The wine festival we have been prepping for is now in the books, and reminiscing on that night has me giggling and kicking my feet. This was the night I found renewed verve for FlyBoy…the nudge I needed to keep production moving.

A couple of weeks ago, my friend Sophia and I poured at Good Boy & Friends in the LA Arts District. If you weren’t there or if you’ve never been, imagine an open-air courtyard tucked between two galleries, the gates propped wide so you could wander about with a glass in hand and lose yourself in the art for a while before finding your way back to the tables. Funky wines, interesting amaros, life-changing pizza (LaSorted’s just went to the top of my list) and DJs late into the night. It was the kind of event I hope to host myself once we have launched.

Every guest started the night with a branded Good Boy & Friends wine glass, which made the whole evening feel like it had endless possibilities for drinks to try and people to meet... the event was our oyster. GB&F was full of some of the most interesting, adventurous, genuinely joyful beverage people you could ask to be in the same room as. I’m talking about winemakers who talk about their funky vintages like they’re friends or weird doodles, spirits producers who clearly love what they do so much that it spills out of them the second you ask a single question. Incredible food, spectacular wine, and a little zero-proof series of tables that included us (Eee!), a company that started in January and is still in the R&D phase.

We also happened to land a table three booths from the entrance, which meant we were the first thing many people saw as they walked in. That placement was a gift and a problem in equal measure. It meant an enormous amount of early, honest feedback from people who hadn’t had a chance to get distracted by anything else yet (Win!). It also meant our very limited supply of concentrate was disappearing before we’d even settled into our own booth (Win? We kinda thought so). We served that night from bottle-like vessels, just for the sake of the event, though the actual FlyBoy the world will eventually meet will live in an eight-ounce aluminum can.

I’ll say that part plainly because I think it matters. We were the only brand there without something final, in sealed bottles or cans. Everyone else had packaging, a launched product, and something concrete to sell at the event. We still had three formulas in R&D, a supplier who sent us our sample concentrate the night before the event, and when I opened that box, I realized we’d been given about two juice-box-worths of the stuff to mix with sparkling water. I did the math in my head and knew immediately it wasn’t going to last the whole night. But I also knew we were going to serve what we had for as long as we had it, have a good time doing it, and figure out the rest when we got there. (My friend who came to help with the event has been calling us “FlyBoy the seat of our pants,” and it’s scarily so fitting.)

An hour and a half in, we ran out completely. And here’s the part I actually love telling people: we came prepared with over three hundred branded lighters, because some instinct told me to bring merch even if the drink itself didn’t make it through the night. So we scrawled a sign that said we were out of product and the lighters were free, take what you want, and we let ourselves become guests at our own event instead of just vendors standing behind a table. People came for a free lighter and stayed to ask what we’d actually been pouring before we ran dry. We got to enjoy the spoils of our (1.5-hour) labor and enjoy the event in all of its splendor. It was, without any planning whatsoever, one of the better accidental bits of brand storytelling I could have staged on purpose.

But the real high point of the day/night had nothing to do with strategy. It was the first time I got honest, unprompted, positive reactions from people who had absolutely no reason to be kind to me. Not friends. Not family. REAL strangers with a glass in hand, tasting something we’re still riffing on, and LOVING it. One of those strangers happened to be an actual flyboy—a man who loved my hat enough to ask if he could buy it off me. I traded him mine for his ball cap on the spot, because it felt like exactly the kind of small, strange, perfect exchange this whole festival was made of.

I also got to spend real time with the founder of Festif Amaro, who was generous in a way that pleasantly surprised me, walking me through what it actually took behind the scenes to build what he’s built. When he asked how long FlyBoy had existed and I told him we started in January of this year, he looked genuinely shocked. That moment has stuck with me. To be standing in a room with people who’ve spent years building their craft and to have them treat you like you belong there after six months felt almost cosmic. I don’t take a single second of it for granted. We also ended up becoming fast friends with the team behind Esspritz Espresso Tonic, the kind of unexpected kinship that only really happens when you’re standing behind a booth all day next to someone equally in it. (God bless the community of people in the CPG world).

I also just. had. fun. Since one of my best friends was there with me, between pours we got to slip away and wander the festival like guests rather than workers, tasting things, laughing, dancing, existing in the moment rather than only managing it. That part doesn’t always make it into the founder narrative, but it should. This whole thing is supposed to be enjoyable too.

Up until that night, FlyBoy had mostly lived in my head as something theoretical: spreadsheets, formulation notes, investor conversations, a lot of belief without much proof. Good Boy & Friends gave me something I didn’t know I was starving for, which was real feedback on the actual product, imperfect and unfinished as it still is, from people who had nothing to gain by being nice about it. That kind of validation is different from anything a pitch deck can give you.

So here’s where I’ll leave it. We ran out of product an hour and a half into our first real festival, and it was the best night FlyBoy has had so far. I’m walking away with a renewed sense of confidence, a new hat, a lot of gratitude, and a genuine excitement about where this goes next. It was a good kick in the right direction, and I plan on chasing that feeling all the way to launch.

Until next time,

Margo, Founder of FlyBoy Aperitif

FlyBoy is a non-alcoholic aperitif in development. Follow along at your own pace. And sign up for our waitlist to be the first to hear about our flavor drops.

If you’re looking for a film that encapsulates the moment when lounging and languor are celebrated, where every moment captures the essence of tavolàta, this is a top-tier choice. In Stealing Beauty, there is a house on a hill in Tuscany where everyone is always in the middle of something: A painter is painting, a sculptor is sculpting, someone is almost always reading in a chair, while someone else is opening a bottle on the terrace. Nobody is in a hurry. Nobody is checking anything. The days are long and warm and organized entirely around lunch. Aka, my kind of place (currently contemplating returning to Italy for a bit after watching this).

Bernardo Bertolucci made this film in 1996, and I think he was less interested in plot than in atmosphere (which is the correct priority for a movie set in the Tuscan hills in summer). The story moves slowly, the way afternoons move slowly when you have nowhere to be by any particular hour. This is a film more interested in the feeling of everything: light filtering through an old shutter and how that warms the soul; the delicate sounds of a table being set outside; the way a conversation can start over wine and still be going two hours later when the candles have burned down, and nobody has moved to clear the plates.

