Cheetos for the Soul
We Are All One
Here's a famous story in my family.
One day, a little boy who lived down the street was over at our house to play. Him and I were building Legos on the living room floor while our parents chatted at the table when suddenly, and completely out of the blue, this kid looked me dead in the eye and said:
"Martin. Don't you realize that we are all one?"
I was horrified. I sat there, staring slack jaw at this kid for some time, considering his words. Surely they were not actually his words, but the words of his wheatgrass-juicing mother. But I took them at face value. I pondered the implications of what this statement might mean. The room sat in silence, awaiting my reaction.
"No." I eventually explained, as best I knew how. "Actually... I am me. And you are you."
Then I went back to building Legos, and quickly forgot all about the incident.
It would take several existential crisis, a few international spiritual pilgrimages, and a particularly stiff dose of Ayahuasca to realize that, yeah, the kid was basically right. I could hardly believe it.
Cheetos for the Soul
We Are All One
Here's a famous story in my family.
One day, a little boy who lived down the street was over at our house to play. Him and I were building Legos on the living room floor while our parents chatted at the table when suddenly, and completely out of the blue, this kid looked me dead in the eye and said:
"Martin. Don't you realize that we are all one?"
I was horrified. I sat there, staring slack jaw at this kid for some time, considering his words. Surely they were not actually his words, but the words of his wheatgrass-juicing mother. But I took them at face value. I pondered the implications of what this statement might mean. The room sat in silence, awaiting my reaction.
"No." I eventually explained, as best I knew how. "Actually... I am me. And you are you."
Then I went back to building Legos, and quickly forgot all about the incident.
It would take several existential crisis, a few international spiritual pilgrimages, and a particularly stiff dose of Ayahuasca to realize that, yeah, the kid was basically right. I could hardly believe it.
The American Consumer
Don't Worry, Be Happy
The American Dream in its entirety, in all its glory and shame, can be addressed using just one story from my childhood as the device.
One evening, my father came home from work holding a big cardboard box. Giddy with excitement, he placed the box on the dinner table while we ate.
"This is the cure for cancer!" he joked. "I've never seen something so brilliant."
The dishes cleaned, and the whole family gathered for the unveiling, I ripped away the packing tape and looked on in horror to see, staring up at us from beneath a layer of packing peanuts, a Big Mouth Billy Bass.
For those of you who missed this pivotal moment in popular consumerism, the novelty fish plaque, resembling a trophy you might see in a hunting lodge, was an absolute sensations. It was like Beanie Babies and Razor Scooters: everyone bought one.
Naturally, the batteries were not included. So my father fumbled through that kitchen drawer with pens and paperclips and pulled out a few AA’s. Then I pushed the big red power button on the trophy's faux wood front panel and suddenly the bass sprung to life!
“Here’s a little song I wrote, might want to sing it note for note,” the fish belted out as it merrily flopped around, little motors beneath its rubberized skin whirring.
“Don't worry!” the animatronic bass sang, but its gyrations were becoming less vigorous. Oh no... those junk-drawer Duracell’s must have been taken out of an old TV remote. Billy Bass’ actuators began to strain, then its body suddenly drooped into lifelessness and the electronic voice box squeezed out a couple final syllables: "Be haaaaaa..."
A grim silence overtook the dining room. Big Mouth Billy Bass sat there motionless, its plastic fish mouth hanging half open, lifeless eyes staring blankly into the void. My father pressed the red button again. The fish made a groan, its body creaked for a moment, then it shuttered to a halt once more.
If this story does not encapsulate the failed promise of consumerism, then I don’t know what does. It’s all right here. The anticipation. The hope. The promise of a better, happier, and more joyful future.
And yet inevitably, the thing (whatever it is) just doesn’t deliver. The batteries are never included. Some assembly is always required. And whether it dies right out of the box, or the planned obsolescence grim reaper is scheduled to visit a few years down the road, the story is always pretty much the same.
Yes, I soon learned that the plastic fish, and all it represented, was wrong. But the song it sang was true.
The American Consumer
Don't Worry, Be Happy
The American Dream in its entirety, in all its glory and shame, can be addressed using just one story from my childhood as the device.
One evening, my father came home from work holding a big cardboard box. Giddy with excitement, he placed the box on the dinner table while we ate.
"This is the cure for cancer!" he joked. "I've never seen something so brilliant."
The dishes cleaned, and the whole family gathered for the unveiling, I ripped away the packing tape and looked on in horror to see, staring up at us from beneath a layer of packing peanuts, a Big Mouth Billy Bass.
For those of you who missed this pivotal moment in popular consumerism, the novelty fish plaque, resembling a trophy you might see in a hunting lodge, was an absolute sensations. It was like Beanie Babies and Razor Scooters: everyone bought one.
Naturally, the batteries were not included. So my father fumbled through that kitchen drawer with pens and paperclips and pulled out a few AA’s. Then I pushed the big red power button on the trophy's faux wood front panel and suddenly the bass sprung to life!
“Here’s a little song I wrote, might want to sing it note for note,” the fish belted out as it merrily flopped around, little motors beneath its rubberized skin whirring.
“Don't worry!” the animatronic bass sang, but its gyrations were becoming less vigorous. Oh no... those junk-drawer Duracell’s must have been taken out of an old TV remote. Billy Bass’ actuators began to strain, then its body suddenly drooped into lifelessness and the electronic voice box squeezed out a couple final syllables: "Be haaaaaa..."
A grim silence overtook the dining room. Big Mouth Billy Bass sat there motionless, its plastic fish mouth hanging half open, lifeless eyes staring blankly into the void. My father pressed the red button again. The fish made a groan, its body creaked for a moment, then it shuttered to a halt once more.
If this story does not encapsulate the failed promise of consumerism, then I don’t know what does. It’s all right here. The anticipation. The hope. The promise of a better, happier, and more joyful future.
And yet inevitably, the thing (whatever it is) just doesn’t deliver. The batteries are never included. Some assembly is always required. And whether it dies right out of the box, or the planned obsolescence grim reaper is scheduled to visit a few years down the road, the story is always pretty much the same.
Yes, I soon learned that the plastic fish, and all it represented, was wrong. But the song it sang was true.
Psychedelic Drugs
Searching For Ecstasy In The Marketplace
For a number of years, I was locked in a ferocious battle against my own mind. I was attempting to meditate my way to enlightenment. Very little progress was made.
Try as I might, sitting on that meditation cushion for what seemed like eternities, the only thing I could attain was a stiff back.
Looking for guidance, I picked up a few books on Zen Buddhism. The concepts greatly improved my vocabulary in college dorm room debates, but they remained just that: concepts. The essence of Zen stayed veiled in a silence my mind could not find.
The doors parted when I discovered this truth: One can anonymously purchase pharmaceutical grade MDMA on the internet using cryptocurrency.
Perhaps that sounds vulgar to you. A cheap hack. Spiritual bypassing. But have you taken pharmaceutical grade MDMA before? Oh my God.
Sure I could have held onto those Bitcoins instead of buying drugs. I would be very wealthy today had I. But I’d still be sitting on that cushion wondering what on Earth these Zen dudes were talking about.
Psychedelic Drugs
Searching For Ecstasy In The Marketplace
For a number of years, I was locked in a ferocious battle against my own mind. I was attempting to meditate my way to enlightenment. Very little progress was made.
Try as I might, sitting on that meditation cushion for what seemed like eternities, the only thing I could attain was a stiff back.
Looking for guidance, I picked up a few books on Zen Buddhism. The concepts greatly improved my vocabulary in college dorm room debates, but they remained just that: concepts. The essence of Zen stayed veiled in a silence my mind could not find.
The doors parted when I discovered this truth: One can anonymously purchase pharmaceutical grade MDMA on the internet using cryptocurrency.
Perhaps that sounds vulgar to you. A cheap hack. Spiritual bypassing. But have you taken pharmaceutical grade MDMA before? Oh my God.
Sure I could have held onto those Bitcoins instead of buying drugs. I would be very wealthy today had I. But I’d still be sitting on that cushion wondering what on Earth these Zen dudes were talking about.
Cheetos for the Soul
Zen & The Art Of Email Writing
I’m going to tell you about the greatest email writer I have ever encountered.
It’s 10:30 in the morning when Tim strides purposefully into our uber-modern San Francisco office. He’s just crushed a morning workout. He takes the first sip of a cappuccino and a sly grin cracks his stoic face.
No one at the office knows who Tim really is, and to be honest, I’m not even sure what exactly he even does for the company. But goddamn can this guy write an email.
