Turkey and Tradition

It’s like clockwork.

Every year, as mid-November approaches, the temperatures drop, the leaves fall, and we focus our gaze on a particular type of bird.

I’m talking, of course, about the turkey.

Turkeys exist all over this land — on farms and in the wild. And most of the year, we hardly notice their presence. But as Thanksgiving approaches, we can’t stop thinking about them.

Just about every ad we see this time of year features some sort of turkey pun. The supermarkets are overloaded with packaged birds, ready to cook. And social media is rife with advice for brining, frying, or otherwise roasting a turkey for the holiday.

Few other animals get this treatment — a day where they’re on the menu nationwide and garner all our attention. Turkeys are unique in that way.

But should they be?


As a kid, I was always enamored by Thanksgiving. It was a holiday my family would spend with relatives who we didn’t see often. And it was bereft of most of the burden of customs or religious connotations that Halloween and Christmas had, respectively.

That said, there were some notable staples of the holiday. Most notably, the menu.

There was little freelancing when it came to Thanksgiving fare. Households were expected to serve mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce, gravy, dressing, and turkey.

I have no idea where this menu came from. Few, if any, of those dishes were in existence at the time of the first Thanksgiving feast in the 1600s.

Yet, these delicacies had reached critical mass. They seemed to be the only items people would talk about. And they were the only dishes Americans were expected to serve.

I was a picky eater growing up, so most of the vegetables, sides, and sauces didn’t appeal to me. That left turkey as my go-to option.

I would wake up on Thanksgiving morning thinking about the turkey feast to come. By the time the evening arrived, I was practically salivating at the sight of the carved bird on the table.

Still, as I sank my teeth into that first bite, I would inevitably find myself disappointed.

The bird itself wasn’t the problem. It was always prepared to perfection.

No, the problem was that I just did not much like turkey. It was too gamey for my liking, and the tryptophan within it would make me sleepy.

At first, I struggled with this disconnect. How could I reject the crown jewel of Thanksgiving dinner? I tried to bury my feelings, only for them to re-emerge a year later.

Eventually, I relented. I accepted that I didn’t like turkey and possibly never would. As such, I stopped loading my plate with it at Thanksgiving dinner.

I started preparing a brisket for Thanksgiving around this time. I did this simply so that there would be a dish on the table that I’d be excited to eat.

But as it turned out, my brisket was almost as big a hit as the turkey itself. My relatives lined up to try it. There were no leftovers to bring home, only requests that I bring more brisket next year.

So, the following year, I did. And the year after that. And the year after that.

I might have broken with the Thanksgiving gospel, but in doing so, I’d forged a new, more resonant tradition.


Who are the arbiters of the customs we follow?

Often, religious organizations come to mind. Or maybe government entities. Or even social entities, such as neighborhood groups.

Each of these structures has the power of trust, a broad following, and mass communication abilities. Yet, they each also have the downsides of preachiness and rigidity.

When you factor in the retail industrial complex, customs get fossilized. We live in a capitalist society, and businesses depend on norms to stay profitable and keep the economy afloat.

Ultimately, this all leads to a one-two punch. A form of authority establishes expectations, and retailers tell us what to buy to stay in compliance.

This is what creates our strict system of traditions, including the Thanksgiving turkey feast. It’s not an organic, grassroots process. It’s heavily manufactured.

The end effect matches a scene from the movie Mean Girls. The protagonist, Cady Heron, is invited to sit with the pretentious clique The Plastics in the school lunchroom for the rest of the week. As part of the impromptu invite, she’s given some instructions, including how to dress.

On Wednesdays, we wear pink, says Karen Smith, one of the Plastics.

Sometimes, I think traditions can be like this. Maybe they started out innocuous enough, but they evolve into On Thanksgiving, we eat turkey.

This latent expectation might not seem like a big deal, but its burden can carry a long shadow. In the case of Thanksgiving, turkeys are bulky, costly, and challenging to prepare. Turkeys — along with the rest of the holiday’s staples — fail to cater to the needs of those with dietary restrictions. And the entire idea of a feast can be cumbersome to those without large living spaces or families.

