Dylan Brooks | Words of the West

The Web

It started with Beanie Babies.

A friend of mine was obsessed with them. And he showed me his nascent collection when I visited.

You have to get some, he exclaimed.

Soon enough, I had a miniature plush dog named Bones. My sister had a red plush dog named Rover.

But naturally, we wanted to be as cool as our friends. We wanted more Beanie Babies.

t us the Beanie Baby guide – a book covering all the stuffed animals in circulation, and all the limited-edition options we’d missed.

At the start of the book was a disclaimer.

The collection continues to change. Go to the Ty website for a more detailed list.

And thus began my first cannonball into the waters of the Internet.

There were no smartphones back in those days. There were no Google Chrome browsers. There wasn’t even a broadband connection.

To get online, I needed to log into the America Online app on our home computer. This process would tie up our landline, blocking phone calls to the house. And it would cause a bunch of odd sounds to come from the modem next to the computer.

Once connected, I’d need to navigate to the web browser — and then enter the Ty website. The page would load over the course of several minutes, with images loading line by line for several more minutes after that.

A click to a deeper webpage – in this case, the complete Beanie Baby collection list – would start the process over. All told, I was on the web for a half hour or so before I found what I was looking for.

But eventually I got there. And I once I did, I spent several minutes – and ink cartridges —printing out the entire list of Beanie Babies. That way, I could pore through it on my own time.

The Internet was just a digital guidebook to me back then. No more, no less.

As I grew up, my relationship with the web shifted a bit.

We got broadband in our family home, and I got my own computer in my bedroom.

After I finished my homework each evening, I’d spend hours at my desk browsing.

I’d read sports columns on ESPN’s website. I’d set my fantasy baseball or football lineup. I’d chat with my friends on AOL’s Instant Messenger (better known as AIM).

But as I moved off to college, my reliance on the web dwindled.

I still hopped on to keep up with sports news, and to update my social media profile. But I now had text messaging on my flip phone, allowing me to communicate with friends on the go. And with my life centered on a college campus, I valued in-person connections over endless online browsing anyway.

The web was back to being a convenient novelty. But that was all about to change.

I sat in the lobby of the CBS Miami news station, dressed in my finest suit.

My palms were sweating as the bright Florida sunshine filtered into the room. I needed this interview to go well.

You see, I’d decided what I wanted to do with my life after my college graduation. I wanted to make a living as a TV news producer.

I’d taken most of the requisite classes. I’d volunteered on the campus TV station’s sports and news broadcasts.

But I didn’t have any true local news experience on my resume.

This internship – in the last semester of my last year of school – would be my final chance at filling that gap. I’d do whatever was needed to get brought on board.

Soon enough, I was in a conference room with Dave Game. He was older, a bit heavy-set, and came off as a bit blunt.

How much do you know about Internet news, he asked.

I replied that I’d looked at the CNN and Fox News websites before, as well that of ESPN. But that I tended to watch local news on television. This was why I wanted to be a producer after all.

I watched intently as Game nodded.

That’s all well and good, he said. But trust me. Most of the viewers of our station are not like you. They’re doing something else while the news is on. Or they’re busy and miss the broadcast entirely.

They still want to get caught up on the news, but on their own time. My department brings that to them.

He went on to explain how the web department achieved that mission. They revised news scripts for easier reading on the web. They took the associated clips from the newscast and added them to the on-demand video feed. And sometimes, they added pertinent local stories that didn’t make the local broadcast.

If you take this internship, you’ll get a hand in all that, Game told me. It might not seem relevant to you. But trust me. News stations are hiring for these skills. You’ll stand out.

His words proved prophetic.

I took the internship, gaining a mastery on Internet news reporting. When I landed a job as a news producer at a TV station in West Texas, I brought those protocols to my new station.

I’d often be in the newsroom until midnight ensuring that all articles and video clips from the day’s newscast made the website. I told myself that the viewers that missed the 10 PM newscast needed me. And I powered through exhaustion to get the web content uploaded.

The Internet was now my passion. And it would soon become my livelihood.

I sat in a modest office in a suburb of Dallas, wearing the same suit I’d once sported in Miami.

Across the table from me, the man I hoped would become my boss perused my resume.

I see you have some experience writing for the web, he stated. How much do you know about blogging?

I stated that I didn’t have much experience with that forum. But I added that I was a quick study.

That’s good, the man stated. This role is for digital marketing, which is not news production. But content marketing is the way of the future, and I think you might have the online writing experience we need.

I landed the job, and my second career was off and running.

That first marketing role revolved around websites. Specifically, the half-dozen websites of the home remodeling companies my employer took on as clients.

A web designer built those sites. But I did everything else – filling in the product pages, posting blog articles, and helping ensure the sites ranked on Google.

After a layoff, I landed with a different company that provided websites to insurance agents at scale. I started that role with 20 agency websites under my purview. Eventually, that number ballooned to 120.

The Internet had gone from something I accessed for Beanie Baby lists to the technology that paid my salary. I was bullish on its potential.

Still, I could see the buzzards circling.

The smartphone had been around for more than a half-decade by the time I started optimizing websites. And the mobile experience was improving by leaps and bounds.

Content marketing and search optimization relied on consumers perusing Google results and clicking through to websites. With mobile apps entering the fray, there was now a new way to find information.

Soon, social media channels would turn into commercial marketplaces. And artificial intelligence would enter the fray.

The web was still powerful, and my job still drove revenue. But the returns were dwindling. It was time to pivot.

So, after earning a Master’s degree in Business Administration and weathering a global pandemic, I took a new role in product marketing. And I left my website-heavy focus in the rearview.

I still browse the web to catch up on the news now and then. But less often than I used to.

There are many reasons for this shift. For one thing, I have less free time than I once did. For another, the events of the world have grown increasingly contentious.

But the biggest reason is the paywall.

Indeed, many websites now charge money for access to their information. And given my other concerns, I have no desire to open my wallet for this unlimited access.

This shift to paywalls was inevitable. Prompts to get website readers to buy related items have fallen flat as new channels have emerged for purchases. Advertising follows audiences, so those dollars have also shifted elsewhere.

Websites simply aren’t as revolutionary as they once were. They still matter, but they hardly command the lion’s share of attention.

I’ve even seen this in my own company. My product marketing position oversees the website and digital marketing products I worked on for years. I promote them, but not as vigorously as the other products under my purview.

The product pricing is too paltry for me to evangelize those solutions. And I know the insurance agents I market to care more about my company’s higher-dollar offerings.

Add it all up, and those who still rely on the web for a living are left with few options. Charge loyal viewers for access or be left withering on the vine.

It breaks my heart to see this. I grew up on the web. I built my career on the web. I still use the web to share this column with you each week, dear reader. (With no paywall, I might add.)

Still, I understand it all. The web had a good run at the top of the mountain. And it will remain in the picture for the foreseeable future.

But the next big thing is already here. And so is the thing after that.

It would be foolish not to chase after them.

The Anchor

The culprit was a rogue sidewalk crack.

I didn’t spot it in time while heading to our family car. And suddenly I was off my feet.

The magnetic pull of gravity sent me hurtling to the ground, skinning my knee in the process.

I yelped, and my parents rushed me back into the house.

As they cleaned, treated, and bandaged the gash on my knee, I cursed gravity.

If not for that magnetic force, my knee would still be unblemished. Stinging pain wouldn’t emanate from my leg. All would be fine.