Perched on a bosu ball, Tim dives headlong into Gmail. Compositions begin dancing onto the screen. His subject lines make you think. His messages are concise, appropriately detailed, and occasionally humorous. They say what needs to be said, nothing more. They cut to the very essence of the matter at hand.
Above all else, his choice of who to Cc and Bcc demonstrates profound acknowledgement of the human condition.
Meanwhile, the rest of us office grunts wallow in the grips of email anxiety. Tony opens his laptop, exhales like a crossfitter preparing to lift a tractor tire, then manages to type two sentences before digging through his bag for another protein bar.
Unsure of how to word a response to my manager I simply stare at my screen, paralyzed in existential angst. This minor roadblock has caused a total collapse of my psychological structure.
Bill is headed to the men’s room to pop a couple more Adderall.
When it comes to email, and life, Tim knows no roadblocks. Tim has ascended beyond the eternal wheel of carbon copies and cortisol. He has become one with the eternal Tao of email writing.
After tapping away at his keyboard in a controlled frenzy of inspiration for several hours, Tim stands up and cracks a joke. Then he strolls out of the office for the day, a free man with the satisfaction of a job well done. He’s accomplished more in a half-day than I did all month.
A healthy work life balance was not enough for Tim. He preferred to balance on the knife edge of human potential. He had managed to transform our office space into a dojo, into a temple for his cultivation of self mastery.
Tim was as dedicated to spiritual growth as anyone I’ve ever met in an ayahuasca hut or a meditation circle. His salary didn’t suck either.
Cheetos for the Soul
Zen & The Art Of Email Writing
I’m going to tell you about the greatest email writer I have ever encountered.
It’s 10:30 in the morning when Tim strides purposefully into our uber-modern San Francisco office. He’s just crushed a morning workout. He takes the first sip of a cappuccino and a sly grin cracks his stoic face.
No one at the office knows who Tim really is, and to be honest, I’m not even sure what exactly he even does for the company. But goddamn can this guy write an email.
Perched on a bosu ball, Tim dives headlong into Gmail. Compositions begin dancing onto the screen. His subject lines make you think. His messages are concise, appropriately detailed, and occasionally humorous. They say what needs to be said, nothing more. They cut to the very essence of the matter at hand.
Above all else, his choice of who to Cc and Bcc demonstrates profound acknowledgement of the human condition.
Meanwhile, the rest of us office grunts wallow in the grips of email anxiety. Tony opens his laptop, exhales like a crossfitter preparing to lift a tractor tire, then manages to type two sentences before digging through his bag for another protein bar.
Unsure of how to word a response to my manager I simply stare at my screen, paralyzed in existential angst. This minor roadblock has caused a total collapse of my psychological structure.
Bill is headed to the men’s room to pop a couple more Adderall.
When it comes to email, and life, Tim knows no roadblocks. Tim has ascended beyond the eternal wheel of carbon copies and cortisol. He has become one with the eternal Tao of email writing.
After tapping away at his keyboard in a controlled frenzy of inspiration for several hours, Tim stands up and cracks a joke. Then he strolls out of the office for the day, a free man with the satisfaction of a job well done. He’s accomplished more in a half-day than I did all month.
A healthy work life balance was not enough for Tim. He preferred to balance on the knife edge of human potential. He had managed to transform our office space into a dojo, into a temple for his cultivation of self mastery.
Tim was as dedicated to spiritual growth as anyone I’ve ever met in an ayahuasca hut or a meditation circle. His salary didn’t suck either.
Upbeat Cynicism
The Great Mystery
For a long time, absolutely nothing was happening.
There was simply an eternal void stretching throughout infinity. The void wasn’t black, it wasn’t white. It wasn’t anything at all. You couldn't even call it empty, because there was no container to be empty.
And actually, it’s incorrect to say this went on for a long time, because time is a thing. And things did not yet exist.
Anyways, this nothingness just kind of went about its nonexistence. It was a total mind-fuck, and nearly impossible to write about.
Then in an instant, and for no apparent reason, the universe suddenly sprang into existence. This is that Big Bang you’ve heard so much about. A point containing everything that was (or would ever be) expanded, cooled, and condensed into particles. These particles got together in mind-boggling numbers to form suns and planets and moons.
Miraculously, carbon-based lifeforms began percolating through Earth’s oceans. The blind blobs of amoeba life sprouted eyes and tails, and then one day a fish crawled onto land. Before you knew it, apes had harnessed the power of fire. It wouldn't be long before they created ad agencies capable of dreaming up a thing as ghastly as the McDonald’s Playplace.
That’s about when I showed up.
As time went on, it slowly dawned on me just how strange it all was, and that no one (not even the adults) had any clue what was going on.
But I realized, regardless of what it all meant, that I had better make the most out of being here. So I took on the daunting task of stumbling through this great mystery with some semblance of grace. And this strange ambition to make sense out of things along way. I'm still at it today.
Upbeat Cynicism
The Great Mystery
For a long time, absolutely nothing was happening.
There was simply an eternal void stretching throughout infinity. The void wasn’t black, it wasn’t white. It wasn’t anything at all. You couldn't even call it empty, because there was no container to be empty.
And actually, it’s incorrect to say this went on for a long time, because time is a thing. And things did not yet exist.
Anyways, this nothingness just kind of went about its nonexistence. It was a total mind-fuck, and nearly impossible to write about.
Then in an instant, and for no apparent reason, the universe suddenly sprang into existence. This is that Big Bang you’ve heard so much about. A point containing everything that was (or would ever be) expanded, cooled, and condensed into particles. These particles got together in mind-boggling numbers to form suns and planets and moons.
Miraculously, carbon-based lifeforms began percolating through Earth’s oceans. The blind blobs of amoeba life sprouted eyes and tails, and then one day a fish crawled onto land. Before you knew it, apes had harnessed the power of fire. It wouldn't be long before they created ad agencies capable of dreaming up a thing as ghastly as the McDonald’s Playplace.
That’s about when I showed up.
As time went on, it slowly dawned on me just how strange it all was, and that no one (not even the adults) had any clue what was going on.
But I realized, regardless of what it all meant, that I had better make the most out of being here. So I took on the daunting task of stumbling through this great mystery with some semblance of grace. And this strange ambition to make sense out of things along way. I'm still at it today.
Psychedelic Drugs
Blinding Clarity
I arrived to the Amazonian jungle an atheist, but I wouldn't leave in the same state. Don Howard Lawler, the chief maestro of the Ayahuasca center, had a saying: our work brings atheists to their knees.
I was of skeptical of course, but as promised traditionally conducted, plant-based shamanism delivered the goods. It's one of the few things in life that's even better than advertised.
After a mere six days of puking out the depths of my soul into a plastic bucket, my materialistic (and fairly nihilistic) worldview had been utterly dismantled. I was beginning to see the light.
Then, at the end of a particularly brutal session, the maestro lit a candle. Nothing would ever be the same. In that instant, I woke up to an utterly new reality that had been right in front of my face all along.
I saw that the consciousness, the spirit looking out through my eyes was one and the same as the spirit that runs through all things, that animates all life, that existed long before I showed up, and will carry on long after I die.
I was quite aghast to realize I could now see God in, well, everything. And that I was it, and it was me.
Almost immediately, white pants became a staple of my wardrobe. Suddenly I knew, with complete certainty, the answer to all of life's big questions. My family and friends were horrified.
This is the trouble with genuine spiritual awakening. You wake up to something real, you see the truth, but you rarely see clearly for long. In that state of mystical rapture, everything that crosses one’s mind seems divinely significant, and absolutely true. And in case you hadn't noticed, the mind can be a real son-of-a-bitch. All sorts of things cross it that aren’t more than fleeting bullshit.
Yes, after a wild night of enlightenment I woke up to find I was not in bed alone. Delusion sleepily rolled over, looked me in the eyes and said, “Good morning, sunshine.”
This phenomenon is one of the major downsides of spiritual awakening, and rarely described in the brochure. If you know it’s coming though, you might save yourself a little embarrassment.
Psychedelic Drugs
Blinding Clarity
I arrived to the Amazonian jungle an atheist, but I wouldn't leave in the same state. Don Howard Lawler, the chief maestro of the Ayahuasca center, had a saying: our work brings atheists to their knees.
I was of skeptical of course, but as promised traditionally conducted, plant-based shamanism delivered the goods. It's one of the few things in life that's even better than advertised.
After a mere six days of puking out the depths of my soul into a plastic bucket, my materialistic (and fairly nihilistic) worldview had been utterly dismantled. I was beginning to see the light.