If you haven’t picked up on this yet, this is FlyBoy’s natural habitat. Italian and sun-drenched, yes, but more so because it understands that the ritual is the reason. The long lunch is the plan for the afternoon. The open bottle is an invitation to stay a little longer. And FlyBoy plays perfectly in this world—the thing you open when you want to linger in the moment.

Personal aside: Dario Argento’s daughter Asia Argento is in this film and is absolutely feral in the best possible way, and Jeremy Irons shows up looking like he was personally installed in that farmhouse sometime in the 1970s. And Liv Taylor? Needs no words. TLDR, beautiful casting.

The Ritual: Pour something before you’re quite ready to sit down, so that by the time you do, it’s been breathing a little. Open a window if you can (if it’s not too hot where you live). Let whatever sound comes in be your soundtrack. Watch Stealing Beauty in the early evening when the light is going soft, and you have no particular plans for what comes after. Finish with a long tavolàta (communal meal with dessert) after.

Where to watch: Rent from Prime or Apple TV

I got a new sparkling water machine this week and I am embarrassingly excited about it. It’s so sexy and I was thrilled to consider this purchase a business expense.

The bottles are these tall architectural steel things with marble knobs on the caps. I know knobs are having a moment right now, but they look like they belong on the counter of someone whose apartment doubles as a mini art gallery. I got them specifically for the Good Boy Wine and Friends festival on June 27 out in the LA Arts District, where FlyBoy will be among the first NA beverages at this event (we’re honored, gobsmacked, and so excited). The moment I pulled these artful bottles and the accompanying machine out of their respective boxes, I wanted to photograph them, post them, tag the brand, and tell everyone I knew. There is something so perfect about a beautiful object in the service of another beautiful thing you’re building.

But then I put my phone down. Because I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to show people everything.

I drove out to LA from Tennessee recently, which is a very long drive that I would never recommend unless you have a lot you need to mentally process. To break up all those hours, I started listening to Dissect, a podcast that breaks down albums note by note, line by line, with the kind of obsessive care that feels almost liturgical. The season I’ve been in is on Daft Punk: their full catalog, their history, the ethos they built over decades of making music entirely on their own terms. They were, quite literally punk in their process, even though they blew up in the mainstream. They maintained no label pressure, no image management in the traditional sense, and no role as a Famous Person for an audience that wanted one. They gave you the helmets, and they gave you the music, and they said, "Listen to the music and let it be the thing that speaks”.

And the music was so good that you did. (P.S., if you disagree, please listen to this podcast. I’m in awe of their technical and artistic talent.)

I’ve been in strategy sessions lately with a studio I love and trust, with people I’ve known for a long time. I hired them because I knew I was too close to my own thing to see it clearly. One of the questions that came up was: Where do you see yourself on the pendulum? Are you the face of FlyBoy? Or is the brand elusive enough that anyone could be a FlyBoy? Or do you want the founder behind FlyBoy to be a mystery?

My honest answer was a rambling rush that probably ran about four minutes longer than necessary. The truth is, I’ve been feeling off about this tension for a while (re: Building in Secret). This unease popped up again when a marketing agency I spoke with months ago talked about creating a package for founder-led content: template reads, short-form videos, personal branding, and having my face attached to the aperitif. Something in me went rigid because that style of marketing (for better or worse…we’ll find out) doesn’t align with me.

If you’ve ever looked at my Instagram, you’ll know that I have maybe four photos of myself total in the entire grid. Mostly, you’ll see film photos I’ve taken of other people, moments I wanted to hold onto, and some old poetry. I am a deeply in-person person. I would take a long walk with you over a phone call, a phone call over a text, a text over a tagged post, every single time. There’s a Dave Eggers novel called The Circle about what happens when transparency becomes total and the self becomes content. This book has lodged itself so permanently in my nervous system that I don’t think I’ll ever fully shake it.

I’ve also been reading Lena Dunham’s Fame Sick, which is doing absolutely nothing to make me feel better about the responsibility that comes with becoming a face.

Founder storytelling matters, and I’ll show up for it when it counts. But I keep coming back to this: what if the most interesting version of the story is the one where you have to come find it?

The sparkling water machine is still on my counter. I’ll photograph it when it’s ready. Come see it in real life at Good Boy Wine & Friends if you don’t want to wait.

It’s knowing the difference between an entrance and a leak.

Each time Daft Punk went dark, they never disappeared. They were always exactly where they wanted to be, when they wanted to be there. And they never gave you what you expected next. Mile after mile through Tennessee and Texas, that’s what I was thinking about. The helmets weren’t walls. They were a redirection: look at the music.

See you on June 27th if you’re in LA. Come find the girl with the steel bottles with the cool knobs (and hundreds of FlyBoy lighters).

Margo, Founder of FlyBoy Aperitif

FlyBoy is a non-alcoholic aperitif in development. Follow along at your own pace. And sign up for our waitlist to be the first to hear about our flavor drops.

This week’s Friday Frame is Sofia Coppola doing what Sofia Coppola does better than almost anyone alive, which is making stillness feel like the most dramatic thing in the room. Somewhere is about Johnny Marco (Stephen Dorff), a movie star living at the Chateau Marmont in that particular LA way where your days have no edges, where the sun is always the same temperature and room service arrives and the pool is right there and somehow none of it adds up to anything resembling a life. Then his eleven-year-old daughter Cleo (Elle Fanning, already perfect, already completely at ease in her own skin) shows up for an extended visit, and the whole film quietly reorganizes itself around what it means to be truly present for another person.

It’s a pretty slice-of-life movie. Sofia just holds the camera on these two people eating breakfast, driving to Italy, and spinning around an ice rink. The accumulation of it becomes something so tender and so sad that by the time the film ends, you feel it in your chest in a way you cannot entirely explain. It’s the beauty of the mundane.