Not long after this, I learned about space travel in school.

As I stared at pictures of astronauts floating around spaceships, I was filled with jealousy.

Why couldn’t we all be free to glide? Wouldn’t it be better this way?

I imagined life without the scab on my knee or its associated itchiness. I daydreamed about soaring near the ceiling without fear.

What I failed to consider was how I’d take a drink of water or use the restroom without causing a mess.

Yes, it seems gravity had its benefits too. Wishing it away might be more than I bargained for.

I couldn’t just throw out the bad and leave the good. I needed to consider the consequences.

My childhood adventures instilled an important lesson.

Some forces are too big to be controlled. They must simply be managed.

Gravity is one of those forces.

Surely, Sir Isaac Newton didn’t desire to get bopped on the head by an apple to experience its pull. But once he did, he understood that gravity needed to be studied further.

This recognition led Newton to derive mathematical theories that solidified the immutability of gravitational pull. And we’ve worked off that premise ever since.

No longer do we attempt to be Icarus, brazenly flying close to the sun with wax wings. We factor gravity into everything we do — whether we’re working with its leverage or counteracting it.

Yes, gravity-induced tragedies do still occur. But we’re better positioned to avoid them than we were in Newton’s day, thanks to increased measures of anticipation and prevention.

I see the value in this now, and I’ve come full circle.

Gravity might prove to be a pain now and then. Still, adapting my life around it is better than trying to navigate its absence.

Gravity might be an immutable anchor in life. But it’s not the only one.

Indeed, as I’ve gotten older, I’ve recognized the importance of three factors – where I live, what I do, and who I spend time with.

None of these are as absolute as gravity. But collectively, they keep me anchored.

Where I am defines what I can do. What I do defines the way I can live. And both help define who I spend my time with.

I’ve tinkered with these factors multiple times over the years. But I’ve rarely done a wholesale rip-and-replace operation.

Only twice, in fact.

My first defiance of gravity came right after my college graduation. I moved halfway across the country for a new job in a town where I didn’t know a soul.

I remember feeling wholly discombobulated.

I liked my new home, but I knew there was nothing tying me to it. Sure, my new furniture was arrayed throughout the place, but my only other connection to the space was a monthly rent check. If I ever couldn’t pay it, I’d be without a home address.

I felt confident with my new job, but I knew I wasn’t on solid ground there either. I was green and prone to making mistakes. And I knew a bad mistake could cost me my livelihood.

And I quickly discovered how challenging it was to meet new people. Unlike college, I wasn’t in an environment full of adolescents seeking to make connections. Many of my neighbors were older or more established. Several had families. And nearly all of them worked a different schedule than I did.

It was clear that I was beyond my depth. I’d gotten more than I’d bargained for. But I had no choice but to soldier on.

It was only after I collapsed in the Texas heat — ending up in the Emergency Room in the process — when things started to change. Alarmed by my ordeal, several co-workers urged me to add their phone numbers to my address book. A few of them invited me to socialize with them off the clock as well. I started doing just that, and my social circle started to grow.

Suddenly, my new home and job started feeling a bit less temporary. For the first time in a while, I felt the tug of the anchor beneath me.

But it wouldn’t last.

A few years after my arrival in this once-foreign town, I loaded my belongings into a moving truck.

My contract at work had expired and my lease was up. So, I headed 300 miles east to another city I barely knew. One that offered a bevy of job opportunities and housing options.

For three months, my belongings sat in a storage unit. Meanwhile, I sat in an extended-stay hotel two miles down the highway, trying to earn a job offer in a new field.

Once I signed an acceptance letter, I knew things would fall into place. I’d be able to find a new home, establish myself, and rebuild my social circle.

But in the interim, I was running out of options. There was nothing to anchor me aside from my desire and what was left of my savings. And both were getting critically low.

Ultimately, I did earn that opportunity. And everything did fall into place as anticipated.

I found a place to live. I established myself in my career. I built a larger social circle than I’d ever had before.

I located the anchor, and I set it deep in the soil.

But I never forgot all that proceeded this triumph. The fear. The uncertainty. The doubt.

And I pledged never to return to those sensations again.

I’m writing this at the tail end of a rocky half-decade.

Our society has been turned upside down by a pandemic, economic turmoil, and partisan vitriol. Much of what was taken for granted has gone up in smoke.

I’m trying my best to stay the course. To keep where I am, what I do, and who I spend time with intact.

But this is proving immensely difficult.

For one thing, the financial system has provided little assistance. The cost of living has skyrocketed in recent years, making it harder to stay where I am. The viability of what I do has been threatened by layoffs, offshoring, and corporate mergers. And these stressors have impacted my ability to maintain social connections.

On top of that, the nature of opportunities has shifted irrevocably. The most lucrative of doors have always opened to substantial risk, but Door #2, and Door #3 seem to open to profound change as well these days. Such is the reality in a world where offices have been replaced by remote work, the stock market has been usurped by cryptocurrency, and human capital has been supplanted by artificial intelligence.

With all this in mind, I might need to raise the anchor to get back to solid ground. Getting ahead might mean taking yet another quantum leap into the unknown.

But this time, I don’t know if I’m willing. It’s too unsettling. And the scars of my past travails run too deep.

And so, I will continue to resist wholesale change. To adapt one thing at a time instead — all while remaining anchored to what I know.

This will be a difficult approach to maintain. And I’m sure to suffer some more setbacks along the way.

But ultimately, I know in my heart that this journey will prove worthwhile.

I understand the cost of giving up the anchor. Of defying the rules of gravity.

And I have no designs on paying that price again.

Reckoning with the Wreckage

It was a great morning for a run.

The air was crisp. The stars in the sky were bright. The humidity was low.

And as I took my first few strides, my worries faded away.

I was in my element. I felt strong. I felt free.

But I knew it wouldn’t last.

I sensed the change around the two-mile mark. I ignored the beeping of my watch, telling me how far I’d come. But I couldn’t avoid the tightness in my calf muscles, telling me I didn’t have much more left to go.

It was the same tightness I’d felt at this point – or earlier – on every run I’d been on for the past eight months. If I didn’t stop and stretch soon, my stride would start to falter. My legs would lock up, leading my feet to feel like anvils. The discomfort would prove excruciating – and potentially damage-inducing.

I managed to make it another mile this time, stopping as my watch beeped its Mile 3 warning. As I stretched, I felt the chilly air hit my body. I was shivering and sweating at the same time.

I’d never contended with this dueling sensation before. Because in autumns past, I would never have broken stride this early. On crisp mornings like this, I’d have gone six or seven miles before I even considered stopping. And by then, even the coolest air would have felt balmy.

But those days were long gone. This was my reality now.

And it wasn’t likely to change.

A friend of mine once spoke of the significance of the age of 26.

There’s nothing given to us at that age. By the time we hit 26, we can already do everything from buying a lottery ticket to renting a car.

But 26, my friend posited, is when life starts to take for the first time.

Young adults might be able to party as voraciously as they did in college without consequence. But 26 hits different. Newly minted 26-year-olds need a minute, an hour, even a whole day to recover.

I can’t speak to this all that well. By the time I’d hit my mid-twenties, my wildest days were behind me. I was hitting the gym more. I was going to bed earlier. And I had given up fast food.

But now, more than a decade later, I feel the weight of my friend’s words.

For despite my best efforts, time has caught up with me. The force of its impact has sent me hurtling to the ground. And it’s taking me longer and longer to get back up.