Then, at the end of a particularly brutal session, the maestro lit a candle. Nothing would ever be the same. In that instant, I woke up to an utterly new reality that had been right in front of my face all along.
I saw that the consciousness, the spirit looking out through my eyes was one and the same as the spirit that runs through all things, that animates all life, that existed long before I showed up, and will carry on long after I die.
I was quite aghast to realize I could now see God in, well, everything. And that I was it, and it was me.
Almost immediately, white pants became a staple of my wardrobe. Suddenly I knew, with complete certainty, the answer to all of life's big questions. My family and friends were horrified.
This is the trouble with genuine spiritual awakening. You wake up to something real, you see the truth, but you rarely see clearly for long. In that state of mystical rapture, everything that crosses one’s mind seems divinely significant, and absolutely true. And in case you hadn't noticed, the mind can be a real son-of-a-bitch. All sorts of things cross it that aren’t more than fleeting bullshit.
Yes, after a wild night of enlightenment I woke up to find I was not in bed alone. Delusion sleepily rolled over, looked me in the eyes and said, “Good morning, sunshine.”
This phenomenon is one of the major downsides of spiritual awakening, and rarely described in the brochure. If you know it’s coming though, you might save yourself a little embarrassment.
Cheetos for the Soul
Cheetos For The Soul
Surely you've already realized that most mass produced foods are poisonous. To briefly summarize: the Frito-Lay corporation started with a mostly harmless ear of corn, and ended up with a neon-orange cheese puff. The resulting product isn’t merely some empty calories, it’s a preservative laden, mildly toxic substance that you can’t stop eating.
Indeed, the problems of Cheetos have been well established. And yet, undaunted by near-certain type II diabetes, the general populace snacks on. Blame the corporate machine. Blame the education system. Blame our ravenous appetites. But this is basically the situation, and I'm not here to lecture you about it, because you probably already get it.
Here’s another thing you may already see: the phenomenon of toxification via mass production seems to have extended well beyond groceries, and into many other domains including spirituality.
Just as we crave satiety, we also crave resolution to the big questions in life. We hunger for personal and spiritual growth. We drool over the promise of complete liberation from suffering.
A slew of products have been produced, packaged, and distributed to satisfy this more esoteric sort of appetite.
Instagram gurus and meditation apps. Weekend workshops and essential oil pyramid schemes. We’ve become experts at refining spirituality into individually wrapped, bite sized portions for the modern seeker-on-the-go.
And as long as you keep snacking, you don’t feel hungry.
Does this mass produced spirituality provide any lasting nourishment for the heart and soul? To me, much of it seems like quicks hit of highly concentrated and artificial enlightenment. Enticing witchcraft that promises salvation but soon leaves you feeling hungrier and emptier than ever.
In other words, perhaps all this stuff is simply spiritual junk food. Cheetos... for your soul.
I know that roasting Deepak Chopra, and the rest of them, isn't a new or original thought. So I'll just leave you with this. My experience has been that when it comes to spirituality, the good stuff found at the margins. It's just like a grocery store, really. If you want anything real, you can't expect to find it in the center isles with all the brand name packages. No, you'll have to walk around the perimeter and look on the produce racks and in the refrigerators. That’s where the raw, unrefined, natural stuff is kept. That’s where you may find something real.
Cheetos for the Soul
Cheetos For The Soul
Surely you've already realized that most mass produced foods are poisonous. To briefly summarize: the Frito-Lay corporation started with a mostly harmless ear of corn, and ended up with a neon-orange cheese puff. The resulting product isn’t merely some empty calories, it’s a preservative laden, mildly toxic substance that you can’t stop eating.
Indeed, the problems of Cheetos have been well established. And yet, undaunted by near-certain type II diabetes, the general populace snacks on. Blame the corporate machine. Blame the education system. Blame our ravenous appetites. But this is basically the situation, and I'm not here to lecture you about it, because you probably already get it.
Here’s another thing you may already see: the phenomenon of toxification via mass production seems to have extended well beyond groceries, and into many other domains including spirituality.
Just as we crave satiety, we also crave resolution to the big questions in life. We hunger for personal and spiritual growth. We drool over the promise of complete liberation from suffering.
A slew of products have been produced, packaged, and distributed to satisfy this more esoteric sort of appetite.
Instagram gurus and meditation apps. Weekend workshops and essential oil pyramid schemes. We’ve become experts at refining spirituality into individually wrapped, bite sized portions for the modern seeker-on-the-go.
And as long as you keep snacking, you don’t feel hungry.
Does this mass produced spirituality provide any lasting nourishment for the heart and soul? To me, much of it seems like quicks hit of highly concentrated and artificial enlightenment. Enticing witchcraft that promises salvation but soon leaves you feeling hungrier and emptier than ever.
In other words, perhaps all this stuff is simply spiritual junk food. Cheetos... for your soul.
I know that roasting Deepak Chopra, and the rest of them, isn't a new or original thought. So I'll just leave you with this. My experience has been that when it comes to spirituality, the good stuff found at the margins. It's just like a grocery store, really. If you want anything real, you can't expect to find it in the center isles with all the brand name packages. No, you'll have to walk around the perimeter and look on the produce racks and in the refrigerators. That’s where the raw, unrefined, natural stuff is kept. That’s where you may find something real.
Dystopian Comedy
What's Your Exit Strategy
Not so very long ago, Apple got a lot of bad press for their manufacturing practices in China. It went something like this.
At the sprawling compound dubbed Foxconn City in Shenzhen, iPhone assemblers lived in essentially labor camp conditions. They worked 12 hour shifts, and slept stacked up in bunk rooms. Worst of all, the managerial style of using public humiliation to discourage poor performance, and stamp out insubordination, left the workers riddled by anxiety.
These iPhone builders began jumping from the rooftop to their death.
So, some suicide prevention netting was simply installed around the buildings. And that was that. We were all upset by the headlines, but then we lined up to purchase the next generation iPhone a few months later. The camera was extraordinary.
At the time, I was working as an engineer in Silicon Valley, absorbed in the task of designing the sorts of devices that my Chinese peers assembled. Sure, our office had a ping pong table and all the cold-pressed juice I could drink. Yet somehow I could relate to those factory workers in China.
The never-ending days and the existential hollowness of the task ripped away at my soul. I had become an anxiety riddled cog in the machine of consumerism. I could not see a way out. A chilling despair consumed me.
One evening after work, instead of going home I went to the Golden Gate bridge. It was the best place I could imagine to contemplate suicide.
When I arrived, there was a crew of construction workers with welding gear, dangling from the bridge by cables. You’re not going to believe this, reader. They were installing suicide nets!
So what did I realize in all this, why am I telling you? Well, I guess what I realized is that once you open the door to suicide in your mind, it’s a very hard door to close.
Dystopian Comedy
What's Your Exit Strategy
Not so very long ago, Apple got a lot of bad press for their manufacturing practices in China. It went something like this.
At the sprawling compound dubbed Foxconn City in Shenzhen, iPhone assemblers lived in essentially labor camp conditions. They worked 12 hour shifts, and slept stacked up in bunk rooms. Worst of all, the managerial style of using public humiliation to discourage poor performance, and stamp out insubordination, left the workers riddled by anxiety.
These iPhone builders began jumping from the rooftop to their death.
So, some suicide prevention netting was simply installed around the buildings. And that was that. We were all upset by the headlines, but then we lined up to purchase the next generation iPhone a few months later. The camera was extraordinary.
At the time, I was working as an engineer in Silicon Valley, absorbed in the task of designing the sorts of devices that my Chinese peers assembled. Sure, our office had a ping pong table and all the cold-pressed juice I could drink. Yet somehow I could relate to those factory workers in China.
The never-ending days and the existential hollowness of the task ripped away at my soul. I had become an anxiety riddled cog in the machine of consumerism. I could not see a way out. A chilling despair consumed me.
One evening after work, instead of going home I went to the Golden Gate bridge. It was the best place I could imagine to contemplate suicide.
When I arrived, there was a crew of construction workers with welding gear, dangling from the bridge by cables. You’re not going to believe this, reader. They were installing suicide nets!
So what did I realize in all this, why am I telling you? Well, I guess what I realized is that once you open the door to suicide in your mind, it’s a very hard door to close.
Email Writing
A Soup Of Meaninglessness
Why do people use jargon?
The answer is less innocent than you might imagine. A recent study concluded that jargon is often used as a “status compensation function.” In other words, it makes you sound more important than you actually are.
For this reason, interns and new hires are much more likely to use industry buzzwords and corporate gobbledygook than folks with more prestige. Ultimately, jargon signals group membership and creates a thick smokescreen of bullshit behind which peons may hide.
