The Point of the Story

Your #1 Source of Unsolicited Life Advice

Month: November 2019

Mediocre Life Tips: B List

28 November 2019 / / 1 Comment
7 Min Read

Editor’s note: This is the B-List of Mediocre Life Tips. If you’re looking for the A-List, you can find it here.

Hello Dear Readers! I hope you found my first list of tips to be life-enhancing–or mildly thought-provoking at the very least.

These “tips” I share often tend to be arbitrary and capricious, and are merely methods and madness that I have found to work well [enough] for me. Heck, I can’t even claim credit for the vast majority of them. To be clear: this is not professional advice from a trained expert (though I doubt any of you were clinging onto my every last word like it was the Gospel of John to begin with…).

The reason I bring up the casual nature of my Life Tips is because I know how annoying it can be when someone makes a suggestion for you to act upon, but somehow they have a disproportionately burdensome expectation for you to follow through on their opinion. I mean, when was the last time you had a friend highly recommend you read their blog and just know that they’re judging you when it becomes obvious you haven’t followed through?1If you’re reading this, then it’s already too late.

So, to be clear, I have no expectations that anyone will actually follow these tips. Take them or leave them at your leisure.

However, I am very interested in hearing about all the random life tips y’all out there might have, so I highly encourage you to share them in the comments. I can’t make any promises that I will heed your words, but you never know who else is reading that may find your tip to be the perfect human-experience enhancing tidbit missing from their life.

So, without further rambling, here’s another Chernobyl Handful2TM? of ways that the icing on the cake of my life has been made just a wee bit sweeter.

6. I can’t promise that every Life Tip list will include a butter-centric entry, but the streak isn’t gonna end with this one! I love me some grilled cheese sandwiches, and enjoy finding different ways to turn them into slightly fancier culinary experiences. In addition to the bonus tip of using copious amounts of butter, I recommend adding a little sweetness to all that savory by adding some butter-grilled pear or apple slices.

Before you begin grilling the bread, throw them in the pan with a quarter stick of butter, turning once to ensure each side gets nice and caramelized. Bonus bonus tip: be sure to perform some “quality control” to make sure they’re delicious AF before adding them to your sandwich.

5. Fun fact: I actually worked in customer service for a cell phone company for a year and half between undergrad and grad school. Early on in that career, I attended a mandatory “How to talk to customers” class with all the other noobs. My take-away from that class was that with a few slight communication tweaks, many of my human interactions could be made significantly smoother.

The one that really stuck with me was the phrase “If you would, could you…?” used when asking something of someone. The beauty of this is that it reframes the situation from you demanding something of them to them having the opportunity to do you a favor.

Would you like that used in a sentence? Sure!

“If you would, could you subscribe to the Point of the Story’s newsletter, and share your favorite article(s) with everyone you know?”

No? Too thirsty?

4. If you’re like me, the shower is perhaps the most fertile ground for interesting thoughts. The downside to that is that you may find yourself losing more time than an alien abductee.

If you’re trying to conserve water or just need to stay on schedule, try picking out 1 or 2 Shower Jamz to listen to while you wash up. Their running time should roughly add up to your ideal shower time, which should clock in around 2-3 minutes (I personally have a lot of shower thoughts, so I need 5-6 minutes).

Interestingly, this concept actually helped solve a water shortage crisis in Cape Town, South Africa. Popular musicians there recorded 2-minute versions of their hit songs to help make it easier for the residents to not dilly-dally so much in the shower. I recommend reading about it here,3https://qz.com/quartzy/1212813/cape-town-water-crisis-and-how-to-conserve-water-this-playlist-of-two-minute-songs-will-keep-your-showers-short/ which also includes ten 2-minute songs to help you get started!

As always, a word of caution is warranted here. If you use YouTube to supply your hand-selected Jamz, your cheap ass may want to consider upgrading to the Ad-Free version.

Let’s just say that there is no greater motivation to get the ----- out of the shower than the prospect of being held captive for 6 minutes by a St. Jude’s commercial featuring real kids with adolescent leukemia.

*Whomp whomp whommmmmmmp*

3. If you want to rock out in the shower but don’t want to shell out the cash for a BlueTooth speaker, at least take advantage of the laws of physics readily available in the bathroom.

The projection of the audio from your phone speakers can be easily enhanced by setting it in the [dry] sink with the speaker facing the drain as best as possible. This is approximately the same geometry as a satellite dish receiver or many modern large-scale telescopes.

You may be thinking that I’m over-hyping the situation, though I suspect that is probably because you’re thinking of the word hyperbolic when the one you’re actually looking for is parabolic.

Boom! I award myself two points for nailing both a geometric and a linguistic reference in the same breath.

2. Do you love to eat oranges, but hate making a juicy mess every time you peel one?

I, too, was once like you…when I was 3, to be exact.

I have a distinct memory of getting fed up with getting covered in fresh OJ every time I wanted a citrusy snack without adult supervision. With the utmost determination, I set out to divine the perfect algorithm for peeling oranges. After about a week of practice and 12-18 oranges later, I had mastered the Art of the Orange.

And, yes, I was ----- proud of myself then, and ----- proud of myself now…apparently.

Now, most of my techniques would fall under the categories of either common sense or basic fine motor skills, so I won’t bore you with the details.

However, there was one innovation–at least by toddler standards–worth noting: get a clean start to the peeling process by biting skin-depth into the pedicel region (the “polar cap” containing the stem).

You’ll want to go all the way through the flavedo and almost all the way through the albedo,4Yes, I just learned those two terms. Indubitably. just stopping short of breaking the inner membrane. With any luck, you should be able to twist the cap off and pull out most of the central column with it.

Tada! You’re 1/3 of the way done, and not a single drop of juice on your fingers!

Years later in grad school, when I was about to enjoy an orange in the lab, one of my professors strolls in and was like, “Ha ha–you know how to peel an orange right?”

Okay, first I gotta point out that this was a very poorly phrased question and made him sound borderline condescending.

Anyways, I responded the same way any other non-3-year-old should: “Uh…I think so. Why do you ask?”

Despite his choice of words, he actually had a pretty good hack for peeling oranges that I promptly added to my repertoire: before peeling, roll the orange around on a solid surface for 30-60 seconds. This will work wonders for separating the peel from the flesh, all without even breaking the skin!

As a bonus, this method will also provide you with a wonderful palm massage.

1. Speaking of massages…good lord, ear massages! This life-changing tip comes to us from my Korean Umma5I.e. mother[in-law] via my wife–just so you know who you should really be thanking.

I promise you, once you’ve been introduced to these, you’ll wonder how you lived so long without them.

Ear massages are a great stress reliever, on-demand any time you need it! While they are fantastic as a gift given, there is no shame in a little self-lovin’ when given to one’s self.

Start out by grasping the lobule and slowly and firmly tugging downwards (Fig. 1A). Use enough force to almost be painful; the edge of discomfort is where the tension really gets released. Hold for 10-15 seconds, gently massaging the lobule between your thumb and index finger. Release. Repeat if desired.

Figure 1. Tugging techniques.

Likewise, tug the upper helix upwards (Fig. 1B) and the outer helix towards the back of your head (Fig. 1C), again holding for 10-15 second while gently massaging between your fingers.

Next you will want to release the tension in the opposite direction. This can be achieved by “folding” up the lobule such that it meets the tragus (aka the flap that could cover the ear canal–Fig. 2A), and then pressing the now-exposed underside of the lobule to apply firm pressure to the tragus underneath (Fig. 2B). Hold for 10-15 seconds before releasing. Repeat as desired.

Figure 2. Folding the lobule upwards.

As with the tugging technique, you will want to perform the analogous exercises for the upper helix (Figs. 3A, 3B) and the outer helix (not shown).

Figure 3. Folding the upper helix downwards.

The last part is my favorite part: the tragus. Pushing firmly at roughly a 45-degree angle into and toward the back of your head, pulsate the tragus at a rate of about once per second (Fig. 4A) for 10-15 seconds. End with constant pressure on the tragus (Fig. 4B) for a final 10 seconds.

Figure 4. Working the tragus.

These massages can be performed on one ear at a time, or simultaneously on both ears at the same time. The latter is particularly nice during the tragus-specific massages.

Ear massages are meant to be indulgent, so please, enjoy with reckless abandon.

Again, please share any random-ass Life Tips you may have in the comments below.

Er, I meant, “If you would, could you kindly share us your favorite Life Tips in the comments below?”

And, as always, check out the Life Tips page for all the wisdom accumulated herein. Shalom!

Footnotes & References:[+]

No, Olive You, Man

24 November 2019 / / 6 Comments
9 Min Read

Everybody needs at least one constant truth in their life to keep them sane.

For me, that one truth was that I could always count on olives to be intolerably nasty.

I knew from an early age that olives and I weren’t going to get along.