I’m consistently exhausted now, often irritable, and immensely perplexed. How is everything that was once so easy now so difficult?

There are no easy answers. Only more unsettling questions.

As I stood there stretching my calves, I took a moment to consider what had been.

On those autumn mornings of yesteryear, the miles flew by because I was chasing something greater.

I was a competitive runner back then. I entered in several distance races a year. And I brought back hardware in most of them.

I had the talent and the willpower to deliver excellence. But I had no idea how quickly the sand would run out of the hourglass.

When my first injury hit, I moped about it for a week. But then I thrust myself into the rehab process, determined to come back stronger than before.

My zeal backfired. I picked up two new injuries in short order, one of which required surgery. Two months in a walking boot ensured, followed by four months of physical therapy.

By now, my fiery defiance had been doused. Just getting back to running regularly would be a victory, considering how far I’d fallen.

Amazingly, I achieved that victory, and even began a race training block. But I sustained two more injuries in the ensuing months, forcing me to shelve my plans once again.

I was now in the valley of that prolonged disaster. I was a shell of my former self. And I was growing more and more certain that I’d remain in that state.

But instead of wallowing in self-pity for my present, I was full of indignation for my past.

Sure, my exploits back then had put plenty of silverware on the wall. Medals for podium finishes and age group wins. A plaque for breaking the tape in a backwoods 5K.

But those mementos represented only a fraction of my potential.

I could have done better, I told myself. I could have dreamed bigger, tried harder, achieved more.

If I had gone all-in during those peak years, maybe I wouldn’t feel so hollow. There would be no unfinished business festering as Father Time stripped my speed and stamina away.

But I hadn’t.

And now, I was out in the cold. Literally.

I was left reckoning with the wreckage of it all.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

The words of The Serenity Prayer are omnipresent in my mind. I’ve leaned on their wisdom countless times throughout the years.

Much is made of the middle and the end of the prayer. After all, courage and wisdom are desirable traits in our society.

But it all starts with acceptance. Which – according to the Kubler-Ross Model – is where the grieving process ends.

I don’t think this is a coincidence.

Grief is the one of the most powerful emotions we experience in life. It’s visceral, multifaceted, and inevitable. It washes over us, regardless of whether we’re ready for the force of its mighty wave.

It’s only when the tide has gone back out that we can see what’s left behind. And that we can use those odds and ends to build back up anew.

This is the evident when we lose loved ones. While we miss them dearly, we must find some way to propel ourselves forward.

Yet, it’s just as applicable when the loss is less existential — such as our youth, our ability, or our potential.

I am finding that out firsthand.

I was once a great runner. Just as I was once an emerging marketer. Just as I was once a young man.

I am none of those things anymore. Time and its companions have taken much of the shine off me.

I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it. I’ve grieved it.

But now is the time to get off the mat.

Now is the time for me to accept it all. What I was. What I am. What I can still become.

And now is the time to follow that revised path.

Reckoning with the wreckage might be a solemn obligation. But it’s an obligation, nonetheless.

Mile by mile, I’m honored to take the mantle of its responsibility.

The Boolean Trap

I got into my SUV and turned the ignition.

But before I threw it into reverse, I tapped a button on my smartphone.

The phone was sitting in the one of the cupholders beside me. But thanks to the magic of Bluetooth technology, it could stream music or podcasts straight through the car speakers.

I could be my own DJ. And I often was.

But not today.

The Bluetooth, you see, was not connecting properly. Sure, the little screen on the center console of my vehicle said it was connected, but no audio was streaming.

I set my sights on fixing the issue.

I toggled the Bluetooth switch on my phone’s settings off and on. I turned off the SUV and refired the ignition. I rebooted my phone.

By now, I’d wasted enough time troubleshooting that I was late for work. So, I put the vehicle in reverse and made the drive in silence.

That evening, I picked the thread up anew.

Sitting at my dining room table, I fired up my laptop, headed to the automaker’s support website and searched for help documentation.

It took a few minutes of dogged searching even to find my entertainment system on the site. The automaker had moved to a different system in newer vehicles, and most articles were for that system.

And the few support documents for my system were useless. They encouraged me to try what I’d already attempted. Plus, they site provided no way of reporting any issues that hadn’t been covered.

It felt as if the automaker was thumbing its nose at me. All the possible issues with this entertainment system are on this page. And if you find something else, you’re the issue.

I felt offended. I was enraged. I screamed into the void.

I had now wasted countless hours on this issue. I’d searched and toggled and stressed myself into oblivion — all to find a resolution to something that was working just a day earlier.

And yet, there was one thing I hadn’t attempted — resetting my car’s entertainment system.

It wasn’t for lack of trying. I’d gone through the settings menu on the console extensively. I’d combed those support documents until I had them memorized. No master reset option seemed to exist.

So, the next morning, I called the closest dealership and made a service appointment.

When I brought my SUV in, I explained the issue in full. The service tech listened intently. But he furrowed his brow when I mentioned the words console reset.

There’s not really a simple way to do that, he explained. I could unplug the battery for 10 to 15 seconds, and then reconnect it. That’s a hard reset. But I can’t guarantee it will fix the issue.

It was worth a shot. I gave the tech the go-ahead to try. He took my keys and drove the vehicle over to a service bay.

A short time later, I got the SUV back. Sitting in the dealership parking lot, I tried to connect my phone via Bluetooth. The connection went through.

My nightmare was over.

As children, we learn about prominent innovative thinkers. People whose innovations and discoveries have direct impacts on our lives.

Albert Einstein is synonymous with defining the mass-energy equivalence. Sir Isaac Newton is acclaimed for conveying the laws of gravity. Thomas Edison is renowned for inventing the light bulb. And Henry Ford is feted for revolutionizing the automobile.

George Boole doesn’t sit on this Mount Rushmore. But perhaps he should.

Boole was a 19^th century English mathematician who didn’t even get to celebrate his 50^th birthday. But in his short lifespan, he unfurled something that has come to underpin all corners of western society — Boolean logic.

Boolean logic is an algebraic system that contains two variables – true and false. It judges mathematical expressions by their attributes and classifies them accordingly.

If the expression contains a desired element, it gets coded as a 1. If it doesn’t, it gets coded as a 0.

That series of 1’s and 0’s can blaze a trail through complicated equations, getting to a final answer step-by-step.

If you think 1’s and 0’s sound like computer source code, you’re onto something. Computer systems have been built on Boolean logic since the 1930s, and the associated if-then logic is now synonymous with that technology.

Perhaps that’s why we don’t give George Boole his due. Or perhaps the century between his discovery and the computer age caused us to lose the thread.

Regardless, we are fully immersed in the Boolean world today. We’re accustomed to navigating true-false strings and if-then statements to troubleshoot just about anything, from our health to the strange noise coming from the refrigerator.

This works well. Until it doesn’t.

In the early 2000s, a technology journalist named Chris Anderson introduced a new theory to the world

Anderson saw how the computer age and the growth of the Internet had democratized the decisions consumers could make. In the Golden Era of network television, Americans had three options of what to watch on a given evening. But now, people around the globe could enter any search query they wanted into Google.

These searches tended to fall into a normal distribution, or a Bell Curve pattern. A small number of search terms got most of the volume.

But those low frequency searches at the ends of the curve, they mattered too. Search engines still returned results for them. And savvy businesses had ample opportunities to serve these audiences as well.