This is a FlyBoy film because it asks the question FlyBoy asks every time someone chooses presence over performance: What does the evening actually feel like when you are actually in it? Johnny has access to everything, and it turns out everything is very quiet and a little lonely until Cleo arrives, and the ritual of just being together becomes the point. The Chateau Marmont as a backdrop is not incidental. Somewhere understands that beautiful rooms do not make beautiful evenings. The people do.

Fun fact: Sofia Coppola shot extensively at the real Chateau Marmont, and the hotel’s regulars would occasionally wander into frame. The whole production had that quality of being half-fictional and half-documentary, which is exactly how it feels to watch. Sofia is a queen.

The Ritual: Pour something cold and unhurried. Watch this one on a night when you have nowhere to be and no one to perform for. Let it be slow. Notice how quickly the slowness stops feeling like nothing and starts feeling like everything. Watch it alone or with someone who doesn’t need to fill the silence.

Where to watch: Available to rent on Prime or Apple TV.

A business/life update: FlyBoy is on the move, and so am I.

I’m in the middle of ramping up production on the brand while simultaneously packing up my apartment, planning my 3-day drive to California, and still very much in the thick of fundraising conversations. In the words of Bob Goff, I am living on the edge of yikes. Very little of my life right now is what I would describe as settled, and somehow I have made peace with that. Actually, I think I’m starting to love it a little.

One of the things I keep coming back to in this season of perpetual motion, overlapping timelines, and decisions that feel like they have three-second countdowns is how much I need other people. By nature, I’m an incredibly independent person: I want to move quickly, not bother other people with my needs, or have their timelines slow down my to-do list. But I continue to learn that it is a joy to work with others, and I also really need outside opinions and physical help.

My bartender roommate has been one of my most valuable taste testers throughout this whole process, because she will shoot me completely straight without softening the blow, and there is nothing more useful than that when you are too deep inside your own creation to hear anything clearly anymore. I love FlyBoy the way you love something you made from scratch, which means I am not always the most objective person in the room. She is. And I need that.

When I was planning for the California event, I asked friends to come help me pour drinks. Not because I couldn’t do it alone, but because I wanted people around me who care about this thing too, people who would show up, prep samples, and represent something (and someone) they actually believe in. That matters more than I can explain.

And then there’s Outline. Outline is a high-end CPG design studio in Charleston. They were actually my very first employer out of school, and have been a continued friendship ever since. I knew going into this that I needed outside help with design and strategy, which is a strange thing to admit when that is exactly what I do for other people every single day. But I knew myself well enough to know that I would tweak and rework and second-guess the FlyBoy creative forever if I were the only one in the room, because I am too close to it, because it is too important to me, because every decision feels weighted in a way that makes it hard to set something down and call it done. That old adage of artists saying that the work is never done, you just stop fixing it?… Yeah, I needed outside people telling me it was done.

What I’ve been getting from Outline is almost like business therapy: I walk in with a brain full of overlapping thoughts and half-finished ideas and things I’ve been meaning to articulate for months, and they put it all on the table and help me make it mean something. They’re genuinely excited about building with me, and getting to be on the receiving end of that kind of creative partnership is a quiet revelation after years of being the person in the room who holds the vision for everyone else’s thing. I get to be the founder right now. That’s new for me, and I’m enjoying it.

I think there is something really important in all of this about letting people help you care for the things you care about. There is a version of building that looks like going it completely alone, and I understand the appeal of that, the control, the clarity, the narrative of the solo founder who figured it all out. But I don’t want that version. I want the one where the people who love me and believe in this thing are actually in it with me, pouring drinks, telling me the truth, and sitting across a table from me, dreaming out loud.

FlyBoy has always been about what happens when people gather. I might as well build it the same way.

Margo, Founder of FlyBoy Aperitif

FlyBoy is a non-alcoholic aperitif in development. Follow along at your own pace. And sign up for our waitlist to be the first to hear about our flavor drops.

Shaking it up this week with a TV series instead of a movie. This Friday Frame is all about BEEF Season 2, the kind of television that makes you forget you are watching television. Eight episodes, thirty minutes each (shockingly short nowadays). Somehow, Lee Sung Jin has folded an entire world into that constraint, a world with a country club, a billionaire matriarch, and two couples who are, without quite realizing it, practicing for the worst versions of themselves. Oscar Isaac as Josh (hot). Carey Mulligan as Lindsay (hot). Cailee Spaeny and Charles Melton as Ashley and Austin (hot hot). Every performance is the kind where you catch yourself holding your breath without knowing when you started. THIS. IS. CINEMA.

The cinematography photographs wealth and intimacy with the same light, so that a country club drawing room and a cramped basement kitchen feel equally beautiful and suffocating. There are frames in this season that feel like paintings you would stand in front of for a long time (not to mention the art that starts each episode and the custom typography created for this season).

Also, I’m extra attached to BEEF because one of my closest friends was a production designer on this show, and watching her work come to life across all eight episodes has added an extra layer of excitement and discovery, never knowing when I’ll see a wallpaper she worked on or a set she assembled. In knowing her, I now value the hours, decisions, and care that go into the physical world of a production. And then watching that world hold actors like Oscar Isaac and Carey Mulligan while they do some of the best work of their careers, makes the whole thing feel like more than entertainment.

This is a FlyBoy series because it understands that the rooms we gather in, the tables we sit around, the evenings we choose to make something of, are not neutral. They are the places where we either become more ourselves or begin the slow work of becoming someone we will later have to explain. The country club setting is intentional. Status and proximity and approval have a way of making ordinary people perform extraordinary cruelties without ever raising their voice. The most interesting question BEEF Season 2 asks is whether any of its characters actually want to be saved, or whether they just want to be witnessed.

Fun fact: Song Kang-ho, who plays the Chairwoman’s second husband Dr. Kim, is also the father in Parasite. Which means Lee Sung Jin has given us a universe where the same man survives both the class warfare of Bong Joon-ho and the passive-aggressive country club circuits of his own imagination. I find that deeply satisfying.

