I didn't set out to build nine products. I set out to survive my own life.

There's a moment every parent knows—the one where your child says something that stops you cold. My daughter Chloe, when she was maybe eighteen months old, had a way of asking for help. Instead of "Daddy, can you help me?" she'd say, "Dada, help you?"

I recorded it. Somewhere on an old phone there's a clip of that voice, that innocent reversal of pronouns, that request that was really a statement of trust. Dad can help. Dad will help.

I think about that phrase more than I probably should.

I'm a 50-year-old single father. I run event logistics for a living—the kind of work where you fly into a city, set up a brand activation, manage a crew of people who've never met before, solve twelve problems before lunch, and fly out the next morning. I've done this for Fabletics, Samsung, Visa, Amazon, Diageo, the NFL. I've managed programs across 40 markets with hundreds of field staff.

I'm also part of the sandwich generation. My 90-year-old grandmother needs care. My daughter needs a father. My career needs attention. My sanity needs... something.

And somewhere in there, I started building things.

Not because I wanted to be a founder. I've never been particularly interested in the startup narrative—the pitch decks, the hockey stick graphs, the "we're disrupting X" language that sounds impressive but usually means very little.

I built things because the tools I needed didn't exist.

GrandScreen happened because my grandmother kept missing appointments. We'd call, we'd text, we'd set reminders on her phone. She'd forget to check all of it. One day I realized: she watches her TV every single day. What if the schedule just lived there?

InterviewAlly happened because I've been laid off twice. Both times, I panicked in behavioral interviews. I had stories—good ones—but under pressure, I couldn't access them. So I built a system to prepare those stories in advance, tagged by skill, ready to retrieve.

Style Wizard happened because I'm colorblind. Red-green, the common kind. For years I'd buy clothes I thought looked great, then my daughter would tell me I looked like a clown.

Receipt Recreator happened because I travel constantly and kept losing receipts. Missing expense deadlines. Scrambling at tax time.

Escapade happened because every trip I coordinated for work ended the same way: "What hotel are we at?" "When does your flight land?" "Can you forward me that confirmation?"

I'm not a developer. I'm what people now call a "vibe coder"—someone who uses AI to build things they couldn't build alone. I'm not precious about that. The tools exist. I use them.

What I am is someone who has spent two decades turning chaos into systems. That's what event operations is, really. You take a situation where nothing is defined—different vendors, different venues, different crews, different cities—and you impose enough structure that the thing actually happens.

I've been doing that for brands. Now I do it for myself.

So this is Brian & His Br.AI.n. Not a startup. Not a portfolio. Something more like a workshop.

Every product here started as my problem. Some are live. Some are in beta. Some are barely more than a sketch. I'm building in public because I think there are other people like me—people who do too much, who carry too much, who need systems that survive real life.

If you're a caregiver, an event professional, a career-changer in your 40s or 50s, a parent trying to hold it all together, a creative who never quite fit the mold—this is for you.

Dada, help you.

Yeah. Let's try.