Anderson’s theory came to be known as The Long Tail. He wrote a WIRED article and a book about it. And many business professionals came to treat it with reverence.

Including me.

Early in my marketing career, I used long tail theories to create content for my clients’ websites. I was working at a startup agency at the time, supporting several small home remodeling firms.

A few years earlier, those businesses would have relied on the Yellow Pages and word of mouth referrals to stay viable. But thanks to The Long Tail and digital marketing, they now had a sustainable path to growth.

Long tail theory succeeded in filling the gaps of Boolean logic. It acknowledged that the world is messier than if-then statements can count for. And it resolved to clean up the mess.

But as technology has evolved and the economy has fluctuated, long tail theory has faded into the background. Innovators have favored tightening the Boolean engine over sweeping up the bits it misses.

This is what led to my odyssey to get my vehicle’s entertainment system fixed. There was no roadmap for me to follow because if-then logic didn’t account for the issue.

Out of sight, out of mind. Until it wasn’t.

You can’t fit a square peg into a round hole.

This proverbial wisdom has held for generations. And despite the attempts of innovators, streamliners, and futurists, it’s sure to endure for many more.

You see, ceding all infrastructure to Boolean theory is not a viable solution. It’s a trap.

Long tail concerns will not evaporate when swept under the rug. They will fester, agitate, and afflict. They will drive us to frustration, trust loss — or worse.

This corrosion has gone on far too long already. And it’s imperative that we keep the rot from settling in further.

It’s time that we give an audience to the edge cases once again. It’s time to inject independent judgement into the fringes of the logic machine. It’s time to account for all the outcomes we can imagine and consider solutions for the ones we can’t.

This process will be clunky and inefficient. It won’t provide the two true outcomes we’ve grown so accustomed to seeing in our systems.

But it will remove the daylight between our lived experience and the systems we rely on. It will allow us to optimize our outcomes at every turn.

And shouldn’t that be what matters?

Boolean logic is a great thing. But it needn’t be the only thing.

Let’s go for better.

Learning Experiences

It was a simple dish.

Eggs, sliced potatoes, and onions – all bonded together and cooked in a skillet. Kind of like a quiche without the cheese.

The delicacy was known as Tortilla Española. I’d sampled it at restaurants across Madrid as a teenager. Now, as an adult, I wanted to prepare it in my own kitchen.

I recalled my father making the dish from scratch a few times after my return from Spain. So, I asked him for the recipe. Then I gathered the requisite and ingredients.

I peeled the potatoes and cut them proportionally. I diced the onions. I scrambled some eggs in a bowl.

I added olive oil to a cast iron skillet and fired up the stove. I poured the ingredients into the skillet and let them settle.

I took another glance at my father’s recipe. The next task was to flip the tortilla over, so that it could cook evenly.

But how?

I had a glass lid on the skillet, but it wasn’t stable enough to stand on its own while inverted. And I didn’t have a similar-sized pan to flip the tortilla.

The sizzling sound from the skillet reminded me that there was no time to run to the store for supplies. I was going to have to do this the old-fashioned way.

I took the silicone spatula and dug into the bottom of the tortilla. I lifted it up, rotated my wrist…and caused a mess all over the stovetop.

Perhaps the tortilla wasn’t quite set enough. Perhaps my wrist flick wasn’t all that precise.

Regardless, the solid disk had disintegrated into an incongruous pile of egg and potato bits, with some onions mixed in. Most of it was still in the skillet, but some had landed around it.

My dish was ruined.

I did my best to salvage what was left – letting the eggs cook through and then consuming some of it. The rest went into Pyrex containers stashed in the refrigerator.

I’d be having my failure for dinner for nights to come.

Not long after, I told my father what happened.

Did you consider flipping the tortilla onto a plate? he asked.

I hadn’t.

I’d made a multi-meal mess and wasted hours of prep work. All because I didn’t pull a plate out from the cabinet during the moment of truth.

I was filled with regret at first. But then I remembered another of my father’s axioms.

You can make a mistake. Just don’t make the same one twice.

This was not a failure. It was a learning experience.

It was on me to grow from the experience. To do better next time around.

As it turns out, next time looked a bit different. I never did make Tortilla Española in my kitchen again. But my cooking habits for similarly complex dishes were vastly improved

No longer was I blinded by the mouth-watering outcomes of my craft. I instead devoted extra effort to preparation.

That way, I wouldn’t panic when the burners were on. And I’d be better able to adapt.

I don’t believe I would have been able to lean into that approach if everything hadn’t happened the way it did.

The botched flip. The meals upon meals of messed up results. My father’s introduction of a ready alternative. All helped me to internalize the lesson and rise from the ashes of disaster.

The story still has its scars. I cringed a bit while writing it just now.

But I have no regrets.

What is school for?

Marketing guru asked this question at the onset of a TEDx talk some years back.

Godin went on to explain how the modern iteration of American education came about.

Public school districts and standardized tests were not the natural evolutions of one-room classrooms and reclusive boarding academies. They were the vehicles of industrialist ambition, meant to confer obedience and consistency across the youth population.

The modern system of schooling seemed sensible in the early 20^th century, when scores of pupils parlayed their diplomas into factory jobs. It also served its purpose in the middle of that century, when vigilance in the face of nuclear war was paramount.

But obedience and consistency seem antiquated these days, in an era where college dropouts can create trillion-dollar companies and financial strategists tend to think outside the box.

Yet, the top-down, cookie-cutter educational experience continues to proliferate. Children are expected to maintain excellence from as early as Kindergarten. There is no other option.

It’s all a bit difficult for me to comprehend.

You see, my own youth is merely decades in the rearview. But it might as well have been in the Stone Age compared to the present reality.

My teachers gave me a fair amount of free reign in the classroom and the recess yard through elementary school. I was supervised, sure – even graded on homework I turned in. But I wasn’t restrained.

The goal was to let me stumble upon knowledge organically, and therefore absorb it fully. This meant literal stumbles were accepted, not shunned.

So, I made mistakes. Lots of mistakes. Both in the classroom and out of it.

But by feeling the consequences of these missteps, I was able to move beyond them. I was able to learn, grow, and adapt. And I was able to keep the sting of regret holding me back.

It’s a throughline that carried directly to adulthood. It drove my response to the Great Tortilla Española Disaster in my kitchen, and countless other setbacks.

And it’s becoming a novelty.

What happens when the leash is too short?

We don’t need to imagine the answer. Examples are all around us.

Many of my peers now have children of their own. And in talking with them, I get a distinct sense that they’re under a microscope.

They’re expected to provide the best experience for their kids at all times – or else risk the branding of bad parent. And they’re expected to short circuit any signs of failure in their offspring.

Failure, you see, represents divergence. It puts daylight between a child and their peers. It forges a gap between expected marks and mandated ones when it comes to reading, arithmetic, and reasoning. It’s the first skid down a slippery slope.

Modern parents don’t intuitively believe this, of course. None of them hold their infants and muse They better not screw anything up in 65 months from now, or they’re toast.

No, this edict is foisted upon parents by their children’s schools, which are chock full of militant rigor and ongoing assessment.

Add in the societal pressure to bring these values home, and parents find themselves in an impossible position. It’s as if they’re meant to choreograph their children’s lives, rather than provide sturdy guardrails for growth.

This might all seem mundane. But the long-term effects could be catastrophic.

Indeed, what happens if an entire generation is shielded from the consequences of failure? How will they develop resilience?