It’s no wonder that the joyful anticipation of holidays like Thanksgiving is all too often supplanted by feelings of dread. Our pursuit of a shared experience comes with strings attached.

But it doesn’t need to.


As we head into another holiday season, something has changed.

That something is us.

Living through the horrors of a global pandemic, the gut-punch of an economic recession, and the social unrest of a society in transition has not been a pleasant experience. But it has been an enlightening one.

Throughout all the turmoil, we’ve been forced to reassess what we’ve taken as gospel. Some traditions, customs, and norms that were once non-negotiable are now anything but.

Thanksgiving dinner can be one of those traditions.

Yes, we should still gather to celebrate. But maybe we can do so in our own way, and on our own terms.

That could mean Thanksgiving without a predefined menu of sides. That could mean Thanksgiving without a massive guest list. And that could even mean Thanksgiving without turkey.

Indeed, as I write this, I’m preparing for a Thanksgiving feast with all these adaptations. It will be a smaller, more intimate gathering, devoid of an excess of side dishes. And instead of a large turkey —or my brisket — there will be a beef roast.

The burden of old traditions has been lifted. And I couldn’t be more thankful for that.

Sum of Its Parts

As I was driving through a residential neighborhood, a new song came on the radio.

Suddenly, I felt the urge to accelerate. I had the strong desire to hit the gas pedal and let it fly.

Remembering where I was, I regained my wits and stayed at an appropriate pace. But I was perplexed about my need for speed.

You see, the song that threatened to turn my foot to lead wasn’t a high-energy tune. It was a classic rock song. And there wasn’t anything obvious within it inspiring me to unleash my inner NASCAR driver.

But as I broke down the song in my mind, some hints started to bubble to the surface. The tempo of the beat. The volume of the bass. The relentlessness of the vocals.

In a vacuum, each of these elements wouldn’t amount to much. Their impact wouldn’t be noticeable.

But when you add them all up, they had me itching to do a bad thing.


Not long before my would-be speeding violation, I was at a friend’s wedding.

This wedding happened to be held at a Catholic church. I’d heard rumors of Catholic weddings taking a bit of time. So, I arrived early and thumbed through the program, looking for clues on how long I’d be in the pews.

On page 3, I found some sheet music. It didn’t look like much — a bunch of lines, symbols, and flourishes. But I could tell by the way the notes were spaced that these hymns were going to be slow-paced. And given how many of them were on subsequent pages, I knew I was going to be in this church for at least an hour.

So, I prepared for the long haul. I focused on my demeanor and tried to act as if I belonged.

This was going to be a challenge. For I’d only been in a Catholic church a handful of times in my life. I was a fish out of water, and I was faking it until I made it.

The details of the sheet music I’d glimpsed at drifted away as I tried desperately to fit in. But as the hymns it documented came to life, I found myself fighting back tears.

The choir was angelic. The congregation was enthralled. And through it all, time started to fade away.

The sheet music, the wedding program, the sanctuary — on their own, they didn’t seem to amount to much. But the whole seemed better than the sum of its parts.


These are but two examples of a phenomenon. A phenomenon of a finished product outshining its individual elements.

We’ve long been accustomed to this. We’ve seen it take shape when we visit Disney World or Universal Studios. We’ve felt it at Cirque du Soleil shows. We’ve even experienced it at local parades and firework shows.

It’s a magical feeling when everything comes together just right. When place and time sync in a manner that speaks to our soul.

We can be intoxicated by this feeling. We tend to chase it relentlessly, investing time, money, and emotional effort into rekindling its flame.

And yet, all too often, we ignore the underlying elements of the magic. We fail to consider what makes these experiences hit just right.

We have no interest in seeing how the sausage gets made. That is, unless it keeps us from speeding recklessly through a neighborhood or ruing the length of a church service.

We’re just fine paying the piper to deliver these experiences on a silver platter. But maybe we shouldn’t be.


