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    The lawn at the end of the world

    America has a lawn problem.

    Nothing against lawns.

    But when fully 1/3 of all residential water use goes to landscape irrigation?

    That’s a problem.

    9 billion of them.

    And it’s decorative.

    That’s all.

    Some badge of suburban accomplishment.

    A thing to show the neighbors you care.

    Because we don’t use our lawns for anything.

    They’re a great place to put the kiddie pool.

    But then then it gets too hot for that.

    And those kill the grass.

    And then we’re back to the lawn problem.

    Which is really a different problem.

    That we don’t know another way.

    We’ve been told by Big Landscaping, which in 2022 had 129 billion reasons to get us to water the lawn, that we need that grass.

    That xeriscaping just isn’t for the cool kids.

    So we fire up the mower, shake our heads at our water bill, and do it all over again.

    To mollify the HOA.

    Make our family happy.

    Appease that voice in our head that tells us we don’t have much to show for our years on earth, but we do have that lawn.

    Preach on

    When we’re indoctrinated, it’s hard not to preach.

    About our god.

    About our politics.

    About our WOD (I see you, Crossfitters).

    Because the Kool-Aid?

    It’s good.

    Better than good.

    It gave us purpose.

    Muted our self-doubt.

    Told us we didn’t need introspection.

    Turn your eye to the gym.

    To the podium.

    To heaven.

    Anywhere but inward.

    Because without…

    • God
    • Government
    • Gym

    …well, what are you?

    Nothing.

    Or that’s what they’d have us believe.

    That inner journey is the hard road.

    The long path.

    Finding self in the midst of all that’s not-self.

    Seeing our worth, ourselves.

    And not reflected in some one/thing else.

    Faking it

    Fake it ‘til you make it.

    What then?

    Can we stop faking it?

    Because we had to fake it to get there.

    No reason to stop now.

    Then just be yourself.

    Unless that self makes the others uncomfortable.

    Then we just have to fake it some more.

    Play the game.

    Be the authentic us that meets their approval.

    Pickled

    Played pickleball for the first time today.

    Not sure why that feels like the whitest thing ever.

    Probably because the court’s in the middle of a gated community with two golf courses, two airstrips, and the couple in their 60s on the walking trail that runs by the court were bickering over whether he should walk in the mud to get more poop bags for the dog.

    And there’s definitely something about pickleball that feels like it was invented by people who weren’t that good at either tennis or ping pong.

    It’s not a bad thing, because sometimes when you’re not good at one thing, you get good at something else.

    Same joy, different approach.

    And you end up doing something you might like.

    I’ve never been much of a racket sports guy, and as a Man Of A Certain Age, I’m aware of the injury statistics because people like me decide later in life to take up vigorous sport.

    Still.

    Nice to be outside.

    Is it love?

    I eat McDonald’s about once a month.

    The nearest one is 20 minutes away.

    So going there is a trip.

    Not quite an adventure.

    But a break from the ordinary.

    A step outside routines.

    This morning it was in the 70s.

    Windows down, feeling the breeze.

    The Golden Arches want our love.

    “Love” isn’t the word.

    I like their food, but love?

    Not sure I’m ready for that much commitment.

    Trivial pursuits

    I’m a trivia fan.

    Friend of mine calls them “crap facts”.

    They’re also a fan.

    Not everyone is.

    That’s meant a lot of awkward moments at parties when, in the interest of keeping the conversation going, or connecting with people, I shared some crap fact that was at least tangentially connected to the topic under discussion.

    Yes, I use words like “tangentially” unironically so you know when I got picked for kickball.

    I’d argue that I know these things because they’re important pieces of information.

    That other people should know them, too.

    And by sharing them with the world I’m making it a more enlightened place.

    That’s not what’s happening.

    I’m trying to learn your language.

    Find a way to communicate.

    Connect.

    Belong.

    Of course I’m going to share with you that Wichita, Kansas is the “Air Capital of the World” thanks to its connection to brands like Cessna and Beechcraft.

    That’s my neurodiversity in full effect.

    Everyone does it, just you neurotypicals do it differently, rubbing your antennae together while the rest of us NDs stand one the edges of the nest waving our antennae in the hopes someone picks up on the frequency.

    We all want to be seen.

    Heard.

    Nothing trivial about that.

    Appease me, please me

    They said they’re a people pleaser.

    Except they’re not pleasing anyone.

    What they want to avoid is conflict.

    Appeasement.

    To hear the emperor say, “This pleases me,” and maybe they get to keep their head a little longer.

    Stop trying to make people happy.

    It won’t work for the unhappy ones.

