The Commodity Classic Chronicles Part I: The Spectacle Begins

Snake Oil, Sustainability, and the Endless Search for Meaning

The ballroom is packed, and I can’t decide if it’s because sustainability is the hot topic of the moment or if there’s just nothing better to do on a Sunday morning in Denver.

This being my first-ever Commodity Classic, I have no frame of reference.

What I do know is that in less than 72 hours, I’ve heard more about farmers and agriculture outside of this conference than inside it.

The hotel buffet line, the breakfast conversation between a land baron and a young couple at the table behind me, and even my Uber driver—who gave me an unsolicited lecture on the Western water supply—have all hammered home one point: people have a lot to say about agriculture, and almost none of them are farmers.

So, when the guy sitting next to me at the panel asks, “Do people really care about sustainability, or is there nothing else going on today?” I tell him both are probably true.

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The Colorado Convention Center. Twelve acres. That’s how much ground the Commodity Classic trade show covers, and every square inch is packed with booths selling the latest miracle cure for whatever plagues the modern farmer.

“Our biological is the ticket to your farm’s promised land.”

“Save your farm’s soul with this new disk.”

“If you don’t run Case equipment, then f*** you!”

Okay, maybe that last one was implied. But the message is clear—everyone here has the answer. Every problem in agriculture has a corresponding product, a creation, a solution.

The appetite for new tech is real. The Sound Agriculture and Redox presentations are standing-room only. Pivot Bio has a half-acre monument towering over the trade floor with promises that feel just shy of guarantees. People are packed in like cattle, waiting for a glimpse of Kelly Garrett’s hat or a chance to rub elbows with the Barstool Ag guy.

The hunger is undeniable—farmers chasing whatever magic word will qualify them as sustainable or regenerative, whatever golden ticket keeps them ahead of the game.

But who’s going to find the answer?

And more importantly, what if there isn’t one?

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Panel after panel tries to define sustainability, but the answers are as fluid as these hotel eggs.

Some say it’s about reducing inputs.

Others argue it’s about monetizing data.

And then some say it’s all about carbon credits—though most farmers I talk to are skeptical that a Wall Street firm buying theoretical tons of CO2 off a spreadsheet will do a damn thing for soil health.

Garrett summed it up best: “Not wasting a single thing. That’s where it starts.”

Margins are razor-thin. If sustainability doesn’t mean surviving to next season, what the hell does it mean?

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Somewhere between the panels and the trade show, a different thought creeps in.

There’s a nervous energy to this place—everyone running calculations in their heads, looking for the next thing to make or break them. And then there’s me, wide awake at 2:57 AM, back at the Eddy Hotel & Taproom, wondering why my brain won’t shut off.

It’d be easy to fix. Less than a milligram of Xanax, and I’d sleep like a rock. That’s the American way—medicate the discomfort, smooth the edges, keep the machine running.

But I’ve been down that road. I know where it leads.

Six months to get off the devil benzos. Never again. I’ll take the restlessness over the fog, the awareness over the numbness. So be it if that means staying up all night, turning into Tyler Durden, and waging war on the American financial system.

Anything but the slow-motion chemical lobotomy of forgetting how to fasten my belt buckle.

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Commodity Classic is both everything and nothing. It’s where agriculture’s biggest questions get asked—but never really answered. Where innovation and tradition collide, the sharpest minds in the industry convene, and the same debates cycle through, year after year.

The theme shifts. The optics change. But the confusion never disappears.

The real story? The one I’m still piecing together?

It’s buried somewhere in the contradictions, exhaustion, and relentless search for something real.

Farmers live with uncertainty every damn day. No matter how much we innovate, we’re still at the mercy of weather, markets, and forces we’ll never control.

Maybe that’s the truth we don’t want to admit.

Either way, I’ll finish my omelet, keep writing, and let the industry sell its solutions.

Because in agriculture, like everything else, every answer is for sale.

The only thing that changes is who’s buying.