents strict religious beliefs.

In his mind he was saving his sisters from the same fate.

Chris

After my own run-in with a neighbour last year, I understand the obsession (not the knife, mind you).

Mine played the same three songs - ‘Firework,’ ‘Thunder’ and ‘Made You Look’ - on repeat, every day, for six months. When I asked him to stop, he poured weed killer over the lawn.

It absolutely did my head in, and we ended up having to move away.

I don’t like to think about what would have happened had I stayed, but I had to understand why he ended up here, next to me, stuck in this sick musical cycle.

I tracked down his ex-friends, researched his job history, talked to family members and other neighbours. It was just kinda depressing: he was a sad, divorced, angry alcoholic with no friends whose only method of getting attention was to antagonise people relentlessly. Didn’t you make a movie about someone like that once, Dave?

(Chris writes a newsletter about the music industry, where he also detailed his hectic neighbor encounter.)

Trevor

I was driving home in the wee hours of the morning, and stopped to get fuel and a pie in the middle of town. I saw a bloke from high school while I was pumping gas  — he didn’t look in good shape, and had a few teenage kids in tow. They asked for a ride. I said I was “going the other way”, because I definitely got a feeling they were trying to rob me. 

I watched them walk towards the park, and I drove off. 

The bloke stabbed some guy and killed him in that park, just after I’d seen them.

Emily

About eight years ago one of my best friends died. We’re still not sure if it was an accident or a murder.

We just know that it was in the middle of the Arnold Classic, one of Columbus, Ohio’s most chaotic weekends.

He was out drinking with some friends of ours. It was a busy street, and a busy sidewalk. So many people there knew him. He left at some point, got into a car, sent a garbled text message and disappeared. No one saw who’s car he got into. Cameras didn’t catch it.

Joey was missing for about a month before his body turned up in a lake.

There were searches and investigations. Podcast episodes, and Reddit threads. Conspiracy theories, and chapters in books written.

And then at some point the police just stopped looking. Stopped asking for information. At this point, I don’t think we’ll ever know. He didn’t drown, we’re sure of that. We’re not sure of anything else, other than the suspicious nature of it all.

There’s something so weird, and indescribable about grief that goes unpunished. Like little rips in your life that go un-mended. I always want to talk about Joey. To make sure that people know. To shake something up enough that maybe justice will come, or someone will fill that hole, or tell us why it happened, or explain anything at all.

But it’s also hard because when your grief escapes into the world, it takes on a life of its own and you don’t have any control over that either.

You want people to know. You want other people to scream for justice too. But it also seems selfish somehow, like pulling attention for yourself from the loss of someone’s life. I have a hard time grappling with it sometimes. I have a hard time grappling with it now, even.

He was one of my best friends but I’m still not sure if it’s my story to tell.

But I think the stories are worth telling. There’s community in it. Closure, maybe? I don’t know. Maybe I’ll never know. Maybe that weird hole will never close. But I’m comforted to know that things like this roll around in other people’s heads as well.

David here again.

Thanks for sharing — for those of you who commented, or sent me emails: Kath, Lauren, Sara, J, Amanda, Miranda, Anna, James, L, Ashley, Lynette, Chris, Trevor and Emily.

Thanks to those of you who put up with me emailing back, sorting out a few extra details.

I’m not quite sure where this is going, but if you had any stories you wanted to share — I guess loosely based on the idea of “anonymous confessions”, or “a mad thing that happened that I’ve never written down”, I’m curious to hear from you.

I am [email protected]. Tell me if you just want to get it off your chest, or you want to share it more widely.

This idea may go somewhere, or it may not. I just have Emily’s words echoing in my head a little: I think the stories are worth telling. There’s community in it. Closure, maybe? I’m comforted to know that things like this roll around in other people’s heads as well.

Thanks for being here. I love sharing this place with you, and being reminded that all of us are constantly brushing up against chaos — sometimes totally unawares.

David.

Hi,

I wanted to tell you about the time my friend’s flatmate killed the neighbour.