For example, when I was 9 I had gone out to eat at our local Pizza Hut with my Little League baseball team after a game. Though I thought I had taken adequate precautions and picked all the chunks of olive off of my piece of Supreme pizza, apparently my youthful gluttony kicked in a second too soon as I recklessly jammed it into my eagerly awaiting proverbial pie-hole.

As soon as it touched the tip of my tongue, however, alarm bells were going off in my mouth. Like putting one’s hand on a hot stove, in an effort to protect itself, my body swiftly rejected the bite back into my hand and onto my plate. Sure as shit, there was the tiniest speck of olive hidden deep in the cheese. I vaguely remember muttering some comment to myself about the “damn nasty olive.”

I probably would have never remembered that last detail, except that the next day, my dad ripped me a proverbial new one, going off on me about how rude I had been. I guess somehow word about the non-event had gotten back to him, and for reasons that will forever be beyond me, he thought the appropriate reaction was to chew my ass out over it.

I was not pleased with him at all–I was like “Hey, I’m the victim here! Would it hurt to show a little sympathy for your wounded offspring?”

That may sound a little dramatic, but you have to understand, I had been thoroughly traumatized just from having that sharp, unpleasant sensation in my mouth for a mere 300 milliseconds. And then, to add insult to injury, I was being made out to be the village asshole over the whole ordeal. The olive had managed to screw me over twice in one shot.

So yeah, as far as I was concerned, olives could go pit themselves where the sun don’t shine.

For many a decade this animosity held true.

My dispassion for slimy mushrooms, once thought also to be a constant, gave way to a modest respect for their savory meatiness. Presidents came and went. The length and color(s) of my hair ebbed and flowed.

I even finally figured out how to convince a beautiful, competent, and kind female to hitch her star to my wagon.

Yet amidst this inevitable sea of change, like a solid rock I could plant my feet on, was the fact that olives were an agricultural atrocity–nay, a culinary catastrophe, I dare say.

It was shortly after I got married at the age of 27 that the first crack appeared in this rock.

I got to attend a physics conference in New Orleans, and since it coincided with the Boss Lady’s Spring Break,1No, I wasn’t robbing the cradle–she was getting her second degree in nursing when we met and got married. I got to bring her along for what was approximately a mini second honeymoon. I mean, I did have to give a short talk at the conference, so that was hanging over my head pretty much the whole week that we were there. But hey–we were in New Orleans, there was much to see and–more importantly–much to eat.

First day I was there, I went to a mini-conference related to my particular sub-field, and in all of the complimentary box lunches were muffulettas,2If you’re not familiar with these: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Muffuletta. the quintessential New Orleans sandwich. The important detail here is that muffulettas must have a thick layer of olive salad, and of course my sandwich was no exception.

I was like, “hell no, mofo!” and promptly scraped all them revolting olives off. I didn’t care if I was being culturally insensitive–this one was on them because I know for a fact that olives are not even close to being universally loved.3Definite proof that I’m not alone in this: https://www.mic.com/articles/107536/if-you-absolutely-despise-olives-there-could-be-a-good-reason-why. What kind of presumptive pricks force feed everyone olives without offering any alternatives?

Anyways, later that same trip, whilst caught up in a romantic/adventurous moment with my lady friend, I…I…I, uh…I tried a muffuletta without taking the olives off.

It must have been the romance of it all, but…I kinda like it. Just a little bit though–just barely beyond “tolerable.”

Figure 1. An approximation of our magical moment with the muffuletta.

Interestingly, once back home, I found myself with an occasional hankering for muffulettas. That casual hankering slowly morphed into a craving, to the point where I even looked into having one shipped in from that particular deli for the Boss Lady’s birthday.

Like a mealtime MacGyver, I found that if I was really desperate I could improvise…with olives. It turns out that *gasp* olives and muffulettas taste awfully alot like each other. Go figure.

I was still in denial for a few more years though. I would reticently admit that, solely in the context of muffulettas, I could enjoy olives as part of the larger experience, but was adamant that I was still a hardcore oleaphobe.

Fittingly, it was on another physics-related business trip when I found myself stuck with two of my much elder professors/collaborators in the Philadelphia airport with an hour to kill before our flight home. Being distinguished and refined fellows, they gravitated towards the airports wine + olive bar, and dragged me along for the ride.

I think deep down, I wasn’t that resistant to the idea, but I had to at least pretend to put up a fight out of principle. You know, “Well, you can make me eat these fancy olives, but I don’t have to like it!”

I liked it.

I casually brought up my history with those “balls from hell”4I just recently picked up that term from here: https://www.mic.com/articles/107536/if-you-absolutely-despise-olives-there-could-be-a-good-reason-why (same as previous reference). with my associates, and I was somewhat surprised when our collaborator, J5Not my brother “J”–it’s actually spelled Jie in this case, but since it’s a Chinese name, we just use “J” since it perfectly conveys the pronunciation. (who I didn’t know as well), was like, “Oh yeah, that pretty accurately describes the trajectory of my relationship with them as well…” He went on to explain in depth about how he, too, once hated the ‘live, but had gradually come to appreciate the intricate nuances that awaited those intrepid enough to explore them.

It was in that moment that I finally found the courage to come to terms with man I had become.

It was official: I genuinely appreciated and enjoyed olives.

And you know what else I genuinely appreciated and enjoyed? The small gesture that J had made to share that sliver of life wisdom with me. While it may seem asinine on the surface, his act of incidental mentorship impacted me far greater than anything we ever did together academically. He opened my eyes to the possibility of a path that leads to discovering refined experiences in something I swore I would hate to my death.

No matter how old you are, it’s never too late to develop a new appreciation for an old nemesis. If I could come to openly love olives, then what else might I find myself enjoying when I revisit other things that I may have written off in the past, or not given a second thought to at all?

Ultimately, what he was showing me was a blueprint for personal growth, with the real gift being a much fuller and richer life ahead of me.

So J, if you ever read this, thank you. To everyone else, I hope that by trying to rub my little mini-spiritual journey off on you, your future life may be just wee bit more of a life fully lived.6I accidentally mistyped this as “foully lived”…and I was really tempted to not correct myself, because admit it, that version is waaaay better.

And the real point of the story is, if I could go back to the moment when I was slightly intoxicated on wine, olive brine, and life itself, I would turn to J and drunkly proclaim in my most obnoxious bro-voice…

“No, olive you, man.”

Now that you know how the story ends, I figure you might be interested in an origin story. They seem to be all the rage these days, no?

Earlier I chose to share an olive-related anecdote from when I was 9, but really my hate-hate relationship with olives goes back much further.

The first Thanksgiving7“Aha! So this is supposed to be a Thanksgiving-themed post, then?” you may be correctly asking yourself. that I can remember clearly, I remember for all the wrong reasons.

Although I was only 3 at the time, my dislike for olives had already been well-established in my mind. Like I said, it was a life-truth, something you just seemingly have known forever.

As with almost every Kansas Thanksgiving in my life, I was at my aunt’s house with pretty much every family member on my mom’s side. Specifically, this included my many siblings and cousins.

Since I was the next to youngest cousin at the time, it goes without saying that I was hanging out with a small gang of ones older than me. Oh, and speaking of constants, a constant at all of these late November family feasts would be a relish tray that would prominently feature black olives.

So, us kids being kids, the other members of my party started putting olives on each of their fingers, and would pretend to be some weird food version of Freddy Kruger. It looked like a blast, so naturally, I joined right in.

I was having fun playing with the food along with everyone else, when gradually they started eating the olives off their fingers. Of course, there was no way in hell that I was going to eat the ones on mine, so I went to go throw them away and be on my merry way.

However, before I could dispose of them, I was intercepted by either my grandma…or maybe it was an aunt? Surprisingly, I can’t remember exactly who to blame for scarring me for life.

Whoever it was, though, they were a real Food Fascist about it, insisting that I eat every single one of them, knowing full well how much I hated them.

I cried, I begged, I pled for mercy.

No dice. They stood firm in their position, and would not let me leave until I ate them all.

This Mediterranean Standoff went on for a good 15-20 minutes, which is, like, forever, in 3-year-old time.

Now, I’m not one given to using potty words, but this seriously ----- with my head.

I mean, they were being pure evil dickheads about it. For god’s sake, I was three.

I didn’t realize that by sticking my finger in their pit-holes, I was effectively committing myself to consummating my relationship with the olives via consumption. I was just having a little fun with my cousins. Why was this adult all up in my shit, yo?

As for my clean-fingered cousins, they all bailed on me, so I was left with no one to defend me, nary a soul to champion my cause. They had lured me into the situation, and then were like, “Well, it sounds like you got a real you problem, now don’t you? See ya!”

In the end all the crying in the world didn’t get me anywhere. I vaguely remember gagging them down one by one, and even though I have a much evolved appreciation for them now, as I recollect this experience in writing this, it still makes me vomit a wee bit in my mouth. And though I describe the memory as “vague” I think that is only because I’ve seriously tried to block out this core traumatic even from my childhood.

