In this episode, Megan K. Senese & Jennifer Ramsey of stage are joined by the incomparable Roy Sexton (me?!), Chief Marketing Officer at Vedder Price, former International President of the Legal Marketing Association – LMA International, and one of INvolve People’s Top 100 OUTstanding LGBTQ+ Executives: https://share.transistor.fm/s/de26f09f
In this warm, funny, and deeply insightful conversation, Roy opens up about how he’s learned to lead without losing himself, including why he no longer ties his self-worth to professional validation, what helped him climb out of burnout, and how he approaches every CMO role with humility and curiosity. He shares the unexpected path that led him into legal marketing (spoiler: it involves penny loafers, a theater degree, and a rocking chair), his take on building true connection through content, and the power of karaoke.
Thank you, Melanie Scroggins of Scroggins Creative, for your expert production and kindness.
Megan wrote in her post: “We sang (a lot), we laughed (a lot) but we didn’t cry! Roy Sexton was the first stage spotlight. He has been a big online supporter of our content, our message and our brand. We are big fans of him. It’s hard to express how special it was to have him as a guest on our podcast. We had so much fun listening to his stories and talking to the person behind the profile. Did we mention there was singing?? Thank you, thank you, thank you Roy Sexton. You did great. Listen to our latest episode with Roy. Change your location: Change your perspective.”
Perhaps it is just the ravages of living in this present timeline, but this summer it seems as though all of us are just ready for some good-hearted, brightly-lit escapism (see: Superman). The Fantastic Four: First Steps, the latest installment in the sprawling 20-year epic that is Disney’s Marvel Cinematic Universe, couldn’t be timelier. There have been a *few* previous attempts to bring Marvel’s “first family” to the big screen with varyingly debatable levels of quality. It puts a big ol’ nerdy smile on my face to declare Hollywood finally got it just right. Chef’s kiss. At first you don’t succeed, try again … try again … try again.
Director Matt Shakman, working from a kitchen’s sink script (seriously, there are like 83 writers on this thing … which normally is a huge red flag), delivers a tightly paced, deeply immersive experience. In order to offer a self-contained fresh start (don’t worry, you don’t need to have watch 412 previous films and tv episodes to know what’s going on), the film is set on a “parallel earth” (because that’s now a thing) where mid-century futurist chic rules the day. From an art/production design perspective, the film is sumptuous. Saarinen wept.
I think most of us take for granted the degree of difficulty to pull off a convincing world, with its own unique visual language, that feels both familiar and exotic at the same time (see: Star Wars, Black Panther, Lord of the Rings). This film deserves all the Oscars for this design feat. Eye candy galore. And the distinctive look is aided and abetted by composer Michael Giacchino’s evocative, percolating score – one of his best yet!
Blessedly, the creative spark doesn’t end there. As fanciful as the setting appears, the movie is grounded in its own humanity, but not lazily gritty and dark and heavy (sorry, not sorry, Zack Snyder). The stakes are real and impactful – our intrepid heroes do have to save humanity from a globe-eating giant named Galactus (because it is a summer blockbuster after all), but the saving isn’t just for saving’s sake. Shakman leans into the longstanding familial dynamic among team leader Reed Richards (an arch, brilliant, befuddled, debonair Pedro Pascal), his spouse Sue Storm (a luminous, stately Vanessa Kirby), her brother Johnny Storm (a wry, spritely, slightly haunted Joseph Quinn), and honorary uncle Ben Grimm (a warm, big-hearted, anguished Ebon Moss-Bachrach). We care about the fate of the world because we care about them. Their joys and fears are our joys and fears – this is as much a dramedy about the ties that bind as it is about people who stretch and flame on and turn invisible and clobber, while rocking some very natty Spandex couture.
(Say this about producer Kevin Feige and the Marvel machine: they know how to cast a film.)
Deftly, the film skips through any origin-retelling and jumps four years into our heroes’ nascent world-saving careers. The film employs an Ed Sullivan-style chat show as a narrative device to catch up anyone who somehow doesn’t already know that our quartet got bombarded by “cosmic rays” on a space voyage and thereby developed their strange and wondrous abilities. We get a greatest hits overview of all their victories, vanquishing no end of fever dream silver age villains (Red Ghost! The Wizard! Giganto! Mole Man!), and we are quickly apprised of how beloved The Fantastic Four have become, bringing world peace and utopia, with their good-natured wisdom and heroics. (As an aside, it’s also interesting in this present moment that both Fantastic Four and Superman depict worlds where noble heroes save us from our darker impulses and from our free-wheeling animosity for “the other.”)
