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- Hivemind Times Issue #101
Hivemind Times Issue #101
Inside: The earliest Super Bowl prediction poll ever
Hivemind
August 21, 2026
In partnership with
Welcome To The Hivemind Times!
Welcome to issue one hundred and one Dalmatians type shit or whatever.
This week has been peachy over at HQ, hope everyone else is good. We filmed some secret exciting stuff that I can’t wait for you all to get your nasty little eyeballs on. Guessing fans favorite stuff from their pictures returned to Unlimited with a boom and a bang. Cheapseats divisional predictions cracked ya over the dome piece (man Riley’s picks were BAAD). Either way it’s all fun and games and good vibes in the Hivemind universe.
Hope ya fools have a good weekend and enjoy some of these words and tunes.
- Graydon
Home mixers weren’t built for bread. We fixed that.
Ever tried to make dough in your regular mixer?
The results aren’t pretty: Clumpy texture. Stodgy bread. Overheated motors.
So, we took the same dough-making technology that professional bakers have used for decades and packed it into a countertop machine.
Introducing Ooni Halo Core.
Its secret? Spiral mixing.
In a regular mixer, a single hook chases your dough around the bowl — like someone trying to knead with one hand tied behind their back.
But in a spiral mixer, three synchronised attachments fold and stretch dough as one, replicating the precise and powerful dual-kneading action of a skilled baker’s hands.
The result: Stronger dough, softer loaves and a higher rise.
WEEKLY PLAYLIST
Heading to the river to do some fishing so this is a trout inspired playlist.
Mostly soft picking older folk jams for a tranquil 30ish minutes.
- Graydon
WAY TOO EARLY SUPER BOWL PREDICTION
Who's looking good so far? |
POEM OF THE WEEK
Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862)
The moon now rises to her absolute rule
The moon now rises to her absolute rule,
And the husbandman and hunter
Acknowledge her for their mistress.
Asters and golden reign in the fields
And the life everlasting withers not.
The fields are reaped and shorn of their pride
But an inward verdure still crowns them;
The thistle scatters its down on the pool
And yellow leaves clothe the river—
And nought disturbs the serious life of men.
But behind the sheaves and under the sod
There lurks a ripe fruit which the reapers have not gathered,
The true harvest of the year—the boreal fruit
Which it bears forever,
With fondness annually watering and maturing it.
But man never severs the stalk
Which bears this palatable fruit.