If you can’t tell by the way I write about it, this has stuck with me my whole life, and not in a positive way. Let’s just say I’m not a big fan of arbitrary enforcement of arbitrary rules. Fairness is important to me, and this is one of the experiences that helped shape that into a more severe version than what might be considered healthy.

Figure 2: How I felt about olives for the first ~29 years of my life.

Case in point: one of the couple of the Thanksgivings I was in grad school but before I got married, I was spending it at my brother’s house with his family. My nephew, who was 3 or 4 at the time, tried pulling the same shit with the olives on the fingers just as I had at that age.

Now, it is a natural part of the human psyche for the abused to often become the abuser, and I there I found myself, attempting to perpetuate the vicious cycle of olive-eating enforcement. If I had to suffer that dumbass rule, then why should he get out of it, huh? Where’s the fairness in that?

It may surprise you, but when my sister came along, she did not back me up at all on that point–nor did my brother who eventually joined us. We had a good 5-minute argument about it, but in the end, those olives went to waste.

Truth be told, I was actually relieved that I was unsuccessful. I really don’t wish my early olive experience on anyone, and I would hate to have been the one to scar my nephew for NO ----- REASON.

So…this Thanksgiving, give thanks that you’re not a grown man who probably really should see a therapist concerning what, in this doctor’s humble opinion, appears to be…some sort of weird Stockholm Syndrome?

To quote a favorite band of mine:

Boy, you just don’t know how lucky you are.

Electric Six, Infected girls

Content created on: 23/24 November 2019 (Sat/Sun).

Footnotes & References:[+]

Mediocre Life Tips: A List

21 November 2019 / / 0 Comments
3 Min Read

I recently had the pleasure of seeing Jerry Seinfeld live, and something he said reminded me how much of an under-rated philosopher1I shit thee not, I have to credit the wisdom of Seinfeld for my marriage to a woman waaaaaay out of my league…one day, Young Grasshopper, I will regale you with that tale… he is:

“Forget the best–if you want to be happy in life, then ask for good enough. I don’t want to eat at the best restaurant–too much pressure and almost inevitable disappointment. Point me to a good enough restaurant and I’ll be 10 times happier.”

Jerome Seinfeld

So in honor of the genius behind “The show about nothing,” and also to throw a bone to the list-loving Bourgeois at there, I present to you 6 random middle-of-the-road Life Tips, in no particular order.

Are they the best Life Tips I have to offer? Ah, hecks, no. But, meh, good enough, right?

Without further ado, I present to you…

  1. When eating toast, don’t settle for a peasant’s meal–butter both sides of the bread for an instant fancy feast. Because nothing says “damn straight, I’m worth it” like an extra pat of butter…
  2. Speaking of “butt” and “both sides”…if you have somehow walked through life without being introduced to the pure revelation that are buttwipes, then chances are you’ve been walking through life with some unnecessarily crusty cheeks. Seriously folks, once you go Cottonelle,2Personally, my family uses Kirkland Signature Moist Flushable Wipes, available at your local Costco. you can never go back. I was 26 before my future wife showed me the light, and I seriously wonder how the hell I lived with myself for those first 25 years.

    A word of caution though: if you or a loved one own a sceptic tank, you might want to consider trying to get by on half a wipe per flush. My in-laws didn’t use them until the year that the Boss Lady and I lived with them. Five months in and they had to pump the sceptic tank way ahead of schedule. You can imagine my father-in-law was not pleased when out came wad after wad of wipes–it was visceral evidence that our high-falutin’ hygienic habits of the heinie were the reason he was out $2000.

    After hearing stories like that, it easy to understand why the packaging for these products are so very adamant about only flushing one at at time–almost rising to a comical level, even. But…PSSST! I have a secret for you: if you find yourself mildly displeased with your job and really want to stick it to The Man, do like I doo-doo, and flush 2 at a time when doing your business at work. That’ll show ’em.

    Ahh, the simple guilty pleasures in life…
  3. Are you tired of freezing your ass off after getting out of a nice warm shower? When I was about 7 or so, I realized that the hotter the shower, the more miserable I was when I got out into the air that was now relatively even more cold. It occurred to me that if the hot water was the problem, then logically, ice cold water should be the solution. I soon found myself in the habit of blasting myself with the coldest water possible for as long as I could bear, ~30-60 seconds, right before getting out of the shower–something I’ve done with every single shower I’ve taken since then. It wasn’t until roughly 30 years later before I was made aware of the scientific literature supporting similar practices.3Just google “cold shower circulation” for a selection of references. I guess I was just a boy years ahead of his time…#HumbleBrag?
  4. Feeling frisky and want to tempt a date with diabetes? Then grab that bottle of Hershey’s syrup, and apply directly to the soda pop of your choice! I personally prefer chocolatinated Dr. Pepper or Pepsi.
  5. This next tip is courtesy of my beloved mother. It was only in the last few weeks that I learned that she has this ritual of sending a different, typically higher-end, tea bag with the hand-written letters she sends to her long-distance friends, and likewise they do the same. So in addition to reading a heart-warming letter from a dear old friend, they brew up the tea and simultaneously enjoy having their bodies warmed in a delightful new way each time as well. Such a touching and thoughtful gesture is about enough to make me want to dust off my cursive skills and start hand-writing letters to my friends…almost.
  6. Are your blog posts just too ----- long? Why not just split them in two! No one will ever notice you’re 4 short of a Top-10 list anyways. And as bonus, you’ve already got next Thursday’s post done as well!
Image Source4https://sciencebriefss.com/health/new-molecular-mechanism-discovered-that-prevents-cell-division-and-cancer

And don’t forget to check out our previous Life Tips vis-à-vis hair in the shower, nocturnal nose-picking, and avoiding crappy beer!

Now go and live your #goodenoughlife, dammit–LIVE!

Content created on: 19/20 November 2019 (Tues/Wed)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Wrestling the Machine

17 November 2019 / / 0 Comments
6 Min Read

Fun fact:

Everybody knows that Automated Teller Machines can dispense cash, but did you know that you can make deposits at these so-called “ATMs” as well?

Amazing.

Simply, simply amazing what technology can do these days…*shakes head, low-whistles*

More amazing is that any adult would not already know this fact.

Now, if you didn’t know this tidbit of adulting trivia already, and feel a bit insulted by me pointing out your astounding ignorance, don’t let your feathers get too kerfluffled. You wouldn’t be the first beautiful mind to get tripped up on this.

In fact, I would say that you’re in good company.

Today, as I deposited a couple of checks at a conveniently located ATM–without an envelope, mind you–I marveled at how buttery-smooth of a transaction it was.

Especially compared to the very first time I made an ATM deposit of my own…

It was the Summer of 2002, and sure, like any other 21-year-old I had had my share of casual encounters with ATMs, but nothing, you know, like anything serious.

Usually these encounters would consist of me quickly entering my PIN, and then pulling out a small wad of cash in a well-timed manner. One might say that my withdrawal method1Ladies and gentlemen, the best latin phrase in the world:https://www.mayoclinic.org/tests-procedures/withdrawal-method/about/pac-20395283. was impeccable.

But when it came to any truly meaningful banking transactions devoid of a human intermediary, let’s face the cold hard facts: I was basically an ATM virgin.

And little did I know, but I was about to get deflowered.

Ah, yes, the Summer of ’02: I was working as a counselor at a summer camp about 15 minutes outside of the Greater Kansas City metro area.

Usually on the weekends, me and a handful of the other counselors would stay at the camp and just laze about eating all the leftover cafeteria-style pizza, honing our skills on the Blob, or just generally chillaxing pool-side. You know, living the high life.

On occasion, though, we would venture into KC for a lazy Saturday afternoon adventure. One Saturday in particular, no one else was around, so I decided to set out on my own.

But this day, I was on a mission.

You see, I wasn’t making very much money in this gig, but the paychecks were large enough that they belonged in the safety of my bank account. But, alas, during the work week, we were with the kids literally 24/7,2Legally required to be so, in fact. so it was virtually impossible to get to a bank during their regular business hours.

I’m sure I ran other errands that day, but the one I really needed to take care of was depositing those paychecks.

I don’t precisely recollect, but it is entirely possible that I wasn’t planning on getting screwed by an ATM that day. There is a decent chance I rolled up to the local branch of my bank fully expecting it to be open on a Saturday. Like I said, I was young and naive. Don’t judge me…yet.

So anyways, there I was, alone with the ATM. I was nervous and not sure of myself at all. It was awkward.

It being my first time, I wasn’t quite sure what to do. Like…where I do even put it in, right?

My dad never sat me down and showed me around the delicate parts of an ATM, you know? He just never had that talk with me. I guess he figured I would pick up on the whole personal finance thing from movies and TV shows.

Despite the lack of parental guidance, I found the slot where I was supposed to enter the checks easily enough. But it was totally unclear to me how to get that slot to bloom like a lotus and allow me to make my deposit.