    The happy few don’t need your help.

    Find your flock

    Took a walk this morning.

    Saw an Egyptian goose on a rooftop.

    Not a typical roosting spot.

    Then it started honking as a pair of Canadian geese flew by, and the Egyptian lumbered into the sky and followed them, honking the whole time.

    They never honked back.

    Probably because they’re Canadian.

    More polite.

    Or they don’t speak the same language.

    They all sound the same to me.

    Then again, no ornithologist here.

    I’m that geese some days.

    Most days.

    I’m using the right words, or think I am.

    Working at finding the tribe.

    Or the flock.

    Making the same sounds they do.

    It never works that way.

    Trying to sound like them, I just sound like them.

    I’m not them, and they’re not for me.

    It’s when I hear the echo.

    Someone using words that make sense to me.

    Summing me up.

    Otherwise, I’m just honking from a rooftop.

    Finding the right side

    The wrong side of the bed.

    I don’t really have any other option.

    It’s just the one side, and that’s it.

    But the routine was off this morning.

    Set myself up to be out of sync.

    Out of whatever worn groove I have that helps me get into the morning, into the day:

    • Woke up later than planned
    • Had to move my morning routine around

    Then I start my computer, and there’s an issue.

    One I can fix, most likely, but, I have a choice now.

    Make this event the day.

    Start stacking all the bad.

    Seeing everything that’s coming through that lens.

    “It’s just one of those days”.

    Thank you, Mr. Durst and Co.

    Nothing wrong with having a “day”.

    But I do get decide what kind of day it is.

    It’s either a bad day, or a good one.

    A great one, even.

    No matter what comes.

    The day is neutral.

    Switzerland, but didn’t bring the chocolate.

    Where the sides get chosen is in how I see the day.

    True, some days will be better than others.

    There will be events that mark the days.

    Times we will always remember, good or ill.

    So finding the good then?

    Takes a little more work.

    Maybe the only thing that’s good is that there’s a bed to crawl back into.

    A job that you can avoid for a while.

    Even then.

    As someone brilliant showed me, “It’s a great day to have a great day”.

    Might end up back in bed anyway, though.

    Got choices?

    When it all feels like a dumpster fire, it’s hard to see over the sides.

    We end up waiting for The Moment.

    That crack in the wall.

    The sun shining through.

    A lucky break that will free us.

    When the truth is that The Moment is made of other moments.

    Decisions.

    Choices.

    It’s a collective, not a singular event, built of all the branchings we took to get to where we are.

    And to where we’re going.

    It’s not about finding the key that unlocks the future.

    It’s about making the key.

    Like most good things, it’s simple.

    Just not so easy.

    And we’re not always afforded that choice.

    But.

    If you have a choice?

    You’re still here.

    Still in it.

    Of course AI is smarter

    We’re worried, rightly, that AI will replace us.

    That we’ve created a species smarter than us.

    Except.

    We’re the ones that came up with Ted Cruz.

    JoJo Siwa.

    Kid Rock, who’s alt right now, apparently?

    AI won’t be the smartest species.

    Just the one that’s smarter than us.

    Think about that the next time:

    • You can’t get napkins out of the dispenser because some kid put too many in there and you’re turning napkins into hamster bedding material on your way out of the Chipotle
    • Dad tells you colloidal silver will cure cancer and bring on the Rapture
    • Uncle Mike tells you he “did his own research” and pulls up YouTube videos “proving” the earth is flat

    Of course AI’s going to be smarter.

    It’s not a high bar.

    Help me?

    You think I don’t want help.

    Not true.

    It’s the help that’s on offer.

    The one that assumes.

    Doesn’t ask.

    Won’t adapt.

    Just gets to work.

    We’re not all nails.

    Stop showing up with a hammer.

    Can you see me?

    Do you see me?

    Am I being seen?

    Does it matter?

    And what does it mean?

    YouTube’s algorithm decided this morning that women getting out of cars in Monaco would enrich my life.

    That’s visibility.

    Voyeurism.

    Because they weren’t famous.

    Whoever’s filming?

    Not paparazzi.

    Just some cameraman (of course it was a man) across the street from some hotel.

    Posting a video to LinkedIn of you crying when your latest entrepreneurial venture failed because it turns out that marmots aren’t “the next chinchilla” isn’t being seen, either.

    That’s performative self-promoting content creation.

    Being seen is when halfway through apologizing because you’re sure your explanation of why the popularity of Power Slap is more worrying than whether we’re going to have to choose between the dictator or the dotard in November is going too long and they tell you there’s no need to apologize.

    And then.

    Tell you that they understand why you feel the need to apologize.