Dressed in a button-down shirt and tie, I stood behind a fold-up table. In front of me was a Paper Mache volcano, a jar of baking soda, some dish soap, and a bottle of vinegar.

I was 8 years old, and I’d never been so nervous.

My instructions were straightforward. Pour the baking soda, dish soap, and vinegar into the hole in the summit of the volcano, watch the concoction erupt, and explain to passers-by what was happening.

This all was standard operating procedure for any elementary school science fair. But as I waited for visitors to come by the table, fear and doubt started creeping into my mind.

What if I messed up the concoction? What if it didn’t erupt as planned? What if I failed to describe the experiment properly to passers-by?

The tension was palpable. I started to sweat.

But then, someone did come by the table. It was Go Time.

With shaking hands, I poured the ingredients into the volcano and watched it bubble back up like a witch’s caldron. My fears were thwarted; everything was going to plan.

Yet, instead of relief or elation, I felt profound wonder. I couldn’t believe how these simple ingredients had created something so magical.

Sure, I’d been told this would happen, and I’d been given the recipe to make it so. But experiencing the entire process firsthand blew me away.

Ever since that moment, I’ve thought critically about nearly every process I’ve encountered. What are the elements that go into it? And how can I tweak those to optimize the results?

This thought exercise has helped me make smarter decisions with my finances, my nutrition, and my career. It’s helped me be less wasteful and more deliberate.

Perhaps then, I shouldn’t have been so surprised when a job assessment told me I thought like an engineer. I might not be a tinkerer, but I certainly have the mentality of one.

I firmly believe that more of us should have this trait. That we should feel a sense of wonder not just in the finished product, but also in the myriad parts that comprise it.

That obsession with the underlying elements gives us more than a peek behind the curtain. It gives us agency.

We can exhibit understanding, empathy, and appreciation for the process. And we can remain better suited to switch things up if that process goes haywire.

In short, we can make the finished product more than the sum of its parts. But only if we sweat the small stuff and consider how everything comes together.

So, let’s spark that sense of wonder. Let’s remove assumptions and remain inquisitive. Let’s dive into the journey, not just the destination.

If we can do this, we all stand to benefit.

Attention to Detail

It’s the little things.

We’ve all heard this phrase a time or twenty.

It might sound cliché. But it rings true.

We celebrate big dreams and grand visions. And yet, it’s the minutia that so often determines whether those dreams are realized.

This reality is not sexy or glamorous. But it’s important and worth discussing.


Quality assurance.

It’s a clunky term. One that seems like it belongs in a legal textbook.

Still, it’s one of the core principles of commerce today. Most modern businesses have a quality assurance process. Some even have an entire department committed to QA.

The goal of quality assurance is straightforward — catch and correct defects before they reach consumers. And the key to success in this venture is an unwavering attention to detail.

We tend to take quality assurance for granted — except when it fails. Stories of tainted aspirin, listeria-laden ice cream, and faulty aeronautical equipment have become infamous over the years.

These developments have given the quality assurance discipline a black eye. But it deserves better.

You see, there was a time when quality assurance was nonexistent. Items were crafted piecemeal, unbeholden to stringent production standards. If something went wrong in the manufacturing process, it was an unlucky consumer who suffered the consequences.

Then along came Henry Ford. The purveyor of the Model T automobile brought the concept of the assembly line to the mainstream. Instead of small groups of engineers building one vehicle at a time, a litany of workers mass-produced them in sequence.

Each employee was responsible for their own portion of construction. And those responsibilities included stringent attention to detail.

After all, workers on Ford’s assembly line had but one job to do. And they needed to do it with expert precision.

Thanks to the assembly line, the promise of the Model T was twofold. Not only would the vehicle be readily available for consumers, but it would also be reliable. This allowed Ford to price it affordably, spurring the world into the automotive era.

Soon, the assembly line proliferated across the industrial world. And with it came a broader adoption of quality assurance.

Through this process, attention to detail went from a nice-to-have to a silent expectation. But then, we forgot about it.

For shame.


I was in my baseball uniform, practicing catching fly balls when I heard the booming voice of my head coach.