Ah! Envelopes! I found the deposit envelopes nearby, and, like any financially responsible adult, gently wrapped my signed checks inside the safety of the sturdy white walls of one of them.

At this point, I had one thought that kept nagging in the back of my mind. Say that I figured out how to get my envelope full of checks in that slot…then what? I seriously was concerned that, devoid of any explicit contextual information, come Monday the bank was going to get a bunch of signed checks and have no way of knowing that the funds belonged in my account.

Thinking it odd that the only thing they asked for on the envelope was the deposit amount, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I dug up a pen in my car, and wrote my full name on the envelope.

But I didn’t stop there. I needed that money to post to my account on time and I was leaving nothing to chance. So I wrote my full account number on there, too. Probably my address and phone number as well.

Hell, I think I may have even gone as far as putting my Social Security number on there.

By time I was done, I had that envelope covered front and back with inky, inky unsolicited information. I mean, I feel like only Ken Burns could put together something more well-documented than the work of art that I held in my hands.

But, I was confident that there would be no mistake about into whose account that money should go. And that’s what really mattered.

Certain that I had that dragon slain, I turned my attention back to the obvious problem of getting the envelope inside the ATM.

I tried everything I could think of, even going as far as forcing the slot open and trying to jam the envelope in. I was truly at a loss for why it wouldn’t just slide in. In fact, the envelope was getting a bit ragged and torn from the attempted forced entry. It wasn’t pretty.

I knew in my heart of hearts that there had to be a way to make the ----- deposit, but my mind couldn’t make sense of anything.

At this point, I had probably spent at least half an hour wrestling with this mother ----- Automated Teller Machine. And it was a hot mid-summer day. And I was covered in stress-sweat on top of that, as I was really freaking out about getting my checks deposited. I was dripping wet and feeling a little nasty, but in the most of uncomfortable of ways.

Let’s see if I can put this politely:

I was the one who had tried forcing themselves upon a poor defenseless machine, so it was ironic3Or an alternate theory: poetic. that in the end I was the one who felt sodomized.

Truly, technology had found me in the Alps.4This makes complete sense once you read The Alpine Stranger.

My spirit crushed, I finally gave up. I sat on the curb next to the ATM in defeat and tried my best to not sob gently to myself.

I was a lost soul adrift at sea, with no one to guide me to shore.

I never imagined in my wildest dreams that a piece of technology could cut me so deeply to the core. Yet there I was, with ink-stained hands and lightly covered in paper dust, a completely broken man.

I finally gathered myself and formed a new game plan. I just might be able to make it to Monday without overdrafting, and then maybe my boss would have mercy on my poor soul and let me run to town early in the morning when the bank was actually open.

I whipped out my debit card and stuck it into the ATM to double-check the balance on my account.

And that’s when I saw it: on the ATM’s touch screen flickered the option to Deposit Checks.

Profound is the only word I can really come up with to describe that moment of realization.

Yes, “profound”, as in, “Never have I felt so profoundly dumb in my life…”

Even to this day I am embarrassed by the sheer stupidity I exhibited for a good sustained 30+ minutes. I don’t even know how it was humanly possible to go through all those mental exercises and miss the TOTALLY OBVIOUS solution of using my debit card and PIN. Like, how would this not be the very first thing any human being would do at the beginning of any ATM interaction?

*Slaps forehead*

Of course in retrospect it all made waaaaay too much sense. Of course my debit card would be intrinsically tied to my bank account. Of course a touch-button would appear that I could press to tell the ATM I wanted to it to open its slot and take my check-laden envelope inside itself. Of course they could easily correlate said envelope with the ATM transaction that was initiated with my card. Of course this multi-billion dollar industry had already figured all this shit out. Of ----- course.

All that aside, I was so relieved to have finally solved the mystery that I didn’t really care how much of a dummy I may have looked like. I mean, there was no witnesses to this fiasco, after all.

Well, almost no witnesses. I can only imagine the unsuspecting teller who was processing the weekend’s deposits as they came across my busted-ass, half-shredded, vandalized-looking envelope:

The point of the story is, if you ever find yourself in the slim minority of people who has had to seriously question whether they actually have the basic intelligence needed to survive adulthood, just remember there is hope.

Despite getting my ass handed to me by an ATM in my youth, I survived to go on to earn an advanced degree in physics.

#HumbleBrag

Oh, and amazingly, I still love technology. Always and forever…

Content created on: 13-15 November, 2019 (Wed/Thur/Fri).

Footnotes & References:[+]

Socrate’s Secret

14 November 2019 / / 0 Comments
5 Min Read

Lately, I’ve been kicking around the idea of getting myself some nice business cards. However, there’s just one problem: I have no idea how to describe myself in a professional context.

Yes, the dream is to have underneath my name the description My Own ----- Boss, but ironically I couldn’t be further from that at the moment, on account of me currently serving not one but two mistresses.1Mistress, as in the feminine form of Master. Please do not mistake that phrase as an admission of multiple romantic partners. I’m not that cool. So I need to come up with something more accurate in the meantime.

Currently, I would say my best guess is Half-Ass Life Philosopher. Yes, it may be a little pompous to try to claim the moniker of Philosopher–that’s why I want to stress the Half-Ass qualifier here. But, I gotta confess: I really do enjoy just sitting around and thinking about life.

Now, I wish I were a more noble breed of a thinker, pondering the depths of the universe, questioning the basis of our knowledge of reality, and what-not, but let’s face it, I’m no Plato.

I’m more like one of those modern “found art” artists who don’t make the art themselves, rather they just “find” it, and then somehow claim that they deserve accolades for just pointing at something random and saying “Hey look at that thing. I, as an inherently interesting person, do bequeath and impart my interestingness-hood to that thingy. Behold! When you look at it, think of how awesome I am!”

Or something like that.

The point of the story is, there are interesting bits of wisdom floating all around us; all you have to do is reach out and grab one of the little nuggets, and you, too, can call yourself a “philosopher.”

But if you hope to find yourself some life philosophy, it really helps to know where to look.

Me? I personally recommend you start by looking underneath the mattress of your brother’s bed…

You see, me and my older brother J. came of age in the mid-nineties. We didn’t have any of the awesome technology that offers an unlimited supply of entertainment and content that the kids these days have. On top of that, we rarely had much spending money, so we had to use our imaginations and be resourceful on a regular basis just to survive.

To meet our candy needs, we did things like, say, dressing up as twins for Halloween.

Instead of going out and buying the latest back-beat laden musical album on tape or CD, we spent many a hour listening intently to those radio stations we weren’t supposed to, waiting for our favorites jams to come on, and then in turn excitedly jamming the Record button to capture those sweet, sweet forbidden tunes on our trusty recordable cassette tapes.

And to placate the urges of our youthful curiosity, we had to resort to the classic tactic of intercepting Victoria’s Secret catalogs in the mail. Or, if one was really lucky, Frederick’s of Hollywood.

When I was in eighth grade and he a sophomore in high school, due to a series of asshole-induced life events, J. and I found ourselves living as illegal residents on a California military base with the family of one of our older siblings. Due to the lack of space, we were forced to share a room.

But, on the bright side, at least we had our own beds.

That came in handy when one day I fortuitously came across a Victoria’s/Frederick’s piece of high-brow literature in the family mailbox, and needed a secure location in which to store it.

If I had been more forward thinking, I would have stashed it under J.’s mattress. However, that was not the case, and instead kept the incriminating goods close to me under my own mattress.

Eventually the inevitable happened, and our dear mother came across the contraband reading material.

Now, one would think that it would have been an open-and-shut case against me, right? After all, the catalog was literally found on my personal property.

It just so happened, though, that I knew of a little ol’ philosopher named Occam, and his infamous Razor, which roughly states, “the simplest solution is most likely the right one.”2https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Occam’s_razor

And in this case, I knew that Mom would find it much simpler to believe the theory that J.–a perpetual rebel and thorn in her side–would be keeping his naughty magazines under the mattress of his Mama’s Boy little brother.

So you better ----- well believe I told her that J. was trying to frame me, instead of the other way around.

Even when she gathered both of us in the room and demanded we get to the bottom of The Mystery of Which of My Teen Boys Has Been Looking at Lingerie Catalogs, I managed to stick to my guns and maintain the lie.3For the record, this was waaaay out of character for me; I’m horribly bad at lying.

Ohhhhh, was J. ever pissed. Despite his protestations that it wasn’t his, and his “why are you doing this to me?!?” hurled in my general direction, Mom found my character to be much more impeccable than his, and in the end he got his ass grounded for a week, while I got off scot-free.

I really don’t feel too bad for making him my patsy, though. Growing up, he had a real bad habit of dragging my innocent-if-not-under-the-influence-of-others butt into all sorts of trouble.