I shudder to think about how the next generation might handle a kitchen mishap down the road – let alone anything more substantial.

Adversity is a great teacher. It’s the only real instructor for moments like these. Moments that we will inevitably encounter in our lifetimes.

And yet, adversity is being kept out of reach. Left on the top shelf of the cabinet until it’s too late for us to locate it.

Let’s change that.

Let’s stop being so allergic to failure and shackled by regret. Let’s start reframing our missteps as learning experiences instead. And let’s teach future generations to do the same.

Sometimes wrong is the first step to right. Commit to the journey.

Consolidated Options

It was darn near Pavlovian.

As the players jogged off the field and into the dugout, the fans in the stands focused their eyes on the scoreboard high above the right field wall.

It was cap shuffle time.

An image of a baseball appeared on the scoreboard. Then suddenly, a stylized baseball cap appeared, covering it up. Two identical-looking caps emerged on the big screen to flank it.

Music blared from the stadium speakers as the baseball caps shuffled around the screen. All the while, the fans tried to keep track of the cap with the ball underneath it.

Finally, the music stopped. The baseball caps froze in place across the scoreboard, the numbers 1, 2, and 3 displayed underneath them.

At the top of the screen, a question now appeared. Which cap has the ball?

There was a momentary pause. Then a murmur rose to a dim roar.

Two! Two! Two!

A few seconds later, the cap over the number 2 on the scoreboard lifted. The baseball re-appeared.

The crowd went wild.

The cap shuffle has long been a staple at ballparks.

It’s long proven to be a cost-effective way to keep fans engaged, even when the ballplayers are off the field. And it’s an easy contest to win.

Now, that’s not to say the shuffle is easy to follow. The scoreboard maneuvers can even flummox the fans with the keenest eyes and sharpest attention spans.

But those who lose the ball get a second chance. With only three options to choose from, guessing is simple. And the roar of the crowd can nudge those guesses into the educated column.

Indeed, I’ve rarely kept track of the winning cap when I’ve gone to the ballpark. I’ve guessed nearly every time. But I’ve rarely guessed wrong.

The wisdom of the crowd carried me through.

The cap shuffle is just a bit of amusement. No more. No less.

But it illustrates an entrenched element our society – The Rule of Three.

The Rule of Three is a principle that was first articulated by the Boston Consulting Group (BCG) in the 1970s. It states that most corners of commerce, there are only three significant competitors. Think Chrysler, Ford, and General Motors in the automotive space. Or Burger King, McDonald’s and Wendy’s in the fast-food sector.

The market might have started out with more competitors in these industries. But over time, those three frontrunners rose from the fray.

Such market domination has as much to do with human nature as business strategy. You see, our brains can only consider three to four options at a time. We simply cannot process a Big Six of automakers, fast-food proprietors, or nearly anything else.

But the Rule of Three only partially explains the world we live in. For while there might technically be three dominant options in just about any industry, only two of them tend to get the lion’s share of attention.

Consider soft drinks. In Texas, Dr Pepper is an immensely popular option. But once you leave the state, it’s barely relevant. Coca-Cola and Pepsi carry the mail.

The same is true in the world of computer operating systems. Linux is one of the top three options in that realm, but it doesn’t hold a candle to Apple and Microsoft.

Binary choice reigns supreme. For better or for worse.

The better refers to reliability for consumers, and a predictable revenue flow for providers. When there are only two dominant choices, each party knows what to expect.

But the worse feeds directly from those advantages. With so few dominant options, consumers must contend with the trappings of monopoly power – including higher prices and lower levels of innovation. And the main providers must contend with each other – leading to polarization and its associated ugliness.

Sound familiar?

Yes, American politics also follows the Rule of Three. Two parties have reigned supreme for generations, while a smattering of independent politicians have sat on the periphery. This dynamic has made rhetoric more extreme and consensus harder to come by with each passing year.

Representative democracy only seems to embody the most sinister corners of American existence. Elections feel like a choice for the least bad option.

And when those perceived least bad selections make it to the seat of power, precious little gets done. Accomplishments requires compromise. And compromise is a bridge too far.

This quagmire has proved demoralizing to many Americans. And the murmurs of their discontent have now risen to a dull roar.

Give us more choices, they say. Get rid of the two-party system.

It’s a seemingly sensible plea. But appearances can be deceiving.

What would a multi-party political scene look like?

We don’t have to dive into fantasyland to imagine this. Real world examples exist an ocean away.

Countries such as Germany, France, Israel, and Australia have relied on a parliamentary system for governance. That means citizens vote for parties, rather than individual politicians.

There are plenty of parties for voters to choose from, and diverse parliamentary bodies. To govern effectively in this environment, parties have traditionally formed coalitions with relatively like-minded legislators – offering a smidge of compromise in order to pool votes.

But recently, that strategy has become less of a sure thing. Voters in some of those nations have given fringe parties with extreme views a seat at the table. And traditional parties have focused on differentiating themselves in response.

Consensus has been harder to find. Coalitions have been fewer and further between. And government productivity has gone down.

The byproducts of this shift are far from pretty. Economies have stagnated. Protests have proliferated. And snap elections have become commonplace.

This is what politics would look like in America without the two-party system. But since voters select individual politicians in our nation, the dysfunction would be on another level.

Without compromise, coalitions, or consensus, bureaucracy could grind to a halt. With gridlock overwhelming funding deliberations, government shutdowns would be inevitable. Without a shared sense of accountability, dereliction of duty would weaken the nation.

Expansive choice is no panacea. Far from it.

It’s time we get used to that fact.

When I was young, my parents would ask me a question each evening.

Do you want one bedtime story, or two?

Bedtime was non-negotiable. But I still had some say over the proceedings.

I often went with the second choice. I’d listen intently to a rendition of one children’s book, then another. And by the end, I’d be down for the count.

I didn’t give this ritual much thought at the time. But I sure do now.

You see, I don’t have children of my own. But I know that kids can be a handful after the sun sets.

Crankiness, mania, hyperactivity – all are possible as youthful energy wanes. Children need their rest, but good luck getting them to acquiesce to it.

This is why my parents’ bedtime system was so brilliant. By consolidating options, they made the wind-down manageable for everyone. And they set me up for success.

I think the same is true for consolidated options in general. We might want more than Coca-Cola and Pepsi, or Republicans and Democrats. We may yearn to see 7 caps shuffling on the scoreboard.

But what we’ve got is manageable. What we’ve got is reliable. What we’ve got is familiar.

It might not work to our specifications. It might barely work at all. But it works.

And that’s no small thing.

Tragic Misconceptions

It was a jarring sight.

A Toyota sedan missing all four wheels. The disk-like rotors were fully exposed to the elements, as a small rock kept the rest of the chassis off the ground.

Some bad actors had stolen away with the tires and hubs in the dead of the night. An inner-city occurrence that was all too frequent.

Only this car wasn’t in the inner city. It was parallel parked along a tree lined street in a suburban neighborhood. My neighborhood.

Oh God, I mused as I passed the disabled vehicle. Am I safe here?

I thought back to a few nights earlier, when I’d taken an evening stroll on that same street. I don’t remember seeing the Toyota sedan parked there yet. But I don’t remember seeing much of anything at all.

You see, the streetlights were out in that area. The sidewalk was pitch black.

I wasn’t worried about criminals attacking at that moment. I was more concerned about tripping over a rogue tree branch or colliding with an aloof squirrel.