The Ritual: Pour something cold and botanical and settle somewhere with a good sightline. This is a show that rewards attention, the kind of attention you give when the day has finally quieted and you have stopped performing for it. Eight episodes at thirty minutes each means you can watch two or three in an evening and still get to bed at a reasonable hour, which is its own small luxury. Watch it with someone you DON’T have beef with. Let the aesthetics wash over you. Notice the rooms. Think about what they say about the people who built them.

Where to watch: Netflix

Empire Records (1995)

This is the movie I reach for when I want to remember what it felt like to care about something so completely that the stakes of a single Tuesday could feel like the end of the world. Not because it was the end of the world, but because you were young enough that you hadn’t yet learned to talk yourself out of feeling things that large.

Allan Moyle’s film takes place over the course of one day at an independent record store that, by morning, is almost certainly going to become a chain. The kids who work there know it. They resist it the way only twenty-somethings resist things, which is to say loudly and without a plan and with a grief that they don’t quite have the vocabulary for yet. Rex Manning shows up. Lucas takes the store’s cash to Atlantic City. Corey has a secret. Deb shaves her head in the bathroom. And in between all of it, music plays, and someone is always spinning something, and the whole film smells (if a film can smell) like carpet and vinyl and the specific warmth of a place that has been loved by the same people for a long time.

This is a FlyBoy film because it understands the particular ache of knowing that something beautiful is about to be replaced by something efficient. The kids in Empire Records are not fighting for the building. They are fighting for the feeling of the building, for the way time moves differently when you are somewhere that was made with care rather than optimized for throughput (aka, the man). That is a feeling worth protecting.

There is a scene near the end where they throw a party on the store's roof, and the whole thing feels like both an ending and a beginning. It is a joy that is specifically tinged. A celebration that knows what it is celebrating against. It’s the most impromptu and honest kind of gathering.

Fun fact: I watch this movie every April 8th (Rex Manning Day). Renée Zellweger’s bangs and Liv Tyler’s everything, and the way Lucas says “I do not regret the things I have done, but those I did not do,” have shaped who I am today. I stand by all of it.

The Ritual: Pour as close to sunset as the day will allow. Put on a record if you have one, or find a playlist someone made intentionally rather than by an algorithm (Here’s a FlyBoy one; you’re welcome). Sit somewhere that has a little history to it: a favorite chair, a porch, a table you’ve eaten at a hundred times. Let the day’s chaos settle into your shoulders. This is not a wind-down. This is the arrival. You made it through Friday, and that matters, and the glass in your hand is proof of it.

Where to watch: Apple TV, or rent from Prime.

There is a can mockup of FlyBoy sitting on my desk right now, and every morning I walk past it on my way to make coffee, and I think: Be patient with it. You’re doing great! Take each task one day at a time. Give it what it needs to grow.

And then I proceed to spend the next twelve hours doing the exact opposite of that.

I had a call with my CPG mentor recently to talk through fundraising timelines and cash flow realities, and her first piece of advice was simple, gentle, and completely unwelcome: slow down. Move when the money is ready. Take it one step at a time. My gut reaction was to exclaim “boo, sad”, which got a nice, long laugh from her. It’s not the advice I wanted to hear because slowing down when you’re this excited about something feels almost impossible to justify.

I am a future-minded person when it comes to building. I dream loudly and in full color, glamorizing the destination before I’ve even packed a bag for the journey. When I mentioned my upcoming drive to California, my roommate recently started listing all the places I should stop: the national parks, the scenic routes, the long detours worth taking. But the whole time she was talking, I was already on the freeway, the most efficient route loaded into Google Maps, just trying to get there. If I had to choose between journey and destination, I’d choose destination every time.

None of this is to say I’m not meticulous, or that I don’t care about the details. I absolutely do. I am the person who builds the to-do list and then executes it slowly and deliberately. I also like to bundle my tasks with the small pleasures that make a day feel full: a slow coffee in the morning, a languorous lunch somewhere good in the middle of the day, dinner with a friend at night. I love the unhurried pace of living. So why is it so hard to love the unhurried pace of building?

A book I frequently pull from my shelves is The Guide to Becoming Alive by Richard Christiansen of Flamingo Estate. There’s a piece in it about pruning, about bonsai specifically, and the idea that the bonsai is considered more a test for the gardener than a ritual for the tree. That the discipline of caring for it, the restraint, the close attention, the willingness to keep showing up without rushing the outcome, is where the real work lives.

I am genuinely terrible at habits. I get restless with routines; I find them constraining in a way that feels more like something to push against than something to lean into, like a chore from my mom’s old chore charts. But the image of the gardener returning, unhurried, scissors in hand, trusting the process rather than forcing it, reveling in the moment of removing what needs to be removed…that idea has made me pause.

Richard also writes about roses, which can only flourish with consistent and ruthless pruning. That no great bloom happens without first cutting back. He’s applied this to his own life at Flamingo Estate in a way I find both aspirational (and uncomfortable): no microwave, no television, water heated on the stove, baths taken outside. He has ruthlessly eliminated anything that speeds up life. And while I have no intentions of giving up my espresso machine or my microwaved dinners for one, there is something about the principle that sounds so, dare I say, refreshing.

Greg McKeown says something similar in Essentialism: the goal is not to get more things done, but to get the right things done. To spend your energy only on what truly matters by weeding everything else out. I know this to be true. I have known it for a while, actually. Excess, whether it’s objects or tasks or opinions or obligations, does not create the life I want. The richest moments I can point to are almost always the simplest ones: a long table, good food, the right people, nowhere to be.

So I’m on a pruning mission. Figuring out what that actually looks like for someone who runs a startup and a brand strategy studio, writes a Substack, and really needs to be on social media (but also kind of needs to never look at social media or my phone ever again). Pruning who I’m paying attention to, specifically the comparison spiral of watching other people build at the same time as me. Pruning my client load carefully, so there is actual space in the week to rest inside this thing rather than just sprint through it. Figuring out what it means to let light and air into the center of the plant—which is how the pruning chapter closes—with the idea that the cut only works if it’s made in a way that lets something breathe.

I don’t have a tidy answer yet. This is more of a thinking-out-loud kind of evening. But FlyBoy was built on the idea of being intentional, of choosing the thing that serves the moment rather than the thing that’s just available, and I think that has to apply to the building of it too. If I want to promote languid nights filled with connection and camaraderie, I need to build that into every cell of creating this can.