I may have been a rascal, but he was a ----- troublemaker. It was nice to turn the tables on him for once…

The immoral of the story is this:

Kids, take the time to build that sacred trust with your parents. One day you just might need to cash in a bit of that currency to frame your brother for your embarrassing misdeeds…

Figure 1. Sorry, Bro, but the glove doth fit…

Oh, speaking of Victoria’s Secret, one time when I was in high school I saw one of the “Angels” in a totally different context–on E! or some entertainment channel like that–and turned to my stepmother and made some comment like “Hey, I know her from someone! Cool! I just can’t remember from where though…”

It wasn’t until later that I realized where exactly I had seen her before, and that in theory, her face should have been completely unfamiliar to me.

The only thing I could do then was just hope and pray Daisy4My stepmother’s alias. would never put two and two together and realize that maybe just perhaps perchance I was pilfering her postal publications on occasion.

Fortunately she never did, but I did learn a valuable lesson from it at least:

There’s nothing like getting ratted out by your own sub-conscious reaction when you recognize something you totally shouldn’t. Kids, keep your nose clean and hopefully you’ll never have to worry about becoming Your Own ----- Judas.

Like I said, there’s wisdom to be discovered everywhere.

Footnotes & References:[+]

Prissy Pet Project Parte Primera

10 November 2019 / / 0 Comments
13 Min Read

As I oh-so-ramblingly mentioned in my most recent post, Epitaph, I have greater plans for this blog than it just being a written repository of every single memory I can conjure up.

I actually hope to provide useful information for my Dear Readers.

I know, I know. It’s a ludicrous proposition. I’ll give you a moment to laugh it out.

Okay, now that you got your giggles out, I would like to get down to business, if you don’t mind.

While I have a couple of alternative-income generating adventures in my back pocket,1Fear not, those tales will be shared here in due time… I thought I would start off with an undertaking that y’all could be a part of from the very beginning.

With that in mind, let me try to set your expectations to a realistic level.

First, it is entirely possible that this could be, um, less than profitable. A word of caution to those who would be tempted to play along at home: you might want to wait a couple of episodes before trying anything out for yourself. Which brings me to…

Point #2: Mistakes Will Be Made. Let me make them so you don’t have to! Speaking from experience–namely my side hustle as a “small-time ticket broker”–I can say that there’s a pretty good chance that there will be a few pitfalls into which I will pitfall, and in doing so, allow those who follow in my footsteps to side step them with deftness and ease. In fact, I’m actually banking on a certain level of follies, as my mistakes == useful information for the public == maybe some sweet blog-generated coin. With any luck, some of them might be entertaining as well.

And that segues into my 3rd caveat: I also run the real risk of being successful without any interesting incident of which to speak. What if…mistakes aren’t made? I would say this is the worst-case scenario I can imagine: a series of boring blog posts. Oh, the humor-anity.

Finally, the last comment I have before I dive in is an important one: I make zero guarantee that any of my business ventures embarked upon herein necessarily contribute meaningfully to society. However, that by no means mean that they will be devoid of any and all ethical standards. It’s just that we all need to be okay with the idea that we’re not probably going to be curing cancer or solving world hunger any time soon.

In the bigger picture though, there’s a chance that I might fall ass-backwards into doing something halfway noble. Our2Our, as in collectively between me and the Boss Lady larger strategy is for me to develop passive income streams on an ongoing and, eventually, full-time basis.3I’m actually My Own ----- Boss for half of the work week; I still daylight as a scientist the other 20 hours/week. Though it might take a year or three, in time the Boss Lady will be able to quit her 9-to-5 job as well and be able to pursue her more refined passions.

So, in the beginning, I’m comfortable with just about any legit income, as my focus is to cover the lower levels of my family’s Hierarchy of Needs (see Figure 1).4As first mentioned in Epitaph: A Preface to Passive Income Adventures To Come.

Importantly, though, if I’m doing the whole “passive” thing correctly, then in theory the amount coming in on a monthly basis will be cumulative (gray arrow in Figure 1). As I complete projects and move them into their minimal maintenance phase, that base monthly amount will cover higher and higher levels of our Hierarchy of Needs pyramid, allowing more room to take greater risks on projects that are more high-minded and virtuous, despite having less certainty of a financial pay-off.

When we get to the point where the minimal-effort monies reach the top level, Self-Actualization, that’s when the real fun begins. You can imagine this situation as sort of a boot-strapped MacArther Genius Grant: without having to worry about making money, our Inner Clevernesses (me) and Kindnesses (the Boss Lady) will have full freedom to flourish to their fullest potential and beyond.5…the grave! (See sentence following for context).

What’s my secret ambition, you ask?

Well, I’m a bit sheepish to say this out loud…but the most ridiculous thing I can think of–and therefore aspire to–is to find the cure for ghosts.

Altruism so great that it needs multiple planes of existence to contain it? All I have to say is: Suck on that, Bill Gates!

Genius, my ass.

Figure 1: Anything above the “$”s in the gray arrow are needs that I have to spend resources trying to fulfill. The more $$$, the more creative I can be with how I meet those increasingly complex needs.

Okay, so I kinda got far afield there. In the process of writing this, I’ve realized that all that I’ve said so far is actually what I was hoping to say in the Epitaph post before I got distracted with that online headstone simulator. So I guess it’s fitting that somehow it circled back round to the topic of mortality.

Anyways, I have a working theory for the reason I spent several extra paragraphs trying to convince you that I’m ultimately going to do something super awesome for all human-kind: I’m over-compensating for the vapid and asinine nature of what is about to happen here.

Without further ado, let’s begin, shall we?

Prologue

As I mature in years and accumulate life wisdom, one thing that has changed significantly is my understanding of what truly constitutes “hard work.”

Growing up as an indentured servant to the family farm, I’m no stranger to working hard. Hell, I’ve even pulled a 72-hour shift while drilling an irrigation well with my dad. That’s a story you’ll get to hear more about eventually–though, surprisingly, it’s just going to be used as a pretext for me to philosophize about pancakes. Go figure.

Anyways, for the longest time I couldn’t figure out why it was so difficult for me, armed to the tooth with an eager willingness to labor intensively, to parlay that enthusiasm into a stellar scientific/engineering career.

You need someone to help you move? I’m your go-to guy!

Do you have to dig up your back yard and fill it in with gravel before bricking it over, but live in a condo and therefore have to traipse through the condo to deliver the gravel one bucket at a time? You can bet your ass I’ll be there for you, Friend! Even if I have chronic back issues for the rest of my life because of it!6Yes, this is yet another story whose time to be told is yet to come.

Well, at some point in time within the last 5 years, I happened to borrow a book from my scientific mentor approximately entitled “Getting Shit Done” (or something close to that). I’m pretty sure that it was from reading this that got my mental wheels turning, eventually coming to the conclusion that I’ve grossly mischaracterized hard work my whole life.

It’s decision making that is truly the exhausting activity in which one could engage. Once that lightbulb went off, I immediately understood why CEOs and other business executives get compensated so very handsomely: they’re being paid to constantly make decisions on matters of consequence. Over and over…endlessly…with minimal time to really mull them over.

Good gravy, I’m plumb exhausted just imagining that.

The point being, this insight largely drives a guiding principle of our current exercise: don’t waste disproportional amounts of energy trying to make the perfect decision. Good enough! shall be our battle cry. We need to get shit done and get money rolling in.

I’ve got ghosts to emancipate, and have only so much time before I become one myself…

Below are the first several journal entries of my inaugural Point of the Story Passive Pursuit, with more to come in future blog posts as the adventure plays out in real time.

21 October 2019 (Monday)

With the bulk of the effort of getting this blog up and running behind me, and nearing the end of wrapping up my other main project, optimization of the extended familial real estate situation, it is time for me to set my sights on focusing on bringing new money into the family coffers. In reference to the guiding principle of good enough just laid out above, it’s not important that I pick the perfect pursuit now–it’s more important that I’m doing something.

That something turned out to be me Googling “how to make money on Tumblr”, which in turn led me to a decent in-depth tutorial,7https://www.onlinedimes.com/how-make-money-on-tumblr/; it is implied that all further screenshots in the post are attributed to this website. which shall be our project’s blueprint.

Figure 2. Franklin, our humble guide.

I mean, hey, why not, right? The less decisions, the better, and I might as well stand on the shoulders of this internet giant. —>

Looking over his page, I did notice that is hard to tell how old this post is and if things will work exactly as described.  I couldn’t find a date indicating when it was published, nor any dates associated with the comments. I did see one screen shot showing the date 2015, so it’s not older than that, but it is still unclear at what point in time it was published since then.

That notwithstanding, he fairly quickly lays out the main ingredients to harness the power of Tumblr for capital gains purposes:

Let’s try to assess how my skills and experience match up with this list, and identify those tasks I think might either require significant effort and/or are unfamiliar enough to me that it is hard estimate the required effort.