Bring it in, he said.

I jogged toward the infield, where some of my teammates had already gathered. We knew a speech was coming.

Y’all are in middle school now, the coach began. You’re a long way from applying to college. But when you do, you’ll need to take something called the SAT. Does anyone know what that stands for?

We were silent.

Standard Aptitude Test, the coach continued. They’re measuring your aptitude — what you know.

By now, we were all confused. We were here to play baseball, not learn about a strange test that was years away. What on earth was this coach talking about?

We all need to improve our aptitude on the baseball diamond, said the coach. Sure, y’all can hit, catch, and throw. But how well do you understand the game and the different situations you’ll face? How closely do you pay attention to detail?

These words awakened something in me. Something I didn’t know was there.

I wasn’t the biggest, strongest, or most talented kid on the team. But now, I had a clear purpose — to pay attention to the details and use them to my advantage.

This process didn’t do much for my baseball exploits. I never even made it to the varsity level in high school.

Nonetheless, it had a profound impact on my life.

Sweating the small stuff gave me a semblance of control in a world that often lacked it. And as I grew older, this focus endeared me to others.

Now, attention to detail is a core component of my life. I break each day into processes, and I think about everything that belongs in each process. When something is missing or off-kilter, I take note of it. And if I have the power to fix it, I do so.

I have no doubt that my focus on the minutia has been critical to all the success I’ve seen. It’s changed the way others see me, and the way I’ve seen myself.

But while attention to detail has made a difference for me, it shouldn’t be a differentiator.


Some years back, I attended an insurance seminar. At the podium was the chief executive officer of one of Dallas’ largest brokerages.

At some point, someone asked the CEO about his thoughts on a startup company that had been making waves in the insurance industry.

Their loss ratio is 126, he flatly replied. They’re paying out $126 for every $100 they bring in. It’s bad business and it won’t last.

I reacted to this response with delight. I worked in the insurance industry, and this buzzy startup presented a significant threat to my employer. I returned to the office gleefully predicting the startup’s demise.

It never came.

The startup continued to operate like a leaky rowboat, taking on water and showing no signs of profitability. But Venture Capitalists in Silicon Valley kept pouring funding into their coffers.

I was astounded. But I shouldn’t have been.

The technology industry has long been filled with renegades. Apple captured the world’s attention with its 1984 commercial. Facebook rallied around the mantra Move fast and break things.

The message was clear. Details and protocol were irrelevant. It was all about the vision.

This ethos carried the day for quite a while. But now, it’s facing a reckoning.

Apple has seen more success after founder Steve Jobs’ passing than before it. Facebook is embroiled in perpetual scandal. Startup darlings WeWork and Uber nearly went under due to substantial gaps between their visions and their realities.

While that flashy insurance startup hasn’t met the same fate as the others, it must remain wary. That company will need more than just a visionary idea to survive long-term.

Attention to detail matters. It always has, and it always will.

It matters in technology. It matters in business. It matters in life.

We can ignore the details all we want. We can continue to focus on the flash, the buzz, the sizzle.

But we do so at our own peril.

Yes, the little things really do make a big difference.

And so, I will continue to sweat the small stuff. I will maintain my laser focus on the minutia, day in and day out.

I hope you’ll join me.

Manufactured Ecosystems

It was a rainy Friday morning. The kind that leaves you in a trance, stuck interminably between slumber and alertness.

But my spell was broken once I stepped into the terminal at Chicago O’Hare Airport.

The pitter-patter of raindrops landing in the darkness was washed away by the rush of a thousand people heading in diverging directions.

This scene was a bit much for me. All around me, people were getting on with their day. Yet, I hadn’t even had my morning coffee yet.

I set out to rectify this situation immediately. But as I made my way to one of the many coffee shops on the concourse, I couldn’t help but think how inorganic this whole situation was.

The scene in this airport concourse didn’t have to exist. The organized chaos was only a thing because a mass of people desired to crisscross the country at warp speed — and because the airlines routed so many of those journeys through Chicago.