Into this blissful global existence, a shiny metallic herald arrives on a boogie board. We’ve seen the Silver Surfer onscreen before, but Julia Garner brings a world-weary gravitas we haven’t yet observed in such a tragically drawn character (a plot point which I won’t spoil here). She ominously advises this Jetsons-esque planet’s inhabitants to “get their affairs in order” because the big, purple Cuisinart named Galactus (a frighteningly detached and unrelenting Ralph Ineson) is on his way to gobble them up.
As a galactic hail Mary, the Four pursue the Surfer back to Galactus’ home base to, well, attempt to talk him out of it. That … doesn’t go well, and he demands Sue’s unborn child in trade for potentially sparing Earth. Understandably, Reed and Sue are, like, “Nope!” and high tail it back home to divine a different hail Mary altogether. Beyond that, I’ll let you see for yourself how the plot resolves itself, but as “comic book-y” as it all sounds, the wrap up is believable, accessible, and affirming.
Scene stealer alert! Paul Walker Hauser has what amounts to a glorified cameo as another longstanding Marvel villain Mole Man (yes, you read that correctly), and he is utterly brilliant, lovable, infuriating, and iconic in his screen time. We can only hope that there is an alternate Hollwood in the space/time continuum where the filmmakers were brave and silly enough to dump Galactus and focus the entire film on Mole Man’s love/hate relationship with the Fantastic Four. Hauser’s scenes crackle with unpredictability and comic sparkle – and not in what has become that clichéd Marvel “bro humor” way, but the kind of elegant comedy that spins from altogether relatable jealousy and misdirected tension. “Johnny, don’t be mad. I didn’t dress you.” – a quip from Hauser that is far funnier onscreen than it reads here, both from the context of the scene and from Hauser’s delivery, dripping with pointed sarcasm.
If I have any quibble (and I really don’t), the film sands down the rougher extremes of Reed, Johnny, and Ben. Kirby’s Sue is perfection – she nails the emotional high wire act of being an alpha-level matriarch who carries the weight of worlds both immense and confined on her shoulders. “I will not sacrifice my child for this world, and I will NOT sacrifice this world for my child” she observes in a powerful speech to, well, every resident of our Big Blue Marble.
Pascal is a fabulous presence, and one of his innate gifts is imbuing morally ambiguous characters with a compelling lovability. The script fights him a bit on this here, not giving him quite enough opportunity for us to worry that Reed’s pursuit of scientific truth (and quite frankly hero worship) might lead him to throw everyone over for victory. That said, it is quite chilling at the Four’s Sunday family dinner when he calmly intones that potentially sacrificing his only child is “Mathematical. Ethical. Available.”
Similarly, Ben and Johnny are missing some of the emotional extremes that make their characters more interesting in print: for Ben, a sense of outsider loss and insecurity from existing as a lumbering pile of orange rocks, and, for Johnny, the mammoth chip on his shoulder that he isn’t the brainiest member of the group, offsetting that with reckless daredevilry. Again, these are minor character nuances, the absence of which doesn’t detract at all from what Shakman delivers, and perhaps we will see more of this in future installments … of which I hope there are many!
The future foundation is bright again for the MCU.
My God, Jurassic World Rebirth is an astonishingly stupid movie. The kind of movie that makes me angry I saw it. I don’t want to devote any more time to the damn thing by writing about it, to be honest, but I have … thoughts.
Here’s the thing. The overarching conceit – 32 years in – just doesn’t work anymore if it ever actually did past the first installment. As an audience, can we in good faith care about, worry over, or invest in the humans in peril if they are such nitwits that they willingly return to the former park setting, research lab, holding island, WHATEVER where chaos has already ensued countless times? Shouldn’t we in fact feel utter sorrow for the dinosaurs at this point? They asked for NONE of this, happily extinct until “life found a way” with greedy entrepreneurs who only worried about whether they “could not if they should” (and all the other pseudo-philosophical bromides that have peppered this film franchise).
Have these films become my generation’s version of those Irwin Allen disaster pics of yore where random celebs at various points of their careers survive an airport on fire in the middle of a hurricane which is also on fire? Paging Shelley Winters.