  • Okay, so of these, I have experience setting up Web Hosting. At least I got that going for me.
  • Setting up a Tumblr Account should be fairly easy, and with this guide, the Automated Posting System should be no problem either.
  • I don’t know how much work will go into setting up an Amazon Associates Account, but I guess I’ll find out!
  • It really seems the most decision making–the real drain of mental energy–will go in to deciding on “A Passionate Niche”.

Fortunately, the article goes on to provide some guidance:

On a side note, I find it curious and amusing that adult content is conspicuously absent, but it is just as well.8Not that I would have seriously considered it, its just that given that it is indubitably a highly profitable for those who choose that path, one would expect it to at least get a shout out… You see, I need to have an endeavor I can fully stand behind, and perhaps even bring my girls onboard so they can start building their own ----- college fund.

So, sex & drugs are out of the question.  Rock n’ roll, however, is NOT out of the question, but my spidey sense is telling me to pocket that idea for now, and maybe use it later if I decide to develop several of these types of projects.

Back to finding a niche: well, when I think about it, it is not immediately obvious what I am passionate about, so I’m going to need some divine inspiration here. This list is a decent place to at least start forming some ideas…

Now, spoiler alert, I’ve already skipped ahead and got a fuller idea of how Tumblr shenanigans can be monetized, and a key aspect of this guy’s strategy is that people will buy things related to that niche. More importantly, other purchases they make on Amazon somehow get credited to you and you make commission off of these non-niche sales.

With that in mind “Luxury” caught my attention. Why? Well, it’s all about correlation right? I want to find a niche in which people who tend to buy items related to that topic are likely to make large & expensive unrelated purchases.

Fancy people be buying fancy stuff, yo. So I’m thinking going with luxury might be something that will pay dividends exponentially.

Now, this article goes on to describe various ways to find your own personal niche, particularly ones that are profitable.  It is left to the reader as an exercise to go through this process for themselves. For me, I’m sticking with the principle of good enough, remember?

After reading through the whole article, I’ve decided to leave my mind to percolate over ideas for a while. At this point in time, I’m not even sure I’m to take any action or even make a plan. For now, I’m doing just a quick read-over of what this method entails and think a little bit more if it’s worth the time investment.

Really, though, without knowing what niche I want to pursue, it is hard to take any concrete action.  And without concrete action to take, the details of the scheme are hard to retain without the immediate context.

5 November 2019 (Tuesday)

It is becoming clear that I need to really just start trying different revenue streams and see which ones actually are viable sources of income.  Most of the candidates I’ve considered pursing would largely be described as internet entrepreneurship, in that they don’t involve me handling much physical items (inventory, etc), and are largely done via the internet.  Amazon drop shipping, online tee-shirt shop, etc, are examples of these. Another common key factor I’m taking into account is minimal risk, so again, anything with actual inventory in my possession is out, as is real estate.

A key contextual clue as to why I’m currently motivated to worry less about specifically what I do next, and focus more on doing anything, is that it is becoming painfully obvious to me that the sooner I am able to replace at least half my previous income with passive income, I will be a much, much happier man.

Given that monetizing Tumblr is something at least within my periphery, and that [as described in the referenced post] it has the potential to be highly passive (nothing is truly 100% passive), it seems like I should see if I can come up with a niche and then just plow forward from there.  Again, making this decision appears to be the real wildcard in the process, and I get the feeling that there is a fair amount of room for error for all the other tasks without killing your chances of getting a decent return on your effort.

Now remember, my initial impression was that I would need to look outside my particular interest set to find a good niche market. This sounds like we have a grand opportunity to perform sort of an experiment here…

I set forth an arbitrary goal of making it this method work in a niche for which I have ZERO passion–i.e., make it an objective, logical, and by-the-numbers pursuit.  This is particularly relevant because I tend to have interests and tastes outside the normal distribution of the general population. And also emotions aren’t the best guide when it comes to business, so it’s best to leave them at the door.

The third and final motivator for this approach that I will note here is probably the most important: repeatability and reducing overhead. If I can do it for any given niche, then why not try other niches, especially since I’ve already gone through the motions and it will be easier and easier each time?  Also, I could offer my services to my IRL friends and family, helping them convey their passions into passive revenue.  In that case we could both enjoy a cut of the income in an equitable manner. Spread the gospel, right?

Anyways, the main point is to try to do it such that I’m not constrained by my particular passions.

…

Later this evening I found myself in the shower at the gym, thinking about my blog and other non-traditional work efforts. I’ve noticed this is a trend for some reason.  I’m almost always thinking about what to write next and how I’m going to write whilst scrubbing away in ye ol’ Planet Fitness locker room. Today was no different.

Now, not too long ago I remember coming across an example of someone starting their own small business in the pet supply market.9I believe it was a book I had checked out from the library, 100 Side Hustles, but I can’t be quite sure at this point.. I recall seeing the value of said market and having my jaw hit the floor. People spend an INSANE amount on their pets.

That little speck of inspiration apparently had been forming into a beautiful pearl in my head, because “pets” kept popping up in my mind as I thought about the Tumblr niche problem. Now that I think about, pets seem like a solid bet because huge swaths of the population love the shaggy l’il rascals–especially kids.  The Boss Lady would be particularly pleased if I chose such a family-friendly and universally-embraced topic, no doubt.

But, just one problem…pets by themselves seemed to be a little too bougie for me to just run with it.

My mind naturally wandered into the realm of the absurd, and it was there when I knew I found my diamond in the rough…

Well, I already felt like I was in AbsurdLandia, given that my too main candidates were “pets’ and “luxury”, and…wait just a hot minute! Holy schnitzels, of course, that’s it–double down on the absurd factor!

What could be more ridiculous than spending excessive money on yourself? SPENDING IT ON YOUR ----- PET!

And, tada! The Prissy Pet Project officially has it’s name!

It turns out that that little speck that formed into a pearl was wearing a pearl necklace itself! Now that’s getting meta for ya.  God, I love me some absurd images…

Figure 3. Meanwhile, in my mind’s eye…

6 November 2019 (Wednesday)

Well, now its time for the rubber to meet the road. Let’s do this! Of course the first order of business is this–a blog post about it kicking things off, that way I get double the mileage for my efforts.  I mean, if you’re not here to hear about all my misadventures, then why are you here?

Okay, so where was I in the article.  Let me get back to that.

Skimming over the article, let’s pick out the major action items.:

  • Set up Tumblr with relevant URL
  • Populate blog with niche-related pictures (unsure of how many I need here)
  • Acquire ~50 followers via whatever means (manually following other blogs, or using bots, etc).
  • Set up automated posts (still unsure of where I’m supposed to get such copious amounts of content from)
  • Set up Amazon Associates account
  • Setup online store (BlueHost website hosting, WordPress, WooCommerce, etc)
  • Edit all Tumblr posts to include link to store.
  • Profit.

Now that we have a brand in mind, the next step is getting a Tumblr blog name with a related URL. But first, is “Prissy Pets” already taken?

Wait, is there already somebody profiting handsomely from this exact idea? But clicking on the Amazon link only needs to nothingness:

So it is currently unclear whether or not I could actually have an Amazon store with that name…

Meanwhile, over on Tumblr itself “Prissy pets” returned exactly one result. The term “luxury pets” has more results, but does make me question whether this is actually a good choice.

I’m going to go ahead and move forward with the “Prissy Pets” concept, but I’m willing to openly change course if it doesn’t generate much income and/or content is hard to come by.

Anyways, I’ve signed up to Tumblr with username “prissypetproject” because, hey, why burn more creative brain cells on this? In the setup process, Tumblr will ask “what you’re into,” and “Pets” was option so I obviously selected it.

However, “Luxury” was not an option, so…Home & Lifestyle? Fashion? I’m racking my brain trying to figure out what a good algorithmic proxy for luxury would be. I almost went with Home & Lifestyle, but it turns out that when you click on each category, their sub-categories are revealed, and looking over these I realized that clearly Tumblr and I were not using those terms in the same manner.

I decided to throw in “Handmades” because, hey who doesn’t like to knit fancy-ass sweaters for their pooch? And also because, jeez, I’m not finding anything that would appear to be the mystical portal to Luxury Tumblr.

In the end, I was quite unsure of how to the get “luxury” included…and I ended up with the following: Pets, Handmade, Crochet, Nature, Wildlife.

I’m starting to wonder if fancy pets was such a good niche to settle on after all…

Welp, I’ve ran out of time for this project for the day and several days to come, so will have to figure out a better way to refine later.

I guess that is all for now…stay tuned to find out how exactly I fumble my way through all this!

Footnotes & References:[+]

Epitaph: A Preface to Passive Income Adventures To Come

7 November 2019 / / 1 Comment
5 Min Read

Here’s an interesting thought experiment for you: when you shed this mortal coil and pass on to whatever you hope is next, what do you want those whom you have left behind to write on your tombstone?

Now, the even more important question: what are you doing right now to earn those words of immortalization?