You probably get dozens of emails every day that sound like this:
We’re disrupting the Tupperware subscription space through synergistic partnerships and leveraging the core competencies of drop-shipping-industry-leaders.
After a sentence like that, one’s soul attempts to eject from the body. One travels to a distant mental space where innovative algorithms are in no way fully integrated with cloud-based networking solutions.
Molly Young, a literary critic from New York Magazine, calls this stuff “A Soup of Meaninglessness.”
Do you want to be a better written communicator? Remove as much jargon as possible from your messages.
While you’re at it, remove the acronyms as well. The same study also notes that, “evidence found that acronyms and legalese serve a similar status-compensation function as other forms of jargon.”
Ernest Hemingway became a literary sensation because he dared to do what few of his contemporaries thought possible: remove the flowery language and simply write what you want to express. I for one would like to get better at this approach
Email Writing
A Soup Of Meaninglessness
Why do people use jargon?
The answer is less innocent than you might imagine. A recent study concluded that jargon is often used as a “status compensation function.” In other words, it makes you sound more important than you actually are.
For this reason, interns and new hires are much more likely to use industry buzzwords and corporate gobbledygook than folks with more prestige. Ultimately, jargon signals group membership and creates a thick smokescreen of bullshit behind which peons may hide.
You probably get dozens of emails every day that sound like this:
We’re disrupting the Tupperware subscription space through synergistic partnerships and leveraging the core competencies of drop-shipping-industry-leaders.
After a sentence like that, one’s soul attempts to eject from the body. One travels to a distant mental space where innovative algorithms are in no way fully integrated with cloud-based networking solutions.
Molly Young, a literary critic from New York Magazine, calls this stuff “A Soup of Meaninglessness.”
Do you want to be a better written communicator? Remove as much jargon as possible from your messages.
While you’re at it, remove the acronyms as well. The same study also notes that, “evidence found that acronyms and legalese serve a similar status-compensation function as other forms of jargon.”
Ernest Hemingway became a literary sensation because he dared to do what few of his contemporaries thought possible: remove the flowery language and simply write what you want to express. I for one would like to get better at this approach
Cheetos for the Soul
Yeah, You Could Go On A Pilgrimage
High in the Andes mountains, at exactly the point where glacial runoff forms the origin of the Amazon river, the Chavín culture of ancient Peru constructed a monumental temple. It became the Mecca of the new world. Pilgrims from across the continent spent months trekking through jungles and braving mountain passes to reach the site.
For these pilgrims, it was not about the journey. It was about the destination. This was a pilgrimage that delivered the goods.
The Chavín employed the mescaline-containing, heart-expanding psychedelic Huachuma cactus to conduct a right of passage ceremony for the ages. Initiates imbibed the sacrament together in groups of hundreds, perhaps thousands.
Divinity was tasted first hand by rulers and peasants alike. They realized the interconnectedness of all life. They transcended their ancient monkey minds and experienced a higher intelligence not only in themselves, but in all of creation.
But if the spiritual union was good, then the societal impacts were great. While the Chavín temple thrived, war all but ceased. I’m talking about the longest stretch in known human history where archeologists can’t find any signs of weapon construction. Chew on that one.
Anyways, I was fascinated to learn about all this and I figured that any spiritual seeker worth their salt goes on a pilgrimage. So I set off for the ancient temple myself.
Today, Chavín isn’t exactly a bustling spiritual megalopolis. It’s a mining town. The river runs orange with runoff. Packs of wild dogs roam the streets. I arrived during the height of a mayoral election and political propaganda rang from blaring loudspeakers through the weather-beaten valley.
I was told about a man, a shaman, who knew the Chavín temple and the cactus medicine once poured here better than anyone alive. He was a humble man, I found him selling trinkets outside of the temple gates. For a pittance, he agreed to take me inside and show me the way.
Long story short, I stood before the grand gateway of the temple at Chavín. I imbibed a hearty dose of the ancient sacrament. And I couldn’t help but notice one thing: the place was in ruins.
Yep, the megalithic structure had been mostly buried by a landslide, and what still poked through the dirt was crumbling away with the sands of time. The once mighty spiritual beacon of the Americas had been reduced to rubble. I recognized the world at large was in a similar state.
Yes readers, I had showed up to the party about 3,000 years too late. I realized that I had better get back to the real world and see what corner of it I could start cleaning up.
Cheetos for the Soul
Yeah, You Could Go On A Pilgrimage
High in the Andes mountains, at exactly the point where glacial runoff forms the origin of the Amazon river, the Chavín culture of ancient Peru constructed a monumental temple. It became the Mecca of the new world. Pilgrims from across the continent spent months trekking through jungles and braving mountain passes to reach the site.
For these pilgrims, it was not about the journey. It was about the destination. This was a pilgrimage that delivered the goods.
The Chavín employed the mescaline-containing, heart-expanding psychedelic Huachuma cactus to conduct a right of passage ceremony for the ages. Initiates imbibed the sacrament together in groups of hundreds, perhaps thousands.
Divinity was tasted first hand by rulers and peasants alike. They realized the interconnectedness of all life. They transcended their ancient monkey minds and experienced a higher intelligence not only in themselves, but in all of creation.
But if the spiritual union was good, then the societal impacts were great. While the Chavín temple thrived, war all but ceased. I’m talking about the longest stretch in known human history where archeologists can’t find any signs of weapon construction. Chew on that one.
Anyways, I was fascinated to learn about all this and I figured that any spiritual seeker worth their salt goes on a pilgrimage. So I set off for the ancient temple myself.
Today, Chavín isn’t exactly a bustling spiritual megalopolis. It’s a mining town. The river runs orange with runoff. Packs of wild dogs roam the streets. I arrived during the height of a mayoral election and political propaganda rang from blaring loudspeakers through the weather-beaten valley.
I was told about a man, a shaman, who knew the Chavín temple and the cactus medicine once poured here better than anyone alive. He was a humble man, I found him selling trinkets outside of the temple gates. For a pittance, he agreed to take me inside and show me the way.
Long story short, I stood before the grand gateway of the temple at Chavín. I imbibed a hearty dose of the ancient sacrament. And I couldn’t help but notice one thing: the place was in ruins.
Yep, the megalithic structure had been mostly buried by a landslide, and what still poked through the dirt was crumbling away with the sands of time. The once mighty spiritual beacon of the Americas had been reduced to rubble. I recognized the world at large was in a similar state.
Yes readers, I had showed up to the party about 3,000 years too late. I realized that I had better get back to the real world and see what corner of it I could start cleaning up.
Unhinged Ramblings
This Is Not A Dress Rehearsal
Here’s a great story my father told me. Once, was walking through a bustling Manhattan subway station during the morning commute. The corridors swarmed with highly caffeinated professionals racing to their cubicles.
A man with wild eyes and tattered clothing stood on the edge of the chaos. He had fashioned a megaphone from scrap cardboard and was delivering an oration at the top of his lungs.
“This is your life, people!” he preached to the businessmen. “This is it. This is what you have been waiting for!”
New Yorkers are used to this sort of thing. The vagabond’s presence didn’t even register. But my father thought to do something which apparently no one else had. He stopped and actually listened to what the guy had to say.
“You’ve only got one shot at this folks. This is the real deal. This is your life and it’s actually happening!"
The disheveled orator soon broke into a sweat, straining with all his might to communicate the breaking news that no one seemed to be internalizing.
"People, this is NOT a dress rehearsal!”
My father just stood there staring at the man. He was making some terrific points.
All things considered, the subway preacher was holding it together fairly well. I suspect that I’d be running naked through the streets if I actually understood what he was saying. You know, on more than just an intellectual level.
That this is not a dress rehearsal, and in fact the real deal, is one of those realizations that (if you really realized it all the way) could either save your life or destroy it, I think.
Unhinged Ramblings
This Is Not A Dress Rehearsal
Here’s a great story my father told me. Once, was walking through a bustling Manhattan subway station during the morning commute. The corridors swarmed with highly caffeinated professionals racing to their cubicles.
A man with wild eyes and tattered clothing stood on the edge of the chaos. He had fashioned a megaphone from scrap cardboard and was delivering an oration at the top of his lungs.
“This is your life, people!” he preached to the businessmen. “This is it. This is what you have been waiting for!”
New Yorkers are used to this sort of thing. The vagabond’s presence didn’t even register. But my father thought to do something which apparently no one else had. He stopped and actually listened to what the guy had to say.