In the meantime, some exciting news! We will be pouring FlyBoy at Good Boy and Friends Wine Festival in LA this June. If you’re in the area, buy a ticket, and you can be one of the first to try our drink and let us know your thoughts! I’ll be in California for the month, so please send recommendations. Also, if you want to meet, I’m more than happy to make a new friend over a long dinner or a picnic in the park.

Margo, Founder of FlyBoy Aperitif

FlyBoy is a non-alcoholic aperitif in development. Follow along at your own pace. And sign up for our waitlist to be the first to hear about our flavor drops.

I just got back from St. Pete last week, feeling more refreshed than when I left…a rarity for me when I travel. I’ve been trying to find the words for why that is, and I think I just figured it out.

The short version is that I went to Florida to reconnect with two of my old friends. We all used to live in the same city, and then life did what life does and scattered us across three different states. What I thought was going to be a little escape and a necessary reconnection of the three of us turned into one of the most genuinely nourishing weeks I’ve had in recent memory. Initially, the plan was to visit our friend who was getting treatment in Tampa, but the treatment schedule changed, and so our plans pivoted. Gracefully, one friend’s mom offered her house while the friend was out of town. And now, suddenly, all of us were piled into this beautifully lived-in home in St. Pete — sleeping in, staying up too late playing games, waking up to a pot of coffee that was always already brewed and hot by the time anyone shuffled into the kitchen.

It felt like a middle school sleepover in the best possible way, like the parents had gone to bed early and given us full run of the house, except in this version, we were the adults, and nobody was actually going to bed early at all.

What made it feel so different from other trips I’ve taken was this almost eerie absence of the low-grade hum of anxiety I usually carry with me everywhere I go, whether that’s with family or friends or traveling solo. I kept reaching for that familiar tight feeling in my chest, and it just…wasn’t there. We moved the whole week between whatever felt right in the moment: from “parallel play” at a café while all three of us had our laptops open and nobody was saying a word, to wandering around downtown St. Pete with cups of gelato in hand giggling at the touristy art, to a friend’s boyfriend taking us sailing and then ending the day poolside at his parents’ house for an impromptu grilled dinner where the wine kept appearing and nobody was keeping track.

There were never fewer than two of us together at any given time. It was harmonious in a way that I don’t have a better word for.

I spent a lot of the flight home trying to understand why it felt so different, and I think it comes down to two things that are deeply intertwined. The first: just being with people who genuinely get you. Not in the sense that you agree on everything or share all the same opinions (because honestly we probably diverge quite a bit on certain things), but in the sense that you align on the fundamentals: generosity, hospitality, being able to laugh at yourself and at the absurdity of things, caring about the small pleasures of a good meal and a good drink and a good conversation and a comfortable silence. Nobody needed to steer the ship. Nobody needed to be made to feel welcome. We just were.

The second thing is hospitality itself, and I mean the real texture of it, not the concept. It was a house key passed back and forth between us. Coffee already made. Taking turns driving (and making the playlist for said drive). A dinner that materialized at a poolside because someone wanted to feed people. A magic trick from a dad who just wanted to share something that delighted him. Someone volunteering to pick up pizza so the rest of us can continue talking on the back deck. A bookshelf full of interesting things, a couch, and the implicit permission to just exist without an agenda. These are not grand gestures; they’re small ones, stacked on top of each other. And what they build collectively is a room where people can actually exhale.

I have spent a lot of my life chasing the right location, the right city, the right energy in a particular neighborhood, the lushness of the trees, how warm the winters are, and how much there is to do outside. And I will always believe that environment shapes your experience in real and important ways. But this trip reminded me pretty firmly that what you’re actually looking for when you’re chasing all of that is community and warmth and the specific, hard-to-manufacture alchemy that happens when people know how to be together and genuinely want to be.

That’s what I came home wanting to build, facilitate, and pour into everything I’m doing with FlyBoy.

I started thinking about tables while I was on the plane back: long ones outside in the early evening with good light on them, all the dishes I’d want to set out, the way FlyBoy would sit there as part of it, a beautiful and considered option for whoever wants it, and no fanfare about it in either direction. Something to offer to the person who’s pacing themselves between generous pours. Something to sip when you want something interesting and complex in your glass, but you’re not in the mood for alcohol. Something to include the person who’s training in the morning and still wants to stay fully in the room. I want all of these people at the same table, nobody marking their choice as significant, everyone just present and together and having a really good time.

That is the feeling I have been trying to bottle/can, and I didn’t have a clean way to describe it until this week in St. Pete gave it back to me. FlyBoy is about the table you’re setting and the ease you’re creating. It’s the kind of room where everyone lingers a little longer because nobody quite wants the night to end yet.

The space doesn’t make the room. The people do. And I’m building a drink that knows how to show up for them.

Margo, Founder of FlyBoy Aperitif

FlyBoy is a non-alcoholic aperitif in development. Follow along at your own pace. And sign up for our waitlist to be the first to hear about our flavor drops.

Some moments in building a company feel cinematic. And some moments are quiet whispers. Right now, there are two vials in the mail, sliding through the postal system somewhere between a production facility in New York and my front door. They’re the product of months of conversations, decisions, and more spreadsheets than I ever thought I’d touch. I don’t know exactly when they’ll arrive, and I’m checking the tracking obsessively, like a kid waiting for a secret package. When they do land, there won’t be a dramatic, filmed unboxing. I’ll probably just rip open the box, hold them up to the light for a long minute, and breathe, letting it sink in.

That’s where FlyBoy is right now. Somewhere in transit.

I wanted to write this because so much founder content falls into two buckets: the shiny highlight reel, or the kind of vulnerability that’s really just another form of self-promotion. I’m not interested in either. So here’s the real version. Imagine we are chit-chatting with aperitivo-hour vibes and low candlelight, discussing where I actually am in the process.