This desire was the key to the whole operation. It kept the lights on, the coffee shops open, and the concourses full. It led a small army of gate agents, security officers, and shuttle bus drivers to percolate at an hour when so many in the nearby metropolis were still in bed. It made this random bit of turf in Illinois appear to be anything but.

Yes, at this moment, O’Hare Airport seemed all-important — a bustling transit hub and the crossroads of the skies. But it was just a prominent outpost of a manufactured ecosystem.


As I stood in line, waiting for my coffee, I thought back to a scene from roughly 60 hours earlier.

I had just gotten off an airplane at Milwaukee’s General Mitchell International Airport, a mere 73 miles north of O’Hare. But the contrasts couldn’t have been starker.

The sun hadn’t quite set on Southeastern Wisconsin on this late afternoon. But the airport was a ghost town. The gate areas were full of empty seats. The restaurants in the concourse were all shut down for the night.

I made the long walk to baggage claim, arriving at the same time as my suitcase. A few hundred steps away, the keys to my rental car were waiting for me.

No, there was no crush of people to navigate on this midweek evening. I made my way through the arrival process feeling like a VIP, mostly because I was about the only person in the airport.

In Chicago, on the other hand, I was a cog in a wheel.

My bag was just one of many for the airport staff to process and load onto a litany of planes. I checked a baggage tracking app on my phone with nervous anticipation, hoping my luggage would find its way to the cargo hold of the plane. With minutes to spare, it did.

And while the coffee shops in O’Hare might have been open, I wasn’t exactly feeling the warm aura of hospitality there. The staff was overwhelmed, determined to get people their food and beverage as quickly as possible. Curtness ruled the day. Anything more was a waste of time.

All of this made me wonder why I put myself through such torture. It left me to ponder why I would willingly dive into the teeth of this manufactured ecosystem.

It certainly wasn’t a necessity. The recent pandemic — which gutted air travel for months — made that abundantly clear.

No, it was something else. Namely, a willingness to put myself through the ringer in pursuit of something worthwhile.

Oftentimes, that meant leisure travel or a chance to visit family. This time, the impetus was a business trip.

In any case, the juice was worth the squeeze. It was worth it for me, and for so many others in that coffee shop line that morning.


As I write this, we find ourselves in a fascinating moment.

We are emerging from the depths of a remarkable event — a prolonged shutdown of our economy and social scene. Habits have been broken. Norms have been shattered. Life as we once knew it is over.

In the wake of this disruption, many of us have the urge to make a clean break. To do away with the manufactured ecosystems we now recognize we don’t need.

We also have a desire to avoid the uncomfortable. To “live our best lives” and avoid the unpleasant experience we once put ourselves through.

All of this is tantalizing. After all, if we can clear the decks, we’ll spend our energy more productively. We’ll waste less time maintaining nonsensical habits for tradition’s sake and spend more time exploring our true potential.

That’s the theory. But it’s rarely that simple in reality.

Indeed, we didn’t build such ecosystems on a whim. The structures we now ridicule once served an essential purpose. Many still do.

We can’t just toss these aside wholesale and call it progress. Or at least we shouldn’t.

Such is the conundrum facing the airline industry. The act of flying — of elbowing our way through crowded airport concourses to jockey for legroom in a sterile metal tube — that was no one’s idea of fun. And so, when the opportunity arose to return to it, we punted.

But we soon found there was no viable alternative. Exotic Zoom backgrounds couldn’t masquerade for the real thing. Long-distance road trips were just too impractical.

So, we reluctantly returned to the manufactured ecosystem of air travel. An ecosystem still smarting from our collective abandonment.

The results have been decidedly mixed so far. Staffing shortages and weather issues have led to a spate of cancellations. Food options and amenities within airports have remained scarce as the pandemic’s shadow lingers.

But there seems to be a sense of buy-in. We’ve rekindled our commitment to the skies, understanding that a morning navigating a busy airport is but a small price to pay.

There are surely other ecosystems like this. Structures that we’ve been tempted to leave for dead, but that might still suit us well.

It’s our responsibility to recognize this. And it’s our responsibility to build them back up.

For what we’ve created might not be pleasant. But it’s certainly worth keeping.

Built to Last

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

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

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

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

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

But I had seen this vista before.

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

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

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

Some things are just built to last.


What makes something timeless? What gives it staying power?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps we’re approaching this task all wrong.

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

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

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

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

The Fixed Pie

I wish I had more.

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

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

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

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


America is a land of entrepreneurs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s a basic principle. An inevitable one.

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


To infinity and beyond.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That dimension is time.


Time. It’s inevitable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why? Because I’m human.

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

Even if it’s all a grand illusion.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that just might be enough.

The Meme Complex

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What gave it the right to say it had?


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


When in Rome, do as the Romans do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It all has to do with the meme complex.

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

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

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

This is the power of the meme.


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

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

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

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

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

At least that’s what many were saying.

Perhaps this is what should define originality.

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

I could get on board with that. Could you?

The Reset

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unless, of course, my hand is forced.


I was once asked which animal I most identified with.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or so I thought.


I’ve experienced some jarring moments throughout my life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But maybe it should have been.


How do we look at the past?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Power by Proxy

Heavy lies the crown.

There’s a good chance you’ve heard that one before.

Having authority doesn’t come with strings attached. It comes with barbells.

We have a responsibility to use our leverage both effectively and ethically. But we must devote time and attention to make this happen. And such commitments can be a drag.

So, we try and delegate. We add proxies to do our bidding on our behalf.

It makes sense on the surface. And yet, we must wonder if such attempts are futile?


Have you ever taken a close look at a map of America?

It’s a strange sight.

States in the interior west look like blocks of a brick wall, dwarfing the size of their cousins back east. Maine protrudes into Maritime Canada. West Virginia resembles a misplaced shopping bag. And California looks like a banana.

There’s little uniformity to the boundaries of our 50 states. And yet, with some context, the divergent shapes make more sense.

Those tasked with defining these borders had to contend with topography — mountains, rivers, and lakes. The timing and circumstances of our nation’s expansion also played a part in how the map looks today

So yes, the story of our state map is a cogent narrative. You just need to think critically to find it.

By contrast, if you stare at a congressional district map, you might go cross-eyed.

Districts dot the map from coast to coast, without any sense of uniformity. Indeed, the map resembles a summer afternoon in Florida, with sunshine blanketing one side of the street and torrential downpours on the other.

What’s the rationale behind these strange boundaries?

It’s simple. They’re the expression of unchecked power.

To explain why that is, let’s brush up on some civics.

The United States Constitution states that an accurate count of everyone in the nation must be taken every 10 years. We know this decade-marking exercise as the Census.

Census data is used for many purposes, but the Constitution stipulates one in particular — apportioning Congressional delegates.

The numbers from the Census show how many seats each state can have in the House of Representatives. This ensures populous states — such as Florida or Texas — have more representation in the chamber than such less-populated states as Montana and Vermont.

This mechanism follows common sense. While the Senate allows two representatives per state, the House is meant to hold a more proportional voice. But the process of tying population to representation is only effective if the numbers are kept up to date.

And yet, the Constitution gives no guidance as to how these congressional seats are doled out. That process is left up to each state.

Our nation’s founders likely expected states to be prudent at executing this task. Yet, instead of coming up with something intuitive, many states make their maps resemble a game of Tetris.

You see, the map-drawing process — known as redistricting— normally falls to state legislatures. And that means the political party in control has influence over the results.

Politicians drawing the maps want to see members of their party inside the United States Capitol. So, they create districts that are more likely to drive that outcome.

Areas with lots of voters from their political party are split geographically into as many districts as possible. And wellsprings of support for the opposing party are clumped into a minority of districts.

Equity and common sense go out the window in a process like this. Preserving power is the only consideration.


Opponents of redistricting bias haven’t always gone quietly.

Back in 2003, dozens of Texas House members fled to Oklahoma to stall what they considered a flawed redistricting process. And more recently, the U.S. Congress has proposed legislation to address the issue.

Such tactics have largely been unsuccessful. But even if they had worked, victory would have been fleeting.

For restoring the ethics of redistricting only scratches the surface. The real issue lies at the root.

Yes, the idea of power by proxy itself is the issue here. The notion of representative democracy, while noble, is fatally flawed.

Such an arrangement emerged out of both necessity and convenience. Smarting from the injustices of monarchical rule, the founders of our fledgling nation decided to make our government by the people. But giving everyone a seat at the table was not practical. And so, the founders settled on proxy representation.

And therein lies the rub.

You see, proxies work best when they put the needs of their constituents first. For instance, parents and legal guardians tend to choose what’s in the best interest of their children.

But when the connection is less direct, proxies can go off the reservation. It’s human nature.

Politicians aren’t serving out of the kindness of their hearts. They have ambitions to satisfy.

And with such goals in mind, staying in power becomes their prime concern. The needs and wants of the electorate are barely more than an afterthought.

This is how we end up with ever more polarized political parties. This is what spawns partisan redistricting fights. And this is what ultimately leads to a democracy that’s representative in name alone.


What’s left for the rest of us?

This is a question I’ve long grappled with when it comes to representation.

At first, this seems like an odd inquiry. I am a White man. Our democracy has long been looking out for my needs, sometimes at the detriment of others.

But when it comes to ideology, I’m in the middle of the road. I’m neither far to the left, nor radically on the right. I believe in the importance of compromise and tradeoffs.

Across America, there are tens of millions of people like me. And yet, we have no one to stand for us in our representative democracy.

Moderate ideologies and commitments to compromise are not winning strategies on Capitol Hill — or in any statehouse. The ruthless ambition needed to maintain power tends to come from the fringes.

As such, politics tends to attract those with more radical viewpoints. Fundraising comes from hyper-partisan special interest groups. And the political parties themselves diverge more and more from common ground.

Sometimes an outsider shakes up the establishment. But that outsider is generally even more radical than either of the splintered factions it positions itself against.

Add it all up, and centrists like me are left out in the cold.

We have no seat at the table. Our “representative” democracy fails to represent us at all.

It’s a tragic consequence of power by proxy.


So, how do we get out of this conundrum?

How can we make power more representative?

Throwing out our existing system is not the answer. If we consolidate power, we open the door to authoritarian regimes. And if we disperse it, we only find ourselves with more voices to shout over.

Punishing proxies for their ambition is not the answer either. Without the incentive, fewer will serve in that role.

No, the best we can do is to demand more guardrails. The best we can do is to leverage peer pressure to keep proxies in line. The best we can do is speak up to ensure our voices are not silenced.

This process is not pretty, and it’s not particularly comfortable. But in an imperfect world with imperfect systems, it’s precisely what’s needed.

Power by proxy can be effective. But it’s on us to make it so.

Are you equal to the task?

On Accents

I don’t know about that accent, son. Just where did you come from?

Those thirteen words come from an Alan Jackson song. They describe a driver’s encounter with a State Trooper.

The lyrics seem simple enough. But they’re plenty evocative.

They remind us that no matter how we present ourselves, our voices can give us away.

The way we speak differs in the northern, southern, eastern, and western United States. The intonations vary even more if we hail from Canada, England, or Australia.

And it only takes a few words for us to get pigeonholed.

It’s as if a veil has been lifted. Once we open our mouths, others can tell where we’re from. And with that knowledge, they can seemingly deduce who we are.

This can be disconcerting. But it can also be fascinating.


I have long been obsessed with accents. It’s been a passion for most of my life.

While other kids were paying attention to music or dance moves, I was focusing on the way those around me talked. I was entranced hearing the same word expressed so differently off two people’s tongues.

I’m not quite sure where this obsession came from.

Perhaps it spurred from all the times my father — who grew up in Pennsylvania — put on a fake New York accent when emulating his in-laws. There’s a chance it came from the hours I spent within earshot of my mother’s Australian colleague. Or maybe it emerged from a reckoning with my own childhood speech deficiencies.

Whatever the case, I picked up an ear for accents early on. And as I got older, I added nuance.

Soon, I was able to tell a Boston accent from a New York one. I could differentiate a Georgia drawl from a Texas twang. I even mastered the difference between the British and Australian dialects.

Such abilities weren’t limited to English either. As I grew proficient at Spanish, I also picked up the various dialects of that language — Iberian vs. Caribbean, Mexican vs. Argentine, and so on. I would overhear someone speaking in Spanish and understand not only what they were saying but also where they were from.

This was a passion of mine. But I didn’t find it to be anything out of the ordinary.

That is, until Inglorious Basterds hit movie theaters.

Quentin Tarantino’s 2009 film about a vigilante group of Nazi hunters might as well have been about dialects. The first scene features dialogue that covers three languages — French, English and German. A major plot point stems from a peculiar German accent. Another plot point involves a creative interpretation of Italian.

Tarantino’s love for accents was so blatant in this movie that it struck me as odd. Then I remembered that some of his other films also had prolonged discussions about language.

In Pulp Fiction, a boxer and a Colombian cab driver commiserate on the meaning of American names. In Kill Bill, a retired Japanese sword maker complements the protagonist’s pronunciation of the word Arigato.

No one else seemed to put this much focus on accents and dialects. Sure, some people would mock a Southern accent, or joke about Pahking the cahh in Boston. But that was where the nuance stopped.

Tarantino and I were on another level.


What does an accent say about us?

Not much really.

Sure, we have those well-worn tropes about the dumb redneck or the pretentious Englishman. But genius and elitism aren’t limited by geography.

There are smart people in Alabama, and there are pretentious folks there too. And anyone who’s watched a Premier League match knows that there are plenty of Brits who are neither prim nor proper.

With that in mind, this accent encyclopedia I’ve been building seems like a waste of effort.

What good is it to understand the difference between a drawl and a twang? And who cares if I can describe a Michigan accent?

There is seemingly no point in reading into someone’s region of origin. And yet, I find it irresistible.

You see, I consider accents to provide critical building blocks in communication. Detecting them is the first step in building a connection with someone else — whether they’ve from your region or one far away.

As an introvert, such details are a lifeline. While I generally struggle to talk to people outside of my circle, accents can provide a nifty conversation starter.

Those I speak with might not have the same exuberance I do — particularly if they’re trying to shed the stigma of their origins. But their accent gives us both an opportunity to delve deeper, rather than blathering on about the weather.

So yes, tracking accents might seem like an obscure activity. But it has its virtues.


Several of my friends have small children.

These infants and toddlers haven’t yet found their voice. They’re too young to have that figured out.

And yet, I can’t help but wonder what they’ll sound like as they get older. Will they sport a twang or a drawl? Will they drop their r’s or sport a Midwestern hokeyness?

I would suppose not.

Kids tend to emulate their parents, and my friends have made great strides to remove any semblance of a regional dialect.

But even beyond that, the odds are against the next generation developing strong accents.

Regional dialects blossomed in a different era. An era when people were confined to the echo chambers of their cities and towns.

There was no defined American accent. There were only thousands of interpretations of it.

But as technology has improved and travel has evolved, such schisms have evaporated. And the dialects have faded away as well.

Today, we live with entertainment at our fingertips. Anyone can watch anything, anywhere. And as we watch, we emulate.

The more we emulate, the more we converge on a single standard. A standard that sheds any semblance of the dialects of our ancestors.

And so, most of the newest generation is set up to sound alike. It won’t be easy to tell if they’re from Ohio, Oregon, or Oklahoma. There will be no audible difference between young adults in St. Louis and San Diego.

This is likely a positive development. But it still distresses me.

I will miss hearing the distinct dialects of America, and of the world beyond. I will miss the regional hallmarks, the markers of individuality. I will pine for the ability to travel the globe through a simple conversation.

So, in the meanwhile, I will soak it all in. I will cherish each accent I encounter, and the doors unlocked by the experience. I will take nothing for granted.

The way we speak might seem quaint. But trivial? It’s anything but.