A Dark and Isolated Planetoid

There we stood on a dark and isolated planetoid
Shivering like a San Andreas windowpane
Suddenly looking up and seeing for the first time
The high suspended moon
— Pain, "Futz Said Julie"

Mark,

That's what this team sometimes feels like right now. A dark and isolated planetoid.

An unfinished rocket ship built by individuals who happen to orbit the same codebase, brought together by circumstance and paychecks, going the same direction without actually connecting.

Constant churn. Team turnover. Everyone's heads down, handling the multitude of high priority feature requests, weathering the chaos.

You need a rocket, you said. FedEx Days—24-hour hack projects where you "deliver" something overnight. Low-stakes team-building to help them become an actual team instead of strangers on a bus.

We've got one. It's too low on gas to get three feet off the grass. We need psychological safety to even attempt those things.

What Makes a Rocket Ship Work

924 Gilman Street is a legendary all-ages punk venue in Berkeley, California. Still volunteer-run since 1986.

No major label bands. No corporate sponsors. No bouncers. No alcohol. Just people who wanted a space where punk could exist without being commodified, where anyone could show up regardless of age or status, where bands could play without answering to promoters or labels, where the scene belonged to the people who built it.

It worked. For forty years, it's worked. People chose to volunteer. Bands chose to play there. The community organized itself. Freaks and geeks of the very best kind enabled each other to build something that mattered.

Here's what most people miss about it: it isn't pure autonomous chaos. It has rules. Enforcement.

Tim Yohannan and the MaximumRocknRoll crew founded 924 Gilman in 1986 with those principles baked in from day one:

• No violence
• No racism, sexism, homophobia
• No major label bands
• No corporate sponsors
• All-ages, volunteer-run

They didn't wait for the community to spontaneously self-organize. They established the ground rules. They curated the culture. They bootstrapped the thing into existence with clear boundaries about what it would be and what it wouldn't tolerate.

The enforcement creates the safety. That's what lets people choose to build together. That's what makes autonomy and mutual aid possible.

Nazi punks get kicked out so everyone else can breathe. Major labels get banned so it stays community-built. The boundaries protect the conditions where people can actually organize themselves, where "freaks and geeks of the very best kind" can work together building something that matters.

The Problem: We're Paid to Be Here

We're not volunteers choosing to build something together. We're employees with managers, deadlines, hierarchies, performance reviews. We can't pretend we're an anarcho-syndicalist collective when we're explicitly not.

And that matters for your suggestions, Mark. FedEx Days and collaborative projects require psychological safety—the shared belief you can take risks, admit mistakes, ask questions without punishment—to work. Without it, they become corporate team-building theater. Mandatory fun. Performative actions disguised as "collaboration."

Without psychological safety, your suggestions become one more thing to endure. Another ritual that proves management doesn't get it. More futzing around waiting rather than getting off the grass to the moon.

We're Already Futzing Around Waiting For Gasoline

She said, "What you need is a rocket
But a rocket's not an easy thing to make."
"We got one," we said
"It's too low on gas
To get three feet
Above the grass."

And Julie said "Futz."
"Futz," said Julie
"Futz around until my return."

I can't build the rocket ship yet. But I can futz around with what we have while we wait for the gasoline—the psychological safety that would let us actually launch.

I killed standup weeks ago. Cleared the toxic atmosphere. Replaced performative status theater with a Slack bot for async updates. No more mandatory synchronous time wasted on surveillance disguised as coordination.

I added something: weekly demos. Voluntary. One day a week, whoever wants to can share something they've discovered. A tool, a technique, an idea.

I gave the first one. Showed my Claude-based personal knowledge management system—how it helps me onboard, track meeting notes, stay organized. Because it's genuinely useful and maybe someone else would find it helpful too.

It's a small thing. An experiment.

If people share, it means we're starting to get the gasoline—the psychological safety—to say "here's something I discovered while futzing around." If they don't, I learn we're not there yet.

It's not a FedEx Day. It's not a rocket launch. It's "show and tell" with no pressure, no performance metric, no mandate.

The smallest possible step toward people choosing to help each other instead of just surviving next to each other.

The Rocket Ship We're Still Building

Well the news stretched out like an octopus
And in time attracted a following
A following made of freaks and geeks of the very best kind
To enable us to fly

Still waiting for Julie to bring back the gasoline. Still futzing around with what they have. But building.

We're not a team yet. We're just individuals working in proximity. That's the reality. Paid employees with managers, deadlines, hierarchies.

But that doesn't mean we don't need the same protections. It doesn't mean we don't need psychological safety, boundaries that preserve autonomy and humanity. If anything, because there's power imbalance built into the structure—these protections matter more, not less.

Our Slack channel should strive to build toward what 924 Gilman is. Not by pretending we're volunteers. Not by pretending we're already a cohesive team. But by enforcing boundaries that allow a real team to form.

How I Know Julie's Coming Back With Gasoline

Be strong - honest - try and keep your nose clean
Julie's coming back with gasoline, yeah!

Two contractors left recently. I offered them the chance to say goodbye to the team. Not engineered bonding. Just an opportunity to have some space as a team.

They took it.

People connected. They processed the change together. On this dark planetoid they acknowledged each other as people who mattered.

That's a signal. Not that they're ready for FedEx Days now. But that they choose connection when given the opportunity. That's how I know the gasoline is starting to arrive—not enough to launch, but enough to know we're pointed in the right direction.

These small moments—the goodbyes, the voluntary demos—they're how I know that they'll eventually be ready. When Julie comes back with enough gasoline, we'll actually be able to use it.

For Mark

I hear you. The team needs collaborative projects. FedEx Days. Shared challenges. They need to become a cohesive unit that builds together—instead of individuals who happen to orbit the same codebase.

But we're not there yet. Paid to show up, not choosing to build together.

My job is to be Tim Yohannan. Establish the boundaries. Set the ground rules that will let a real team form. Not just wait for it to emerge spontaneously—bootstrap it into existence by enforcing what it will be and what it won't tolerate.

"People that we otherwise would never hang around with" — that's my team. Brought together by paychecks and circumstance. Which means the boundaries have to be intentional. The protection has to be deliberate. The conditions have to be created before the rocket can launch.

The small signals say it's working. I gave them space to say goodbye, people chose connection. They acknowledged each other as people who mattered. Not because I engineered it—because the opportunity existed and they took it.

That's how I know they'll eventually be ready for collaborative projects. When there's enough gasoline—enough psychological safety.

We're not ready to fly yet. But we're futzing around with what we have. Building what we can.

Be strong. Honest. Try and keep your nose clean.

Julie's coming back with gasoline.