It’s a story I’ve wanted to tell for ages, in a variety of forms. It’s been a podcast series in my head, and sketched out as a much more detailed piece than what you’ll read today.

The main issue I have is that my friend, Gary (not his real name), is reluctant to have me tell it. And I get it. The story I want to tell weaves Gary into the narrative, because I got sucked into that narrative along with him.

Telling it in too much detail hauls up a lot of dark stuff for him — and by the time you get to the end of this particular telling, you’ll probably understand why Gary doesn’t want to be placed in the middle of it. Again.

And so today on Webworm, a short, and very basic version of the story that happened nearly a decade ago. Why? I was on a long long drive and it all flooded back to me, as it tends to do every now and then. But this time when I got home it all just spilled out at the keyboard.

I wrote it, I ran it by Gary, and he’s OK with this slightly vague version. If he wasn’t, I wouldn’t have clicked “send” right now. 

So here it is.

See you in the comments.

David.

To those who choose to subscribe to Webworm — thank you.

Gary

My friend’s flatmate killed the neighbour. I don’t really know how else to say it, because that’s what happened.

I’d gotten to know Gary through work. Gary was incredibly reliable and never let anyone down. He was also gentle, quiet and shy, and deeply funny in a way I haven’t really encountered since. Little quips and observations, and a mean appetite for ice cream at unusual hours of the day. That’s why we became friends.

If I was bored in the office I’d wander over to Gary just to see what was on his mind. I’d usually laugh, and always leave feeling better for the interaction. Plus sometimes he’d share his ice cream.

Gary was an unusual fish. I’m sure he won’t mind me saying that. And I think it was partly for that reason he found himself living with a random assortment of housemates in a quiet suburb in the city. 

It was a house of oddballs, and Gary fitted right in.

One night, at around 12.30am, one of Gary’s housemates, Dan, came home through the back door. That wasn’t particularly unusual; people came and went all the time. What was a little unusual is that Dan headed straight into the bathroom and decided to shave his beard off, before putting a big load of clothes through the washing machine. In a little while, there were sirens and flashing lights as police arrived next door.

I said things were “a little unusual”, but you have to remember I’m writing this with the benefit of hindsight. Gary did not have hindsight back then, so things weren’t particularly unusual at all.

For one thing — that quiet suburb I mentioned earlier? Sure, it was a quieter part of a very busy city. But Gary’s neighbours liked to party on Friday and Saturday nights. This was a regular occurrence, the doof doof of bass and loud drunken conversations penetrating the walls of the house. 

And so the police turning up? It wasn’t all that weird. There’d often be the odd scuffle, or neighbours would simply end up calling police over the excessive noise. As for the beard? When is the right time to shave off a beard? I couldn’t tell you. Midnight is as good a time as any, I suppose. And I’ve put washing on at all hours of the day and night, at much wilder hours than 1am.

The next day, it became clear that something serious had happened. More specifically, someone had slit the neighbour’s throat, and tried to stab someone else. The neighbour was dead, and another man was in critical condition in the hospital.

As the week went on, the police would knock on Gary’s door and talk to everyone at the flat. Bright yellow crime scene tape wound around the neighbour’s house as statements were taken and evidence gathered.

That week Gary and his housemate Dan just did their usual thing. They hung out, watching TV and playing Grand Theft Auto when they were both off work.

Life was, by-and-large, fairly normal.

Gary told me some of this as it happened.

That week I didn’t even think about asking Gary for any ice cream. I was too glued to the murder investigation happening at his neighbour’s house. There had been a few lines in the paper, but nothing more.

I guess most people would be worried — wondering if the killer was going to come back; maybe to Gary’s house this time. But Gary didn’t really think like that. The killer was faraway, somewhere. Life went on.

Then a week after it had happened — maybe it was two weeks — Gary told me the police had arrested his flatmate, Dan. 

Yes, I know you saw this coming. Dan had kept living with my friend as the police did their thing, cool as a cucumber.

When they hadn’t been playing Grand Theft Auto, Gary had joined Dan to watch reruns of The Walking Dead and Dexter.

Since Dan got arrested, Gary had spent a lot more time with the police himself. Understandably so; he’d lived with a killer. Suddenly the details about the beard shaving and clothes washing had become much more important.

Of course the neighbours now knew the man who’d slit their family member’s throat had been living next door. A few nights after Dan’s arrest, someone kicked Gary’s door in. There were screams outside. They were screams of anger. 

Gary called me that night and asked me to come over and help him pack up. He’d been left alone in the house. His other flatmates had left, and Dan was in police custody.

Most people would have left already — gotten the fuck out of that house — but remember I said Gary was reliable. So as everyone left, he’d stayed — helping them pack their belongings, tidying up, and trying to come up with a plan to get his deposit back before he moved out.

Then the door got kicked in and Gary realised it wasn’t safe for him to stay any longer. He called me at around 10pm, and me and another friend went over to help him get his stuff into my car and get the hell out of there.

Gary had all the lights off so the neighbours didn’t know anyone was there. Glass still littered the hallway. We worked by torchlight, getting all of Gary’s personal stuff into boxes. We worked with the assumption none of us would ever return. “Fuck that!” Gary whispered.

At some point I went into the room formerly occupied by Gary’s flatmate. I was filled with a combination of curiosity and dread. Items were strewn around the room; police evidence tape wound haphazardly around certain objects. I saw a bunch of vinyl records featuring some metal bands I really loved, and was hit with the sudden realisation I’d met Dan a few years earlier at a movie screening. We talked about our similar taste in music, and seeing those records brought it all back into focus.

I remember Dan: He was tiny and nerdy and I could hardly believe he’d killed the neighbour.

I looked at the records; some expensive imports that I didn’t own. I considered taking them. Dan would be away for a long time — so who cares?

I didn’t take them.

Gary finally took up my offer to stay on my couch. I explained what had happened to the person I lived with, and she was okay with it. Gary looked tired and relieved.

That first night I slept in my room upstairs, leaving Gary to roam the downstairs lounge. We turned the sofa into a bed, and shut the doors into the hallway so he could have some privacy.

The next morning, I opened the doors to Gary’s makeshift room. He practically flew down the hallway to the bathroom. Turns out Gary had gently tried the doors during the night, trying not to make any noise lest he woke us up. Not budging, Gary assumed we’d locked him downstairs. He spent most the early hours desperately needing to piss.

Holding back laughter, but failing miserably, I explained that the door was sticky and that Gary was an idiot and to please text us or yell at us next time. Later, Gary told me he thought we might have suspected he had something to do with the murder, and had locked the doors to the hallway as a precaution. 

He said he didn’t mind. He understood. 

That thing I said about Gary being gentle, quiet and shy? Yeah, that.

A lot of things came out at Dan’s trial.

Over the last two years, he’d become obsessed with the neighbours.

He especially hated their noise, and those loud parties. He’d logged countless calls with the local council and noise control, obsessively watching the neighbour’s house through the window, noting every coming-and-going.

He ordered checks on number plates of cars that would park nearby on the street, analysing who lived there, and who was visiting. He did it all this both obsessively, and quietly.

Dan kept two journals in neatly ruled lecture books. One was about the different teas he’d collected and brewed. The other was about the neighbours.

At some point, Dan started collecting knives, including some switchblades.

Like many of us, he loved social media, and on Twitter he started tweeting about the neighbours, at one point going so far as to say he was feeling provoked to go and do some murder.

Knowing what I knew from Gary, and reading reports of the trial — it was all looking pretty bad for Dan. One man was dead, and another had almost died. Dan had seen to that. 

For years he’d watched, he’d written, and he’d tweeted. And at some point after that he’d wandered next door and used one of his knives.

Stories don’t always end how you expect, and this one is no different.

Dan was found not guilty, and walked free. No murder, no manslaughter, no nothing.

Maybe it’s not so surprising after all. Dan was small and white, and the neighbours were big and brown. As the story went, Dan had gone outside and had felt intimidated by his neighbours, and so he acted in self defense.

One man died, and Dan returned home, shaved off his beard, and put his clothes in the washing machine. He spent the week watching The Walking Dead and Dexter with my friend.

I think about this story a lot, and how small it makes things feel. The family of the victim lives in the town I spent my childhood in. I wonder how often they think about what happened. I imagine a lot.

I’m friends with Dan on Instagram. I think we followed each other back at that movie night, a year before the killing. He pops up on my feed sometimes. He often posts photos of his cat. We’ve talked now and then via DMs — about nothing in particular.

Never about that night. Always in the back of my mind that podcast, or documentary.

I think this story says a lot about the justice system. Hindsight. Race. Obsession. Justice. Fuck. It’s all just the weirdest thing, even years on. 

While I’m all too aware of the killer and his victims, I always end up thinking the most about Gary. Of course I do. Gary’s my friend. But also I think it’s because we’ve all had those flatmate stories; those nightmare situations we end up in when we live with strangers. But it never gets that bad, or that weird.

And I keep thinking about how they sat on the couch that whole week, Gary blissfully unaware of who he was really sitting next to. Watching Dexter chopping up his enemies on screen. Then saying goodnight to his flatmate and heading off to bed for a sound night’s sleep.

I have no doubt Gary (and possibly others involved in this story) will be in the comments, reading, so keep that in mind. Be kind (you always are), and I have little doubt you’ll have (probably less horrific) housemate/flatmate/roommate stories of your own.

Feel free to share them below — or you can always contact me in confidence at [email protected] if this story has brought up anything for you.

I also just wanted to take this opportunity to say thanks for being a paying Webworm member. You keep Webworm alive. You give me the freedom to write, allow me to get support from lawyers from time to time, and let me try things like Big Worm Farm to support journalism!

To show my thanks I do keep certain Webworms just for you — and this is one of them. It’s a story I’ve wanted to tell for about eight years now, and had no idea how I’d tell it. And Webworm was the logical place, sitting in front of me all along.

So — thank you. I love sharing this place with you.

David.

Episode 15: In this episode, David Farrier chats to Webworm writer Hayden Donnell, before reading his latest piece about the megarich refusing to admit they just got lucky. Farrier then interviews Talk to Me directors Danny and Michael Philippou.

Episode 14: In this episode, David Farrier reads some feedback from Webworm readers, before Hayden Donnell witnesses the "comeback" of Arise's John Cameron, as John attempts to speak in tongues. This is a look at how Pentecostal Christians tend to be a tight club - and how staging a comeback is part and parcel of anyone's fall.

Episode 13: "I talk to the guy behind Paul T Goldman, 2023's best documentary". David chats with Jason Woliner, creator and director of Peacock's PAUL T GOLDMAN. Visit www.webworm.co for more, and to join journalist David Farrier's Webworm community.

Episode 12: "Bad News: ChatGPT Isn't Going to Take Our Jobs". Hayden Donnell looks at what AI like ChatGPT means for the future of human work. The short answer? We're not retiring anytime soon. Visit www.webworm.co for more, and to join journalist David Farrier's Webworm community.

Episode 11: "The Life and Death of P22". A mountain lion walked the streets outside my house, and now it's dead. I'm curious what this fact says about us, and our relationship to nature. This includes an interview with journalist Rob Chaney, author of The Grizzly in the Driveway. For more details see https://www.webworm.co/p/episode11

Episode 10: "I was shot with two arrows — first in my stomach, second in my chest — by a man in the depths of the jungle." In this episode I read an essay by New Zealander Matt Scheurich, who back in 2011 found himself face to face with death after being shot by two arrows. He writes about the experience, and how it changed his ideas about death. See www.webworm.co for more details. Note: this podcast contains coarse language — if you’re listening with the kids in the car, maybe drop the audio down for a few seconds at the 7’28” mark.

Episode 9: In this episode, I answer questions submitted by Webworm readers over on the Webworm app. From "how do you make a documentary?" to "what product is in your hair?", this is 60 minutes of informative fun. See www.webworm.co for more details!