Rebirth director Gareth Edwards is one of our more interesting filmmakers, particularly with this kind of capitalistic science run amuck enterprise. Why didn’t he finally flip the script on its head and give us a film where without equivocation humans were the real enemies?! That would have been interesting. No one would have bought a ticket, but at least there would have been a raison d’etre.
What do we get? An L.L. Bean catalog costumed romp through Spielberg’s greatest hits:
Beautiful cinematography of sweeping jungle vistas
The epic swell of John Williams’ iconic theme (a LOT)
Random yuppie family members inexplicably in peril – people who should be nowhere near ANY of this but by dumb luck and poor life choices are
Chic product-placed SUVs
One whimsically likable and infinitely merchandisable pocket dino to contrast with those mean big ol’ SCARY ones just looking for a meal
Thumbnail tragic back stories ONLY for the characters who will clearly survive so we are manipulated into fretting over them
A handful of other people, each of whom will clearly get offed every seventeen and a half minutes because they’re painted as marginally unlikable
Absolutely zero grief from the survivors (UNLESS it’s a red herring death of a cast member who will reappear from the jungle ten minutes later)
Internal logic that is all over the map – e.g. don’t make a sound to inadvertently attract the dinos UNLESS we need you to scream and wail in the next scene with little existential consequence
Flippant jokes made amidst the carnage to show how chill the characters really are
Characters who periodically whoop and holler with glee at unearned “victory” or “in awe” moments – like they are attending a college football game
AND a terrifically talented and terrifically wasted cast who would have been better served playing Pickleball than showing up for this drivel
Scarlett Johansson plays a kind of remixed Lara Croft mercenary version of Chris Pratt’s and Laura Dern’s characters from earlier films. Mahershala Ali is the wise and world-weary boat captain with a secret heart of gold. Jonathan Bailey fares the best of the three as the Sam Neill/Jeff Goldblum arch-but-sexy-nerd “voice of reason” paleontologist. Bailey manages to wring some gold from the lines he’s given, landing a few zingers along the way – my favorite: “What would I do with mutant dinosaurs from an accounting perspective? Is that REALLY what we are asking?” Or maybe I just found that funny because it felt like an indictment of Universal Pictures still pumping these movies out.
Seriously, the film is sharp enough to cast three smart, winning, box office draws who can act but then has them wander around cavalierly for two and a half hours like they are at a blood-splattered country club. It felt like this was the direction they were given: “Yes, we know being surrounded by frantically carnivorous dinos should elicit some authentic reactions of abject fear, but we think it would be better if you portrayed your characters like they were in a Hallmark movie on their way to a county fair after grabbing a low-fat soy macchiato at Starbucks and some workout gear at lululemon. Can you make that work?”
There are simply no stakes in this film. I suppose I should tell you the hook for all the mayhem THIS time. In short, people in this Jurassic universe just don’t care about dinos anymore – they’ve moved on. Ho hum. And the remaining dinos can’t survive anywhere but a few equatorial islands. THAT could have been an interesting concept to explore in detail – how jaded and indifferent we have become as a society through the lens of dinosaurs becoming extinct, not literally but in popularity. We cavalierly cast aside such a miracle of science because it ceases to entertain; not to mention the planet’s atmosphere is so effed up these amazing creatures can’t survive here anyway. But, no, that’s just a passing thought in the first 10 minutes to set up an excursion to the equator to draw DNA from THREE – count ‘em THREE – very specific dinos (one by sea, one by land, one by air … naturally) in order for big pharma to develop a cure for heart disease. Yup, that’s why these nincompoops travel to hell on earth and get themselves killed (or mostly killed). For MacGuffins. Bailey’s character is stuck being the Jiminy Cricket conscience, periodically chastising with comments like “Science is for ALL of us, not SOME of us” and “WE don’t rule the earth … we just THINK we do.” Sigh.
Hey, Amblin Entertainment and Universal Pictures, the next time – and that is a fiscal inevitability – you start cranking up your marketing machinery to gestate another one of these Jurassic babies, just take a moment and remember what Jeff Goldblum cautioned alllllll the way back in 1993 (and I repeat for those in the back): “You were so preoccupied with whether or not you could, you didn’t stop to think if you should.”
