UNDER THE INFLUENCE

In 2005, nobody was calling it “content” yet. Nobody was calling us “influencers.” Hell, if you had called me an influencer back then, I probably would’ve asked if that came with a VIP table and a bottle of Jäger. I was new in Atlanta with a plan that was either brilliant, delusional, or some dangerous cocktail of both: take over the nightlife, turn Max’s armada Magazine into a scene, turn So Fain into a name, and act like the laws of consequence had somehow forgotten my mailing address. MySpace was exploding, my ego had entered low-Earth orbit, and every friend request, blog comment, party photo, and drunken rumor made me more convinced that I wasn’t just in the room ... I was the reason the room mattered.

From 2005 through the end of 2008, we ran through Atlanta like a beautiful public health concern: the boys of armada, the women, the clubs, the fights, the photo shoots, the road trips, the VIP tables, the hangovers, the mythology, and all the spectacularly bad decisions that seemed like genius at 2:15 in the morning. This is not the cleaned-up version. This is not the apology tour. This is the story of a time before blue checks, brand deals, and corporate hashtags ... when all you needed was your own professional photographer, a MySpace login, a little shamelessness, and the dangerous belief that you were immortal. I was So Fain. I was young-ish, loud, reckless, adored, hated, half-drunk, overconfident, and absolutely certain I could do anything. Turns out, I could do a helluva lot. I just probably shouldn’t have...