But now, I recognized the error of my ways.

I should have been more vigilant. I should have reported the extinguished streetlights – on that street and every other across the neighborhood. I should have been prepared to face down thugs on every corner.

Or maybe not.

The disabled car sat on that rock for a couple of weeks before it was towed away.

All the while, I scanned the neighborhood for other signs of mischief.

I started walking the neighborhood with a flashlight, protecting myself against a potential ambush. I perused postings on Ring and Nextdoor, looking for the patterns of local perpetrators. I pondered enrolling in a Concealed Carry course.

But trouble never came to my doorstep. Just like lightning, it only struck once.

This left me in a strange purgatory.

My neighborhood had proven to be about as safe after the wheel theft as it was before it. But that incident was too brazen to ignore. It had skewed my judgment.

No matter what the numbers stated, I could never truly feel safe there again.

Wrong place, wrong time.

It’s the predominant explanation for tragedy.

We do not tend to court misfortune. Yet, it sometimes finds us anyway — in the most random fashion possible.

There’s no way to truly rationalize these brutal occurrences. Wrong place, wrong time is all we have for an explanation.

But there’s a hidden implication in this statement. Namely, an acknowledgement that a right place and a right time exist somewhere else.

The quest for that somewhere else has served as our societal North Star for generations.

It has led us from colonial encampments to the wild frontier. It has led us back to the cities and then out to the suburbs. It has spurred innovation and infrastructure, but also White Flight and gentrification.

Yes, the legacy of the quest for somewhere else is a complicated one. For the world is not as straightforward as we’d like it to be. And the green grass on the other side of the fence is sure to turn brown once we trample all over it.

Our quest for utopia is a recipe for disaster. And yet, we commit ourselves to baking the cake.

We condemn the Southside, the South Bronx, and South Central. We exalt the fancy enclaves with the elite public schools and the well-heeled police forces.

We wrap ourselves in the illusion of safety. And when the veneer is stripped away, we feel the full weight of the betrayal. Just as I did when I saw the wheel-less Toyota sedan a mere 500 feet from where I lay my head at night.

It’s an insidious pattern. And we’re to blame for it.

Our society is obsessed with rankings.

We’re always eager to see how the football team we root for, the college we attended, or the price we paid for gasoline compares to the other options out there.

Fortunately, there are several organizations out there to satiate our list-mania. One of them is WalletHub.

The personal finance company is best known for its credit card recommendation tools. But it also publishes rankings of the safest cities in America.

WalletHub’s most recent annual edition released a few weeks before I sat down to write this article. So, naturally, I gave it a thorough read.

The first few cities didn’t lead to any raised eyebrow. They were in predominantly rural states that featured low populations.

But when I saw the city ranked #6 on the list, I gasped.

That city was Yonkers, New York.

While I’ve been a Texan for my entire adult life, I spent my childhood in Yonkers. I grew up in a decently-sized house with a front yard and a backyard — luxuries most residents of nearby New York City did not have.

The surrounding neighborhood was hilly, shaded by tall trees that dumped bushels of leaves every fall. The streets were quiet. The neighbors were too.

It had all the appearances of a nice place. But appearances can be deceiving.

When I was just 6 years old, someone stole my father’s car from right in front of our house. A few years later, a nearby home was burglarized. Shortly after that, someone drove across the front lawn of our across-the-street neighbor before plowing into a retaining wall.

It was all more than a bit unsetting.

I wanted to believe that my home was safe. That I didn’t have to worry when I closed my eyes at night.

But each time the blue police lights lit up our street, I doubted that premise. And each time my father installed an alarm system or trimmed the hedges a little lower, uncertainty proliferated.

I moved away from Yonkers many years ago. And my parents eventually sold my childhood home.

Several months after they left the city, a man in a parked car shot a Yonkers police officer approaching his vehicle. The officer’s partner returned fire, leading to an extended shootout. Terrified onlookers told news reporters that it felt like the wild west.

The whole incident took place on the same block where I grew up. If I were still there, I could have watched it unfold from my childhood bedroom.

Yet, despite that shooting and all the criminal activity I witnessed before it, Yonkers found its validation. Despite its star-crossed legacy as the site of the fire that killed Malcolm X’s widow, the arrest of the Son of Sam killer, and the early misdeeds of the rapper DMX, Yonkers was ultimately lauded as a beacon of safety.

What gives?

Signal and noise.

It’s the central paradox of statistics.

As we accumulate data, we yearn to find meaning in its patterns. But some of those associations ultimately don’t hold water. They’re the noise that the proven conclusions — the signal — must compete with.

The officer-involved shooting near my childhood home is a prime example of this. It spooked the neighborhood, no doubt. But it also was the first time in 30 years that a Yonkers Police Officer was shot in the line of duty.

In the grand scheme of things, it was not signal. It was noise.

The prior criminal incidents I witnessed on that block also fell into the noise column. While each was unnerving, they took place far too infrequently to cause real concern.

My childhood neighborhood, it seems, has long been a predominantly safe place. It just wasn’t perfectly safe.

The same can be said about my current neighborhood. And many others across our nation.

It’s that variance that gets me — that gets many of us.

Safety is such an existential need that we seize upon any sign of imperfection. One lapse is too many, and two is catastrophic.

But this trend is not feasible or productive. It leads us to overestimate bad outcomes and succumb to paranoia. It fosters tragic misconceptions of the places we frequent, and the people we share those places with.

We need to let go of those delusions, and to choose a more sustainable path instead. We need to recognize the risk of a wheel theft or a crash into a nearby retaining wall for what it is – low, not zero – and calibrate our responses accordingly. We need to stop casting out the good with the bad.

This will be an uncomfortable shift for many of us. Myself included.

But it’s a necessary one.

We will never find a true sense of security without making peace with our surroundings.

It’s starts with us. Let’s get to it.

The Only Way to It Is Through It

I’m just out for a morning run.

Those six words rolled through my mind like a ticker on a marquee. Each time my shies hit the pavement, I thought of them.

The absurdity wasn’t lost on me. All I had to do was look down at the number pinned to my shirt, or glance at the spectators on the sidewalk to know that this was no normal morning run.

It was a race. A half marathon, specifically.

I’d never run one of these before. And the unknown filled me with anxiety.

I worried that I’d run out of steam somewhere on the course. That I wouldn’t cross the finish line. That I’d make a fool of myself.

So, I let my mantra be my guide. I treated the race like it was a casual training run – one of the many I’d completed leading up to this moment. And I kept myself from getting overzealous.

The strategy seemed to work. As the chilly morning air hit my skin, I took stride after stride with little resistance. It felt as if I was floating on air.

In reality, I was running hard. And I was passing dozens of other runners on the course.

I started to catch onto this around the Mile 3 marker. So, I instinctively glanced at my watch.

The pace it showed astounded me.

There’s no way I can hold this for 10 more miles, I told myself.

But everything still felt so effortless. So, I resolved to try.

With each mile, my confidence grew. I’d entered the starting corral with a goal to complete this race in 1 hour and 40 minutes. But now, I was on pace to finish in under 1:30:00.

As I passed the Mile 12 marker, the digital clock read 1:22:42. A 90-minute finish was within reach, if I could hold on for another 1.1 miles.

I was giddy with excitement. And totally unprepared for what was to come.

I was about 500 feet past the Mile 12 marker when I first felt it.

