Maps, the Secret of Weight Loss, and the Source of Coke Syrup

“Maps, my dear, are the undergarments of a country!  They give shape…to continents.” – The Englishmen Who Went Up a Hill But Came Down a Mountain

sovietmappin

I call this the Cruel Map.

Excellence requires consistency.  Consistency does not imply excellence – a visit to any McDonalds® will prove that.  But consistency is required for excellence.

And excellence is required for health.

The human body is an incredibly complex device, even when you ignore the brain like most television executives involved in programming selection do.  The human body is robust.  The only way that humanity can create something as wondrous as a human is to make a baby, which is generally pretty fun to attempt, even if you don’t succeed.  About as close as we have gotten to a really complex machine that approaches human complexity is the toaster.  Bread in – toast out.  Works every time, but I still can’t figure out where the bread went.  Maybe the bread powers the toaster?

warrentoast

Humanity’s most complicated machines can’t even come close to the versatility that is a human:  if your car were able to fuel itself like a person, you’d be able to feed it gasoline or junk mail or plastic bags and it would turn that into a trip to Cleveland leaving only carbon dioxide and water vapor exhaust gas, and some form of car-poop that you presumably would compost so you could grow more car food.  Oh, and the car would self-repair for decades – your tires would grow back in the middle of the night.  Unfortunately your car would try to pick up on other cars, and might identify as a truck, but that’s a longer story.

The human body is excellently designed, and very, very consistent in its response to inputs.  But the owner’s manual sucks, and many times we don’t operate it properly or fuel it very well.  Case in point – achieving excellent health requires measurement.  Of what?  Unless you’re an adolescent reading this, you’re not getting taller.  What parameter might be changing that you could measure, say, every day?  Besides armpit hair length.  That’s too obvious, and everyone does that, anyway.  Think harder.

Oh, yes!  Weight!

There is a discipline in measuring, especially when you ate a cake and don’t want to see what the scale says that those extra calories did to your weight.  This is no small problem – 74% of Americans were overweight in 2007, and there has been plenty of time since then for more Nachos Bellgrande®, Cheeze Whiz® and Twinkies™ since then while watching videos from Blockbuster®.  I was reading an article about it a few months back, and one doctor noted that a “big” patient used to be ~220 pounds early in his career, but now they have to buy equipment that can handle people exceeding 400 pounds in weight.

romefini

Fun Fact:  The number of Blockbuster® video stores in the Roman Empire (117A.D.) is off by one when compared to the number of Blockbuster™ video stores in the United States today.

Unexpectedly (at least I wasn’t expecting it), heart disease has gone down as weight has gone up (Smoking, Orphans, and the French) but a whole host of other medical problems seem to plague our newly-larger Americans.  I won’t go into the details, you’re aware and you’ve read ‘em all.

But excellence in health is tied (at some level) to excellence in measurement.  Thankfully, there’s a $20 item that can provide excellent measurement:  a scale.  Oh, sure, counting calories might be your default position, but that simply won’t work.  To gain a pound a month, you have to eat an excess 3600 calories during that month.  How much extra, on a daily basis, is that?  2.7 Oreo® cookies.  Each day.  It’s 9.6 ounces of Coke® (a can is 12 ounces, or 4,530 liters in communist units).  On the average American diet of 3,600 calories per day, it’s less than 3% of you your total daily calories.

scaleweight

Okay, maybe the metric system has one use.  One.

No one measures calories in that closely, at least not for long.  So, a pound.  That’s not so bad.

No, I said a pound a month.

If you went to college and graduated in four years, that would be 48 pounds.  All from less than 10 ounces of Coke™ a day.  Measuring the input is futile unless you live in a bubble and measure everything you eat, all day.  That’s why everyone is fat – the wonderful machine we own is adapted to live in a world where food is alternately scarce and plentiful – a world without refrigerators.  A world where Sonic® bacon cheeseburgers are available until 11pm (Midnight on Friday and Saturday!) and an extra 74 ounces of Sprite® are available for only $0.25 wasn’t really planned for when your pancreas was designed.  If the pancreas had a staff, they would be very, very tired from all of the soda.

“Oh, hell.  More soda coming in.  Insulin production to maximum.  Again.  And someone call storage and tell ‘em we’ve got to get fat production moving.  It’s overtime tonight for sure, boys.  And someone call the liver and wake it up.  He may be hungover still, but it’s time to get to work.  This fat won’t make itself.”

I drink about a soda a year, so that’s not a problem my pancreas has.  The Boy, who is 18, burns approximately 100,000 calories per day between sports and whatever it is he does in the basement that makes him all sweaty, and he drinks soda by the liter.  A liter is a Canadian gallon, I believe, but it is less expensive in the 2-liter bottle because things that are measured in metric are just not as good so you can’t charge as much as a non-metric premium product which would be sold in pints or quarts or ounces.  I think Coke™ is actually made by Pakistani slave children who are forced to milk genetically engineered badgers for the Coke© syrup.  Or at least that’s what I read on Wikipedia®, or maybe on Huffington Post© or CNN™.  So it’s certain that it’s true.

But while The Boy can consume endless calories, I can’t even think about having a Chick-Fil-A™ sandwich without buying larger pants and immediately expanding to the size of the British Empire in 1910.

bigemp

Does this Empire make my butt look big?   

Okay, if measuring the inputs doesn’t work, how do you manage to eat and manage to be smaller than the USSR?  You have to measure the output.  Ruthlessly.  And don’t gain that first pound.  If you do?  Get rid of it.  That day.  Or that week.  But don’t wait.  And you can’t lose more than one pound at a time.  And you know how to lose a pound.  It may not be easy.  It may not be quick.  But you know how to do this.

soviet

This map shows the USSR and communist bloc countries at their greatest extent.  Also pictured:  all of the happy Soviet citizens.

You can afford to compromise – outward, on those things that aren’t intrinsic to you.  But if you want to have excellence in anything, you can never compromise inward on the things that are important to you.  You have to have a line.  And health should always be important to you, unless you’re Johnny Depp.  If you’re Johnny Depp – you already know that death will be no obstacle to your lifestyle.

Health determines what the quality of your life is really like.  And I’ve got some new goals.

The Boy will be out of the house in August, and off to the next stage of his adventure in life.  But that leaves Pugsley as the only chick in the nest.  Pugsley needs a sparring partner to practice with so he can defeat the hordes of Orcs™ that will be unleashed when the monetary system is abducted by Sauron® and Frodo© is unable to stop inflation by throwing Ruth Bader Ginsborg into Mount Doom®.  My goal?  To be in sparring shape and size by August.

There is no shortcut.  But I have a map.

I’ll let you know how it goes . . .

Soviet Map via:  User:MaGioZal [CC BY-SA 3.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0), GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html) or GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html)], via Wikimedia Commons

Wombstyles of the Rich and Famous, Sexy Handmaids, Insurance, and Insulin

“Don’t listen to him, man.  The insulin, it made him crazy.” – Con-Air

unibrow

How do you tell the number of Kardashian women in a room?  Add the eyebrows and mustaches and divide by two.

Health care is important to people – both as individuals (Early Retirement: Things to Consider (cough Health Care cough), Readers Write: Early Retirement, Health Care, Canada, and Averting A Ben Affleck Marathon) and to Americans as a group.  It has become so critical that I think that its current level of mismanagement will sink the country within 15 years (More Budget Doom, The Rolling Stones, an End Date, and an Unlikely Version of Thunderstruck), or (more likely) lead to a drastic reduction in overall care for the people who don’t live like The Rich and Famous.  But I have popcorn, I’ll probably have the weekend free, and it should be pretty fun to watch, so why not enjoy?

What led to this observation?

Kanye West and Whatever Kardashian have three kids, which surprised me – I always thought that the Kardashians reproduced like a virus – infecting their host cell and then making it explode with millions of copies of Kardashians that go on to infect other cells.  I guess not, and even my second guess – reproduction through egg-laying was wrong.  Kardashians reproduce just like a normal human does.

Or, maybe not?

I found out about the West/Kardashian reproductive habits not because I follow them on the news or have a link to their Amazon® Echoâ„¢ – my Amazon© Echo® eavesdropping is generally limited to listening in on Tom Hanks – he’s much more interesting than you might imagine.  No, the West/Kardashian pregnancy was front and center on Google News Wednesday morning and they won’t allow me to install a Kardashian blocker on my work computer.

Thankfully the world will be blessed with what it needs most, an additional celebrity child.   This birth, however, will be special.  Whatever Kardashian is not using her own womb, but is renting one for her baby.  There will be tons of tests, probably a minimum ACT® score, and payment for services rendered.  I’m sure it will all be wonderfully legal.

mother's day

Different people celebrate differently.

Furthermore, this is the second child of the West/Kardashian hive that will be born via surrogate.  Now, Internet, I did open up and read an article about this, all for you.  You really must appreciate the sacrifices I make, this was worse than many horror novels I’ve read.  Whatever Kardashian told a thoroughly gruesome description of a previous birth complete with details that I would not tell to a priest during confession, were I Catholic.  Heck, I remember when I was younger and would go to confession just to brag, but this Kardashian story wasn’t bragging, it was gagging.  I do NOT recommend that you read about it if you’re at all squeamish.  Let me rephrase – I don’t recommend you read it at all.

I can understand the desire for more children.  I understand she alleges that her doctor says she shouldn’t carry another one.  But when Whatever told the scandal sheet entertainment magazine that she really found it convenient to outsource the breastfeeding of her child, I was as stunned as a kitten in a quantum physics class.  Here is the class divide in America – a princess grown woman deciding to hire a commoner another grown woman to create and nurse her offspring.  Maybe I wasn’t too far off with the whole virus analogy.  Heck, they could even hire a surrogate father to help the surrogate mother raise the kid.

I looked up what this would cost, and it’s probably at least a quarter-million dollars to have a surrogate deliver your kid in California, but that’s probably the entry level cost.  I’m willing to bet that the Kardashian/West family has a great number of requirements, like having the surrogate mother eat the Royal Kardashian Jelly while she’s pregnant so it smells like a Kardashian when it’s born and therefore won’t be eaten by the other Kardashians at birth.  I even imagine they pay her to live with them for up to another year to nurse the child, and likewise restrict her diet and activities.

handmaid

I’m sure this is how Margaret envisioned the costume.

The Handmaid’s Tale was a novel from the 1980’s by Margaret Atwood.  In it, Atwood raises the ever so certain prospect that evil Christians were going to institute a Christian theocracy and force women to wear red outfits and have babies for powerful men.  I suppose this has parallels the popular allure that zombies have for kids, but for liberal women, but it amuses me the situation has come to pass as an actual Hollywood scheme and nobody seems to mind.

I have a lot of sympathy for childless couples who resort to surrogate mothers for one reason or another, and (really) are generally supportive of new babies being brought into the world – babies are our future, unless the robots take over, in which case I welcome our new robot leaders (who can look this up in my blogging history, and then they will know I always wanted them to take over).  Also, the surrogate market appears to be (kind of) based on the free market – how much will you pay for another woman to bear your children?  I’m also willing to bet that free market competition has brought the prices of surrogate mothers down over the years, especially at that clinic at the unmarked door behind the Dairy Queen® in Encino.  Whether or not bringing a fourth child into this world via surrogacy is ethical, well, that’s beyond this post.

But what isn’t beyond this post is that the medical system is still broken.  Basic procedures and medicine (like insulin, or Epi-Pens®) have increased in prices drastically, even though cost of production has dropped.  Somehow, the market has completely failed.  Humalog™ (a form of insulin made from elf tears) was $21 a bottle back in 1995.  It’s now $225 a bottle.  That’s 1071% in 20 years.  Based on that growth rate, in 2037 it’ll cost $2,400 a bottle.  At some point it will become cheaper to kidnap elves and chain them in your basement for their precious insulin tears.

insulin

I think the solution is a drastic one:  make prescription drug coverage via insurance illegal.  Once the market takes over, prescription drug prices really will come down.  The alternative?  Make importing prescription drugs into the United States legal.  In Canada, a vial of Humalog® is $50.  The price discrepancy isn’t the free market at work – it’s a controlled market where Congress™ and the FDA© have managed to create billions in additional profit for drug makers.  At your expense.

Medicine is broken.  Burn it down.

I do find it odd that the Kardashians met their latest surrogate at an unmarked door behind a Dairy Queen® near the Taco Bell© in Encino (okay, I do listen to their Amazon® Echo™).  I would have thought they would have had better insurance than that.  Nah.  I’m sure it’s legit.

A Wilder Story, or, The BB Gun, The Black Bear, The Soviets, and Me

“You’ll put your eye out.” – A Christmas Story

bear bbgun

Nobody was too concerned with my eyes.  But do NOT make us have to pay for a neighbor’s window.

I’m a believer in Christmas – it’s a time of redemption and rebirth that proves that miracles can happen.  People can escape their past, and become something more than they were before – they can become reborn.  We can become better.  The birth of Christ is an example that we can all be reborn and change our lives in a miraculous and meaningful way.

But, I’m not sure I can recall any particular Christmas miracles.

Oh, wait, here’s one.  It’s mostly true, as well as I can recall, and field tested to read aloud to your family:

On Christmas Day when I was in second grade, the one thing I wanted more than anything else was . . . a BB-Gun.  No, this is not a remake of A Christmas Story, this is A Wilder Story.  And I was there for this one.  As I recall, this was the last Christmas when we opened Christmas presents on Christmas morning.  In all following years, my older brother John Wilder and I wheedled our parents into a Christmas Eve opening of everything but “Santa” gifts.  We were insufferable.  My brother (really) is also named John Wilder – my parents didn’t want to waste those extra birth announcements when they could just change the day and year, but that’s another story.

But that particular Christmas morning when I was in second grade I looked down on a real-life lever-action Daisy® BB-gun.  It looked like a real rifle even though the wood parts were plastic.  I’d never shot a real rifle before, but I knew that all I wanted for Christmas was that BB-gun.  And there it was, all mine, pristine in its oiled metal and plastic perfection.

daisy

It looked very real.  Mine was the one on the bottom.  It was actually mistaken for a real gun several times.  Mainly by me, because everyone who was an adult could see it was just a BB gun.

“Take care of that, and it’ll last you a long time, Son,” Pop said as he handed me my first gun.  This was the first time he’d said that to me, and I nodded gravely, feeling the responsibility and pride deep inside me.  Pop would later repeat that phrase about boots I got in high school, a Buck© pocket knife I got in fifth grade, and my first car.  I still have the BB gun and the boots.  I lost the knife, probably at school.  It was expected then that you had a knife with you if you were in fifth grade, because what if you had to clean a fish during English class?

But I was in second grade, and I had a BB gun.  My BB gun.

And I was ready to use it.  I was given a quick tutorial on how to load it, a list of all the things (mainly windows), people (mainly windows), places (our windows), and forbidden objects (neighbor’s windows) that I shouldn’t even think of aiming my BB gun at, let alone shoot.  I was trusted to take my new BB gun on an expedition, because it was made clear to me in no uncertain terms that the worst punishment in the world would fall upon me if I shot something I shouldn’t.  I would lose (probably until I was 40) my BB gun, be grounded from TV until I had my own children and probably be branded as a BB abuser for the rest of my life in my Permanent Record.  (For kids:  Permanent Record is now called Snapchat©.)

With the earnestness only a second grader can muster, I put on my deep blue Sears™ parka (the ad said it was designed for pilots stationed in . . . the ARCTIC, you know, where we fought the Soviets to save Santa from becoming, I guess, more Red) with polyester fur trim, and a pocket for pens and pencils on the arm, because where else would you keep pens and pencils except your left arm?  I pulled on my black felt-lined snow boots and stiff green plastic gloves, and went outside.  It was cold, certainly below freezing, and probably hovering around zero in non-communist degrees.

sears

Like a pocket knife, every boy had a parka like this.  Every boy. But does anyone know why pilots need parkas if they’re in heated jet airplanes??  Oh, yeah.  Soviets.  Image from E-Bay.

It had already snowed enough that the snow pile in our front yard was 10 feet (43 meters) deep, but we had a packed trail where our snowmobiles had gone onto the snow-packed country road and up into miles of forest roads that dated back to the old prospectors looking for gold way back before Carter was president.

My feet crunched in the snow as I walked due north onto the road, my breath puffing out as if from a small blue fake-fur-trimmed steam engine headed uphill.  I kept going.  What was I looking for?  I’m not sure – I don’t remember, exactly.  I guess, looking at stuff with a BB gun in my hand and shooting anything that wouldn’t get me in trouble with Ma Wilder at the rate of 6 BBs per step.  But I felt like a man, and what would a man with a rifle do?  Hunt.  Win World War II again.  Look for communists.  It’s hazy, but I know I had a purpose.

Snakes weren’t a possibility, since I knew snakes wintered in Florida with baseball players, Santa and the Cubans.  Regardless, I wanted to shoot my BB gun, even if the opportunities to send Soviets back to Russia with a backside full of BBs was limited, at best.  I still don’t recall ever seeing a Soviet in the forest until I saw Red Dawn, and then my BB gun was at home.

reddawn

I guess Europe decided to sit this one out.

I trundled up the road.  I think that’s probably the only time I’ve used the word “trundled” precisely since it implies I moved along slowly, noisily, and in a less than graceful manner.  All of those applied.  But I was ten feet tall with my BB gun, shooting aimed fire into snow banks and sage brush alike.  About a half a mile from my house, more than three quarters of the way to the Old Cemetery, I saw it.

The Bear.

Sitting motionless, huddled against the barbed wire fence, not 20’ away, was the bear.  It was a black bear.  I knew that grizzly bears had been killed nearby, but this was a definitely a black bear, being black and all.  Ma Wilder had told me about them before going hiking and told me to never, ever get between a black bear cub and its mother – she said that was more dangerous than being between Beto O’Rourke and a microphone.  I didn’t know if this bear was cub-sized or mother-sized, but I already knew that this was something way out of my experience level – I mean I still wasn’t even coloring within the lines very well.  Communists?  Sure, I could take down a dozen of them since they were weak because they were Godless and fatherless and mainly starving when they weren’t swilling massive quantities of cheap Afghan vodka.

But bears?  Better call the reinforcements (spelled D-A-D) in.

wilderbear

Calling out an APB on a tiny blonde boy.  He looked tasty.

I backed away from the bear, keeping my eyes on it the whole time.  My BB gun was loaded, a precious brass sphere ready to explode outward on a column of pressurized air at the bear should it charge me.  I knew I was too slow to out-trundle the bear.  Even my candy-cane addled brain knew that the BB was scant protection against a bear, but if I was going to go down, I was going to go down fighting like a man, and not running away like a Soviet child would.  Even though it was nearly zero, I built up a sweat in my green turtle neck under my Air Force Pilot Parka®.

That green turtle-neck was really tight and made me look a lot like an actual turtle, so I only wore it three times.  Why?  A chubby kid covered in the smell of fear sweat and Nacho Cheese Doritos™ isn’t really a winner with the ladies despite whatever Bill Clinton might say.

An aside:  In the safe realm of 2018, I know that it seems insane to allow a second grader to hike up into the forested wilderness alone at temperatures near zero on Christmas morning armed with a weapon that’s patently illegal to arm a second grader with in New York City, and twenty other states that are, no doubt, now deeply under the influence of the Soviets.  Or, does it?   When I last had a second grader (Pugsley) he had a BB gun and trundled off into the backyard with a zillion BBs.  I can attest our backyard is now safely Soviet-free.  But back in the day?  We weren’t building weak Soviet children.  No!  We had backbones of steel and cheap Taiwanese Rambo® knives with compasses built into the handle.

So, yeah, not unusual.  I guess it was a crazy thing called freedom.  Anyway . . .

I got back to the house and threw open the door.  I stamped my snow-covered feet inside.  Yeah, I know.  But I was in a hurry, I had real news and information for the family.

My parents were lounging on the couch, enjoying a quiet coffee.

“A BEAR!”  I yelled.

“I swear, I saw it, a bear!  It was just right up the road, right where the hill starts.  A bear!  A black one!”

Ma looked at Pop, concerned.

Pop Wilder shook his head.  “Bears are hibernating.  None are up this time of year, not when it’s this cold.”

“No, it was there, right by the fence.”

Ma Wilder nudged him, seeing the absolute certainty on my face.  “We should take a look.”

There is a look a man gives a woman when he knows that he has lost the argument even before it started.  I know that look because I saw it then.  Pop sighed, got up, and got dressed.  Half an hour later, he and Ma and my brother were all dressed, and ready to go up the road.  I had my BB gun.  I hoped that the bear would still be there.

We walked.  I pointed, when the Bear came into sight, not 300 yards away.

“See, I told you.”

Ma Wilder looked concerned when she saw visual proof of my story.  I think she had put my bear story into the category of “addled ravings of an overly imaginative eight year old that may or may not process reality like a normal human after he told me that he was worried that Grandma would turn into a zombie (Sleep Deprivation, Health, Zombies, and B-Movies).”  As for me, I was concerned that Pop hadn’t brought bazookas, howitzers, grenades, or maybe a battleship.  Nah, Pop Wilder could probably wrestle a dozen or so bears, if they came up to him one at a time, like in the Kung Fu movies.  We finally got up to the road where we were perpendicular to the black bear, still huddled up against the fence, not 30 feet (432 meters) away.  It hadn’t moved since I’d first seen it.  I felt vindicated, even though I’d never heard the word.

“Hand me the BB gun,” said Pop Wilder.

I did.

Pop shot one BB into the bear, smoothly worked the lever like a cowboy in the Old West, and then shot another BB into the bear.

The bear was motionless.  It must be dead!  Pop Wilder killed it!  Pop handed the BB gun back to me.

He then walked back into the deep snow directly to the bear, reached out, and pulled up the black, plastic sheeting that had blown into a ball up against the fence.

He handed me back the BB gun and handed my brother the black plastic sheet.  We walked home in silence.

So, there was that:  the Miracle of the Transubstantiation of the Bear – where a Christmas miracle transmuted a black bear into a sheet of black plastic.  Not sure of any other explanation.

But the real Christmas miracle, it’s below?  Merry Christmas to all.

Christmas

Why Are You Mad At Your Computer? It Doesn’t Care. Plus: A Deeply Meaningful Poem

“They would’ve learned to wear skins, adopted stoic mannerisms, learned the bow and the lance.” – Star Trek

hardwood

Okay, it was really only one color.  But it was a LOT of ink.  Staining and painting.  Stainting?

I rarely saw Pop Wilder mad at any living human being, at least I rarely saw him mad after I reached the age of ten.  And I assure you that I deserved it every single time he was mad at me – drawing on the hardwood floor in ink under my bed wasn’t a particularly popular move – especially since Ma and Pop only discovered it the night before we were supposed to be out of the house so that the new owners could move in.

Oops.

Perhaps his even temper with people was learned.  After being in banking for decades (and having me around for years), I imagine he’d seen everything, including frogs swimming in the World War I helmet his father wore.  It might be that he believed the worst of people, and that way when they weren’t horrible, they pleasantly surprised him, and when he found ink on his hardwood floor and the family photo album soaking in the bathroom sink (I promise I had a good reason)?  Or spray painted the fender of his brand-new car?  Well, that was to be expected.

So, Pop Wilder was a mild and even tempered man and perhaps even a saint for not killing me.  The one exception to him getting angry was that he would get mad at . . . things.  Chainsaws.  Cars.  Snow machines.  The blinking light on his VCR.  In fact, the only time I ever heard him drop the f-bomb was when he was referring to his computer.  He said it not long after I’d introduced him to the future The Mrs., and in her presence.  “It’s . . . it’s all f****d up.”  Honoring Pop Wilder’s tone and frustration make it a form of punctuation in our house when things have just gone completely wrong but in a comical and hopeless manner.

But what I do know is this:  the computer didn’t care.

fbomb

Ahh, the United States Swear Force in action.

Dead Roman Marcus Aurelius nailed it when he wrote, “Pray to change yourself, not your circumstances.”  Marcus wasn’t referring to what was in his control.  Being an Emperor of Rome, Marcus could control a lot of things, but that’s not what frustrated him.  No, Marcus was referring to those things he couldn’t control.  Marcus was going to grow old and die, and he couldn’t change that.  Marcus would be resurrected as shoe salesman in Savannah, and he couldn’t change that, either.  Marcus wanted to change himself so he took those things that he couldn’t control and not react to them.  Why complain about gravity?

stonehead

Marcus Aurelius, with a hipster beard before it was cool.

The computer doesn’t care that you’re mad at it.  The computer won’t change if you speak harshly to it, though I hear Bezos is working on a computer that will buy random things from Amazon® that it knows you won’t like, just to spite you if you’re mean to it.  Honestly, most people don’t care if you’re mad at them, either.  The real secret is, however, that most things simply do not matter on any sort of cosmic scale.  I even wrote you, dear Internet, a poem about that:

The Unblinking Stars

The stars looked down.
When Julius Caesar was born, they looked down.
When Caesar defeated the Gaul, they looked down.
When Caesar died, they looked down.

For every man, for every empire.
The stars looked down.
Unblinking.

When continents split, and then recombined.
The stars looked down.
Nearly eternal.

At every time, at ever place,
Every ambition, every love.
Every betrayal.  Every loyalty.
The stars looked down.

Looking up at them, seeing into eternity.
I gasp.  I wonder.  I check the router.
Oh, good.  The Internet’s back up.
I wonder what just happened on Twitter?

spacekeys

I think that what sets us up to become angry about a situation is contained entirely within ourselves – there’s a way that we think the world should be, and when the world refuses to be that way, we get angry.  And the world doesn’t completely conform to anyone’s hopes and dreams.  From time to time, even I end up comparing my life to someone else’s life.  But I do this particularly awful thing:  I compare what they’re best at, to my accomplishments in the same arena.  Let’s take the business guy I knew.  He had tens of millions of dollars, a house in the mountains, and even a vintage fighter airplane.  I don’t have tens of millions of dollars, a house in the mountains, or any airplane that’s not a model kit that I made when I was a kid.

There’s a lot to envy, isn’t there?  I even think he had a pretty good marriage and smart kids.

Oh, and he’s dead.  And he died in a really dramatic fashion that probably left his widow with nearly no money after the lawsuit and attorney’s fees.  So if I’m going to be envious, I have to be envious of the whole person, not some small aspect of their lives.  It’s a big world and someone, somewhere has it all better than you.  They’re smarter than you, slimmer than you, with a really close, cool family.

And I’m okay with that, too.

One thing that helped me through my own personal envy was . . . cars.  When I lived in Houston, there were really nice cars everywhere.  And by nice, I mean cars that are worth more than my house.  I felt envy.  Then I thought about the car payment that they had to make (I read somewhere that most Mercedes® on the road are not paid for – they’re for show).  That made my four-year-old dad-four door car that I’d bought used seem a LOT better than the Mercedes® driven by the 27 year-old at the stop light next to me.

bitcoin

If you’re a billionaire crime-fighting superhero that found an amulet that gives you super powers but also covers your body in reptilian scales while flying screaming skulls follow you around?  I suppose it’s okay if you buy yourself something nice every once in a while.

To recap:

  • The situation doesn’t care. Don’t get mad at it, especially if it’s beyond your control.
  • Most things really don’t matter – don’t get hung up on the trivia of now.
  • If you won’t remember it next year? It’s probably meaningless.  Don’t sweat it.
  • Don’t compare yourself to others, unless they’re clearly awful in everything compared to you. Then gloat.
  • Expect that your children will destroy thousands and thousands of dollars of your property and at least a dozen priceless, irreplaceable heirlooms. And burn the counter with hot macaroni.  And write on the bathroom walls.  And . . . oh, wait, those were my kids . . .

Wait, what?  I’m Pop Wilder now.  When did that happen?

The Funniest and Most Meaningful Black Friday Post . . . Ever.  Now 50% off, Today Only.

“It’s Black Friday, the day when ordinary house moms turn into vicious bargain hunting animals, blinded by low prices, and eager to get the Christmas shopping done early.  If this was a zoo I’d say run for you lives, but this is Buy More!” – Chuck

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Mabel’s family was upset with her on the drive home.  They used Apple® products and didn’t have Windows™.  (I’m sorry for that joke, but by way of explanation I’m a father.)

Like many people, I try to avoid the stores on Black Friday.  If I were a mullet wearing geezer with my toga full of elf chum (please don’t ask me to draw a picture of that, I’m not even sure what elf chum is, and now that I’ve written it I feel vaguely dirty), I’d say Black Friday is maybe the one real American holiday that most people agree on.  Christmas is great, but when was the last time a group of people attempted to choke each other to death to get a gift-wrapped package of underwear on Christmas?  Never.  But put a 50%-off tag on socks with a pattern of Iron Man® smoking a bong with Donald Duck™ on them?  Heck, I’d drop kick a calico kitten through a box fan for a bargain like that!  Sure, we have great holidays like Fourth of July, but nobody ever died in a riot for 2 for 1 fireworks.

Bargains!  Free stuff!  Perhaps that’s the new slogan of the United States – Free Stuff!  And don’t forget that buying stuff is easier than actual salvation or real effort to be a better person.  And even if you don’t like toast – that toaster is only $5.  You can learn to love toast.

Perhaps Black Friday not only our true holiday, it is perhaps our true religious holiday.

zombie

You can tell that these zombies aren’t leftists – they don’t appear to be lecturing anyone.

I’m not going to make fun of people who are short of cash and frugal and truly need the items that they buy, but that only accounts for a small percentage of purchasers on Black Friday.  As Americans, we have been conditioned to shop.  Until we drop.  And don’t let Debt stand in your way.  And I use the word “we” for a reason – I’ve done it, too.  No, I would sooner investigate my hotel room with a black light and then still stay there than go in a store the day after Thanksgiving.  But I do have the Internet.  And I’ve bought stupid stuff:

  • Dog Waxer – rechargeable! Never let your unwaxed dog embarrass you again.
  • Solar Powered Night Light – Works best on a sunny day.
  • Internet-Connected Underwear – With your app, you can check the temperature and humidity.
  • Night Vision Scope for Caulk Gun – Now you can apply your caulk, even in the dark.
  • Crossword Puzzle Book for Dogs – Just as it says.

So, yes, I’ve bought my share of stupid crap, which made me ask the question:  why do we buy useless crap at all?

  • Impulse: I see shiny things.  I must have them.  The depths of the brain, that part that grunts instead of talking and that never uses underarm deodorant that drives this fascination.  Just give it meat, scotch, and women and the impulses will go away.
  • Herd Mentality: I will fight you to the death for the toaster that puts the fuzzy face of Bob Ross on toast!  They actually make a toaster that does this and I am hoping that the Discovery Channel® has a series coming where people fight to the death for consumer items.  Makes me feel so, well, Roman.  Humans want to have the things that other humans have, which is why so many ex-wives exist.  I’ll just stop right there.

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What a happy little toaster!

  • Makes You Feel Better: Shopping really works to make you feel better – it gives you a sense of accomplishment.  No matter how hard your day was, and what tasks you face, there is a 100% chance that you can buy something and it will make you feel a little bit better.  It gives you that sense of control, no matter how poor your decisions were today, you can find a breakfast cereal or, say, 436 pairs of shoes.  You can make a choice and follow through.  People even have a name for this type of shopping – “Retail Therapy.”

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The nice thing about Retail Therapy?  It costs about the same as real therapy, and you can still hate your mother when you’re done shopping for those 436 pairs of shoes.  So you have hatred and shoes left.  I call that a win-win.

Why not shop until you drop?  You can.  If it’s not a problem:

  • Well, if you’re going into debt for power tools just to chase the kids around with (a circular saw works well as long as you have enough extension cord) or sacrificing your ability to retire just so you can have a “Hello Kitty®” ashtray, it’s a problem.
  • If you have boxes of stuff you’ve never opened inside of other boxes of stuff you’ve never opened, it’s either a problem or a movie premise for Leonardo DiCaprio© for a movie called Inshopsion. There is a rule, however, that DVDs starring Burt Reynolds™ do NOT count in this category, so don’t even ask.

If you really need something to complete you, shopping isn’t it.  It’s short term, and only lasts until you’ve bought the next thing.  And the more crap you buy, the more confusion you bring into your life – sooner or later you have to spend more time managing the crap than it is worth.  Again, I know this from experience – my own.  And I still can’t find that spare kidney I bought on Kidney-Bay® on Black Friday back in 2012.  Maybe it moved back to the original owner.

How do you cut back?  Thankfully, the solutions are simple:

  • Replace shopping with something that’s a real achievement. Blogging for thousands of wonderful readers who have wonderful hygiene, immaculate mullets, and stunning good looks counts.  You know, as an example.
  • Look for real competition in the world. I mean, soccer was invented by European beatnik nudist jugglers to provide something to do while their berets dried and they drank cappuccino.  But, yes, even soccer will do.  Find something.
  • Bored? Learn to not be bored.  Take up chainsaw juggling.  European beatniks do it all the time between cigarettes and poetry readings.
  • One of the things we don’t thing about too much when we think about shopping is time. And time, my friends, is all we have, each day that ticks away is lost forever.  Plan your time to be and do something real.

We have to shop.  We have to buy things.  But as the Roman philosopher Seneca said, any over used virtue becomes a vice.  Or was that Captain Kirk?  I’ll go check my 12 disc collection of Star Trek:  The Original Series Commemorative 32nd Anniversary Edition Complete with Pink Tribble Box Set.  I got it on Black Friday in 2009 on sale for $24.99.  It might be here over behind the Original Smokey and the Bandit 2 jacket.  Who knew that Burt Reynolds was exactly my height, but only weighed 155 pounds?  Thing doesn’t even fit around the shoulders.

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Eastbound and Down.

Bonus:  Deliverance interview between Burt and Johnny.

Okay – I love comments, and would love to have more, so don’t be shy.  Or I will dropkick another kitten through a box fan.  And don’t forget – you can just subscribe to this in the box above, and I’ll show up at least three times a week in your inbox.  Which won’t break it.  And I won’t send or sell your address, ever.

The Ant, The Grasshopper, Tim Ferriss, and Ben Franklin.

“Do you want ants? Because that’s how you get ants.” – Archer

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Thankfully I’m not alone.  Stupid Grasshoppers.

There are occasions when a simple question can punch you in your gut like a rabid Mike Tyson reacting to a paper cut that you just poured lemon juice on.  Here’s a question that hit me last week:

“What do you do with your money?”

“I keep it in the bank.”

“Then why do you do so many things you dislike to earn more of it?”

The above quote is from a conversation between Tim Ferriss (an author with an unusual fondness for the letter S) and Ryan Holiday (I’ve mentioned him before) –you can read the rest of the article here (LINK).  Holiday puts this exchange first in his piece – it’s pretty powerful, so powerful that it might even relate to issues we face as a country – not that I’ll solve those.  That sounds like it would be hard.

Working is good for you.  Producing value is good for you.  It says so right on the label.  But I worry sometimes about money being my goal instead of a way to allow me to work toward my real goals.  When I lived paycheck to paycheck, I was fixated on money – as a single dad with little savings, it was tough.  Did I focus on fulfillment?  No, I focused on keeping enough money in my bank account so I could pay the electrical bill, which is why it was 40°F in the house in the winter and 85°F in the house in the summer – air conditioning was for closers, and the kids were awful about closing.  Mainly awful about closing the window, but I digress.

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I had Alec Baldwin give the kids a speech about cleaning their room.  He fired them, but only after they cried.  But Pugsley got a set of steak knives.

When you’re in that condition, life is about that struggle for money.  I remember we’d eat Kraft® Macaroni and Cheese™ on the nights we weren’t having Hamburger Helper©.  On really good nights, we’d have actual hamburger in the Hamburger Helper©.  If an expense wasn’t absolutely required?  I’d avoid it.  Oil changes?  Why would you do that, there’s still some in the car?  What do I look like, a Rockefeller?  Stitches?  That’s what Super Glue® is for.

At that point in my life I viewed money as the end.  Everything was about making more of it or saving what I had.

When I really think about it, maybe the only common value we have left as a country is this secular religion of chasing money.  It’s like the old fable of the Grasshopper and the Ants, where the Ants work all summer to store food for the winter, but the Grasshopper uses a leveraged buyout to get money to buy the mortgage to the Anthill from the bank and bulldozes the Anthill to put up a Starbucks®.

Okay, that’s not the way the fable ended.  The first time I saw the Ant and the Grasshopper, it was the 1934 Disney® cartoon version.  They showed it at school on a field trip because movies are easier than teaching.  The end of the movie version of that fable had the Ants inviting the Grasshopper into the Anthill for the winter, provided that the Grasshopper played music for them and voted for FDR.  I was a horrible child – six year-old me thought the Ants were just incentivizing negative Grasshopper behavior and I thought he should have been left out in the cold.  Why?  Because even at age six I was heartless.

I would have enjoyed the original fable more.  In Aesop’s version, the Ants work all summer, and the Grasshopper plays all summer.  When it comes time for winter, the Grasshopper comes begging from the Ant, and the Ant tells the Grasshopper to die in a fire.  I find that a bit more satisfying than the Disney™ version, but I guess Disney© didn’t like the idea of having a cartoon turn into Silence of The Grasshopper where the Ants eat the Grasshopper with some fava beans and a nice chianti.  It could be that hordes of traumatized and crying six year olds isn’t good for business, unless you’re a therapist.

Thankfully, if the story of the Grasshopper and the Ant were real and happening today, the Grasshoppers would form a Grasshopper PAC and would vote in a pro-Grasshopper Congressbug that would immediately introduce legislation to tax the unfair profits of Ants.  Additionally, the Grasshoppers would also denounce the Ants for the culture they created that was the source of all that wealth.  It’s only fair, right?

Me?  All kidding aside, for most of my life I’ve been an Ant.  Working huge numbers of hours to try to provide for the family, build up some financial resources for the future.  Some years I worked in excess of 3,000 stressful hours to provide for the family – that’s an average work week of over sixty hours, every week for a year.  Some people work even harder.  The kicker?   There’s an alternate view of the Ant:  some felt that the Ant isn’t always the good guy, that his very industriousness was driven by the love of money.  In the words of dead-guy-with-a-comic-book-worthy-name-from-1690, Roger L’Strange (I swear I didn’t make up that name) about the Ant (spelling and capitalization in the original):

“Vertue and Vice, in many Cases, are hardly Distinguishable but by the Name.”

In L’Strange’s oddly capitalized view, working too hard was itself a vice.  The poor Ant can’t get a break – everybody wants his stuff, but now he can’t even work hard without people piling on.

But L’Strange was right.  Maybe I worked too hard.  And maybe I am too stunningly handsome.

benedict

Okay, he’s not L’Strange, but Dr. Strange is cool.  And Benedict Cumbereberbatch Bandersnatch Cumberdoodle plays him well.

But the Ant and the Grasshopper might be the one fable that encapsulates the American dichotomy.  Are you a spender, or are you a saver?  Something tells me there might be another way.

There is a very important role of money in a free market economy.  It gives incentives for behavior that fills the needs and desires for others.  It’s a scorekeeper – resources flow to those who best used them to create economic prosperity.  It’s a rationing system for goods and services that doesn’t require the hand of government to make it function.  There are some pretty negative roles of money, too, but I’ll skip those for this post.

There is a way to be neither Ant nor Grasshopper.  If you’re working hard and understand why you’re working, that’s a start.  Paying bills is important, but trading your life away for dollars is really selling your soul.

benfranklin

As Ben Franklin said, “Dost thou love life?  Then do not squander time, for that’s the stuff life is made of.

And I don’t think Ben was talking about the magazines Life and Time.  If he was, I guess that makes the quote stupid instead of powerful, and it’s unlikely that Ben read either Life or Time, since he spent most of his time on his phone or watching Netflix®.

The powerful question remains and is really a restatement of old Ben’s comment:  “Then why do you do so many things you dislike to earn more of it (money)?”

I’m blessed now to be able to view money is a means, not an end.  The results of the Tyson punch?  Spleen ruptured.  Thankfully it’s not something serious, like having to examine my life choices . . .

The Search for Meaning Might Drain Your Bank Account

“They haven’t said much about the meaning of life yet.” – Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life

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So, is the meaning of life having a super sweet car like this?  If so, would having a Bat Cave be like double extra meaning?  If so, count me in!

One tragedy of our current culture is lower amounts of social interaction leading to meaning.

So what do I mean by meaning?

Meaning is significance.  Meaning is working on something important.  Meaning implies actions that change the world for the better, or at least change someone’s life for the better.  Ideally, this work is something that you are uniquely suited to do and that you’re good at, but those things aren’t absolutely necessary.  The idea is that you have some way that you can actively change the world for the better.  And you don’t have to paint the world to make it better, because the world is really big, and it would take a very long time to paint it, kind of like my house exterior, which, at last count, has taken me 10 years to paint, mainly because I haven’t started yet.

But meaning takes time.  And it takes persistence.  And sometimes it takes money.

Those things can be difficult, especially if you’re lazy like me.

So where can you get meaning?

  • Your job. A job is a good and admirable place to find meaning, and ideally yours is such a place.  But it probably isn’t.  Some people, like those at the IRS, actually have a job that implies they will make others angry with no real discernible benefit to society.  How about being a prison guard?  Tough duty.  And how many jobs are, well, just plain BS?  If you have one of those or aspire to one of those, you’re in luck!  There’s an entire web page dedicated to generating job titles for you!  (LINK)  Chances are better than even that your job is just that – a job.  It’s a job that people pay you to keep doing rather than a saintly crusade to save the planet.  Hey, at least you get paid, right?
  • Your family. This is a great place to get meaning.  But if you’re a dad like me, your main job is to produce independent and tough children who view the world as a challenge that they want to beat.  It’s like you light a bottle rocket and then . . . off it goes.  After you’ve done lit the fuse, well, it’s gone.  And it doesn’t need you anymore – it has a purpose and a path.  I apologize to anyone who really desires to make dependent children who are needy basket cases, but that’s not the way we roll at Casa Wilder.  So, by definition, my children need me less each and every day.

What are the alternatives if you don’t get meaning at work, and need more than family can provide?

meaning

In the United States we used to take part in civic organizations to do meaningful work, or at least drink and smoke cigarettes, pipes and cigars while we pretended to do meaningful work.  Or smoke and talk drunkenly about the meaningful work that we really, really intended to do.  But those civic organizations really did accomplish a lot – from scholarships to the foundation of hospitals and clinics to funding zoos and draining swamps to get rid of disease-carrying mosquitoes.  And our forefathers accomplished all of that with a hacking cough and a buzz on.

Sadly, one last civic organization I attended spent more effort complaining about other members of the organization that weren’t there than it did changing the world.  And they didn’t even drink.  I don’t go to meetings anymore, though I did suggest beer would be good at the meetings.  If we’re not going to do something to help humanity, at least we should drink, right?  I don’t smoke, but I’d be willing to learn, if it helped.  Alas, this sober and smoke-free organization does little to change the world.

As a nation, our civic participation is down overall – the book Bowling Alone recounts how membership in groups that meaningfully participate at the local level of communities is . . . down.  Rotary.  Lions.  Boy Scouts.  Knights of Columbus.

It even reaches from structured clubs to bowling leagues.  Bowling leagues?  Well, the author used that data to show that social interaction was down across the board.  The overall number of bowlers is up, but the number of participants in bowling leagues is down.  We’re bowling, but we’re only bowling with people we already know.  We’re not using any sort of social energy to meet other people and forge new friendships and relationships that strengthen the civic core.  But at least you can drink and bowl.

If I was a cynic, I’d say the system was designed to do decrease civic participation – if we’re not actively making our community better ourselves, well, we can leave it for government to do.  Government likes this a whole lot.  Things that used to done by ordinary citizens in the community, say, being on the volunteer fire department, can now be replaced by professional firefighters who get paid.  Government wins both ways – the fire department employees like to get paid and vote for the people that pay them, and government has assumed another duty that it must tax for.  A win-win!

Unless you’re the guy paying taxes.

Regardless of why civic participation is down, it is down.  The reasons might form a future post.  And that removes a very significant opportunity to be, well, significant.  Thankfully there are other outlets.  Me?  I write this blog.  I know it’s seen by nearly every person on the planet right now.  Okay, okay, it’s not.  But traffic is heading that way.  At current growth trends in the year 2371 everyone on Earth will be doing nothing but reading my blog six hours a day.  Which is as it should be.  Then I will be officially meaningful.

However, there are other outlets besides writing that are preferred by other people:

Gaming.  I think I’ve told this story before on the blog, but keep in mind, when I originally wrote it I was getting about 1/10th the traffic I’m getting now.  So, if you’ve heard this story before, pretend you haven’t, because I’m going to tell it even better this time:

In the 1990’s, I remember watching the HBO™ series Dream On.  In this series, a newly single guy in New York had numerous adventures.  Since it was on HBO®, many of the adventures involved scantily clad females.  Or completely naked females.  But I turned away from the set and read my Bible during those naughty, naughty scenes.  Thank heavens the VCR was recording.

The main character had an office job in New York.  He also had a secretary, Toby.  She was written as a nearly worthless secretary with an attitude.  In one particular episode, she does nothing but play a video game on her work computer.  You could do that before the Internet and the IT department tracked every keystroke.

The game involved a supermarket.  Toby started the episode as a stock boy in the game.  Then she worked her way up to bag boy a few scenes later.  Then, cashier.  Then a few scenes later?  Produce manager.

Finally, at the very end of the episode, she yelled:

“I DID IT!”

“I’m the MANAGER!”

“Of a supermarket . . . that doesn’t exist . . . .”

With each phrase, her emotions changed.  At first, joy in achievement!  Secondly, a questioning voice . . . a manager.  Finally, her voice got very small.  She realized her accomplishment was really no accomplishment.  It lacked meaning.

If you like games, if you like escaping in them, that’s fine, more power to you.  But remember, they’re not really a substitute for actual achievement.  Plus, this is Wealthy Wednesday – how much money do you want to spend on games, anyway?  And how much time do you want to spend on them?  Yeah, I know, I spent two hours today.  But . . . umm, I’m sure I had a good reason.

Consumption.  Yes, this is Wealthy Wednesday, and as such we finally have to get around to this.

Consumption is used as a replacement for actual significance and achievement.  It’s even encouraged.  Why does it work?

Where else can you go, hunt for something, find it, and then get it.  It’s certain to work, every time.  You can’t fail.  Yet you get the opportunity to experience the flush of success, the dopamine rush from having found and purchased what you were looking for.  And if you bought it off the Internet, you get a second rush when the little brown box from Amazon shows up*.

That purchase gives the same feeling as accomplishing something that has actual meaning, and there’s none of the work and none of the uncertainty.  It almost doesn’t matter what the thing is.  It could be shoes.  It could be books.  It could be lightbulbs.  It could be PEZ® dispensers.  As long as it’s something that you can actually do, your brain can take this stimulus and turn it into a replacement for actual achievement.

And it has been culturally jammed into our heads – we’re not who we are, we are the sum total of what we own.  We are our car.  We are our house.  We are our slacks.  We are our PEZ® dispensers.  This consumption has replaced civic virtue.  It has replaced the Lions Club.  It has replaced the Rotary, the Kiwanis, and the Knights of Columbus, but unlike those groups, you can do it alone, at night, downstairs in your underwear, after a few beers.  At 2AM, feeling like you haven’t lived up to your potential in life?  If you’re tired of being the manager of a supermarket that doesn’t exist, well, perhaps you can check in at Amazon.com® to see what you can buy to fill the achievement and meaning-sized hole in your heart?

This post is about wealth – and the first requirement of being wealthy is that you don’t spend thousands of dollars on useless crap to replace meaning in your life.  Especially if you don’t have the cash to spend.  If you don’t have the cash to buy that new truck and you buy it anyway?  Now you have debt.  And the debt removes your peace of mind and you go in search of more meaning, so you buy the boat.  And you and your wife have to work for years of your life to pay for it all.

That’s okay, it’s not like you can become a slave to your own consumption based on your search of meaning, is it?

Nah.  I’m sure that doesn’t happen.

*I refuse to say how I learned this.

Opportunity – Like The Truth, It’s Out There

“This technology has been falling to Earth for centuries.  All it took was the right mind to use it properly.  Oh, the advances I’ve made from alien junk.  You have no idea, Doctor.  Broadband?  Roswell.” – Doctor Who

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Business Cat is ready for another adventure . . .

As I’ve made clear in previous posts, (Rome, Britain, and Money: Why You Can’t Find Fine China after the Apocalypse, More Budget Doom, The Rolling Stones, an End Date, and an Unlikely Version of Thunderstruck, Early Retirement: Things to Consider (cough Health Care cough)) I think that our financial system is in trouble due to debt, currency debasement, and structural benefit issues with things like Medicare®.  In fact, I think that it’s mathematically certain that we’re going to have at least one more catastrophic dislocation (fast or slow), and my bet is that it occurs between 2024 and 2040.  Could it come sooner?  Sure, you stunning optimist!

However, none of that means that you can’t give yourself the means to be comfortable despite the decline.  And if I’m wrong about the decline – which I really hope is the case – then you’ll be in better shape.  I mean, round is a shape, right?

So, how do you make a bunch of cash so you can snort Cuban cigars, or do whatever it is the kids are doing with Tide® Pods™ while being flanked by surgically enhanced Instagram models?

Start by doing something.

Action leads to opportunity.  Inaction might help your video game scores and Cheeto® consumption, but to really create a situation where you’re going to have opportunity, you’re going to have to do something.

Living in a big city is great for creating opportunity.  But living in a big city also involves living in a big city.  And the last time I lived in a big city, it was Houston.  Houston was great – I met a guy who gave me baseball tickets.  Baseball tickets that were right behind President Bush’s (the first one) seats.

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Yeah, I took this picture.  How cool is that?

H.W. and Barb were there that night.  Then President Bush took us to his house and showed me the actual documents from Roswell while The Mrs. and Barb arm wrestled in the kitchen and then played some drinking/fighting game from Mexico that involved tequila, a bandana, and knives.  H.W. shared the big secret with me in his study over snifters of brandy:  turns out what they found at Roswell wasn’t aliens, it was just dolphins with spaceships off on a drunken joyride.  No biggie.

uforoswell

The real cover up?  They had actually found Eleanor Roosevelt’s underthings.

Okay, the Roswell stuff I made up.  But I did get those tickets and President Bush was there that night.  And nobody in Podunk, East Midwestia is going to have tickets like that.  Big cities breed opportunity to build connections based upon the sheer concentration of people.  If you’re young and looking for opportunity?  Big cities are it.  Although my brother, who is also named John Wilder, did meet Bob Denver when he stopped for gas in a town of 1,500 people.  My brother was working at the station that day.  Said he was the nicest guy you’d ever meet, so, yeah, random meetings will happen.  But they’re the exception, not the rule.

If I were fixated on opportunity, yeah, I’d move to a big city.  But it’s not my cup of tea.

bobdenver

Okay, this might be fake trivia . . .

When doing something:

Don’t quit your job, unless you already have a lot of money, or are certain your crazy scheme will work.  Or unless you have nothing to lose.  When Jeff Bezos quit to start Amazon.com, he had enough money and enough connections that he knew he could restart if Amazon failed.  But for every Bezos, there are tons of people like Davos Riggins.  Who is Davos Riggins?  I don’t know.  He didn’t do anything.

A minor bragging point – I found a name that returns zero hits on Google® on the second try.  Ha!  And apologies to Davos Riggins if you really exist.  But you have to admit you’ve squandered your potential.

Don’t borrow zillions of dollars to put your idea into practice, unless bankruptcy can’t hurt you.  And even if you win?  The debt will make your company less profitable.

What can you do to create opportunity in life?

Depends on you.  One of the things (not the only thing) I do is write.  Before this post, I’d written 229 posts comprising 316,000 words in the last 18 months.  Why?  I enjoy it.  Also why?  It’s doing something – it’s using the Internet to create possibilities that didn’t exist before.  And after 229 posts?  I still have dozens of sticky notes with topics that I want to write about – I have more topics than time.

But that’s my thing.

What about you?

  • Build something cool. Sell it at a flea market.  Or on EBay™ or Etsy®.
  • Start a company that to help people find PEZ® dispensers. Oh, that was how EBay© got its start.  This is a lie.  A sweet, beautiful lie (see comment below), but a lie nonetheless.  And now I owe doughnuts!
  • Start a social network that only allows communication via cat emoji – suggested name? Snapcat©.
  • Write a list of 100 things you’re good at.
  • Write a list of 100 things you like to do.
  • See how the lists overlap? I bet there’s opportunity there.
  • Go to conferences and meet new people.
  • Meet their friends, too. They know someone that can help you.
  • Learn from your losses.
  • Start again.

Regardless of the way the world is going, you can thrive.  You really can.  If you imagine the US economy as a swimming pool, each gallon of water in the 40,000 gallon pool would be worth $5 million dollars.  And that’s every year.  And it’s not counting all the pee in the pool from when you had your nephew over.

Would you miss one gallon out of 40,000?  No.  Nobody would.  And just like the pool, the economy doesn’t care.  Not even about the pee.

There’s room for you to be as successful as you want to be, if you’re willing to sacrifice your time and location and fail again and again.  And even when you win, you won’t be satisfied.  That’s the biggest gift yet – the quest.  If you’re good at it, if you like doing it, if you can make money at it, and if it changes the world?

That’s a start.

A good one.

Seven Deadly (Financial) Sins, Together For The FIRST TIME!

“Deserves got nothing to do with it.” – Unforgiven

deserve

Actually not my favorite Clint Eastwood movie.  That would be Outlaw Josey Wales, or ANYTHING he did in the 1970’s.  But I do know my limitations . . . .

When it comes to my life, I’ve made mistakes, like convincing George W. Bush to attack Iraq.  I should have remembered – never get involved in a land war in Asia.  But those mistakes aren’t the ones we’re discussing today.  Today . . . we’re discussing the Seven Deadly Financial Sins, at least after I put on some spooky music to scare you into never sinning.  Oh, I did discuss the Actual Seven Deadly Sins, and you can read that post here (The seven deadly sins and society. How do they fit together?).

We’ll start with the worst sin:

Debt

Is debt a sin or the result of sinning?  I’m not going to sit and argue it – these aren’t really sins you go to Actual Hell for anyway.  You just go to Financial Hell.  So, I’m calling Debt a sin.  And I’m calling it a result of sin.  It’s the “Y” of Sin – sometimes a vowel, sometimes not.

Debt is really, really bad for individuals.

Why?

With debt, you get what you want, now.  Like a brand new Corvette®, or a rare 1621 A.D. PEZ® dispenser originally whittled by Galileo while he was in prison for stealing cable television.   I’m sure that was the best deal I’ve ever made, only had to pay $500 for it!

But now you have the object of your desire.  And you have to pay for it.  That’s not a problem.  You only borrowed $50,000 for the Corvette™, right.  You’ll pay (for a seven year loan) about $680 a month at 4% interest.  Not bad!

But of that, your first payment will contain around $170 in interest, money that you’re paying the bank, every month.  $1,800 in interest in the first year.  The total interest you’d pay in this situation is $7,400 over the life of the loan.

Now let’s say you buy a house for the average price in the country, $200,000.  Your payment on a 30 year loan would be a little more than $1000 for principle and interest, with a whopping $750 of that being interest in the first month.  In the first year?  About $8,800 in interest payments alone.

Sure, you have a house and a car, but you’re paying nearly $1000 a MONTH just to borrow the money in the early parts of the loan.

How much income would be required to fund this?  Your tax rates will vary, but I’ll assume your tax rate leaves you with about 70% of your money after you’ve paid all of your taxes.

$17,000 in pre-tax income would be required . . . just for your interest payments.  Toss in the principle, the taxes and insurance?

$50,000 in pre-tax income to pay for taxes, insurance, and the full payments.  Some people work a whole week and don’t make that much money!

If you make the median family income of $59,000, you have the princely sum of $9,000 before taxes ($6,300 after taxes) a year to buy absolutely everything else in your life.

“Sovereign ingredient for a happy marriage:   Pay cash or do without.  Interest charges not only eat up a household budget; awareness of debt eats up domestic felicity.” – Robert A. Heinlein

Is there a place for debt?  Sure.  Businesses use it to expand.  Families use it to create a reason to divorce.  Or buy a really cool PEZ® dispenser.

The least bad debt?  Mortgage debt.

Worse?  Credit cards.

Worst?  Student loan debt or money you owe to mobsters.  But I repeat myself.

Have I sinned?  Yes, I have.  But that day in January of 2001 when I paid off my last non-mortgage debt except for student loans?

Priceless.  And marriage harmony went up 41.7% that day.

Fear

Had I continually invested all of my spare cash into the market, say in a nice S&P 500 fund?  The cash that’s sitting in the bank, gathering only a little interest?

I’d be retired today.  Smoking nice cigars and drinking good scotch.  With an airplane.  A cheap one, but an airplane.

Dang.

I’ve successfully predicted 11 of the last three recessions.  That may not be the most useful talent I have.  I will note that I at least come by it honestly.  One set of great-great-grandparents decided that they wanted to get out of Germany because they saw the increasing militarism in society and figured that war was coming, so they’d get out before it got bad.

They left Germany in 1880, 34 years before World War I and assimilated the heck out of themselves – one of them was Eisenhower’s grade school teacher – how American was that?

I’ve said before that being right too early is the same as being wrong, but in this case?  I have all of my cash.  And my great-great-grandparents avoided the mess that was post World War I Germany, where, I hear, the Internet was horrible.

Greed

Okay, I did play with some great stocks during the teens.  Several of them doubled within a month of me buying them.  And I kept riding some of them right into the ground.  I turned $20,000 into $40,000 into $5,000.  Which will be a great tax write off, when I finally sell it.  Will someone please cue the sound of a forehead repeatedly hitting a desk?

Waste

In a recent post, I mentioned that the most expensive food is the food you don’t eat.  I’ve done the math:  when we go out to eat at Taco Bell®, we spend around $40.  How much steak does $40 buy?  A lot.  How much steak gets wasted around the Casa Wilder?

Zero.

And we can’t eat steak every day.  I mean we could, but we can’t.  But when we have to throw out food, I feel horrible.  Maybe it was the way that Great Grandma McWilder would talk about how fortunate we were to NOT BE STARVING when I wasn’t finishing lunch.

And Great Grandma McWilder came through the Depression on the “nearly having to eat your shoes” side, so she knew how to put a guilt on you.  And waste was the sin that she preached against daily.  In her house, it if had any use?  She’d save it and use it.  Thankfully she didn’t die in her sleep and eat me (Sleep Deprivation, Health, Zombies, and B-Movies).

That would have been one big waste of an amazing blogger . . . .

Lust

I think the most evil word in the English language is “deserve.”

  • “You deserve a nice car.”
  • “You deserve health care that someone else pays for.”
  • “You deserve that stereo – you work so hard.”

When raising my kids, I wouldn’t allow them to use that word.  When you do, you create a foundation for your desire for an item, which in Actual Sin terms would be Lust.

Needs

Modern life has increased the level of needs that we have in an amazing fashion.  If you look at the following list:

  • Electricity
  • Internet
  • Phone Service
  • Mobile Phones
  • Natural Gas
  • Multiple Cars for a House
  • Cars
  • PEZ®
  • Air Conditioning
  • Netflix©
  • Facebook™
  • Faster Than Light Travel
  • Wireless Keyboards

None of those things were invented before last Thursday.

Okay, they were here last Thursday.  But how many on them didn’t exist before 1990?  Before 1950?  Before 1900?

These things aren’t needs.  They’re nice – some of them amazingly nice.  You can live amazingly well without them, as humanity did forever before 1900.

Reassess your needs** – not only of the services above, but of anything that doesn’t make your life better.  Half the games that are available on the smart phone are designed to sell you or sell something to you.  Either way?  You lose.  Except for Candy Crush®.  That’s just fun*.

*I have never played Candy Crush™.

**If you don’t want to have electricity and your wife disagrees, it would amuse me if you used me as a source.  It would NOT amuse me if she came to my house to complain.

Sloth

I’d write more about this . . . but I’m just not feeling it.

Just kidding.

Don’t ignore your money or financial situation if you’re lazy, like me.  I put in place systems so I wouldn’t forget to pay bills monthly.

It’s a secret, but I’ll tell you because, you know, we’re cool, right?

It’s a calendar.

Pay your bills on time.

Otherwise?

You get what you deserve, which will be penalties, fees, and interest.  You can use deserve in this case.  Because you deserve it.

Sinner.

The Paradox of High Standards: Making You Happy or Killing You?

“I don’t suppose you’d find it up to the standards of your outings. More conversation and somewhat less petty theft and getting hit with pool cues.” – Firefly

DSC00356

It’s important to have standards – like licking and sticking standards.  Stick to your guns!

I was watching Tony Robbins™ over a year ago while working out at the gym.  I like to watch videos when I do the cardio machines – it seems to make the time pass more quickly.  I’m not sure that’s a good idea since (at least subjectively) that makes my life shorter.  Perhaps I should fill my underwear with sand before I get on the treadmill – that might make it seem a little lot longer. But I digress.  Going from memory, Robbins® was talking about if you wanted to change your life, you had to raise your standards.

What is the result of a change in standards?  Well, if Robbins© is right, changing your standards changes the way you view the world.  And if you raise your standards, well, you’ve changed your life for the better, right?

No.

You’ve changed your life for the better if you’ve raised your standards and changed your behavior in such a manner that you are moving to meet those standards.  If you change your standards of, say, your new pants size?  And your new standard is a 32” waist (451 meters)?  Great idea!  But you don’t change your daily habit of 86 Krispy Kreme® delicious glazed donuts?  What has your new awesome changed standard given you?

Nothing.

Wait, worse than nothing.

Frustration.  Which leads to death.  Okay, after decades.  But it still leads to death.

With all apologies to Mr. Robbins® (the host body) and the symbiotes/parasites that are his amazingly immaculate hair (no actual human has hair like that, so I expect that his hair is a separate living entity, perhaps responsible in some psychic way for his charisma), changing standards without changing actions just breeds a sense of impotence, anger, discontent, and, when present in relationships?  Divorce or an end to friendship.

High Standards + Poor Execution = Sadder Than Johnny Depp’s Bank Account

Let me give an example:

Let’s say I have a standard that includes having a spotless bathroom.  One where you could eat chateaubriand off the tiles (and had an Alexa® speaker that told you what chateaubriand was) with the Queen and she’d be excited to come back for dessert.  A bathroom where the towels were laundered by angels in heaven with unicorn blood as the soap.  I mean a really clean bathroom.  Really clean.

Okay.  I now have this standard.  Cool.

But I hate cleaning, and I’m not really good at it.

So my standard is a really clean bathroom.  But The Mrs. has to clean it.

Sadly, The Mrs. is neither an indentured servant nor someone who is easily cowed.  Did you think I’d marry a weasel-woman?  Nah, could have had dozens of those.  I need a woman with fire in her eyes!

But if I expect The Mrs. to clean the bathroom to my “dinner with the Queen” standard?  Never going to happen.  And the result?

I’d be angry at The Mrs., for something she never promised nor intended to do.  If this continued through other aspects of our relationship?

We wouldn’t have a relationship.

And I understand that.  If we expect more than the other can or will give?  We don’t have a relationship.  But some standards really are important.  How can you tell which ones?

When it comes to standards:

  • What standards are you willing to fight for? Real fighting, not Twitter® or online petitions.
  • What standards do you actually control? If you don’t control it, how will it happen?
  • What is the consequence of the standard not being met? If nothing, then . . . what?

Focus on standards with consequences that have meaning to you.  That you control.

You do control your pants size.  Are you willing to fight for it?  Does it have consequences?

The questions above really do have consequences:  if you spend your life being upset about things you don’t control, and that you can’t change, and that don’t impact your life?

Even the stupid dead Romans had this one figured out:

“Today I escaped anxiety.  No!  I discarded it because it was within me in my own perceptions, not outside of me.” — Marcus Aurelius (stupid dead Roman)

I guess Tony Robbins© is just not fit for a toga.  And his hair would a little tiny toga, which would be cute, but really, really creepy.