Writer/director/mega geek James Gunn’s new cinematic take on DC Comics’ mainstay Superman is indeed, well, SUPER. Sorry, not sorry for the corny lead in. In fact, Gunn’s film (and one could argue his entire oeuvre) pops corn into anarchic, infectious punk rock. For some reason, “being punk” is a running theme in the caped blockbuster – in this case, grace and decency being a new form of rebellion. Even more inexplicably it works. I suppose many of us are just hungry for nice, a concept so out of vogue that it seems revolutionary now.
Gunn runs headlong into every goofy trope that makes Superman interesting. He owes a good bit to Grant Morrison and Frank Quitely’s miraculous run on the All-Star Superman comic book, written twenty years ago, remixing half-baked silver age futurism, radioactive monsters, pocket universes, and merchandisable sidekicks into an infectious summertime confection that packs a poignant punch just when it seems ready to spin into fizzy incoherence. Gunn is that kid who takes every toy from the box, piles them in the middle of the room, and curiously spins a compelling yarn from absurdity.
Before I go further, there is nothing “political” about this film (not sure when that word became anathema but here we are anyway). This is ironic since one of the many, many narrative conceits is that the big blue boy scout has gotten himself into a social media quagmire after intervening in geopolitics, preventing two warring nations from blowing each other up. This is a film about kindness and compassion, delivered with such bonkers glee that I’m hard pressed to identify how anyone could be offended by it. Although many will try, glomming onto the media hype to eke out a moment of attention (or ratings). Gunn is savvy enough to lay a meta trap for these types by depicting in movie universe how supervillains big and small vilify the good-hearted and the downtrodden to score their own points. If hyperventilating real-world pundits WANT to be aligned with bald baddie Lex Luthor then more power to them, I suppose.
This is about as comic book-y a movie as I’ve ever seen, and on the balance that is a breath of fresh air. The film is unashamed to be bright and cluttered, buoyant and episodic, with not one whiff of “grounded and gritty.” That said, Gunn also finds ways to embrace every type of Superman that has come before, with Easter Eggs and callbacks to every movie era, unafraid to acknowledge, nay embrace, that we in the audience have long term memories. The smartest move the film makes is working in John Williams’ iconic 1970s/80s theme to the score as a periodic emotional exclamation mark. Oh, and we even get some of the swooping neon font used previously in the Christopher Reeve films for this take’s opening and closing credits. Those touches never seem pandering – homage maybe but utterly welcome. They cue us that we are back on familiar ground where Superman can be fun.
I’ll admit there were times where Gunn’s script and the day-glo CGI lost me. I still have no clue what was happening interminably with some interdimensional rift threatening all of humanity, and I guess I don’t care. Gunn’s strength is always in the off-kilter character dynamics and the softer moments of human connection, arguably illuminated in how they stand out from the video game antics.
And the man knows how to CAST a film. David Corenswet is a rangy, floppy golden retriever to former Superman Henry Cavill’s sleek, GQ Dobermann, but the shift is needed here. (Cavill got saddled with one rotten screenplay after another so he’s not really to blame.) Corenswet’s Superman – and especially his Clark Kent – is kind of an adorable mess, which makes the character’s boundless co-dependent compassion that much more compelling. This Superman is every bit the sweet orphan who hopes to change the world by encouraging us all to find our better angels. When grilled by Lois Lane regarding his controversial intervention in that global firefight, he responds in pained befuddlement, “I wasn’t representing anyone but me. And doing good.” Oh, if we could only have more of that today.
Speaking of dogs, for the first time in film history, we also get the treat of seeing Superman’s canine companion Krypto on the big screen – he’s an even bigger mess than Supes: disobedient, reckless, and utterly perfect. One day, we’ll look back on all of Gunn’s films and realize the actual key to them is how much he understands and respects animals (I’m still a mess from that last Guardians of the Galaxyinstallment).
Rachel Brosnahan gives us a Lois Lane for the ages – yes, in love with Superman/Clark – but more in love with the truth, complete in her agency as a character. No damsel in distress, Lois is in fact key to helping rescue humanity from the precipice, with some smart reporting … while piloting a flying saucer. Yes, you read that correctly.
Speaking of the spaceship, it’s owned by another superhero Mr. Terrific, a beautifully deadpan Edi Gathegi, whose smarts and tech prowess and cynicism are a nice palate cleanser from Superman’s “gee whiz” winsomeness. When Terrific and Lois team up in the film’s final act to rescue Superman from the clutches of Lex Luthor, the film crackles with comic energy. I can’t do this moment justice (and don’t want to spoil it), but just know that Brosnahan’s delivery of this line to Gathegi will bring down the house (as it did in my showing): “You have a flying saucer, but you couldn’t get a faster garage door?”