A sharp, stabbing pain just below the side of my ribcage.

The air rushed out of my lungs in an instant. And as I inhaled, my right oblique tightened like a vice.

I knew exactly what this was. A side stitch.

The side stitch is the bane of any runner’s existence. I’d encountered my fair share when I’d first started running regularly. But they’d faded away as I’d gained fitness. I hadn’t encountered one in months.

But now it was back – at the worst possible time.

The easiest way to resolve a side stitch is to stop for a moment and stretch. I’d done this plenty of times in those early days of training.

But stopping wasn’t an option at mile 12 of the half marathon course. Not if I wanted to break the 1:30:00 barrier.

So, while still in motion, I gave myself a pep talk through strained breaths.

The only way to it is through it. Let’s go.

I winced as the course turned left, and then right. Each step felt excruciating. And I knew it would only get worse.

I was downtown now, running in the cavernous shadows of giant skyscrapers. The morning sun was in my eyes, blinding me through my racing sunglasses.

I had no idea how much of the course was still ahead of me. A half mile? A quarter mile?

As I scanned in vain for a street sign or a mile marker, I noticed some silhouettes darting through my peripherals. Other runners, passing me by.

I started to panic. Was I fading? Was my race coming undone?

Just hang on, I told myself. You’re almost there.

I passed the Mile 13 marker. And after what felt like an eternity, the finish line came into view.

I glided my way across the line and slowed to a walk. As I hobbled over to a barrier fence to stretch my oblique, I took a look around. Those silhouettes that had just passed me were hunched over, vomiting profusely.

I stared up at the race clock, and suddenly everything made sense.

I hadn’t faded. Those runners had just outsprinted me. All so that they could finish before the clock hit 1:30:00.

I’d missed that mark by 4 seconds. But I’d also persevered, fighting through immense pain and giving myself a chance at glory.

No matter what the clock read, I could hold my head high.

Back when I was a child, my father came back from work one day looking ragged.

Grass stains were all over his jeans, and dirt specks covered his shirt like a Jackson Pollock painting.

My mother asked what happened, and my father – then an elementary school teacher – explained that it had been Field Day.

Field day, of course, is a late spring ritual in schools across the country. A day when students and teachers ditch the classroom for structured activities outdoors.

One of the activities at my father’s school was a gauntlet run. Teachers got low to the ground and ran across the grass. And as they did, students lined up on both sides would whack at them with sticks.

It was an absurd annual tradition. But there was no avoiding it.

If my father wanted to maintain the respect of his students, he was going to have to make his way across the grass – dirt stains and stick whacks and all.

The only way to it was through it.

So, my father obliged. And he wore the evidence home for his family to see.

That image has stuck with me over the years.

My father’s decision, you see, ran counter to one of the great ironies of our society. That despite our bluster about grit and toughness, we tend to detour around challenges at every opportunity. To take the path of least resistance.

Calloused hands and battle scars are yesterday’s news. We’ve found a path to glory that doesn’t involve the spilling of guts. And we’ve turned it into a six-lane highway.

Gain without pain. It’s the ultimate life hack.

Or maybe not.

No, Easy Street might not be the panacea we portray it as. Accomplishments ring hollow when they’re dislodged from the principles of perseverance and sacrifice. We know only what we’ve gotten, not what it took.

If that last mile of my half marathon had felt the same as that first dozen, I’d be in the same boat as everyone else. The finisher’s medal around my neck would have been little more than an accessory. A reward barely earned.

But that last mile proved to be its own gauntlet. One that I faced head on, just like my father before me.

And because of that, the medal will always mean more.

The only way to it is through it.

I believe those words with all my heart. And for that, I am grateful.

Constants and Variables

His name was Glauber Contessoto.

Sporting wildly matted hair and a thick beard, he stood out from the crowd. Mostly because of his nickname – The Dogecoin Millionaire.

Contessoto, you see, had gone to the extreme with his investing strategy. He had stopped focusing on stocks, bonds, and savings to grow wealth. And he’d put his money into Dogecoin instead.

It was an odd strategy.

Dogecoin, you see, had started as a parody of the emerging Cryptocurrency trend. It was a tender sporting the image of a snarky Shiba Inu.

Much like hippies trading in beads, Dogecoin was not meant to be taken seriously by a wide audience. It was mostly a meme.

But Conessoto didn’t care. He was inspired by the potential of Cryptocurrency. And he went all.

His timing could not have been better. Contessoto’s $250,000 investment grew fourfold in roughly 70 days, making him an overnight millionaire.

This would have been a good time to cash out. To stash the winnings in a nest egg or reinvest them in traditional markets.

But Contessoto didn’t do that. He doubled down on his bet on Dogecoin. And he actively encouraged other investors to follow suit.

What followed next was all too predictable. Cryptocurrency markets saw a correction, and the value of Dogecoin started to plummet. The fall wasn’t quite as steep as the rise, but the tender ultimately lost 90% of its value.

It was enough to make a Dogecoin Millionaire suddenly worth only $100,000. Contessoto’s strategy had most certainly not paid off.

When I was a teenager, I’d often head to the convenience store down the street from school. I’d reach into my wallet for some allowance money, trading that cash for a newspaper and a bottle of Coca-Cola. And I’d stuff those items in my backpack.

I didn’t ride the bus in those days. So, when the last class of the day was over, I’d park myself somewhere in the lobby. I’d pull the brick-like cell phone out of my backpack, raise the antenna and dial my mother.

I’m ready for a ride home, I’d exclaim. Then, I’d put the phone back in my bag and pull out the newspaper and Coca-Cola. By the time my mother arrived, I’d read most of the articles and finished all of the soda.

These days, the waiting game is far less prevalent. I have my own vocation, my own transportation, my own living quarters.

And yet, I do occasionally find myself sitting in the lobby – waiting for a doctor’s appointment or to board a flight. Just like the old days, warding off boredom is my responsibility.

But instead of reaching into a bulky backpack for a newspaper and a bottle of soda, I now reach for my pocket. My mobile phone now fits there with ease. And it can do so much more than dial numbers.

Indeed, I can read news articles, schedule a dinner order, check the weather forecast, and even watch the ballgame – all from my phone screen. And if I need to buy something, I can do it with a tap of the device as well.

My smartphone is now one of the most essential accessories I have. Much of my daily life routes through its screen. And because of that, I always ensure it’s well protected, well maintained, and well charged.

This quantum leap in functionality hit the market in a flash. Apple released its first iPhone while I was still technically a teenager, and it contained many of the same capabilities back then as it does now.

I was only a handful of years removed from holding court in the school lobby back then. I probably could have ditched the newspaper for my phone screen.

But I didn’t.

You see, much like others, I was amazed by what Steve Jobs presented. But I was also disoriented by it.

What changes would I need to make to my daily habits with this new technology in hand? Which rituals would stay, and which would be usurped? How would I measure my own progress in the new normal?

These were tough questions without ready-made answers. So, I waited three years to get my first iPhone. And it took me three more years to cede my entertainment and commerce needs to its mighty screen.

Solve for X.

Those three words were prevalent in algebra class.

I’d long been accustomed to moving in straight lines with my studies. To memorize these facts, to read those chapters, to divide this by that.

Now, I was being asked to solve a mystery. To use the principles of arithmetic to determine what number the letter X represented.

I was annoyed at first. Why was I being asked to go through all this rigamarole? What purpose did it serve?

Perhaps sensing this frustration, my teacher gathered the class.

