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LuckyDayLabs.ai

Forum Leader | Founder @ LuckyDayLabs.ai

Frankly speaking, in order to create something meaningful, I’ve found that it rarely begins with a clean blueprint. More often, it begins with curiosity. In this case, it started with a vague idea that I wanted to do something around AI, maybe a roundtable, maybe a speaker night. Nothing was set in stone.

As a member of the OpenAI Forums, I was already surrounded by discussions about ethics, acceleration, art, and alignment. But over time, just through life and being in the OpenAI Forum, it slowly evolved. It was never a moment of deciding, “this is what I’m going to do.” It was more like I kept bumping into filmmakers, people who were using AI in creative ways, and eventually it just became obvious: this was supposed to be an AI film event.


I met AI filmmakers and OpenAI Forum Members like 

 (Director and Student at Chapman's Doge Film School). These were people who weren’t stuck in the “should we” debate—they were already making AI films. And something about that made it feel more real.

Rowdy Stevens (left), Nik Kleverov (center), and Me (right)

Then came the inflection point: OpenAI released its new 4o image model, and suddenly anime-style generations took over the internet. I was obsessed. Everything anime—it was so fun! Just playing around with the new model and seeing how people were using it felt like this creative renaissance. But just as fast as it emerged, the backlash hit. Debates over theft, copyright, and whether AI art was “real art” exploded across the internet.


People were angry. Artists were scared. And the tone turned hostile fast.


That’s when the idea for an AI film night took shape.

I had already met filmmakers who were embracing this new AI medium, but for some reason I felt like I wanted a mixture of experts—not just AI filmmakers. Luckily, my former AI professor, 

, happened to be an AI Product Director at Netflix. Just like that, I found myself fortunate enough to have the experts, the tech, and the stories. But more than anything, I had this urge to help people move past what I call "AI hesitancy"—that feeling of being overwhelmed, left behind, or afraid of what’s coming.


One of my favorite places; Laguna Beach has always had a spirit of artistry, of creativity, experimentation, and a deep respect for the people who make things. It’s been a haven for artists for decades. So it felt symbolic to host the event there, especially at the Rivian Theater. The theater itself is this beautifully restored space, blending old-world charm with new-world tech. And Rivian, being a company at the forefront of innovation, felt like the perfect host.

The venue was a physical manifestation of the entire night: honoring the past while stepping boldly into the future.

I spent months planning. Curating the speakers. Sketching out the night. And just as it started to come together, my original partner pulled out. They’ll remain unnamed, and I don’t blame them—it was a tough call and I might’ve done the same thing if I were in their shoes. But at the time, I was gutted. I don’t think I left my room for a full day. I genuinely thought the whole thing might be over. I was embarrassed, discouraged, exhausted. It felt like months of planning just vanished overnight.

Looking back, it all seems overly dramatic. However, it certainly didn’t feel that way in the moment. I could insert some cliché about time healing all wounds, but I'll spare you.


Nevertheless, I eventually realized: I could still do it. It would just be harder. So I kept going.

One week out, I was in the thick of logistics—coordinating panelists, writing my speech, designing the slides, obsessing over every pixel. I listened to my speech on loop like a podcast, rehearsing it until it was in my bones. Every single day, I worked on it. I’d jot things down during the day, turn the whole thing into an audio file, and listen to it over and over. I wanted every word to be clear, calm, and respectful—because it’s not just a talk. It’s about giving people language they can use when they leave the room. And that’s a responsibility.


I planned to head down to Laguna early, get some air, clear my head. But around 11 a.m., I got a call from the Rivian Theater.

Every event host’s worst nightmare: the screen was broken.

A lower panel had gone out, and despite an overnight crew working on it, it wasn’t fixed. Rivian is committed to providing an incredible experience for theatergoers and guests—as am I—and they didn’t want to host a subpar experience. But internally, I was panicking.

Months of work suddenly looked like it might all collapse.

The AV manager was explaining the way their projection system worked. And while he talked, I started thinking of a way to reroute it. It was a long shot, but I pitched the workaround. He paused and said, “It might work in theory.” So we tested it. And… it 

. Somehow, the idea popped into my head right when I needed it to. And the AV manager was a true hero for letting me even try the workaround—most would just call the entire thing off.

Kudos to his trust and patience in allowing my crazy last-minute plan.

As guests arrived, I greeted them one by one. Some familiar faces, some new. I briefed the panelists, ran through the slides, checked the mics. Everything was set. I flipped on my mic, stepped onto the stage, and started the show.


It was all going so well. The workaround worked. The crowd had arrived. The energy in the room was buzzing. It finally felt like maybe, just maybe, things were going to go smoothly.

Then… the rogue wave all ocean explorers fear suddenly arrived.

Right in the middle of my opening speech, I got a phone call. And somehow, that crashed the Notes app on my Mac that I’d been using to read my speech—an app I’ve trusted for over a decade. Everything froze. My mind blanked. I knew my speech. I’ve spoken on stage before. I’ve forgotten lines before. But I’ve never experienced a moment where the tech just betrayed me like that.

For ten full seconds—which felt like an hour—I couldn’t move. I could hear a voice in my head screaming, “Say something, anything!” but my mouth just… didn’t respond. Eventually I might have mustered a “Sorry, I lost my notes.” Not ideal.

Thankfully, I had a backup of my speech. I pulled out my phone, opened a copy of the notes, and continued.


Thankfully, the audience didn’t seem to care.


The audience was engaged. The panel was thoughtful. The Q&A was lively. Some people were curious, some surprised. There’s always that one person who falls asleep. I don’t take it personally. In fact, I’ve been that person before. But beyond that, I could see curiosity on people’s faces. Like they were hearing things they hadn’t considered before. And the questions afterward—so many people wanted to talk, to unpack, to understand.

It felt like we had cracked something open.


Afterward, people came up to thank me. To tell me how much they appreciated the event. How they’d been afraid of AI, and now they saw it a little differently.

I had no idea how people would react. Part of me was ready for protestors. I had this irrational—but not entirely unfounded—fear that people would show up and try to shut us down. In today’s climate, it’s not impossible. But instead, people thanked me.


And that meant more than they probably realized.


I hope to do more of these. Ideally with less heartbreak and no more rogue waves. But if there’s one thing I know for sure—it was worth it.

Thanks to Rivan's entire team for hosting us. They truly were fantastic.

How I Accidentally Hosted an AI Film Festival

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