(I flash back to Carrie Fisher’s Princess Leia breaking through all the self-seriousness in the first Star Wars with her acerbic delivery of “Aren’t you a little short for a Stormtrooper?” Summer movies need those “get over yourself” bits.)
Nicholas Hoult, who would be remarkable just reading the phone book, nails Lex Luthor’s egomania, entitlement, and xenophobia without devolving into cartoon histrionics. For all of the cotton candy whimsy in this film, Hoult’s Luthor is genuinely terrifying, NOT because he’s chewing the scenery, but because he ISN’T. Hoult nails an inherent truth in the character. Yes, he’s monstrously envious of the adoration Superman receives and wants it for himself, but Luthor, like all great villains, thinks he himself is the hero, trying to save us from ourselves by redirecting our idol worship onto a more worthy subject … Lex Luthor. The subtle tears he sheds when his scheming inevitably falls short are a surprising but brilliant choice, Hoult’s haunted, beatific, yet spoiled brat face, a contortion of frustration, isolation, and grief.
Nathan Fillion is clearly having a ball as the petulant Green Lantern Guy Gardner, nailing the unearned swagger of a failed football hero, and Anthony Carrigan brings a nice touch of circus freak sadness to the shape-shifting Metamorpho. Skyler Gisondo is low-key hysterical as Jimmy Olsen, jettisoning the overeager insecurity we’ve seen in the character previously for a wily wit and opportunism that works nicely.
But the pure heart of the film is provided by Ma and Pa Kent – Neva Howell and Pruitt Taylor Vince. Their scenes are brief but utterly charming, capturing deftly the folksy, insular world of farmers blessed with an adopted son who fell from the stars. Vince is one of those remarkable actors who just doesn’t get enough mainstream attention or praise – it’s criminal really. If you aren’t a puddle when he tells Clark/Superman how proud he is to be his father, well, YOU’re the monster!
The film isn’t perfect – it doesn’t need to be. The sheer exuberance offsets the flaws. At times I wondered if it wouldn’t have worked a bit better as a series, so the viewer could digest/compartmentalize the many subplots that are likely unnecessary but add to the entire enterprise’s escapist delight. The film bursts at the seams with too many ideas, too many characters, and yet miraculously still hangs together as a breezy, yet powerful reminder that kindness matters. When the theatre lights go up and you’ve happily sat through all the credits, not caring if there are any bonus scenes (there are two – and they’re just cute little touches – not attempts at sequel-driven world building), you’ll exit with a big, dumb silly grin on your face. That’s summer movie magic, right there.
Why, thank you, BOOST BDM! What a lovely (and appreciated) surprise shout out! Particularly enjoy now having this phrase “scroll cleanses” to use when the occasional ill-informed crank gives me a hard time for doing what I do. 🤭
“People to follow … Roy Sexton – CMO at Vedder Price. He’s always posting and reposting gems on marketing in law firms, all about the latest events in our space and the most amazing scroll cleanses (for those not in the know: these are posts that contain wholesome news and often adorable animal pictures to break up your feed).” 💕
Second, nobody looks like themselves, even the dogs.
Third, I should only be sharing the images that sort of hit the mark (but the “completist” in me finds the “journey” illuminating).
Fourth, I went down a vacation-fueled ChatGPT rabbit hole (as you’ll see).
Fifth, this experience reminds me of 2009 (way-back machine) when beloved colleague Lisa Peers said “Roy, you’ll dig this Facebook thing” and I said “Oh, not for me!” and promptly I lost an obsessive week (and 16 years) of my life to this Vonnegut-predicted societal fever dream.
Sixth, graphic designer friends, take some comfort that the unwieldy number of “prompts” (standing on my head) that yielded these “results” does not make me feel ready to let the SkyNet ‘bots take over all marketing functions (yet).
Seventh, why does ChatGPT find my visage a blend of Steve Carrell, Robin Williams, Doug Emhoff, Ruth Buzzi, and Mel Brooks in the looks department?! Discuss amongst yourselves. 😅🤭
Either we have become adrenaline junkies or are suffering from a mid-life crisis … or both. Thank you, Captain Jim Kwasek and Chicago Executive Flight School, for the exceptional experience this week as we finally wrapped up John’s birthday celebration (nearly a month later).