Algebra, the teacher stated, was not just about solving for x. It was about what X and the numbers around it stood for.

X represented a variable. Something that could be altered as circumstances shifted.

But the numbers around it? Those were constants. No matter what value X held, they would stay the same.

Deductive reasoning relied on both factors, my teacher explained. Change was an ongoing, volatile element of our world. But we could best understand its effects by holding something constant as we sought to isolate the variables.

This description continues to resonate today. In fact, it illustrates my slow adoption of the smartphone ecosystem.

You see, the iPhone might have been able to combine three pieces of technology – and one newspaper – from my arsenal instantly. But it would be a journey to get me there.

I’d need to weigh the changes against the constants to keep from getting lost. So, instead of trying everything at once, I’d adopt features one at a time.

So, my music listening habits would be the first to change, followed by my shopping habits, and my news reading ones. Such sequencing would allow me to systematically address each constant. To try each adaption on for size, and only proceed ahead when comfortable.

Moseying down the pool steps took longer than a cannonball off the diving board would have. But it served me well.

There’s a lot of clamoring these days about disruptive innovation, hot trends, and emergent opportunities. Futurists get plaudits. Nascent solutions get buzz. And figures like The Dogecoin Millionaire get rich.

It can seem as if leaning into the next big craze is the best way forward. As if changing all the variables at once is our only true path.

It’s not.

There is value in expanding our horizons, to be sure. But we’re more likely to maximize that value if we keep some constants in place along the journey.

This is the pattern of change we’re most comfortable with. It’s the pace of change that most fits our natural rhythms. And it’s the approach to change that best helps us hedge against risk.

This approach might not yield us new status, riches, or acclaim. But it will keep us from losing our ability to reason along the way.

And that is certainly a gift worth maintaining.

So next time you’re feeling the pressure to dive in, take a moment to consider the constants. And govern yourself accordingly.

Finite Resources

It was a restless night.

I tossed and turned repeatedly, failing to summon slumber.

I was away from home, lying atop a mattress that was too thin and too firm. And I was struggling to get comfortable.

Still, that only explained half of the issue.

For it was a sultry summer night. The air conditioner was going at full blast to combat the muggy conditions outside. But it had turned the guest bedroom into an icebox.

I’d covered myself with a blanket. But it was only so wide. And with each toss and turn, the blanket folded in on itself like a piece of origami.

As the night went on, I felt more and more of me freeze. First, my foot was exposed to the chilled air, then my lower leg, my arm, and my shoulder.

When it became unbearable, I’d shake the blanket free and toss it over my body. But a few tosses and turns later, it would be back to where it was. And I’d be cold again.

It was sometime around 2 AM when I realized the futility of my situation. The blanket was simply not built for my sleep patterns.

I wouldn’t be able to feel fully comfortable in this bed. Each movement I made would come with visceral tradeoffs.

These were the facts. I’d just have to live with them.

Not too long ago, I was watching a hockey game on television.

At a break in the action, a QR code appeared on the screen, promising a chance at a $10,000 grocery giveaway. The winner would get the reward in monthly sums over the course of the year.

I scanned the code and entered the contest. But my name was not picked.

Disappointment washed over me when I learned this news. But it quickly faded.

For I realized that I typically spend far less a month on groceries than the contest promised. And I could still pay for my smaller grocery haul with the plastic card in my pocket.

That card was tied to my bank account, whose balance swelled each time I got a paycheck from my employer.

So, even though this streaming service wasn’t subsidizing my food, I was covered. My employer was footing the bill.

Or not.

My employer, you see, wasn’t simply doling out money from a bottomless vault to keep me fed. It acquired those funds by selling its goods and services to others. Those others were businesses in the insurance industry, who used those goods and services to help provide coverage to consumers.

Many of those consumers were individuals, who covered the value of their homes and vehicles with monthly insurance premiums. The money paid toward these monthly premiums came from their own paychecks – which their employers provided after selling their own set of goods and services.

The dizzying chain I just described is work of the economy. It’s an illustration of the patterns of supply and demand that keep our capitalist society running.

The economy is what keeps us fed, housed, clothed, employed. It’s the engine that keeps us going.

That engine is fueled by two things – finite resources and market participation.

Finite resources mean there’s not enough of everything to go around. There are only so many loaves of bread, pairs of pants, or shiny new vehicles we can produce, for instance. And there’s only so much money we have to offer in exchange for them.

It’s as if we all have a blanket that’s too narrow. We can’t have it all, but we can make tradeoffs to improve our situation. We can participate in the marketplace – as buyers and sellers – to better fulfill our needs.

But if we get too close to the edge of the blanket, market participation breaks down. It becomes too difficult for companies to offer up enough goods, or too expensive for individuals to procure them.

Everything shuts down. And everyone suffers.

It’s an uncomfortable prospect. But one that’s all too real.

Follow the money.

Those three words are perhaps the most memorable of the 1976 film All The President’s Men.

Washington Post journalists Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein have seen their investigation run aground. What started as a story about a burglary has unfurled a broader government conspiracy. But Woodward and Bernstein can’t seem to connect the dots in a manner that is safe for print.

Eventually, Woodward and Bernstein contact a shadowy informant, who urges them to follow the money. This turns out to be the missing link in the investigation.

A trail of payments would ultimately tie the break-in to the administration of United States President Richard Nixon – who seemingly authorized the heist to get intel on his political rivals.

The Washington Post would soon publish its report on what came to be known as The Watergate Scandal. And it would ultimately cost Nixon the presidency.

Following the money is now a central tenet of investigative journalism. It has a way of exposing even the most covert activities.

But following the money can be illustrative outside the newsroom as well.

Indeed, in a world of finite resources and market participation, money speaks loudly. It telegraphs how everything is meant to play out. It provides a map through the chaos.

That is, if we’re willing to pay attention.

That hockey game I was watching – the one with the $10,000 grocery giveaway –was being aired on a new streaming service.

This new service promised to air nearly every game for my local team. All for free.

I was flabbergasted to see this claim.

You see, I’d hardly watched any of my local teams for free before. I’d either paid for a ticket to go to the game or paid for a subscription to watch game telecasts on a cable or streaming channel.

Football offered an exception to this rule. Networks like CBS, FOX, and NBC carried free game telecasts year after year, thanks to decades-old broadcast agreements.

But that was an anomaly.

Indeed, pro hockey seasons included nearly five times as many games as pro football seasons. And to remain solvent, hockey clubs have traditionally relied heavily on fans to pony up for viewing access.

I couldn’t imagine that financial model changing overnight. So, what would be filling that revenue hole for my local team now? If I wasn’t paying for my viewing access, who was?

As I write this, I’ve yet to figure those details out. Just as I’ve yet to determine who’s subsidizing the restrooms at shopping center I recently visited.

Those facilities were too clean and well-furnished for public access. Someone was paying to keep them pristine.

Yet, I continue to dig. On both counts.

Why? Because I know the score.

There are no free rides in the realm of finite resources. Even if someone else is footing the bill, I’m still paying for those game telecasts and fancy public restrooms somehow.

The more I understand this arrangement, the more sustainably I can avail myself of it. Without being abruptly left out in the cold when the blanket folds in on itself.

I’m not alone in this regard. We can all enjoy these benefits. That is, if we Author Dylan BrooksCategories ReflectionsPosted on October 16, 2024October 15, 2024

Author: Dylan Brooks