“You’ve only got one shot at this folks. This is the real deal. This is your life and it’s actually happening!"
The disheveled orator soon broke into a sweat, straining with all his might to communicate the breaking news that no one seemed to be internalizing.
"People, this is NOT a dress rehearsal!”
My father just stood there staring at the man. He was making some terrific points.
All things considered, the subway preacher was holding it together fairly well. I suspect that I’d be running naked through the streets if I actually understood what he was saying. You know, on more than just an intellectual level.
That this is not a dress rehearsal, and in fact the real deal, is one of those realizations that (if you really realized it all the way) could either save your life or destroy it, I think.
The American Consumer
The Five Dollar Footlong
Life used to be so much simpler. Do you remember how things were in, like, 2007? Things were fucking great back then. Steve Jobs was up on stage in a turtleneck holding the very first iPhone. And Subway had just announced the Five Dollar Footlong.
Five... Five dollar... Five dollar footlong!
In 2007 I wasn’t concerned about factory farmed meat. I didn't even know what a factory farm was. Gluten sensitivity and gut permeability? Not a blip on my radar. In 2007 I wasn't anxious, I wasn't offended, I didn’t have political opinions. I was baked on the dankest buds anyone had ever seen. In 2007 I was as high as I had ever been in my entire life. You already know me and my friends were headed to Subway to get a footlong Italian B.M.T.
It's not like we were worried about supporting local businesses.
And yeah I had friends back then too, we chilled every single day. You didn't have to calendar in a lunch sometime next month. You just smoked a bowl with your homies and got a sandwich. It wasn't hard, we didn’t have anything better to do.
We weren’t worried about becoming self-actualized human beings in 2007. We didn’t have real jobs. We had plenty of time to watch television.
Five... five dollar...
Oh and remember Jared, the Subway guy? He lost 245 pounds eating turkey sandwiches. Holy shit. Good for you. This is how we thought back then. In 2007, the notion that the dude was a perv never even crossed my mind. Not once.
Seriously, if you would have told me that Jared would be locked in jail on kiddie porn and sex trafficking charges for 15 years... I would have told you that you were smoking rocks! No way. Not even a chance.
Anyways, I got to thinking about all this the other day when I went to Subway for a footlong. The sandwich cost me $11.34, can you believe it? Wow things were good in 2007. We had no idea.
I think what I’m trying to say here is that life used to be a whole lot simpler. There was so much less to think about. Do you remember what that was like?
The American Consumer
The Five Dollar Footlong
Life used to be so much simpler. Do you remember how things were in, like, 2007? Things were fucking great back then. Steve Jobs was up on stage in a turtleneck holding the very first iPhone. And Subway had just announced the Five Dollar Footlong.
Five... Five dollar... Five dollar footlong!
In 2007 I wasn’t concerned about factory farmed meat. I didn't even know what a factory farm was. Gluten sensitivity and gut permeability? Not a blip on my radar. In 2007 I wasn't anxious, I wasn't offended, I didn’t have political opinions. I was baked on the dankest buds anyone had ever seen. In 2007 I was as high as I had ever been in my entire life. You already know me and my friends were headed to Subway to get a footlong Italian B.M.T.
It's not like we were worried about supporting local businesses.
And yeah I had friends back then too, we chilled every single day. You didn't have to calendar in a lunch sometime next month. You just smoked a bowl with your homies and got a sandwich. It wasn't hard, we didn’t have anything better to do.
We weren’t worried about becoming self-actualized human beings in 2007. We didn’t have real jobs. We had plenty of time to watch television.
Five... five dollar...
Oh and remember Jared, the Subway guy? He lost 245 pounds eating turkey sandwiches. Holy shit. Good for you. This is how we thought back then. In 2007, the notion that the dude was a perv never even crossed my mind. Not once.
Seriously, if you would have told me that Jared would be locked in jail on kiddie porn and sex trafficking charges for 15 years... I would have told you that you were smoking rocks! No way. Not even a chance.
Anyways, I got to thinking about all this the other day when I went to Subway for a footlong. The sandwich cost me $11.34, can you believe it? Wow things were good in 2007. We had no idea.
I think what I’m trying to say here is that life used to be a whole lot simpler. There was so much less to think about. Do you remember what that was like?
Cheetos for the Soul
Who Am I?
I tried to be a professional skateboard racer. I trained my body and mind every day for several years, I earned sponsorships, I went on the competition circuit, and I became a World Champion. I learned that there was no money and no future in this endeavor, I learned that this path was a dead end. I learned that I could not be a professional skateboarder.
I tried to be a handyman. I started a handyman service called Austin Martin Co, and our motto was "We do anything." For a year I hauled garbage to the dump, ran weedwhackers and chainsaws, installed dishwashers and painted fences. I learned that blue collar life would lead me down a path of self destruction. I learned that craved a mission with more meaning. I learned that I should not be a handyman.
I tried to be a shaman. I moved to Peru, found a mentor, and drank psychedelic cactus hundreds of times. I learned that I didn't love shamanism enough (nor possess sufficient courage) to suffer the trials inherent to the path. I learned that my Western mind was too cynical to fully embrace the tradition, and perform the rituals without feeling like I was putting on a show. I learned that I was not meant to be a shaman.
I tried to be a professional email writer. I started a company called The League of Exceptional Emailers, and taught organizations how to write better emails. I learned that people don't want to think about email any more than they already have to. I learned what I already knew, that email is fucking boring. I learned that I could not stand being an email writer.
I tried to be an innkeeper. I tried to be a new age health guru. I tried to be a financial investor. I tried to be many things.
Each time I convinced myself that this profession was what I was, that it was who I was. And each time I believed it, for a while.
In the end, and it's embarrassing how long it took me to get to this, I realized that who you are is not what you do.
Who you are is how you do it.
Cheetos for the Soul
Who Am I?
I tried to be a professional skateboard racer. I trained my body and mind every day for several years, I earned sponsorships, I went on the competition circuit, and I became a World Champion. I learned that there was no money and no future in this endeavor, I learned that this path was a dead end. I learned that I could not be a professional skateboarder.
I tried to be a handyman. I started a handyman service called Austin Martin Co, and our motto was "We do anything." For a year I hauled garbage to the dump, ran weedwhackers and chainsaws, installed dishwashers and painted fences. I learned that blue collar life would lead me down a path of self destruction. I learned that craved a mission with more meaning. I learned that I should not be a handyman.
I tried to be a shaman. I moved to Peru, found a mentor, and drank psychedelic cactus hundreds of times. I learned that I didn't love shamanism enough (nor possess sufficient courage) to suffer the trials inherent to the path. I learned that my Western mind was too cynical to fully embrace the tradition, and perform the rituals without feeling like I was putting on a show. I learned that I was not meant to be a shaman.
I tried to be a professional email writer. I started a company called The League of Exceptional Emailers, and taught organizations how to write better emails. I learned that people don't want to think about email any more than they already have to. I learned what I already knew, that email is fucking boring. I learned that I could not stand being an email writer.
I tried to be an innkeeper. I tried to be a new age health guru. I tried to be a financial investor. I tried to be many things.
Each time I convinced myself that this profession was what I was, that it was who I was. And each time I believed it, for a while.
In the end, and it's embarrassing how long it took me to get to this, I realized that who you are is not what you do.
Who you are is how you do it.
Upbeat Cynicism
Don't Fight The Gene Pool
I returned from a multi-year deep dive into Peruvian shamanism a complete and total mess.
Sure perhaps I had realized a few things, but I had nothing to show for it. Nothing tangible, and still no clue what I was doing with my life.
Oh, and then there was the diarrhea. I had drank some bad water, and was suffering from some of the most explosive diarrhea I've ever heard of. My weight was at least 30 pounds below what might be considered healthy. I was skeletal. My mother started crying when she saw me.
Fortunately my parents took me into their home, and nursed me back to health. But as I recovered some physical strength, I sank into a profound depression. I was unemployed, directionless, and altogether miserable.
I thought my spiritual work had moved me beyond this. I imagined I could retain perspective, humor, and grace in the face of almost anything. Clearly I was deluding myself; I couldn’t even survive several weeks of unemployment.
One morning, as I wallowed in self-pity and existential despair at the breakfast table, my father gave me a pep talk of sorts.
“Martin, you are a man. Men need to have a job.”
Okay, I thought. But what job? I had searched the globe trying to discover my true calling in life. But I had come up empty handed.
My father continued. “Right now you are living under my roof. Until you are making your own money, until you are providing for yourself, you are just going to be depressed. I’m sorry but that’s how it works. That’s how men work. ”
I thought about the TJ Max down the street. It had a "Now Hiring" sign on the front door. It was hard to imagine that this was the solution to my problems. Three days behind a checkout counter and I’d be sucking on a pistol, I thought.
“Its some kind of genetic thing, I don’t know. Men just need to work, they need to be useful. It's something about the way we're built. Do you want to know my advice? Don’t fight the gene pool. Get a job.”
You know what, readers? He was absolutely right.
A week or two later I took an engineering job. Even though I hated working as an engineer, and had done everything I could think of to escape my fate as one, taking this job was one of the best damn decisions I've ever made.
The job gave me a way to be useful. And it gave me means to venture back out into the world, on my own two legs, and begin slowing piecing together a life I could be proud of.
It helped me realize that if I was going to wait around for my life's purpose to strike me like a bolt of lightning, I may be waiting a very long time. Better that I find a small way of being useful, being of service. And to not worry about how insignificant or mundane it may seem, because each day I could focus on making what I did a little less small, and a little more helpful.
Upbeat Cynicism
Don't Fight The Gene Pool
I returned from a multi-year deep dive into Peruvian shamanism a complete and total mess.
Sure perhaps I had realized a few things, but I had nothing to show for it. Nothing tangible, and still no clue what I was doing with my life.
Oh, and then there was the diarrhea. I had drank some bad water, and was suffering from some of the most explosive diarrhea I've ever heard of. My weight was at least 30 pounds below what might be considered healthy. I was skeletal. My mother started crying when she saw me.
Fortunately my parents took me into their home, and nursed me back to health. But as I recovered some physical strength, I sank into a profound depression. I was unemployed, directionless, and altogether miserable.
I thought my spiritual work had moved me beyond this. I imagined I could retain perspective, humor, and grace in the face of almost anything. Clearly I was deluding myself; I couldn’t even survive several weeks of unemployment.
One morning, as I wallowed in self-pity and existential despair at the breakfast table, my father gave me a pep talk of sorts.
“Martin, you are a man. Men need to have a job.”
Okay, I thought. But what job? I had searched the globe trying to discover my true calling in life. But I had come up empty handed.
My father continued. “Right now you are living under my roof. Until you are making your own money, until you are providing for yourself, you are just going to be depressed. I’m sorry but that’s how it works. That’s how men work. ”
I thought about the TJ Max down the street. It had a "Now Hiring" sign on the front door. It was hard to imagine that this was the solution to my problems. Three days behind a checkout counter and I’d be sucking on a pistol, I thought.
“Its some kind of genetic thing, I don’t know. Men just need to work, they need to be useful. It's something about the way we're built. Do you want to know my advice? Don’t fight the gene pool. Get a job.”
You know what, readers? He was absolutely right.
A week or two later I took an engineering job. Even though I hated working as an engineer, and had done everything I could think of to escape my fate as one, taking this job was one of the best damn decisions I've ever made.
The job gave me a way to be useful. And it gave me means to venture back out into the world, on my own two legs, and begin slowing piecing together a life I could be proud of.
It helped me realize that if I was going to wait around for my life's purpose to strike me like a bolt of lightning, I may be waiting a very long time. Better that I find a small way of being useful, being of service. And to not worry about how insignificant or mundane it may seem, because each day I could focus on making what I did a little less small, and a little more helpful.
Email Writing
Email Is Like Plumbing
In many ways, emailing is like plumbing.
My great grandfather was a plumber. It is an underappreciated profession. More than the considerable training and practical expertise, plumbing demands a rare strength of character if one is to avoid becoming embittered by the harsh realities of the trade. This is also true of email writing.
Unfortunately, it was with my great grandfather that the family lineage of handy and capable men came to an abrupt end. When duty called, his son would be found underneath the sink cursing like a sailor, sweating profusely, and bleeding noticeably from his knuckles while locked in a desperate struggle to halt a deluge of drain scum from soiling his Sunday’s best. Demoralized and defeated, he returned to playing solitaire. The kitchen sink would remain inoperable for several more weeks.
This disdain for drains has been carried on by my father. He can sometimes be seen fishing out hair clumps from the shower drain with a broken coat hanger. Picture a chimpanzee fishing for termites with a blade of grass, but cursing and bleeding from the knuckles. This sort of profound incompetence is the new family tradition.
Yes, emailing is pretty much like plumbing. Trained professionals equipped with the proper tools make short work of household piping repairs. Meanwhile, the rest of us flail around in a spiteful rage and ignore dripping water puddles under our sinks for months on end.
If you are a homeowner, it is a cosmic, metaphysical certainty that eventually you will be confronted with plumbing problems. They most frequently pop up during inopportune times, like when your in-laws are in town for the holidays. The question is whether you will bring professionalism and know-how to the task, or instruct your family that they will need to relieve themselves in the backyard.
One could theoretically navigate through life without ever fixing a sink or unclogging a toilet. But you won’t manage to avoid writing emails, not altogether. So why not embrace emailing? Why not try to write a few good ones? Why not bring some professionalism and enthusiasm to the task?
I asked myself these questions. Then I started an email consulting agency called The League of Exceptional Emailers. I can't say that it was all that successful. But I did learn a thing or two about writing emails, and that opened up a few doors along the way that would have otherwise remained shut.
Email Writing
Email Is Like Plumbing
In many ways, emailing is like plumbing.
My great grandfather was a plumber. It is an underappreciated profession. More than the considerable training and practical expertise, plumbing demands a rare strength of character if one is to avoid becoming embittered by the harsh realities of the trade. This is also true of email writing.
Unfortunately, it was with my great grandfather that the family lineage of handy and capable men came to an abrupt end. When duty called, his son would be found underneath the sink cursing like a sailor, sweating profusely, and bleeding noticeably from his knuckles while locked in a desperate struggle to halt a deluge of drain scum from soiling his Sunday’s best. Demoralized and defeated, he returned to playing solitaire. The kitchen sink would remain inoperable for several more weeks.
This disdain for drains has been carried on by my father. He can sometimes be seen fishing out hair clumps from the shower drain with a broken coat hanger. Picture a chimpanzee fishing for termites with a blade of grass, but cursing and bleeding from the knuckles. This sort of profound incompetence is the new family tradition.
Yes, emailing is pretty much like plumbing. Trained professionals equipped with the proper tools make short work of household piping repairs. Meanwhile, the rest of us flail around in a spiteful rage and ignore dripping water puddles under our sinks for months on end.
If you are a homeowner, it is a cosmic, metaphysical certainty that eventually you will be confronted with plumbing problems. They most frequently pop up during inopportune times, like when your in-laws are in town for the holidays. The question is whether you will bring professionalism and know-how to the task, or instruct your family that they will need to relieve themselves in the backyard.
One could theoretically navigate through life without ever fixing a sink or unclogging a toilet. But you won’t manage to avoid writing emails, not altogether. So why not embrace emailing? Why not try to write a few good ones? Why not bring some professionalism and enthusiasm to the task?
I asked myself these questions. Then I started an email consulting agency called The League of Exceptional Emailers. I can't say that it was all that successful. But I did learn a thing or two about writing emails, and that opened up a few doors along the way that would have otherwise remained shut.
Unhinged Ramblings
It Seemed Imporant
I’ll never forget the last time I spoke with my grandmother. It was a week before her 99th birthday. We spent an afternoon sitting in her Oakland apartment, looking out over sunny Lakeside Park, where she used to walk every day.
The exuberance that had lasted well into her nineties had all but given up, and her skeletal hands clutched the arm rests of her rocking chair, as if hanging on for dear life. I began prodding her to wax philosophical which she was, at times, known to do. It was clear she was on death's doorstep. I wanted to know what she made of it all.
After some idle reminiscing on a lifetime of traveling the world with her husband, a Naval Captain, she eventually spit out this jewel.
“Well, I did a lot of things in my life. And at the time… boy those things sure seemed important!”
We burst out laughing. It was a perfectly poignant critique of all our seriousness. That was my grandma Judy. She never let life grind the joy out of her. She was always quick to laugh, especially at herself.
When her laughter faded out, I could see her mind straining to dig a little deeper. As she reflected further her face turned a little bit stern.
“But you know, Martin, I think those things were actually important. At the time I did them they were very important. At the time.”
Unhinged Ramblings
It Seemed Imporant
I’ll never forget the last time I spoke with my grandmother. It was a week before her 99th birthday. We spent an afternoon sitting in her Oakland apartment, looking out over sunny Lakeside Park, where she used to walk every day.