Honestly? It’s slow. Not stuck, not off track...just slow, the way anything worth building tends to be. The branding is done, and I love it. Investors are on board. We have a production partner in Ley Line Labs. The formulation company is headed by two beverage geeks from New York, with whom I clicked immediately and understood what FlyBoy is about from the start. They care about unique botanical profiles as much as (probably way more than) I do. The foundation is solid. But the big stuff, like manufacturing, production, and real marketing, is all still ahead. The parts that excite me most, the gatherings and the sense of belonging, where the drink fades into the background, and the people matter more—that’s all still to come.

And some days, I lose the plot. I get buried in the endless to-do list and forget why I started in the first place.

The drink is not the forefront. It almost fades into the background, more like a facilitator. The gathering of people and joy-filled moments have always been the point.

This week I talked with Danielle Calabrese of It’s All Happening Co., who’s been one of the most grounding voices in this whole process. I admitted something I hadn’t said out loud: I’ve been considering bringing in a co-founder. Not because I doubt my vision—I really don’t—but because doing this alone is heavy. I’ve seen what happens when a team loses alignment, or when there are too many cooks in the kitchen. I know going solo is right for FlyBoy, at least for now. But still... It’s a lot.

Danielle didn’t try to sway me either way; she just pointed out that naming the fear was already my answer. I didn’t need a co-founder, just a better support system. People who’ve done this before and will actually get in the weeds with you. She’s helped me model out the cost of goods, minimum orders, the kind of math I used to feel uneducated in and overwhelmed by. Turns out you don’t have to hire your gaps. Sometimes you just ask for help from people who’ve already been down this road.

Another thing I’m noticing: I’m grateful for the people in this space who operate so differently from me. I talked with a founder whose brain works almost the opposite of mine: she’s all numbers and analysis, while I lead with strategy and design. We’re both building consumer packaged goods, but see the world totally differently. That conversation was a good reminder: getting something off the ground takes every kind of brain. The difference between a product that just sits in a warehouse and one that builds a real following? It’s never just one skill set. It’s all of them, shared over time by people willing to pitch in.

I’m not actually alone in this. Even on the days it feels that way.

Building the foundation is the hardest part. But if you do it slowly, deliberately, trusting yourself through the hard stuff instead of giving away control out of panic, you get to own what you built.

There’s an event coming up in LA. A wine brand I love, Good Boy Wine, is throwing a big party, and they asked me to be the non-alc option. The FlyBoy × Good Boy pairing was obvious. But I had to tell them I won’t have cans ready in time. That stung. I’m still mad about it, low-key. I keep picturing the room in LA, imagining the feeling of someone picking up a FlyBoy and sipping from the can because it feels right for that moment. That’s what I’m building toward. I know there will be other rooms and other events. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t let that one get to me for a minute. I keep reminding myself that it’s better to go slow and get it right than to rush the process.

When the vials finally show up, I’ll open them at dinner and serve them in the moody environment I’ve always imagined: warm candlelight, probably jazz or R&B crooning in the background, a table full of people who won’t take it too seriously. That’s exactly how it should be. I want laughter, honest (maybe a little unflattering) opinions, and someone inevitably asking for seconds. The first real FlyBoy tasting should feel less like a focus group and more like a Tuesday night that just got good. That moment is almost here. And every slow, unglamorous, spreadsheet-filled day between now and then is exactly what will make it matter.

Thanks for being here for the long game.

Margo, Founder of FlyBoy Aperitif

FlyBoy is a non-alcoholic aperitif in development. Follow along at your own pace. And sign up for our waitlist to be the first to hear about our flavor drops.

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It’s the first good week of weather, and the hope of spring is here. Just warm enough to earn your sunglasses, just soft enough to make you slow down and actually notice it. The plans for the weekend? Lie in the sun on a blanket and do nothing.

Flight Tapes Vol. 2 is an hour of slow, happy, blended-perfectly music. Leon Bridges opens things up. Sade is in the middle like she belongs there (she does). Erykah, Free Nationals, Thee Sacred Souls, Mac Miller. It moves the way a good afternoon moves: unhurried, a little dreamy, no hard stops.

The ideal setting for this is somewhere with a view and nowhere to be: a back porch with the door open; a picnic blanket in the good part of the park; a long drive with the windows cracked and your best friend in the passenger seat. This is a playlist for the kind of Saturday morning that accidentally becomes an afternoon.

Pour yourself a cold whatever and hand one to whoever’s next to you. Press play and let it blend.

This playlist is best experienced with the Spotify “mix” feature turned on. Gives it that vinyl-club-dj effect…even if you’re sitting on a picnic blanket under a cloudless sky. It’s one smooth song cruising into the next.

Call Me By Your Name (2017)

This is the movie I reach for when I want to go back in time to a slow, endless, distraction-free summer. Long. Unstructured. Thick with heat and the sound of cicadas and the particular boredom that, if you sat inside it long enough, cracked open into something else entirely.

Guadagnino’s film is an act of languid lounging and yearning. It’s a portrait of what it felt like to have nowhere to be and no way to document it. Elio reads, he transcribes music, he lies in the grass. Time doesn’t move forward so much as it pools. There is no internet to escape to. No distance to manufacture. Just the unbearable proximity of two people with nothing to do but notice each other.

This is a FlyBoy film because it understands what happens when there is nothing between you and the world. In these moments, you notice the birds hopping around in the trees. You feel the exact weight of a long afternoon. You notice the way someone holds a book and chooses to dog-ear its pages. Boredom, real boredom, is not emptiness. In fact, it’s often the moment before the most interesting thing that will ever happen to you. This kind of time is conditional for presence, for being so fully alive in your body that a bicycle ride or a piece of music or the smell of sunscreen becomes a full sensory event. That is what we are reaching for with every pour: not escape, but arrival.

And P.S., I still think about the Timothée edit about once a week. 2017 Timothée with hair will always have a special place in my heart <3.

The Ritual: Pour under an afternoon sun. Find the warmest corner of wherever you are. No playlist. Just ambient sound, open windows, and the noise of wherever you are filtering in. Drink slowly. Let your mind wander without catching it. That wandering is the point.