It shouldn’t come as a surprise, but yes, I have put some thought into this matter. After a decent amount of contemplation about what seems to drive me the most, I believe I have an answer that I can solidly stand behind.

When I die, I want a simple one-word epitaph inscribed on my headstone:

“Clever.”

I imagine that conversation with my local undertaker will go something like this:

Well, that at least answers the first part of the experiment.

Earning an undisputed reputation for being “clever” is a whole ‘nother ball of wax, though, you see.

I’ve had my moments of inspiration here and there–some of which I may or may not have been legally advised to never speak openly about–but nonetheless it’s not like I’ve totally fallen down in my efforts to prove to the world that am indeed a clever boy.

However, becoming a family man (or woman) tends to change one’s perspective on what metric really is a good measure of what you’ve done with your life.

Let’s visit our good friend and esteemed psychologist, Abraham Maslow, and his seminal legacy, Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs (see Figure 2).

Figure 2. Maslow’s Hierarchy of [Human] Needs. Image Source:1User:Factoryjoe [CC BY-SA 3.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikipedia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maslow%27s_hierarchy_of_needs.

If you’re not familiar with this concept, basically it states that one’s lower level needs have to be met before a person can effectively focus on higher level needs.

I mean, have you ever tried to thinking about sex when you have debilitating stomach cramps accompanied by a proportional volume of diarrhea? Not that it’s ever happened to me, per se, but you can easily imagine how in this case Love/Belonging needs pretty much don’t exist when you have such, er, “pressing” Physiological needs.2Interestingly ‘sex’ is considered a base-level need. I could see how this might be true, while as the same time I would argue that it could also very well be placed in the “Esteem” category. In reality, nothing says that it can’t be part of each of those levels. Just a thought…

Anyways, you may be wondering “What in the high hell does this have to do with being a clever family man?”

Fair enough question. Let me go ahead and try to tackle that.

Seeing as how “creativity” and “problem-solving” belong in the top-tier of Self-Actualization, I’m pretty confident this where “being clever AF” would land as well.

But no matter how many wheels I re-invent,3This is such a recurring problem for me that on several occasions. I’ve been very close to printing business cards proclaiming “Re-inventor of the wheel” as my profession. guess what? If it doesn’t put food on the table for my kids, a roof over my wife’s head, and a handgun in the Bible case of my beloved mother, than what in hot Hades have I been good for?

Sure, I can be clever all day long and pat myself on the back. I’ll admit that, like good cocaine, it sure does give me a rush.

But, if my kids are hungry and destitute4Don’t worry, they’re not, thanks to a highly competent sugar momma. because of my pursuit of “clever”, then I might as well admit that I have just as much of an addiction as a cokehead and check myself into rehab. Just another self-centered prick hurting the ones they love…

Welp.

I gotta say that I really do need to stop blogging after 11 pm. That, um…that’s not exactly where I expected to end up with that train of thought. But hey, close enough, right?

The point of the story is this: if I’m such a smarty-pants, then riddle me this. Why do I work so darn hard for so little of the monies? I mean come on, I got mouths to feed and 529 Plans to fund, yo!

And honestly, I don’t have an easy answer for you on that one. But fear not! You shall not be left so unfulfilled!

The answer I have for you is instead hopefully much more interesting than a pithy one-liner: I have for you an invitation.

Come along with me, as explore the Wonderful World of Working Wisely!5In truth, I don’t know if that’s an actual thing or not, but that pretty much captures what I’m up to.

One need not work hard so much as they need to work smart, amiright? And to that end, I will be pursuing a variety of passive income streams, side hustles, investments, and other such not-quite-shady shenanigans…and of course sharing those adventures here in full, glorious detail.

As always, I hope that you find these tales entertaining, but more importantly, maybe my experience will inspire others to find their own creative paths to financial security and beyond…to financial love/belonging! To financial esteem! And to financial self-actualization! Okay, okay, I’ll lay off the Maslow humor for now…

But seriously though, while money isn’t everything, the lack thereof sure the hell causes a lot of anguish and strife.6I’m uncertain if that is original, but I doubt I came up with it myself. If I can leave this world with a little bit less of those things, then I maybe all my cleverness won’t have been in vain.

I suppose in that case I better revise what I want on my tombstone:

There. That’s better. My original answer totally misrepresented me…didn’t have nearly enough words.

Though…hmmm…do you suppose I’ll be able to find a cemetery that will allow one grave to have two headstones? I always hoped to be some sort of trailblazer, but this is not quite how I imagined it…

Anyways, Dear Reader (and Boss Lady), jeez Loiuise do I digress! Stay tuned for upcoming adventures…7Don’t worry though, I’m still going to overload you with all the many asinine anecdotes from my mildly amusing life! Let’s make some fat coin together, yo!

Footnotes & References:[+]

Hot Dot Dot Dot Part 1

3 November 2019 / / 0 Comments
10 Min Read

Note: this is the first of two parts in the Hot Dot Dot Dot series: Hot Air Balloons. While it can be consumed individually, it is best paired with its sister article, Hot A– W–. See below for details about accessing part two. Enjoy!

Do you like surprises?

Over and over in life, I have found the world to be a frustratingly nuanced place.

So when I ask “do you like surprises,” I’m resigned to the fact that the most accurate answer for the majority of people would be “well…it depends.”

So much for there being anything certain in this world.

Okay, let me be more specific: do you like pleasant surprises?

Of course you do! Who doesn’t?

Wait…what’s that?

Oh. That’s not a universal truth, either? Nuts.

Though far from perfect, I like to think that I can be a rather thoughtful guy on occasion. However, a keen sense of logic and a knack for overthinking things can at times lead one astray.

It’s true: it’s possible to be too thoughtful.

This seems to come into play most when it comes to deciding whether or not to attempt to “pleasantly surprise” the Boss Lady.

On one hand, there is often no greater joy than surprising a loved one so pleasantly that it moves them to happy tears. On the other hand…well, what could possibly go wrong?

Let me take you back to Valentine’s Day 2011. The Boss Lady and I were entering into our fourth year of being in a “business relationship,” and thanks to my zeal and romanticism, I was losing a war of attrition to myself when it came to celebratory occasions.

Have you ever had one of those frenemies1In case you aren’t familiar: friend + enemy = frenemy. It’s a portmanteau. that constantly has to one-up you, and, because of circumstances beyond your control, you’re forced to play their game so you don’t end up looking like the asshole? Yeah. It’s exhausting.

And in this case, I was my own worst frenemy.

While I loved tapping into my creative juices to make each romantic experience more memorable than the last, I would be inadvertently screwing over Future B.J. by setting the bar even more unrealistically high. It was not a tenable situation.

I should interject here that it was not that the Boss Lady was particularly demanding in this regard, mind you. It was more the case of my archetypical male overly-competitive nature getting out of hand.

The upshot of all this is that by time this particular Valentine’s Day rolled around, I was on the hunt for something extra special to prove to her (myself?) that I still had my mojo.

Now, I can’t remember if I saw a Groupon, or what it was in particular that had inspired me, but somehow I got the idea in my head that a hot-air balloon ride would be the perfect V-Day gift for My Beloved.

An even more perfect idea: make it a complete surprise.

Well, an almost complete surprise, as in I had to tell her I had a surprise for her, but it would be so surprising that she would be completely surprised once she found out what it was.

Like a “I’m so surprised that’s what the surprise was” kind of surprise, right?

Anyways, as my life per usual, setting up a ride for Valentine’s Day was more complicated than it should have been.

The first issue was that Jerry Seinfeld was coming to our town smack-dab in the middle of Valentine’s Day weekend. Since both my father-in-law and I are huge Seinfeld fans, the Boss Lady and I decided to treat the in-laws to a laugh-filled semi-romantic double date, and had purchased tickets as soon as they went on sale many moons earlier. The show was on a Saturday night, so if I was wanting to do the deed as close to V-Day as possible, that quickly narrowed it down to Friday evening or earlier in the day Saturday.

I was not deterred.

I soon found a guy named Jack a couple hours from us who had some availability in mid-February–perfect! However, I learned a fun fact about ballooning: as with rowing,2I was on the Kansas State men’s rowing team in college, if you were wondering why I was randomly bringing that analogy up. Just one of the many perks of having the calves of a lumberjack… you want to do it either first thing in the morning or at dusk because that is when the wind is the calmest. Jack wasn’t available to do it Friday evening, so Saturday at the butt-crack of dawn it was.

I convinced the Boss Lady to take that Friday off so we could enjoy a one-night romantic getaway at a cute little tobacco-barn-turned-vacation-cottage that I had found about 15 minute from Jack’s (see Figure 1). And of course I had to tell her I had surprise for her in the morning, otherwise she would have emphatically insisted on sleeping in.

Figure 1. Free advertising for Aquilla Creek Cottage. It’s even cuter on the inside. Image source: ibid.