    And that the apology’s OK, too.

    That?

    Is being seen.

    And it feels like.

    Coming home.

    Equalized

    Equality.

    Hear it a lot, probably use it a lot.

    Think we know what it means.

    This country’s founded on the ideal.

    “All men are created equal.”

    Sounds nice.

    Except that most of the men in that room?

    Owned slaves.

    Got around that equality problem by declaring that those slaves weren’t people.

    Problem solved.

    When we talk about American values, American ideals, American greatness, we gloss over the messy bits.

    We’d rather pat ourselves on the back than take the time to unravel what it is about this country that makes us problematic.

    Give us a parade.

    Leave the thinking to the next guy.

    Let it go

    You’d think it would be easier.

    Just relax your grip.

    Open your hand.

    Simple.

    Sometimes it’s all you can do.

    Holding on is hurting you.

    But it’s all you’ve known.

    Muscle memory.

    Painful, but familiar.

    What comes after?

    When we’ve let go?

    Sometimes journeys start with a step.

    This one?

    Starts with a fall.

    Do It Over

    Sometimes it’s just best to start over.

    Clean the slate.

    Open to a new page.

    Find all new people to run for president.

    Seems easy enough.

    Just start fresh.

    Except that we’ve invested more than just time, or money.

    We’ve put ourselves into whatever this is.

    Whether that’s a cake or a candidate, that’s hard to let go.

    But if we don’t?

    We’ll probably ruin somebody’s party.

    Slow Starts

    There are a thousand miles ahead.

    So take that first step.

    And the next one.

    And the one after that.

    Just by taking a step, you’re ahead of the game.

    It’s not how you started, it’s that you kept going.

    Even that can feel like a reach.

    This morning it’s just “Don’t quit”.

    And that’s going to be enough.

    Roadhouse 2024: Big Dumb Fun

    Watched the 2024 reboot of Roadhouse last night.

    It’s a movie that, like the original, worked very hard to give the main character depth.

    Make them into a nuanced reflection of the world they move in.

    And, like the original, it did that.

    But not so much that we forget that our hero is, at the end of the day, a guy who’s really good at hurting people.

    For a cause, to be sure, but still.

    Punchy McPunchface punches his way to glory.

    That’s one way for me to read this movie.

    The other way?

    Is that it’s a big, stupid, loud movie that veers close to Vin Diesel territory with some of the stunts, but still manages to make you believe it’s just a couple of guys beating on each other in a bar.

    Big. Dumb. Fun.

    Set in America’s home for big dumb fun: Florida.

    Sometimes that’s all I want from a movie, is just to be loud. Silly. Dumb.

    Because so much of the real world is Big Dumb Awful.

    Felt good to find the fun.

    Listen to the tribe, Joe

    The Debate has assumed capital status in my head, somewhere between 9/11 and the day Jerry Garcia died.

    Biden lost.

    Democracy won.

    Or at least what comes after Old White Guys.

    Because we don’t have Biden at 51.

    Or 61.

    Not even 71.

    This is Biden at 81.

    Age has caught up to him.

    He always said he was just a bridge.

    He knew at 77 that he was there to walk the country back to civility, then hand it off.

    Now, faced with that reality, he’s doing what any of us would: refusing to let go.

    Believing in himself despite the facts.

    Becoming a parody of his opponent, cursed with that same affliction.

    The Debate was his to lose, set as it was in a way that should have played to his strengths.

    But those left the building before he even took his place behind that lectern.

    It’s not whether he could win the election, it’s whether he should. Because whoever’s in charge in the White House, the guy who’s prioritizing sleep isn’t it.

    The Debate showed us what his staff wouldn’t: a president shielded from scrutiny by those unwilling to let go of power.

    If he runs? Of course I’ll vote for him. The alternative is unthinkable.

    Give America the chance to win this one.

    The tribe has spoken.

    Bring in the torch while there’s still a flicker.

    Before time snuffs it out.

    Dictator or Dotard

    Freedom of choice.

    Freedom from choice.

    Language is tricky.

    It’s a syllable.

    Just the one.

    Couple of extra letters.

    But it means we’ve got two options:

    1. A convicted felon and pathological liar bent on revenge
    2. A principled leader so diminished by time he needs someone to lead him off stage

    I like having fewer choices.

    Helps me work with my brain, not against it.

    Think I’m ready to make an exception here.

    Broaden the field.

    Open the primaries back up.

    Make politics interesting again.

    Not in the Chinese way.

    In a way that energizes the base.

    The base that wants something other than tyranny.

    Or at least tyranny on a less terrifying scale.

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