• The latest from my posts

    May 2026

    The Shovel Sellers of LinkedIn

    In May 1848, a San Francisco shopkeeper named Sam Brannan ran through the streets holding a glass bottle of gold dust above his head, shouting "Gold! Gold from the American River!"

    He had not discovered it. He had not mined it. What he had done, before his one-man parade, was quietly buy up as many picks, shovels, and pans as he could find in San Francisco.

    His store sold up to $5,000 a day to the prospectors his announcement summoned. He never panned for an ounce. He did not create the gold — but he ignited the rush, and he sold the tools to chase it.

    Scroll LinkedIn for ten minutes and you'll find his descendants.

    "I made $40,000 in 90 days. Here's the exact system — DM me 'GROWTH' for the free PDF."

    "The 5 morning rutines of every seven-figure founder."

    "At 52, I have the energy of a 25-year-old. My secret: a 20-minute protocol I now teach in a $497 cohort."

    These are the shovels. And the people buying them are tired, anxious professionals who are not stupid — they're scared. Scared of AI eating their role, scared of retirement math that doesn't add up, scared of being the last person at the office to figure out what everyone else apparently already knows. Underneath all of it is the oldest motivator there is: the fear of loss. That is what FOMO actually names. The grift works because the fear is real.

    The tell

    The cleanest signature of a shovel-seller is a logical contradiction hiding in plain sight: if the method actually worked, the teacher would not need to teach it. Some people teach for honest reasons — they enjoy it, they want to leave something behind. But the more miraculous the method sounds, the less plausible it becomes that recording a Loom video (one of many tools for making short videos) for strangers is the best use of the teacher's time.

    There is also a deeper move underneath the grift. Real life keeps handing us problems that don't have a clean answer — staying relevant as the work changes, raising a child who turns out well, growing old without disappearing. These are the kind of challenges you adapt to, not the kind you solve. The shovel-seller repackages them as technical problems: five steps, one protocol, a checkout page.

    If you really cracked passive income at $40,000 a month, the rational move is to deploy more capital into the system. If you really have the body of a 25-year-old at 52, your time is worth more in a gym, a clinic, or a research lab than on a webinar funnel.

    The course is the income. The audience is the gold.

    A founding father

    This genre has a founding father, and it is worth naming him: Napoleon Hill, whose 1937 book Think and Grow Rich remains widely described as one of the bestselling self-help books ever published.

    Hill built his entire authority on a single story. In 1908, he claimed, Andrew Carnegie — then the richest man in the world — personally commissioned him on a twenty-year unpaid mission to interview five hundred millionaires and distill the universal laws of wealth.

    David Nasaw, the Carnegie biographer, later said he found no evidence of any kind that Carnegie and Hill ever met. Hill only began telling the story publicly after Carnegie died in 1919.

    Here is the part that matters. Think and Grow Rich did make Hill rich — for a while. It is also the only thing that clearly did. Outside the success literature that made him famous, Hill's business record was littered with failed ventures and fraud accusations. The man who claimed to have decoded the laws of wealth could not apply them to anything except selling the book about them.

    The template hasn't changed in ninety years. Only the platform has.

    Why this is worse than annoying

    A course that takes $497 is not the worst thing on the internet. The harm runs deeper than the credit card charge.

    It teaches people that depth is a marketing problem. That mastery is a five-step list. That the answer to a hard life question is always one purchase away. It trains a generation of professionals to mistake confident packaging for actual knowledge — and then to produce confident packaging themselves, because that is what seems to work.

    It also crowds out the real thing. A craftsman who has spent twenty years getting good at something may teach — but usually with specificity, limits, and scars. The shovel-seller sells certainty, speed, and transformation without cost. The honest voices get drowned out by the loud ones, and the platform starts to feel like a marketplace where nobody is actually selling anything except the appearance of having something to sell.

    What's actually worth your time

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