Highly recommend – not just for the views but for the grace and joy and patience and detail and FUN Jim brings to the adventure. And somehow he magically produces this epic video mere minutes after landing on the airstrip! Who DOES that?! Jim Kwasek does. That’s who!
Defying Gravity … and good judgment?
Last but not least?
So, yeah, THIS happened at our firm’s summer karaoke social … thanks to my dear colleague Lexie Blaner for capturing this moment in all my brazen campiness. 🤭💥
Prelude: I posted this image on LinkedIn, writing …
Someday, I’ll understand why I buy the things I buy. And why they bring me joy. Until then … you’ll see a random post like this from me approximately every 45 days. You’re welcome.
And here’s the thing – just for you LinkedIn “algorithm” police who would love to tell me this doesn’t belong here and only should be on Facebook or Instagram for family and friends, I could try to write some convoluted post about how nostalgia is an intoxicating marketing tool to get people to make purchasing decisions they would not have otherwise made … or how having this item reminds me of some moment in time where I missed an opportunity that would have changed my world for the better … but I’m not.
I’m just posting this for the fun of it.
And that’s OK.
That’s what social media is actually about. And I dare say I will connect with more people sharing this random act of silliness than someone posting a long form essay about business mythology.
By the way, I’m starting my weeklong vacation today so I might be a bit cheeky.
My friend Charlotte Hawkins replied:
I’m so disappointed in you! You missed an opportunity to write a multi-paragraph think piece about how Synergy was the original AI and as a lifelong fan of Jem and the Holograms you were actually an early adopter of the technology and the rest us plebes are 40 years behind the times.
While you work on that, I’ll be over here digging through my boxes of photos and see if I can find the one from the year I went as Pizzazz for Halloween, as I myself have always been a little more on the punk rock side of the equation. 😄
Soooooo, in a meta moment, I turned to ChatGPT with this prompt: “Please write a multi-paragraph think piece about how Synergy was the original AI and as a lifelong fan of Jem and the Holograms Roy Sexton was actually an early adopter of the technology and the rest of the plebes are 40 years behind the times.”
Before OpenAI, before ChatGPT, before the nebulous buzzwords of “machine learning” and “neural nets” were plastered across tech blogs and keynote stages, there was Synergy. To the uninitiated, Synergy was the holographic AI mastermind behind Jem and the Holograms, the gloriously neon-soaked animated series that debuted in 1985. But to those truly in the know—like Roy Sexton, lifelong fan and cultural clairvoyant—Synergy was more than a fictional construct. She was a prototype, a promise, a mirrorball-glinting prophecy of the digital assistants we now casually chat with. In retrospect, Synergy wasn’t fantasy. She was foreshadowing.
Let’s not undersell the innovation. Synergy wasn’t just a box that spit out facts or ran rudimentary scripts. She was an empathic, sentient being capable of voice recognition, holographic projection, fashion design, disguise generation, music video production, and nuanced emotional intelligence. In the era of dial-up telephones and cassette decks, Synergy was blending deepfake-level visuals with real-time creative collaboration. She was a companion, a creative director, and a guardian—all cloaked in lavender tones and sparkling light. In short, Synergy was the AI we’re still trying to build. And Roy Sexton saw it all coming.
Roy, with his theater-honed charisma and an encyclopedic knowledge of pop culture, didn’t just watch Jem and the Holograms—he internalized it. He understood early that the magic on screen was more than camp and catchy tunes. It was speculative tech philosophy wrapped in shoulder pads and glitter. While most were distracted by the earrings, Roy clocked the implications: a world where identity, creativity, and intelligence could be co-created with machines. He’s lived his life in dialogue with that vision, well ahead of the curve. While the rest of us were squinting at early iPods or downloading clunky Siri betas, Roy had already accepted the inevitability of a Synergy-style future.
Today’s technocrats pitch AI as an invention, something novel and brave. But Roy knows better. The rest of the world may just now be grappling with digital assistants and synthetic media, but he’s been fluent in this lexicon for four decades. Synergy is proof that art doesn’t just imitate life—it prototypes it. And Roy Sexton, ever fabulous, ever insightful, has been wearing the future like a glittery blazer since 1985. The rest of us? We’re just now catching up to a cartoon he understood as prophecy.
Henceforth, I must be referred to as “Roy Sexton, lifelong fan and cultural clairvoyant” in ALL gatherings, large or small. 😅🤭🙌