Friday evening all went well, as much as one could hope an evening of fancy pasta, fondue, and wine might go. Then around 9 Jack started clandestinely texting me about the plans for the morning. They were mainly just about directions, etc., but he did caution that it was looking like it might be windier than expected, so we would have to play it by ear in the morning.

Ugh. I could barely sleep. Would my well-laid plans3I refuse to make any inappropriate puns here. Stop asking, because I simply won’t do it. This is a family blog after all. all come unravelling in the end?

Figure 2. Pro Valentine’s tip: a bath in a claw-foot tub with a relaxing view is an excellent way to get your date to let down their guard before you spring a high-anxiety adventure on their ass in the morning. (Image source:4https://www.elkintribune.com/features/on-the-vine/9550/cottage-on-aquilla-creek-a-modernized-step-back-in-time#/)

At 6 a.m. he texts me and says we’re still on, and so I wrangle us up and out the door, only telling my lady friend to “dress warm.” She thinks we’re just doing something simple like hiking. How cute.

Around 6:45 we roll up to Jack’s place out in the country, and are greeted by a small gaggle of older men with grizzled beards and clad in cover-alls. I suspect that the dualing banjoes from Deliverance was playing in the Boss Lady’s head in that moment, as she clearly had a so-called WTF?!? look on her face as she tried to figure out exactly what type of surprise was in store for her.

Boss Lady: “Uh…Babe, are you sure we’re in the right place?”

Me: “Totally. Aren’t you excited?!?”

Boss Lady: “I’m kinda having a hard time deciding if I should be excited or nervous or sprinting into the woods in this moment…”

Me: “Ta-dah! …it’s a hot-air balloon ride!”

Boss Lady: …

Me: “Awesome, right?!?”

Boss Lady: “I’m don’t think I’m emotionally prepared for this…”

She related that while she would love to go for a hot-air balloon ride, this was just too much, too soon, and that she was feeling a little sick to the stomach.

Jack greeted us and introduced us to his crew, which turned out to be the roving gang of farmers he would always have coffee with down at the local cafe every morning. They were a friendly bunch, and that helped calm the Boss Lady’s nerves at least a wee little bit.

And then we waited, as Jack wasn’t fully convinced yet we should be going up.

What a poor thing, she was. The whole time the anticipation ate at her more and more.

Boss Lady: “Aaack! Why would you do this to me?!? I think I’m going to vomit.”

Me: “Dammit. Uh, Happy Valentine’s Day…?”

Fortunately for her, Jack finally delivered the news: we wouldn’t be able to go up that day. She was sooooooo relieved.

Of course, I was devastated. My plans that I worked so hard to make happen crumbled before my eyes. Now I was the one feeling sick.

The point of the story is:5Spoiler alert: this isn’t really the main point of this story. when it comes to romantic surprises, fellas, keep it simple. The more moving parts to your plan, the more likely something’s gonna get jammed in one of the cogs and blow it to smithereens.

You may think yourself clever, but, pssst! Come here, let me tell you a secret. No, come even closer.

[Whispering] “Clever” is most likely not the reason she’s with you. “Sensitive gentleman,” though, is a pretty good candidate.

Relationship tips aside, the story had a decent ending. Jack kindly promised that we would reschedule for another date, and he made good on that promise.

This actually worked out for the better, because, according to my Facebook research, it ended up happening on a late April evening as opposed to a ----- frigid February morning.

However, it wasn’t all fun and games. Another fun fact about ballooning: you really have no way to steer the ----- thing.

We learned this the “hand’s on” way: the instant we lifted off the ground, a rogue burst of air sent us in the opposite direction we had expected to go, and right towards the fairly large evergreen tree in Jack’s yard.

We pretty much had the exact same train of thought play out in our heads: “Surely Jack will navigate us around the–oh, shit, this is really happening!”

*Rustle, rustle, rustle! Snap, rustle.*

Well, at least now we can say we know what it’s like to ride a hot-air balloon through a tree. That skill is sure to come in handy at some point later in life…indubitably.

Also, two other observations from that experience:

1) There’s a reason why they won’t let pregnant women go up: the landing can be, uh, a bit rough. We thought we were going to break our legs. But we didn’t!

2) I’m sure not all balloon rides were like this, but we cruised at a much lower altitude than we had expected. As we passed over, we were actually low enough to have yelling conversations with the random guys that were just hanging out in the middle of a field. We’re pretty sure that they had been hitting the bottle, as one of them cried out to us in his best Lucky6A character in Fox’s King of the Hill, voiced by none other than Tom Petty, RIP. impression, “Take me with you!” ¡Qué romántico!

Figure 3. The Boss Lady (left) and me (right)7Or is it the other way around? take a much anticipated hot-air balloon ride selfie.

I have to confess that, as with many of my writings, I didn’t exactly end up with this where I planned8In case you missed it, Kandy Karma Part 1 is an excellent example of this.–also a perfect metaphor for a hot-air balloon ride. So meta.

Anyways, I think my intended moral of the story was, as with Bob Ross,9See: Fuck Bob Ross. you can’t always count on your logic holding for others as well as it holds for you. So, kids, always play it safe: if you going to involuntarily commit a loved one to some order of shenanigans, at least give them a few days before the event to mentally and emotionally prepare.

I shudder to think where me and the Boss Lady would be today had I successfully forced her onto that first hot-air balloon. I suppose I would be comically referring to myself as a “relationship freelancer”, to carry on the whole marriage-as-a-business analogy that I’ve chose to use for some reason.

But hey, it could have been worse. My favoritest colleague from my time in Hawai’i, “Andreas”, had his wife surprise him with sky-diving for his birthday once. Yeah, you’re right. Fun times, indeed. I’ll never figure out how those two have stayed married…

Truly, my thoughts on this topic aren’t really complete without the complimentary post, my inaugural NSFM article, Hot Dot Dot Dot Part 2, and I know you totes magotes want to check out where that is going to go.

But before you rush over to the Point’s Patreon page or sign up as a beta tester10For instructions, check out Not Safe For Mom. for free lifetime access to such content, I wanted to muse about an idea I have had for a while.

You know what I think would be a real miracle worker for couples faced with the whole “should I surprise him or should I risk a divorce” dilemma? That would be some sort of controlled use of what I believe the kids these days refer to as “roofies.”

Yes, I am proposing an “Amnesia Drug for Couples,” if you will. I mean, it would be great if there were some other way to achieve what I’m thinking without a drug with such a horrible, horrible reputation, but right now, that’s the only practical option that I can think of. I’m definitely open to suggestions on this one.

Of course, I should actually explain the concept before rambling further.

But before I do, I need to interject here and make it clear that I’m just brainstorming/whiteboarding/spitballing here. I hereby make the explicit disclaimer that the whole ethical issue of consent, respect of personhood, etc. needs to be worked out still. I’m not condoning anything non-consensual.

Anyways, it’s fairly simple: there needs to be some method where one partner, instead of guessing how the other might feel about a given potential surprise and hoping for the best, could get a truly thoughtful and accurate opinion from the other.

So going with the roofie method, say you want to know, oh, I don’t know…let’s go big or go home here, yeah? Let’s say you are thinking of actually proposing the two of you get hitched. Tie the ol’ knot. Become each other’s ball and chain. Etc. etc. etc. You float the idea, it goes how it may, and you drink in either celebration or in despair. Except their drink has a little something special in it–ethical mind you–and either you get to keep your exciting plans under wraps, or you don’t have to endure the shared of awkwardness of not getting your “I love you” returned in kind.

Seriously, though, imagine if you could have a thorough discussion about the possibility of getting married, and still completely maintain the element of surprise. You have the conversation, you get the intel you need to make a wise decision, and then–poof! The whole memory of that interaction disappears via whatever morally-sanctioned means.

Time and time again, I would have loved to have such a method available to me.11You think I’m pulling hypothetical situations out of my ass? Then see also: The Ballad of Tiffany Chestnut (donde cuando disponible). I can think of many a situation where I really could have used the Boss Lady’s opinion, but would have been better off if she didn’t know that I knew her opinion on the matter: Christmas gifts…birthday gifts…Valentine’s Day…kids getting lightly injured under my watchful eye…potential bedroom adventures…posting embarrassing stories on a public forum…the applications are endless!

And who knows? After some thoughtful reflection, maybe you too will surprise yourself and be of the opinion that Roofies Responsibly used in Relationships isn’t such a hair-brained idea after all.

However, I can’t make any promises that it will be a pleasant one, though…

For reals, though, I recommend you check out Hot Dot Dot Dot Part 2. Who knows what kind of surprises you’ll find there?

Content created on: 1-3 Nov 2019 (Fri/Sat/Sun)

Footnotes & References:[+]

© 2024 The Point of the Story

Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑

error

Enjoy this blog? Please spread the word :)

RSS
Facebook
Twitter
Follow by Email
YouTube
YouTube
Instagram
%d bloggers like this: