Month: October 2021

Built to Last

It was a beautiful, early summer afternoon in Washington, DC. As the sun positioned itself across the Potomac River, I climbed the stairs of the Lincoln Memorial.

By this hour, the steps were blanketed in shade. So, as I traversed them, I felt as if I was ascending into a darkened cave.

But that feeling evaporated once I reached the top and I turned around. What I saw took my breath away.

No, it wasn’t the view itself that had this effect on me.

The sights of the National Mall sprawled out in front of me — the reflecting pool bathed in sunlight, with the Washington Monument towering behind it — were certainly picturesque.

But I had seen this vista before.

I’d seen it in prior visits to our nation’s capital. I’d seen it in movie scenes. And I’d seen it in black and white pictures from 1963.

Yes, the March on Washington had culminated in this spot. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. delivered his famous I Have a Dream speech from these steps. And if pictures are prophecy, the view hadn’t changed one bit since then.

That was what got to me. The knowledge that while so much can change in an instant, some things can stay the same for decades.

Some things are just built to last.

What makes something timeless? What gives it staying power?

It’s a question countless people have tried to answer through the years.

We live in an environment of constant flux. Our status quo is a ride on a spinning sphere orbiting a ball of fire — with nary a seat belt to be found.

To some extent, we lean into this reality. Over the centuries, we’ve evolved, we’ve innovated, and we’ve rebuilt after disaster.

Yet, we yearn for constants. We crave the comfort of the familiar. We rely on a beacon — an enduring single point of reference.

With this utopia all too often lacking, we seek to create it. We strive to add constructs that transcend generations.

We stake our value on our legacy. We pour our effort into endurance. And we hope against hope that our name and accomplishments will not be forgotten by those who come after us.

It’s a valiant quest. But it’s one that’s nearly impossible to pull off.

For when we seek to create something that’s built to last, we fight against the forces of the future. With no way to know what the future will bring, we are effectively left to guess.

We bet against the unimaginable whittling our creations away. And we hold our breath.

I’m writing this article six years after the launch of Words of the West.

This forum has grown immensely over that time. What began as a singular ode to my imperfection has transformed into a collection of thoughts, opinions, and reflections. There are more than 300 of those on Words of the West now, with a new article added each week.

Putting these perspectives into writing is certainly a passion of mine. But ensuring they’re up to standard, week in and week out, has proven to be a great challenge.

I embrace this challenge by tackling it head-on. Each week, as I prepare to draft a new article, I ask myself one question: Is this idea built to last?

The premise of this query is ridiculous. The world has changed dramatically in six years, and I’ve evolved greatly as well. My flaws and knowledge gaps are as present now as they were at the start.

After all these strides and half-steps, I can’t possibly know what might be built to last — let alone judge my ideas against it?

And yet, I stick with this litmus test. For it reinforces the aspirations of my work.

I want my ideas to endure. I want my thoughts to inspire. I want my prose to assist people that I may never have the honor to meet.

I have no doubt this process has made my writing better. Even as its impact becomes harder than ever to gauge.

Seismic events have rocked our world in the past half-decade or so. And in their wake have come candid re-evaluations of so much of what we once took for granted.

Statues have come down. Holidays have been renamed. And the literary canon has been reshuffled.

Regardless of your opinion of these changes, they’ve surely changed the calculus of what’s built to last. They’ve reminded us that our legacy is always on trial; there is no statute of limitations.

I believe that the perspectives I share here are moral, proper, and on the right side of history. But will they still be that way years from now? That’s anyone’s guess.

Despite the odds, there are certainly some staples of our society that are built to last.

Coca-Cola continues to be a preeminent soda, both locally and globally. The Adventures of Tom Sawyer remains a quintessentially American novel. And that view from the Lincoln Memorial is as pristine now as it was half a century ago.

What’s the recipe for this success? It’s equal parts circumstance, shrewdness, and luck.

The United States Government happens to operate the National Mall. And with the National Park Service eternally loathe to change its look, the view from the Lincoln Memorial is unlikely to change anytime soon.