Where to watch: HBO Max, or rent from Prime

Last week, a FlyBoy teammate and I flew out to Los Angeles for Expo West, the natural products industry’s biggest annual gathering. We went for research and recon. What we got instead was rest and relaxation. A different kind of R&R. And honestly? That feels about right for where we are.

A lot is happening behind the scenes at FlyBoy. Which is exactly the tension I’ve been sitting with lately: building in private versus building in public.

Building in private gives you room to breathe. Room to make mistakes, change your mind, move at your own pace, and figure things out without an audience scrutinizing every move. There’s something genuinely valuable in that quietness. In the unglamorous, unhurried work of just making the thing.

But I’ll be honest: I get excited. Samples come in and I want to tell someone. We’re up late tasting, tweaking, comparing. The travel, the merch conversations, the small moments of oh, this might actually be something… every little in-between keeps the sparkle alive. The urge to share it is real.

At the same time, something said this week has been rattling around in my head. The idea that brands today aren’t really product companies; they’re media companies that happen to sell product. The implication is that if you’re not posting, promoting, and publishing constantly, you’re falling behind.

That doesn’t sit right with me.

A little background. Before design school, before brand strategy, before any of this, I wanted to be an artist, and I dreamed about working in print media. But, the most practical path at the time pointed toward graphic design, so I followed it, even though I’d never owned a laptop and the tech world felt completely foreign to me.

Over time, I got comfortable. Hot keys, custom GPTs, tools that let me create things I couldn’t have imagined a decade ago. I’m genuinely at home in that world now.

But that comfort is its own kind of discomfort.

I miss the earlier version of myself. The one who collected records and wrote a blog and, half-ironically but also completely sincerely, typewriter-typed letters to friends (shout out ). The girl who loved throwing a dance party, a house party, a theme party. Who wanted to be in the room with people, not broadcasting to them.

There’s a trend I’ve been paying attention to lately: phoneless experiences. Analog parties. People gathering to paint together, read poetry aloud, sit in a circle, and listen to a new album on vinyl. The quiet, deliberate recreation of something we used to just call being together.

I don’t want to chase this as a trend. I want to follow it authentically, because it’s actually how I want to live.

FlyBoy was never meant to be a content play; it was and is meant to be a reason to gather. It’s a drink that brings people around a table, into a backyard, onto a porch. The can is just the vehicle. The point is the room full of people.

So here’s where I’ve landed: I’m going to be a little elusive. A little unhurried when it comes to socials and what’s coming next. Not secretive in a mysterious-for-mystery’s-sake way; just honest about the fact that the work is happening, it’s real, and it deserves the space to develop without a content calendar attached to it.

In the meantime, I’ll be here: sipping through different spirits, chasing the right blend of botanical and carefree, complex and joyful.

When it’s ready, you’ll know.

Margo, Founder of FlyBoy Aperitif

FlyBoy is a non-alcoholic aperitif in development. Follow along at your own pace.

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The Worst Person in the World (2021)

Joachim Trier’s masterpiece is not a film about indecision; it is a film about the high cost of presence. It is a study in the "in-between": the crackle of a first conversation at a wedding you weren’t invited to, the stillness of an Oslo morning when time literally stands still, and the sharp exhale of realizing who you are not.

This film fits into the FlyBoy world due to its raw elegance, its rejection of easy answers, and its relentless pursuit of authenticity. It mirrors our own philosophy—that being "intentional" isn't about having it all figured out; it’s about the courage to clear the fog. The film’s crisp, Nordic light and the vibrant, lived-in textures of Julie’s world reflect the botanical brightness in your glass. That sequence where she runs through a frozen city... I could watch that on a loop. It is the ultimate expression of individual agency.

The Ritual: Wait for the "blue hour" just after sunset. Light a single, unscented beeswax candle. Pour your drink of choice over a large, hand-cut ice cube. Garnish with a sprig of slapped rosemary to wake up the aromatics. Settle into the silence of your own company. This is cinema for the intentional.

Where to watch: Apple TV, Tubi, or rent from Prime

I love the ritual of crafting a cocktail because it feels like kitchen alchemy: one part this, two parts that, shaken with ice, strained, and finished with the oils of an expressed orange peel. There is a specific pride in nailing the ratio, achieving that architectural layering of sweet, tart, bitter, and smooth. Otherwise, you’re just serving what my friend Maryann calls “Witches’ Brew.”

Years ago, I wrote a “30 before 30” list. Amidst the typical ambitious milestones were two deeply practical goals: Create a signature cocktail my friends actually like, and Cook a meal for people that doesn’t stress me out.

I wanted to exercise my hospitality muscle without the performance anxiety. Prepping for guests used to be a mental marathon: Is the timing right? Are they hungry and waiting? Did I over-salt the sauce? What was that joke I just missed? I wanted to channel my mother’s ability to entertain: to empathize and engage while simultaneously setting down a beautiful, piping-hot dish.

I solved it with a no-frills strategy: cook an entire box of Spaghetti and serve it with vodka sauce and Italian sausage, a baker-fresh loaf slathered in garlic butter, and a Negroni featuring freezer-cold gin and a sharp spritz of orange bitters. This meal was a hit because it was reliable. It allowed me to stop performing and start being present.

While I’ve viewed drinking through many lenses, my favorite is the lens of communal gathering. Cultural strategist Jasmine Bina says drinking is about being present with others; it’s about “connection, grounding, and return.” In Charleston, I belong to a wine club where a dozen of us gather monthly. What begins as a serious, technical ranking of vintages usually devolves into collective sighs over a host’s baked crumble or jokingly hating on a 2.0-rated wine (that you probably brought yourself).

We are entering what Bina calls the “Age of Potency,” where we crave experiences that feel alive and grounded. The appeal of wasted nights we can’t remember has evaporated. In fact, we want to remember. That is the entire point. We want to be in our bodies, in the room, with our people.

Alcohol doesn’t have to be about escape. It can be a tool for exploration, memory, and flavor.

In my own search for Social Clarity, I’ve been hunting for a non-alcoholic alternative that carries the same weight as those Negroni-fueled nights. Lately, I’ve been playing chemist: mixing two existing NA beverages to find the sophistication I crave. It feels slightly wrong, like wearing two competing brand names, but the result works: 3 parts Eva’s Spritz, 1 part Figlia, stirred over ice with a clementine twist.