The exuberance that had lasted well into her nineties had all but given up, and her skeletal hands clutched the arm rests of her rocking chair, as if hanging on for dear life. I began prodding her to wax philosophical which she was, at times, known to do. It was clear she was on death's doorstep. I wanted to know what she made of it all.
After some idle reminiscing on a lifetime of traveling the world with her husband, a Naval Captain, she eventually spit out this jewel.
“Well, I did a lot of things in my life. And at the time… boy those things sure seemed important!”
We burst out laughing. It was a perfectly poignant critique of all our seriousness. That was my grandma Judy. She never let life grind the joy out of her. She was always quick to laugh, especially at herself.
When her laughter faded out, I could see her mind straining to dig a little deeper. As she reflected further her face turned a little bit stern.
“But you know, Martin, I think those things were actually important. At the time I did them they were very important. At the time.”
Cheetos for the Soul
Spiritual Warrior
Here's a famous Buddhist saying: Life is suffering.
Obviously that is not meant to be a complete description of life — life is many things besides suffering. The translation into English also may be faulty. But let's set the semantics aside and address the undeniable fact: suffering is a real bitch.
Suffering isn't just the domain of peasants in a slum of India either. The Dali Lama once said that the suffering he saw in suburban America was no less than what he'd seen anywhere else in the world. That always stuck with me. It seems true.
I remember the day when it first dawned on me just how much I was suffering. It had kind of snuck up on me, like a frog being slowly boiled. Shit this is uncomfortable, I thought.
So I did what many others before me have done in the effort to reconcile suffering, I set off on the spiritual path. Quickly I discovered that a number of the practices and disciplines actually do work. I started to feel better. A reasonable person may have felt grateful for discovering a way of making their life more balanced and complete. But I didn't stop there. I'm an American.
It dawned on me that I didn't have to settle with eliminating just a little suffering. Why not totally eradicate all suffering, permanently? Why not get enlightened? So I dropped everything and dedicated my life to the spiritual path. I became a spiritual warrior.
This was, of course, quite exhilarating for a time but eventually I would learn about the law of diminishing returns. I would reach a point where my escalating spirituality no longer reduced suffering. It was in a hut in the middle of the Amazon jungle when I finally saw the light in this particular matter. I had been isolated from human contact for weeks, and by all signs appeared to be dying of severe dehydration.
I realized that not only was I still suffering from most of the same problems that led me to the spirituality in the first place, but that now I was piling a tremendous amount of additional suffering on top of it. The cost-benefit equation had inverted; I was torturing myself! It was a real moment of awakening.
Obviously I was trying way to hard. If I wanted to suffer less, I'd need to drop this spiritual warrior bullshit. So I resumed eating salt, stopped ingesting frog poison altogether, and immediately my life improved.
A reasonable person may have deescalated their spiritual warfare to a sensible level. But I'm an American. And you can imagine where that led me. It led me nowhere.
It's this kind of thinking, this total disregard for balance, and the stark inability to hold contradictory ideas in our minds that sabotages good intentions at self-improvement, and twists the spiritual pursuit it into something almost unrecognizable. That's my diagnosis, anyways.
In all this I realized that if you don't bring some common sense to the table, the spiritual path can easily become a hamster wheel, a thing that you can work yourself to exhaustion on without arriving anywhere at all. At least that was my experience.
Cheetos for the Soul
Spiritual Warrior
Here's a famous Buddhist saying: Life is suffering.
Obviously that is not meant to be a complete description of life — life is many things besides suffering. The translation into English also may be faulty. But let's set the semantics aside and address the undeniable fact: suffering is a real bitch.
Suffering isn't just the domain of peasants in a slum of India either. The Dali Lama once said that the suffering he saw in suburban America was no less than what he'd seen anywhere else in the world. That always stuck with me. It seems true.
I remember the day when it first dawned on me just how much I was suffering. It had kind of snuck up on me, like a frog being slowly boiled. Shit this is uncomfortable, I thought.
So I did what many others before me have done in the effort to reconcile suffering, I set off on the spiritual path. Quickly I discovered that a number of the practices and disciplines actually do work. I started to feel better. A reasonable person may have felt grateful for discovering a way of making their life more balanced and complete. But I didn't stop there. I'm an American.
It dawned on me that I didn't have to settle with eliminating just a little suffering. Why not totally eradicate all suffering, permanently? Why not get enlightened? So I dropped everything and dedicated my life to the spiritual path. I became a spiritual warrior.
This was, of course, quite exhilarating for a time but eventually I would learn about the law of diminishing returns. I would reach a point where my escalating spirituality no longer reduced suffering. It was in a hut in the middle of the Amazon jungle when I finally saw the light in this particular matter. I had been isolated from human contact for weeks, and by all signs appeared to be dying of severe dehydration.
I realized that not only was I still suffering from most of the same problems that led me to the spirituality in the first place, but that now I was piling a tremendous amount of additional suffering on top of it. The cost-benefit equation had inverted; I was torturing myself! It was a real moment of awakening.
Obviously I was trying way to hard. If I wanted to suffer less, I'd need to drop this spiritual warrior bullshit. So I resumed eating salt, stopped ingesting frog poison altogether, and immediately my life improved.
A reasonable person may have deescalated their spiritual warfare to a sensible level. But I'm an American. And you can imagine where that led me. It led me nowhere.
It's this kind of thinking, this total disregard for balance, and the stark inability to hold contradictory ideas in our minds that sabotages good intentions at self-improvement, and twists the spiritual pursuit it into something almost unrecognizable. That's my diagnosis, anyways.
In all this I realized that if you don't bring some common sense to the table, the spiritual path can easily become a hamster wheel, a thing that you can work yourself to exhaustion on without arriving anywhere at all. At least that was my experience.
Marriage
Mornings
5:10 AM - The Phillip's SmartSleep™ alarm clock begins projecting an orangish glow onto my face from the bedside table. The contraption supposably provides a soft, gentle wake-up. In practice, it rouses me just long enough to groan, turn over, and bury my head underneath the covers.
5:25 AM - The clock now begins belting out canned bird noise. I reach for the snooze button, but this dumb clock has half a dozen identically shaped buttons, and I inevitably just turn up the volume on the bird noise and cuss a few times.
5:31 AM - I finally get my ass out of bed, put on swimming trunks, and shuffle to the kitchen. I plug in the water boiler because Danii, my wife to be, unplugs every major appliance before bed. She thinks the house will burn down if she does not do this.
5:32 AM - I open the refrigerator and retrieve a Tupperware container full of hardened coconut oil chunks flavored with peppermint or tea tree essential oil. We use these for oil pulling in the morning. Just pop one in and let it melt in your mouth. Way easier than trying to spoon the right amount of liquid coconut oil into your mouth. The best part: we've used a candy making mold to cast these coconut oil chunks into the shape of a Darth Vader helmet.
Here's the critical bit: One Darth Vader head is too much coconut oil. Really about half of a Darth is the right dose. And even though it's piss early in the morning, and I'm feeling resentful, and bitter, I never bite off the big round helmet part of the Darth head. Danii likes the round part, it's much smoother, it doesn't poke the inside of your mouth. So instead I bite off Vader's sharp mechanical jowls, and because I do so voluntarily, selflessly, and of my own accord, it reminds me in a small but meaningful way that I'm still in love with Danii. I guess there are worse way to start off the day.
Marriage
Mornings
5:10 AM - The Phillip's SmartSleep™ alarm clock begins projecting an orangish glow onto my face from the bedside table. The contraption supposably provides a soft, gentle wake-up. In practice, it rouses me just long enough to groan, turn over, and bury my head underneath the covers.
5:25 AM - The clock now begins belting out canned bird noise. I reach for the snooze button, but this dumb clock has half a dozen identically shaped buttons, and I inevitably just turn up the volume on the bird noise and cuss a few times.
5:31 AM - I finally get my ass out of bed, put on swimming trunks, and shuffle to the kitchen. I plug in the water boiler because Danii, my wife to be, unplugs every major appliance before bed. She thinks the house will burn down if she does not do this.
5:32 AM - I open the refrigerator and retrieve a Tupperware container full of hardened coconut oil chunks flavored with peppermint or tea tree essential oil. We use these for oil pulling in the morning. Just pop one in and let it melt in your mouth. Way easier than trying to spoon the right amount of liquid coconut oil into your mouth. The best part: we've used a candy making mold to cast these coconut oil chunks into the shape of a Darth Vader helmet.
Here's the critical bit: One Darth Vader head is too much coconut oil. Really about half of a Darth is the right dose. And even though it's piss early in the morning, and I'm feeling resentful, and bitter, I never bite off the big round helmet part of the Darth head. Danii likes the round part, it's much smoother, it doesn't poke the inside of your mouth. So instead I bite off Vader's sharp mechanical jowls, and because I do so voluntarily, selflessly, and of my own accord, it reminds me in a small but meaningful way that I'm still in love with Danii. I guess there are worse way to start off the day.
Cheetos for the Soul
What's Your Spirit Animal?
High in the Andes mountains of South America live the indigenous people known as the Aymara. Like most indigenous communities, a wise healer or shaman type figure plays an important cultural role: performing ceremonies, making offerings, healing psychic and physical ailments. In the case of these particular people, that person is called a Yatiri. The word Yatiri translates more or less as "someone who knows."
Perhaps the most interesting thing about Yatiri is how they become one. It said that someone with the right character and qualities to be a Yatiri will be struck by lightning, usually while out herding the animals. It's a sort of trial by fire. Being struck by lightning (and surviving) is the prerequisite, the initiation of the Yatiri.
Anyways, I read about this in a book once and was extremely impressed.
Years later, having dove headlong into the shamanic path myself, I stood on a hilltop in the Peruvian Amazon. Looking out over the jungle canopy below, smoking ceremonial tobacco and completely alone, I noticed some ominous black clouds began brewing in the West. Sheets of rain soon poured from the skies. Then suddenly the air felt thick, and electric. My hair stood up on end.
It was in this moment when my delusions of becoming a shaman suddenly evaporated. Face to face with the crackling, high-voltage energy that real shamanism seems to deal with, I immediately felt weak at the knees and scurried down from that hill like a startled little mouse.
Moments later, a single crack of lightning ripped through the air just above where I had stood, blinding me with it's light and shaking the ground at my feet. It's hard to say for sure, but had I remained on that hilltop, the highest point for miles in any direction, and somehow been able to suppress my life-preserving instincts in the hope of becoming like a Yatiri, I could have been absolutely barbequed by a lightning strike.
At least I would have been a Darwin Award candidate.
Oh, it's definitely worth mentioning one more thing about the Aymara culture. They have a word Panata. It means one who has been mistakenly struck. They use it to refer to a person who lacks the calling to be a Yatiri, a shaman, but just so happened to be struck by lightning anyways.
I didn’t want to be that guy.
Cheetos for the Soul
What's Your Spirit Animal?
High in the Andes mountains of South America live the indigenous people known as the Aymara. Like most indigenous communities, a wise healer or shaman type figure plays an important cultural role: performing ceremonies, making offerings, healing psychic and physical ailments. In the case of these particular people, that person is called a Yatiri. The word Yatiri translates more or less as "someone who knows."
Perhaps the most interesting thing about Yatiri is how they become one. It said that someone with the right character and qualities to be a Yatiri will be struck by lightning, usually while out herding the animals. It's a sort of trial by fire. Being struck by lightning (and surviving) is the prerequisite, the initiation of the Yatiri.
Anyways, I read about this in a book once and was extremely impressed.
Years later, having dove headlong into the shamanic path myself, I stood on a hilltop in the Peruvian Amazon. Looking out over the jungle canopy below, smoking ceremonial tobacco and completely alone, I noticed some ominous black clouds began brewing in the West. Sheets of rain soon poured from the skies. Then suddenly the air felt thick, and electric. My hair stood up on end.
It was in this moment when my delusions of becoming a shaman suddenly evaporated. Face to face with the crackling, high-voltage energy that real shamanism seems to deal with, I immediately felt weak at the knees and scurried down from that hill like a startled little mouse.
Moments later, a single crack of lightning ripped through the air just above where I had stood, blinding me with it's light and shaking the ground at my feet. It's hard to say for sure, but had I remained on that hilltop, the highest point for miles in any direction, and somehow been able to suppress my life-preserving instincts in the hope of becoming like a Yatiri, I could have been absolutely barbequed by a lightning strike.
At least I would have been a Darwin Award candidate.
Oh, it's definitely worth mentioning one more thing about the Aymara culture. They have a word Panata. It means one who has been mistakenly struck. They use it to refer to a person who lacks the calling to be a Yatiri, a shaman, but just so happened to be struck by lightning anyways.
I didn’t want to be that guy.
Upbeat Cynicism
Waiting For Obi-Wan
My friend Leif once made a great observation.
“I was waiting around for Obi-Wan Kenobi to knock on the door, hold out a lightsaber, and ask me to come save the galaxy. But he never showed up.”
This struck me. It spoke directly to the source of my depression. It explained all of my problems.
I've earned a college degree, won a world champion title as a skateboarder, and had a little professional success. But none of that shit comes even close to battling evil with a laser sword. If I'm honest, I still live with a deep sense of existential angst that our modern culture seems totally unable to offer up a remedy for. And it's not like I haven't looked.
How exactly does one live out the Hero's Journey in the modern world? That's a question I've been unable to answer for myself in any real way.
Perhaps there are other myths worth modeling a fulfilling life on. But my genetics don't seem to understand such a nuanced idea.
Upbeat Cynicism
Waiting For Obi-Wan
My friend Leif once made a great observation.
“I was waiting around for Obi-Wan Kenobi to knock on the door, hold out a lightsaber, and ask me to come save the galaxy. But he never showed up.”
This struck me. It spoke directly to the source of my depression. It explained all of my problems.
I've earned a college degree, won a world champion title as a skateboarder, and had a little professional success. But none of that shit comes even close to battling evil with a laser sword. If I'm honest, I still live with a deep sense of existential angst that our modern culture seems totally unable to offer up a remedy for. And it's not like I haven't looked.
How exactly does one live out the Hero's Journey in the modern world? That's a question I've been unable to answer for myself in any real way.
Perhaps there are other myths worth modeling a fulfilling life on. But my genetics don't seem to understand such a nuanced idea.
Wild Speculation
I'm Often Wrong
The year was 2008 and I was about to get rich. The internet was beginning to run out of domain names, and so whoever is in charge decided to release a slew of new offerings for online entrepreneurs.
.tech
.store
.app
As I saw it, the dot com days were all but over. We were on the precipice of a new era. These novel digital locations would surely become hot commodities. So I spent hundreds of dollars buying them up. I'd sit in front of my MacBook late into the night, incessantly refreshing my browser window, waiting for the instant a new domain type became available; it was like trying to get Beyoncé tickets on Ticketmaster. And soon enough, I was sitting on a pile of digital gold. In a few years I'd auction off my precious domains to the highest bidder for thousands of dollars each. Probably tens of thousands, actually.
But I was wrong. It turns out that people couldn't care less about owning a .design or a .business domain. Dot com remained very much the king. If you didn't want to look like a poser, you had to get a .com name. My prophecy was utterly unfulfilled. My domains practically worthless.
Fast forward to today, the year 2022.
Today, I'm absolutely convinced that cryptocurrency and the related mania will suffer the same fate. I don't think in ten or twenty years anyone is going to give a shit about owning a Dogecoin. Or even a Bitcoin, for that matter. I think this so-called revolution is mostly hype, and misplaced hope, and frankly a number of blatant Ponzi schemes. I think this irrational exuberance will go down in history as a footnote.
Of course, I could be wrong. I'm often wrong.
Wild Speculation
I'm Often Wrong
The year was 2008 and I was about to get rich. The internet was beginning to run out of domain names, and so whoever is in charge decided to release a slew of new offerings for online entrepreneurs.
.tech
.store
.app
As I saw it, the dot com days were all but over. We were on the precipice of a new era. These novel digital locations would surely become hot commodities. So I spent hundreds of dollars buying them up. I'd sit in front of my MacBook late into the night, incessantly refreshing my browser window, waiting for the instant a new domain type became available; it was like trying to get Beyoncé tickets on Ticketmaster. And soon enough, I was sitting on a pile of digital gold. In a few years I'd auction off my precious domains to the highest bidder for thousands of dollars each. Probably tens of thousands, actually.
But I was wrong. It turns out that people couldn't care less about owning a .design or a .business domain. Dot com remained very much the king. If you didn't want to look like a poser, you had to get a .com name. My prophecy was utterly unfulfilled. My domains practically worthless.
Fast forward to today, the year 2022.
Today, I'm absolutely convinced that cryptocurrency and the related mania will suffer the same fate. I don't think in ten or twenty years anyone is going to give a shit about owning a Dogecoin. Or even a Bitcoin, for that matter. I think this so-called revolution is mostly hype, and misplaced hope, and frankly a number of blatant Ponzi schemes. I think this irrational exuberance will go down in history as a footnote.
Of course, I could be wrong. I'm often wrong.