Other sodas have won the hearts of Americans. But few have mastered the arts of marketing and international expansion the way Coca-Cola has.

And The Adventures of Tom Sawyer managed to paint a picture of frontier American life without too many of the missteps that have felled other works of its era.

Time and again, we try and emulate these successes. We attempt to rekindle their glory, to remaster their endurance. And time and again, we fail.

Perhaps we’re approaching this task all wrong.

Perhaps we need to focus on the journey, not the destination. Perhaps we need to lean into the standard we seek to set, rather than the results we hope to influence.

Such a strategy recenters the conversation. It puts control in our hands.

If we do what seems moral and right, if we act in a way that truly allows us to hold our head high, that’s enough.

No need to fret about what comes in the centuries after we’re gone. For the present, we’ve authored something built to last.

The Fixed Pie

I wish I had more.

These five words are at the start of so many statements of regret.

Some share those words while pining for a loved one who left their life. Others use them as they share dismay about their financial situation. Others utter them to rue missed opportunities.

Such laments can seem trite. After all, we live in the land of abundance. Why curse the past when the future is still to be written?

And yet, I think these five words can stand for something substantial. In fact, I believe they’re the key to setting our lives on a more sustainable course.

America is a land of entrepreneurs.

From coast to coast, there are plenty of people who’ve created new ventures or taken nascent businesses into household names. Often devoid of supporting resources, these entrepreneurs rely on instincts and guile.

This idea of pulling oneself up by one’s bootstraps is ingrained in American heritage. Ever since the frontier era, we’ve had to be scrappy to survive.

This has provided great risk. But with it has come great opportunity.

Prosperity is not limited to those who score the best on an entrance exam, who train with the right mentors, or who have the best connections. College dropouts can create billion-dollar companies. Single parents can turn side hustles into empires.

Although I took a rather conventional path in my career — completing my undergraduate degree and later getting a Master’s in Business Administration— I have great respect for entrepreneurs. What they’ve achieved is admirable, and worthy of praise.

However, there’s one element that concerns me about the Do-It-Yourself playbook. Namely, that it often leaves budding business minds without an understanding of economics.

Now, economics is hardly the most prized corner of business education. Theoretical by nature and dominated by pessimistic academics, it’s a discipline that’s often mocked.

Economics doesn’t help balance the books, ward off competitors, or sell more items. It simply explains the shifting playing field that business is conducted on.

And yet, that’s precisely why it’s so important.

You see, economics forces us to reckon with reality. To master it, we must learn to properly allocate scarce resources. This often means taking the least bad option, recognizing that such choices will expose vulnerabilities.

There is no way to have all the upside without any of the downside. For a central tenet of economics is The Fixed Pie — the idea that there’s only so much to go around.

It’s a basic principle. An inevitable one.

But it’s a principle that has all too often been ignored — by both the entrepreneurial community and broader society.

To infinity and beyond.

So goes Buzz Lightyear’s catchphrase in the movie Toy Story.

I was only a child when this film hit theaters. I had no idea how ridiculous this phrase was at the time. I didn’t understand that there was nothing beyond infinity to shoot for.

And yet, all these years later, there are some adults who fail to see the irony of Buzz’s words.

As the world has gone digital, the desire to go beyond infinity has grown. Companies have exploded in size and valuation, unencumbered by the constraints of the analog world. People have been able to save artifacts to the cloud without inviting that musty attic smell. The ultra-rich have seen extra zeros added to their name as they eat breakfast.

The eternal hunger for more is being fed at warp speed, without much to slow it down. And yet, we are fraying at the seams.

For try as we might, one dimension resists the vacuum of acceleration and leaves us flailing in its headwinds.

That dimension is time.

Time. It’s inevitable.

There might be trillion-dollar companies these days, but there are still only 24 hours in a day. And while we might live longer than our ancestors, we’re only young for so long.

I’ve written before about our efforts to defang time. I’ve spoken out against our ill-conceived efforts to defray it into oblivion.

Such warnings seem prescient, particularly in the wake of a pandemic that spawned widespread burnout. And yet, I feel no desire to take a victory lap.

For I have failed to heed my own advice. I too have tried to bend time to my will.

Indeed, as the world slowed down during the pandemic, I sped up. I accelerated my efforts to stay fit, stay fed, and stay fulfilled.

I’ve largely achieved these goals. But they’ve come at a cost.

I’ve been getting far less sleep than I did just a few years ago. Not because of insomnia or restlessness. But because I’m doing so much in my day-to-day.

I know that this dearth of sleep will catch up with me sooner rather than later. Yet, I still find myself clinging to the false belief that I can take my productivity to the max.

Why? Because I’m human.

I don’t want to choose. I want all the pleasure and none of the pain.

Even if it’s all a grand illusion.

There’s an old tale of a couple living in paradise. Blind to their surroundings, they lived in uninterrupted bliss.

Then, a serpent brought temptation into their midst. The two of them ate from the forbidden fruit and encountered knowledge for the first time. Shame and hardship quickly followed, as they were banished into the cold.

The tale of Adam and Eve is our origin story. God might have created them, but their saga created humanity.

And yet, it’s often viewed as a cautionary tale.

We openly wonder what would have happened if they hadn’t bitten into the fruit. How idyllic would life be?

Our recent exploits seem like attempts to answer that question. Our pursuits of perfection and abundance seek to send us back to the Garden of Eden.

But despite our efforts to avoid it, reality is out there. The fixed pie is omnipresent, and with it comes tradeoffs. Getting what we desire often means giving up something else we covet.

Those who pine after what they’ve lost might sound pitiful. But at least they’re clear-eyed.

They’ve played the game. They understand its rules. And they know better than to hide from the inevitability of tradeoffs.

Perhaps we can learn from them. Perhaps we can drop the charade and accept our circumstances. And perhaps we can use this awareness to find more equilibrium.

This might not lead to a better life. But it will allow us to live life better.

And that just might be enough.

The Meme Complex

Many years ago, I stepped into a Pittsburgh restaurant for a late-night meal.

The food fit the occasion. Hot dogs. Burgers. French fries.

It was all delicious. But as I ate, my mind was focused on something else.

That something was a sign that covered the entire façade of the restaurant.

The sign read Original Hot Dog Shop. Those words blared proudly in red neon, for all the neighborhood to see. And I was fixated on the first one.

I was fixated on that first term — original. And I wasn’t alone.

Indeed, generations of Pittsburgh residents had adapted that word when referring to the restaurant. Yinzers had come to call the place The Dirty O, or just The O. The name even caught on with out-of-towners — like my father, who grew up clear across the state of Pennsylvania.

But now, as I was sitting beneath that sign with a basket of fries, I couldn’t help but consider how unoriginal everything was.

The Original Hot Dog Shop hadn’t invented the hot dog or the French fry.

What gave it the right to say it had?

The crime The Original Hot Dog Shop committed wasn’t particularly egregious. Nor was it all that rare.

Within the restaurant industry alone, plenty of businesses claim to be original. There are dozens of Original Ray’s Pizza parlors in New York City, for instance. And the term has even made its way onto chains, such as The Original Pancake House.

This nomenclature has become tongue-in-cheek over the years. It’s a way for proprietors to smile, wink, and say Let’s just pretend.

But feigning originality isn’t just a lie. It’s a disservice.

You see, most staples of the food industry are memes. They’re adapted copies of something else.

Pasta is a meme for Asian noodles. Tacos are a meme for gyros. And hot dogs and French fries are also memes of other delicacies.

This lack of originality is what makes cuisine so tantalizing. In our collective quest to make a better meal, we make sure not to venture too far from the familiar. This way, our dishes can attract acclaim, not skepticism.

This concept rings true well beyond the bounds of food. The items we create, the stories we tell, the traditions we hold sacred — they’re all memes of what came before. They’re different enough to be noticed, but they’re not adapted beyond recognition.

Such patterns can sometimes work to our detriment. For example, Galileo Galilei and Charles Darwin were both visionaries who improved our understanding of the world. And yet, they were ostracized because their scientific work broke with religious tradition.

But even Darwin might have forgiven such missteps. After all, such backlash to his revolutionary findings would only prove our nature as an evolutionary species.

It would demonstrate that breaking the mold was not our style. It would prove originality to be nothing more than a pipe dream.

When in Rome, do as the Romans do.

Such advice has held for millennia. And for good reason.

The Roman Empire was renowned for its power and influence. Many hallmarks of our society today — from the shape of our government to the design of our cities — are memes of the Romans.

Yet, the United States of America emerged from a different empire — The British Empire. And this fact muddies the waters of the narrative.

You see, the British Empire is not a direct offshoot of the Roman one from centuries before. Yes, the Romans once ruled over much of Britain. But the British Isle represented the farthest reaches of the Roman Empire, and the locals didn’t exactly toe the company line.

The British tradition of traveling on the left side of the road was a direct affront to the Romans, who insisted that everyone stay to the right. And the English language is far removed from Latin — the predominant tongue of the Roman Empire.

Indeed, the English words that sound the most like Latin have French origins. Village comes from the French word ville, which means city. Chivalry comes from cheval, or horse. And courage is a derivative of coeur, which means heart.

In some ways, this meme-ification of language should come as no surprise. France and Britain are neighbors, separated only by a narrow channel of water. Proximity breeds imitation.

But the French language developed after the Roman Empire collapsed. France and England diverged into separate nations during this time, and they often found themselves at war with each other.

Why would the British adopt wording from their enemies? Why would they seek to meld cultures with the same group they were trying to vanquish on the battlefield?

It all has to do with the meme complex.

The British didn’t want to be the French. But they wanted to evolve and become more distinguished.

The Brits didn’t have the vocabulary for their quest. But their neighbors to the south did. So, the Brits copied them.

The British took the intricate wording of French high society and made it part of their own language. And through this process, they added an air of prestige.

This is the power of the meme.

Recently, The Original Hot Dog Shop closed its doors for good.

Decades of notoriety were no match for a burgeoning pandemic. As the economy spiraled into a recession, the restaurant dimmed its iconic neon sign.

All over Pittsburgh — and well beyond — people mourned the loss of the acclaimed restaurant. They talked about the hot dogs. They gushed about the fries.

Such delicacies could surely be found elsewhere in the Steel City. Across town at PNC Park, one could savor a hot dog while taking in a Pirates baseball game. At Primanti Brothers, French fries are served up inside sandwiches.

Those places have plenty. But they can’t quite match the ambiance of The O. It was truly one of a kind.

At least that’s what many were saying.

Perhaps this is what should define originality.

It shouldn’t be about breaking the mold. Rather, it should be about creating something that will be missed once it’s gone.

I could get on board with that. Could you?

The Reset

There’s an old country song that I like. One whose chorus reverberates on the wildest of days.

Stop the world and let me off. I’m tired of going round and round.

When the going gets tough, it’s hard not to heed those words. It’s tempting to fantasize about heading to a remote beach somewhere and just letting all our troubles slip away.

Yet, when these thoughts do enter my mind, they don’t stay there for long. For try as I might, I just can’t embrace the thought of an escape.

This has frustrated friends and family, who have tried to lure me onto cruise ships or out to the wilderness. Every time they’ve asked me to join them on these ventures, I’ve resisted.

I just can’t give up the life I know, not even for a minute. I just can’t reset.

Unless, of course, my hand is forced.

I was once asked which animal I most identified with.

A lion, I quickly replied. I’m honorable and courageous but also determined.

As I think back on this question, my answer seems spot-on. And yet, I keep thinking that I should have chosen a mule as my spirit animal instead. Because I’m stubborn as heck.

Yes, ever since my earliest days, I’ve been a creature of routine. Change hasn’t excited me; it’s terrified me.

This fear wouldn’t rear its head in normal ways. But my aversion to novelty was still plenty evident.

For instance, I would travel with my family without much of a fuss. But once we got to our destination, I would often refuse to eat much. I was already a skinny kid, but I’d come home looking like a skeleton.

So no, the idea of a reset didn’t appeal to me. In fact, I’ve mostly acquiesced to resetting when I had no other choice.

I have had the courage and determination to see the process through in those moments. I wouldn’t say I enjoyed the experience. But I’ve found myself better for going through it.

Heading off to college made me more independent. Moving halfway across America for my first real job made me self-sufficient. And leaving that career without a backup plan made me reassess what I valued in life.

I transformed from a mule into a lion, rising from a lowly pack animal to the king of the jungle. And as the years went on, I settled in. My metamorphosis was complete.

Or so I thought.

I’ve experienced some jarring moments throughout my life.

I made the harrowing journey out of New York City on 9/11. I once got into a car wreck on a Florida interstate. I’ve hunkered down in the wake of multiple tornado warnings in Texas.

And yet, nothing quite compared to the early days of the COVID pandemic.

At first glance, everything seemed normal. The sun was shining. Birds were chirping. Plants were in bloom.

But such rites of springtime were punctuated by the sound of silence.

My once-vibrant world was reduced to ten square miles for about three months. My SUV sat idle in the garage while I worked from my dining room table. My friends and family went from real people to faces on my laptop screen.

I should have been OK with this. I’m an introvert, after all. And a deadly virus was on the loose.

Still, I couldn’t help feeling cheated by the circumstances.

I had built a life that I was comfortable with. I was anticipating a blockbuster year. And then it was all quickly ripped away.

As I waded through the quagmire of those early-pandemic days, I kept encountering the same advice. It was in news articles, business podcasts, and seemingly every other type of media I consumed to pass the time.

Now is the time to reset, the advice read. Now is the time to try something new, to build something from the chaos.

This advice enraged me. For I didn’t want to reset. I didn’t feel I needed to reset.

I was fine with the way things were. But now, that feeling of Zen had been ripped apart by an invisible storm. And once the storm passed, I’d have to work my tail off just to get back what I’d so recently had.

So no, the idea of a reset was not appealing in the least.

But maybe it should have been.

How do we look at the past?

Do we assess it honestly, warts and all? Or do we add a golden hue?

These are questions I consider when looking back on the calm before the storm. For our mind can play tricks on us.

I remember the months before the 9/11 attacks being a joyous time. But they weren’t.

My grandmother was undergoing cancer treatment that summer. And I was in the early stages of teenage listlessness.

Similarly, I like to think I was on a roll before the COVID pandemic rocked our world. I was successful and self-sufficient. I’d recently gotten a graduate degree in business administration. I was writing, cooking, and exercising regularly.

On the surface, things were great. But some subtle fault lines had begun to show.

I had developed a degree of social anxiety, particularly when around large groups of friends. I had started to lose patience with a stagnating job search. And I’d been working myself to the bone to avoid dealing with these issues.

The prolonged pause brought on by the pandemic didn’t magically fix these issues. If anything, it exacerbated them.

Social anxiety gave way to a profound sense of loss. The job search gave way to the realities of a steep recession. And I found myself working even harder as I adjusted to my new reality.

Still, there’s no doubt that the pandemic forced me to reset. The attrition of the event alone made that unavoidable.

And as I’ve emerged from that reboot, something strange has happened. I’ve found myself thriving.

My bandwidth for socializing has increased exponentially. I was able to land a job that’s been everything I hoped for and more. And I’ve approached each day with an air of confidence that simply had not been there before.

As I consider all this, I regret my previous aversion to the reset. I wish I had forced myself to pause here and there before nature forced my hand.

I now recognize that resetting is a sign of strength, not weakness. I now understand that rebooting is a key feature of growth.

So, moving forward, I will heed the gospel of that old country song.

Every now and then, I will stop the world and let myself off for a moment. Not to escape my reality, but to realize my potential.

But this is not just about me. I encourage you to do the same when the moment calls for it.

A well-timed reset can work wonders. Don’t let the opportunity pass you by.