This DIY alchemy, clashing brands to find a single, elusive profile, exposed the gap FlyBoy is destined to fill. You shouldn’t have to “hack” your evening to achieve a sophisticated palate. We deserve a singular, intentional pour that commands the room without the morning-after fog.

If the table is the destination, the drink is the passport. It is the permission slip to be fully present, to catch the punchline, and to feel the potency of the moment. FlyBoy isn’t just about what’s in the glass; it’s about what stays in the room after the glass is empty.

We are moving away from the era of Witches’ Brew and into an era of surgical intentionality. I’ve realized my 30 before 30 goal wasn’t actually about mastering a recipe; it was about mastering the art of the return. Returning to the conversation, to the flavors, and to a version of social life where the memories are as crisp as the first sip.

The table is set. The ratio is finally right. And for the first time, the clarity is better than the buzz.

-Margo

As I’ve been building FlyBoy, I found myself returning to certain films that share our DNA—stories told with artful visuals, rich palettes, and an unapologetic commitment to being present. The Social Clarity we talk about isn’t just for the dinner table; it’s for the moments we spend immersed in art.

The Friday Frame is a weekly series where I’ll be pairing a FlyBoy-inspired serve with a film that demands your full attention. No mindless scrolling, no “movie on in the background”. Just high-performance cinema and the intentionality it deserves.

Every Friday, we’ll curate a mood. We’ll start with a masterpiece that defines the very “Age of Potency” we are stepping into.

In the Mood for Love (2000)

Wong Kar-wai’s masterpiece is not a movie you watch; it is a mood you inhabit. It is a study in what is left unsaid: the lingering glances in narrow hallways and the steam rising from noodle stalls or smoke curling from dangling cigarettes.

We believe this film fits into the FlyBoy world due to its craft, restraint, and intentionality. Every frame is composed like a painting; every silence is heavy with meaning. The film’s rich, crimson palette mirrors the botanical complexity in your glass. Those billowing hotel curtains…I could watch that on a loop. And the dreamy soundtrack of Nat King Cole singing in Spanish fills you with longing for simpler times.

The Ritual: Dim the lamps. Let the soundtrack’s cello wash over the room (Oh, that cello!). Pour your drink of choice over a clear rock, express a grapefruit peel over the rim, and settle in. This is cinema for the intentional.

Where to watch: HBO Max or rent from Amazon Prime

I’m opening up a new corner of FlyBoy Girl: a live chat just for subscribers—a cozy group thread where we can talk aperitifs, Night Flight, actual flights, soft nights, rituals, and the messy middle of building FlyBoy in real time.

I’ll drop prompts, quick updates, drink ideas, and behind‑the‑scenes questions there, and you can jump in when you’re sipping something good or scrolling between gates.

Join chat

How to join the Cabin Chat

Get the Substack app by clicking this link or the button below. New chat threads won’t go out over email, so turn on push notifications if you want to catch the conversation as it happens. Open the app and tap the Chat icon (two little bubbles in the bottom bar), then look for FlyBoy Girl to enter the thread. You can also access chat on the web.

Get app

That’s it! Pop in to say hi, tell us what you’re pouring, and make yourself at home in the Flight Crew. And if you have any issues, check out Substack’s FAQ.

FlyBoy Vol. 1 is filled with low-altitude frequencies for high-performance decompression. It transitions from upbeat 70s French Disco to 90s New York Hip-Hop. Curated for the transition from the boardroom to the balcony.

This playlist is best experienced with the Spotify “mix” feature turned on. Gives it that vinyl-club-dj effect. Imagine you’ve got a FlyBoy on the rocks in hand, and you’re bobbing to the beat in a 70s-esque living room while Benji B is mixing (visual below to give your imagination a lift).

As a girl with a background in design and brand strategy, I’ve always known that the soul of a product is not what it is, but how it feels. When dreaming up FlyBoy, I knew exactly who I wanted this brand to feel: I wanted it to feel like home. I desired for FlyBoy to be not just a drink, but a space where tension dissipates and you are accepted exactly as you are. A place you return to. A place where you are welcome. This is the world I want to build.

But how do you build a world you weren’t born into? Cue the imposter syndrome! I don’t have an ancestral line of Italian distillers or a culinary or sommelier background to anchor this brand universe. What I do have is an obsession with the social gaiety of gathering: the informal magic of raiding the pantry and generously topping off a friend’s glass.

That feeling is what I wanted to bottle (or, more accurately, can): the hospitality of an amaro handed to you as soon as you sit down, relaxing into the familiar comfort of a space where people who know you intimately.

I think of my friend Molly crafting a Negroni-esque drink for me while I sat at her kitchen counter and watched her prep dinner. I think of splitting a bucket of spritzes at a sidewalk cafe in July, or the thrill of a clandestine park picnic with a bottle of Lillet Blanc tucked in a tote bag. There is something inherently hospitable about the bitter and botanical; these drinks are more meaningful when they are shared.

So, how do you build a brand that feels like a warm summer breeze or a late-night call with a friend? That is my quest.

It might seem bold to hinge such a strong identity on an RTD beverage, but what I’ve learned is that FlyBoy is the vehicle, not the destination. The force propelling this forward is community: tapping into the unique skills of people I admire to create something far larger than a liquid in a can.

Home isn’t homey when you’re alone. In that same vein, I know I can’t (and don’t want to) fly solo. The most beautiful tables are the ones where every chair is filled, and the same is true for this journey. The ride is so much more rewarding when it’s full of people who bring their own light to the mission. On this path, I am here to listen humbly and execute passionately. I truly believe every perspective is valuable and every gift is essential to orchestrate a successful takeoff.

I invite you to come along as I muse, research, test, and build. If you want to help me build this world physically, reach out at hello@drinkflyboy.com or DM me at @flyboyaperitif. And I hope you don’t mind all the plane puns. I simply can’t hold back.

Wheels Up.

Margo, Founder of FlyBoy Aperitif

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