Month: March 2025

Problem Solvers

We hadn’t spent five minutes in the living room when my dad piped up with a question.

When you hung these pictures on the wall, were you standing up?

Our host— a family friend — acknowledged that she had.

Well, they’re hung too high, my father replied. But don’t worry. I’ll get them fixed.

A few minutes later, my father headed to the restroom to relieve himself. When he re-emerged, he had a quizzical look on his face. He wanted to know how long the toilet handle had been loose.

Our host admitted the handle had been that way for some time. But she insisted it wasn’t a big deal.

Nonsense, my father replied. I’m happy to fix it. In fact, I’ll feel better if I do that.

I stared at my father in disbelief. Here we were enjoying free shelter in the company of a friendly face. And instead of expressing gratitude, my father was exerting control.

But my father didn’t see it that way. He noticed that some problems around the house needed fixing. And in his eyes, gratitude came through the salve.

Every river tells a story.

So goes an old axiom.

Few other features in the natural world are as elaborately complex as river. Mountain ranges rise up to the sky in thick lines. Oceans stretch uniformly to the horizon – and beyond.

But rivers bend and wind through canyons, prairies, and forests. They dart and meander through rugged terrain with a determined ferocity.

The water in those rivers seeks the simplest route downhill to the sea. The path of least resistance.

Those twists and turns are obligatory in achieving this objective.

Much like rivers, we are taught to seek the easiest route forward. To eschew complexity and to keep from flowing uphill.

This is the mandate our family friend was living under when she left her pictures hanging too high and her toilet handle too loose.

But my father saw right through it all. He knew that the path of least resistance was futile. Things had to get fixed, as unpleasant as that work might seem. And he was going to be the one to fix them. 

My father’s resoluteness left an impact on me then. An impact that still resonates now.

Late in my elementary school years, I was asked to read The Odyssey.

The book was thick and bulky. As I brought it to class and back home, it turned my backpack into a rock.

And by the time I’d read about 100 pages, I’d had enough. The story had just begun, but I was in full protest mode.

Why did this work have to be so drawn out, I asked my mother. Couldn’t Odysseus have just made an easy, simple trip home from Troy?

My mother responded that the travails were what made the book stand the test of time. We don’t remember the stories of the warriors who had an easy trip across the Aegean Sea. We remember Odysseus because he went to hell and back on his journey.

That description resonated with me. No longer was the easy path the default path.

I realized I’d eventually be defined by the complexity I navigated, by the problems I solved. I recognized we all would be defined by these characteristics

So, I started embracing the problem solver’s mindset. I started tackling the challenges in my midst head on, instead of trying to avoid them.

This didn’t seem like a big deal at first. But over time, I started to realize how much of a seismic shift it was.

I’d become more engaged in school — fully committed to answering the questions my teachers posed to the class. I felt less helpless when my daily routine got knocked off kilter. And I started — for the first time — to truly consider what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.

Which would become an odyssey in itself.

In our age of modernity, there remains a fascination with Leonardo DaVinci.

The Renaissance figure left this earth more than 500 years ago. But his impact still resonates.

DaVinci was a polymath — a person of a wide range of expertise and interests. And he had a keen desire to express himself in many of these areas.

Much like his contemporaries, DaVinci painted frescos. But when he wasn’t holding a paintbrush, he was seeking answers to the mysteries of the day in botany, biology, physics, and engineering.

DaVinci mocked up contraptions for flying, for mobile warfare, for harnessing the energy of the sun, and for adding numbers together. The airplane, tank, solar panel, and calculator wouldn’t arrive for several more centuries. But all of them owe partial credit to DaVinci’s problem solving expertise.

I’m nowhere near the genius that Leonardo DaVinci was. But when I look at my life’s journey, I still see some parallels.

For my tale has been anything but simple. I’ve moved around the country and across the state of Texas. I’ve shifted careers and nearly gone broke. I’ve fallen headlong into new hobbies and ping-ponged between social circles.

These developments have not been without their fair share of challenges. Meeting the moment meant solving each problem in my midst, one by one, with an unrelenting air of zeal.

I needed to fashion myself as a polymath — much as DaVinci did. And I needed to harness the right mixture curiosity and grit to get difficult things done.

I’ve done that, and I’ve been rewarded for it.

But that’s only part of the story.

The movie Pulp Fiction is full of indelible characters. But the one that stands out to me is The Wolf.

The Wolf is not a costumed vigilante or a brutish thug. He’s Winston Wolf — a middle-aged man in a sharp tuxedo.

The Wolf arrives when two of the film’s main characters find themselves in an unconventional and messy situation. He helps the men get out of a jam by breaking the big dilemma into a series of smaller ones — and then making those dilemmas disappear.

This is The Wolf’s superpower. He’s a professional problem solver. A man who thinks quickly on his feet and takes control of a situation.

These days, I see a lot of The Wolf in myself. I not only have the motivation to solve any problem in my path, but I also have the touch needed to take control of the situation.

I’ve learned the principles of all this from my father, Odysseus, and Leonardo DaVinci. But I’ve learned the application from Winston Wolf.

I hope I can carry the torch they lit with honor. In fact, I hope we all can.

For problem solving needn’t be a special skill for special people. It’s available to all of us.

But no one can force us to take up the mantle. The inspiration must come from within.

Let us find that spark and act upon it.

The Imitators

The image is iconic.

Beyonce, dressed to the nines and looking bewildered.

The fodder for endless memes and GIFs across the Internet originated at the Grammy Awards. The iconic performing artist had tried her hand at a country album — Cowboy Carter. And Cowboy Carter had just been named Country Album of the Year.

Beyonce might have been stunned by her rapid ascent to the pinnacle of a new segment. But she shouldn’t have been.

From Post Malone to Shaboozey, and Chappell Roan to Bon Jovi, plenty of artists have crossed over to country music in recent years. While all of them found success, none have the pedigree of Beyonce — an international cultural icon with Texas roots.

So, while a Grammy award wasn’t predestined, it wasn’t exactly unexpected either.

And yet, when the moment arrived, many shared Beyonce’s reaction. For something had fundamentally changed. Something that could no longer be ignored.

After a moment of reflection, Beyonce took the stage to deliver her acceptance speech.

Humble as ever, Beyonce thanked God and expressed her surprise in winning. But she quickly pivoted into something more profound – the why behind Cowboy Carter.

I think sometimes genre is a code word to keep us in our place as artists. And I just want to encourage people to do what they’re passionate about, and to stay persistent.

With these words, Beyonce was seeking to sidestep the label of Imitator. She was hoping to reframe Cowboy Carter as art – no more, no less.

But this would prove to be a tough sell.

You see, I’m a longtime country music fan. And I listened to the songs on Cowboy Carter.

I thought they were good – really good. I thought they were creative and innovative. But I didn’t think they were particularly deep.

Sure, there are references to Americana, to poker, to outlaws and Levi’s jeans and cheating scoundrels. But those lyrics seemed disjointed and somewhat superficial to me.

The work seemed to lack the depth displayed by Martina McBride and Reba McEntire. It seemed to avoid the edginess conveyed by Miranda Lambert or Kacey Musgraves. It somehow seemed absent of the flair shown by Carrie Underwood and Lainey Wilson.

It was, in my view, an imitation. A tasteful, acclaimed imitation. But an imitation, nonetheless.

And I’m certain I’m not the only one who viewed the album this way.

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

This axiom aims to take the sting out of mimicry. And rightfully so.

Artists like Beyonce mean no malice by trying their hand in a new genre. They are expressing their artistic freedom — and seeking to expand the genre in the process.

That’s noble. But the shift behind it is troubling.

You see, a wave of imitation requires a lifting mechanism. Something to set the scene and provide the imitator license to proceed.

In the case of country music, that launchpad has been slow to develop. But that extended timeline has only broadened the impact of the imitators.

A few decades ago, country music was in a far different place than today. Songs were full of depth and dripping with authenticity. But the audience hearing them was somewhat limited – mostly to rural areas across the heartland.

That started to change in the 1990s, as more artists went mainstream. I remember hearing music from Faith Hill, LeAnn Rimes, and Shania Twain over the intercom at suburban grocery stores back then. Those encounters were my first foray into country music.

As the mainstream shift continued, the songs coming from Nashville changed. The hyper-specific ballads of love and loss made way for fantasies of partying on truck beds in an open field. Bubblegum country took over.

The trend only accelerated as the years went by. Streaming shows like Yellowstone led to a surge in interest for everything rural. And the larger audience, combined with watered down country lyrics, made conditions ripe for imitators.

It’s no wonder then that Beyonce could win a Grammy for a country album. It’s no wonder that Amazon founder Jeff Bezos would sit for a Vogue cover shoot in an old truck, sporting a cowboy hat. It’s no wonder that honky tonks from coast to coast have become twice as busy as they were two decades ago.

The illusion is real. But how real is the illusion?

As I write this, I’ve lived in Texas for the better part of 15 years.

I’ve spent a fair bit of this time in boots and Wranglers, with pearl snaps adorning my shirts. I’ve sported this look to the office from time to time, and to countless rodeos and concerts.

Such a look is not out of place in the Lone Star State. But every now and then, someone will see it and ask if I’m playing cowboy.

When they do, I’m obliged to remind them that I’ve rode horses before. That I’ve milked cows, cleaned stalls, cleared mud from hooves, and fetched eggs from the chicken coop.

I may not be a cowboy, but I’m more than an imitator.

These bona fides matter to me. Because authenticity matters.

You see, I’ve viewed myself as a Texan from my earliest days living here. But the stigma of being non-native – of growing up beyond the state’s borders – it looms large.

I’ve long known that my zeal for Texas could be miscast as imitation if I wasn’t authentic. And being authentic meant leaning into any prior experience I had with the state’s cultural hallmarks, while becoming a student of the rest.

So yes, I’ve taken steps to assimilate. To make this place a part of me, and myself a part of it.

The same can’t always be said of other non-natives. They might treat the place like an eastern annex of California. Or wear their cowboy hat comically wrong. Or appear like they’re recreating the cover of Varsity Blues, as Bezos did.

When this happens, Texans will grumble and mock the imitators. The natives and the assimilated transplants alike.

For this is not a good look — for any of us. The state’s cultural code must be adhered to for true acceptance to be gained.

I think the same reckoning is needed in country music. So long as bubblegum country rules the roost, the genre will be a shadow of its former glory. And the bar to clear for imitators will be exceptionally low.

Put standards for depth and meaning back into country music, and only the best imitators will cross over. For doing so will require more than a catchy hook and a few superficial lyrics. It will require an immersion — an immersion that yields a more authentic product.

This is worth striving for. Let’s make it real.

Right Move, Wrong Moment

The call came in from a number that looked somewhat familiar. I rushed to take it.

My SUV was at the dealership for repairs, and I figured my service advisor was calling with an update.

I was partially right.

The call was from the dealership. But it came from the sales department.

Sir, I see that your vehicle is in for service. What would it take for us to buy it off you and get you in a new one?

I hadn’t considered the idea. My mind was consumed with fixing what ailed my vehicle, and hopefully not going broke in the process.

I told the sales representative as much, hoping that would end the conversation. But he countered by asking when I might feel differently.

I don’t know, I replied. Maybe when my registration renewal is due in the spring.

Sure enough, when springtime rolled around, I was got a call from the same representative. He was polite, but persistent. Persistent in coaxing me to follow through on the swap he’d proposed.

I wasn’t taking the bait. I politely told the sales representative to leave me alone.

Several years have passed since this encounter. But it remains top of mind for me.

These days, when I drop my vehicle off for service, I expect a call like this. So, I save my service advisor’s phone number in my contact list. And I don’t pick up calls from similar looking numbers.

I know too well who’s on the other end of the line. And I have no interest in playing that game.

There may well be a time when I feel the need to replace my vehicle. Perhaps it will become inoperable, or the repair bills for it will get too high.

But when that day comes, I’d like to be the one initiating the buying process. The same way I did when I purchased my current vehicle.

As far as I’m concerned, a proactive sales motion will always be a case of right move, wrong moment.

Place and time.

They make for odd bedfellows.

One is a physical reality. The other a mental construct.

There are nearly 200 million square miles of places on this earth. Some are inhabitable, others less so. But the forensic proof of their existence is irrefutable.

Time offers a different challenge. Yes, we have clocks and calendars to mark its passage. And nature has its sunrises, sunsets, leaf falls and snowfalls. But even with all that, when is more open to interpretation than where.

Perhaps this is why mastering the moment is so challenging.

We know better than to wander into a burning building on our own accord. But avoiding a building that’s likely to ignite? That’s a trickier proposition.

I learned this principle early on.

During a childhood vacation in Maine, my family ventured across a sandbar from Bar Harbor to a small island.

My parents checked their watches as we ventured across the wet sand. Their behavior seemed curious, but I didn’t question it.

By the time we’d reached the island, I’d all but forgotten about the watches. There were new trails to hike, and new sights to see. I was full of excitement.

My explorations would soon be cut short though, thanks to a warning from my father.

We have to head back now. If we don’t, we’ll be stuck here until tomorrow.

You see, the tide was coming back in, and the sandbar we’d crossed would soon be submerged. Our only route back to shore was evaporating.

So, we hustled our way back across the sandbar. But once we emerged in Bar Harbor, I was forever changed.

No longer would I be ignorant of the moment. I would be sure to factor in the when along with the where.

Even if others failed to do the same.

In 2017, a Yale law student named Lina Khan wrote an article that gained national acclaim.

Khan argued that the traditional markers of antitrust regulation were outdated and needed reframing.

You see, in previous generations, business monopolies had largely focused on pricing power. As the only game in town for the goods they offered, they could charge as much as they want. And consumers were forced to part with bigger and bigger portions of their budget to get by – at least until antitrust regulators stepped in in.

But now, companies like Amazon were managing to stifle competition while keeping prices low. Such were the advantages of the internet era, where volume alone could yield value.

Consumers were all too happy to feed Amazon’s monopolistic engine. The goods they used to trek to stores for were now even more affordable. And they didn’t need to leave home to get them.

But while consumers were thriving and prices were low, Amazon’s competitors were suffering. Khan saw this as a problem – for commerce and for capitalism. And she argued that antitrust practices needed to shift.

So began a meteoric rise for Khan’s career. The newly minted Juris Doctor soon found work in think tanks, academia, and government. By 2021, she had risen to the top post at the Federal Trade Commission.

Khan wasted no time getting to work. The FTC quickly objected to a series of corporate mergers. And the agency got involved in several high-profile investigations of Amazon and other technology giants.

The FTC notched some major wins during this time. It blocked the merger of grocery chains Albertsons and Kroger. And it helped derail several consolidation attempts for budget airlines.

But such victories often proved hollow.

You see, Khan’s crusade came in the wake of major economic headwinds. A dissipating pandemic, a global supply chain snarl, and a bout of inflation had made life difficult for businesses and consumers alike.

Instead of lining their pockets through mergers, many businesses were seeking consolidation simply to survive. And when the FTC blocked their path, they fell apart.

Albertsons and Kroger have closed many locations since their merger went up in smoke. Spirit Airlines – one of the budget airlines the FTC helped thwart – has since gone bankrupt. And these developments have left consumers with fewer options and persistently higher prices.

Khan’s effort to stiffen antitrust enforcement might have been the right move. But it was executed at the wrong moment. And America suffered for it.

Place and time mean everything.

Some years back, I was at an arcade when my friends goaded me into trying out the fighter jet simulator.

I had never operated one of those before, and I had no idea what I was doing. But I concocted a plan anyway.

The button under my left thumb controlled the jet’s gun, while the button under my right thumb launched missiles.

I knew that each weapon could represent the right move. But only at the right moment.

So, as the simulator reached “cruising altitude,” I’d look for enemy aircraft in the area. If they appeared close, I’d fire the gun a time or two. And if they seemed to be further away, I’d launch a missile.

By the time the ride was over, I’d maintained a respectable score.

Here in the ride of life, it’s critical that we all follow similar guidance. That we avoid succumbing to rigidity and stubborn ideology. That we consider the when as much as the what.

The right move only works when deployed at the right moment.

Let us not forsake one for the other.

The Energy Budget

It’s now or never.

That’s what I told myself as I prepared for my first all-nighter.

I was 17 years old, and I’d just spent a month in a college prep summer program on the west coast. I’d connected with new friends, made new memories, and just generally had a time of it.

But now, it was the last night of the adventure. When the sun rose again, everyone would return to their homes in different corners of the globe. We would never all be in the same place again.

Mindful of this, the leaders of the program lifted the nightly curfew. And we took full advantage of that freedom.

Reminiscing at 11 PM. Karaoke at 2 AM. Delirious laughter at 5 AM. It all happened.

We cursed the dawn when it arrived. And we started saying our solemn goodbyes.

As my shuttle headed away from the college campus, I was stone faced and composed. But once I arrived and the airport, reality set in. Surrounded by strangers, my eyes started to well with tears.

I reminded myself that an airport was no place for a breakdown. So, I pulled myself together — making it through the security line, through the concourse, and onto the plane.

As it took off, and I watched the West Coast disappear out of the tiny double-paned window.

And then I fell into a deep slumber.

When I woke up, the plane was over Detroit. Day had turned to night, and we were an hour from landing on the East Coast.

I knew that my parents would be waiting at the airport once I arrived. I knew they’d be excited to see me after a month away. And I knew that I needed to match that excitement.

So, I spent the remainder of my flight preparing myself for that moment. And I did indeed manage to stay upbeat at the moment of reunification.

But once my parents started asking me to share details from the program, I lost it. Sobbing uncontrollably, I felt the urge to apologize for my behavior.

My parents deflected my pleas.

How much have you slept recently? they asked.

I confessed that I’d been awake for 34 of the prior 38 hours. And my parents told me to head up to bed.

The stories of the prior month could wait. I needed to recharge.

As dawn’s light entered my childhood bedroom, I found myself cheerier — and wiser.

For the first time, I recognized that the energy at my disposal was not infinite. And I resolved to be more judicious with how I used it.

Well, sort of.

As I moved on to my senior year of high school — and then college — I generally steered clear of all-nighters. But I did tend to stay up late and wake up somewhat early, relying on caffeine to pull me through.

I had one speed, and I gave myself full license to use it. As long as my energy reserves didn’t go into the red, I’d be alright. At least that’s what I told myself.

But as I got older, I could feel things start to shift.

My body was requiring more sleep. And continuously going all out no longer seemed possible.

So, I made some changes. I got rid of those late nights. And I moderated my effort levels throughout the day.

Those adaptations proved prescient for many years. But recently, their shine has started to fade.

These days, it’s not just how much energy I spend that matters. It’s what I spend it on.

Early in adulthood, I ran into some financial challenges.

I’d lived paycheck to paycheck in my first career. And when I switched careers, I found myself unemployed for three months. As I powered through job applications and showed up for fruitless interviews, what little savings I had to my name disappeared.

Eventually, I did land a job with a steady income. I got a new apartment and moved my furnishings out of storage.

But ridding myself of the credit card debt I’d accumulated in prior months proved trickier. So, I met with a financial advisor to strategize.

The advisor reacquainted me with some advanced budgeting techniques, which I followed to a T. And soon enough, my house was back in order.

The lessons from that experience remain ingrained. Every now and then, I might incur a charge or two beyond my means. But when I do, I moderate my spending until I can balance the books. It’s just the way my brain works now.

And in the past few years, such budgeting habits have started to extend beyond dollars and cents. Now, I’m mindful of which daily activities I should devote energy to and which ones I should defer to other forces.

For instance, where I was once militant about reducing my thermostat usage, I now tend to keep the heat or air conditioning running continuously. I recognize that the mental calculus of toggling the on-off switch was taking too much of my daily attention. And I understand that preserving mental energy is more precious to me than saving a few dollars on an electric bill.

So, it goes for other aspects of my life as well. I divvy my focus wisely, no longer striving to control the most granular details of anything in my midst. Adherence to routines, healthy habits, and technological assists tend to make this shift easier.

But every now and then, the system breaks down. Something that should just work no longer does, and I find myself diving into troubleshooting.

Perhaps my SUV ends up in the shop for a few days longer than anticipated, forcing me to get creative with transportation and meal planning. Maybe one of the appliances in my home malfunctions, forcing me to alter my dishwashing or laundry routine. Or one of the many computerized systems I use has an outage, forcing me to handle processes manually.

Such occurrences are more than annoyances for me. They carry collateral damage.

Indeed, the energy I need to divert toward workarounds is diverted from other portions of my daily life. I’m left with reduced capacity to think deeply, to function professionally, and to stay connected socially. And what little energy I have left over for these critical endeavors is depleted far earlier in the day than usual.

There’s little I can do to fix these situations. I can’t just generate more energy to power through, the way I once did. And I can’t abandon my daily responsibilities.

With that in mind, I do my best to minimize the blow. I prepare myself as best I can for adverse outcomes before they strike. I put intention into my pivoting strategy, so that I don’t lose steam while changing course. And I treat my energy budget as a central force underpinning it all.

It’s far from a perfect solution. But it works.

It works for me. And it will likely work for anyone else in a similar conundrum.

So, if you find yourself flustered and exhausted by the frustration, consider the energy budget approach. Accept limitations. Shift habits. Build resilience.

It might not be a perfect salve. But you’ll be better positioned to reap the benefits.