It’s a little over a quarter of a mile to the fishing dock at the south end of Lake Willastein. Sometimes I’m amazed that we didn’t even know the lake was there when we drove here to scout where we were going to live two years ago. Maumelle was nothing more than two rows of trees and a labyrinth of unfamiliar French names for streets then. Everywhere new looks so foreign at first, and then, later, you can’t remember how strange it once was.

I woke on my own, a few minutes before any alarms. I pulled on a shirt and some athletic shorts and pretended to stretch as I walked down the stairs. Casey was in her usual position at the base of the stairs–she always leaves the bed sometime during our nightly unwind with light-hearted shows. She didn’t stir this morning as I walked by her. She must be dreaming, I thought as I peered around the corner and listened to her breath slowly and rhythmically. In the kitchen I quietly made coffee for two, then grabbed Casey’s leash and two baggies. She sometimes needs more than two baggies, but I was hedging my bets today. When I walked to the door and slipped on a pair of flip flops, she drowsily got out of bed wagging her tail, hit her favorite Yoga pose, and we were off.

I understand why people get up early in Arkansas. I don’t know what the temperature is already, but the sun is high enough to make you take notice. It was right around 7:15–one of my favorite times. Nobody is out yet, and those that are haven’t left themselves enough time to appreciate anything around them. They’re already in grim task mode.

We crossed the street from the entrance to the Villas, and started toward the lake. Casey was already fully awake, and pulling against the leash in her typical erratic fashion. She has never really walked calmly; I suspect that at least one of the 57 varieties is some kind of cattle dog. She doesn’t really belong on a lead; she belongs on acres of land, and I’m reminded of this by how quickly she noiselessly speeds off to chase a squirrel when her collar is not attached. This never fails to make me think of a small cabin on a decent stretch of land, steamy coffee on a frosty morning, and some terrier-lab mix zooming back and forth in the frame, like some sort of cartoon. One day.

There are a few runners at the lake, and I look down at my waist, knowing that I am two weeks’ honest effort away from looking like I should look, and feeling like I should feel, but I forgive myself and say, “Hell, at least we’re walking! Normally we’d still be in bed.” And just like that, any pre-effort guilt I had vanishes…at least until a septuagenarian shuffles by and says, “Beautiful pup!” and continues on his healthy arc toward the western side of the lake.

The dock is a nice checkpoint. Casey has a soft pant by now, and I’m pleased that I have exerted the effort to walk anywhere at all. One of my favorite things to do is pause at the end of the dock (after I make sure there aren’t any lures or hooks left on the platform), and just watch the water for a minute. Something tells me that I am close to understanding when I am still, there. I can’t quite put my finger on it yet. I must be just out of sight of it. Around the corner, maybe.

Casey has already started zig-zagging back to the path, so this one will be a shorter walk, but it counts. After all, we could still be in bed. It’s time to head back and begin the day. For some of us, anyway.

Give me a New Routine…or ten

Started clearing out the cobwebs this past week. I finally read a couple of books not related to passing an exam or certification, and I now have some small momentum going. What I’m looking for: something new to try. My creative output is lower than it should be–the ideas are still there, but I need to upend my patterns to see if I can harness the spark.

Quite a few of you out there have some routines or patterns that work for you for whatever it is that you create, and I’d like it very much if you would share (with anyone who reads this) what works for you, or what inspires you to keep going in those long hours.

I think that creative communities are essential in sustaining and encouraging quality content. Since I left education, I am deficient in that energy–one of the more interesting side effects of teaching is what the teacher gets from the kids–and boy, do I miss that energy. I also think that social media has leveled out right now, at least for the moment. I used to find all kinds of stuff online that would get the creativity flowing, but that was probably almost a decade ago. I think the most popular platforms are in a kind of stasis, and I am working to consume less until I create more.

So, Hi, artists and photographers and writers and anybody else who is doing something more than just working the day job. If you could take a minute to drop a line or two and share what works with you, it would really mean a lot to me. Also, I apologize in advance for those I tag, but I feel like the things you create are really wonderful, and I would love any insight into your process. If you don’t have a process, but you’ve come across something that really pumps you up, please share that as well.

Thank you!



Perspective, or Necessary Remix

I popped into Kroger after work to grab a few things for this weekend, and on my way out, this caught my eye:

This is a big deal for a couple of reasons. We live in a wealthy area. We ourselves are not wealthy (although we are working hard to change our behavioral economics in order to retire early–that journey will be covered extensively in other posts), but we live in a planned community NW of Little Rock proper. “Planned community” is often tied to “affluent,” in case that wasn’t clear.

This is easily the nicest place I’ve lived. We rent a perfectly-sized condo (I never knew the difference between a condo and a townhouse until we moved here), and we’ve downsized half of our possessions, if not more. We’ve changed careers and “lost” $40k in yearly income. We still have more than enough. And yet, for me, this emptiness. This questioning.

Some kind of If.

So, an innocuous red crate situated behind the cashiers caught my eye, and a not-dormant-but-not-where-it-should-be part of me thought, “Well, shit.”

There are needy everywhere. Before you start wringing your hands and wondering what religious or organizational affiliations I claim, let me stop you right there, Chief. I don’t have one. I have an evolving system of beliefs that can’t be satisfied by one house, one camp. I’m fine with that. I figure I’ll work on it as I go. I’m of the opinion that all of this (whatever this is) is larger than we can possible imagine, and we barely have conceived of our true cosmic insignificance. We can’t really help that, yet.

I have more than enough to eat. There are people that live less than four miles from me that don’t. I’m not okay with that.

These days, the sucker’s argument can draw one into troll-fests and bait posts faster than you can say, “Oh man, my life’s already over?!?” Let me try a different route.

My sister hipped me to food rescue programs in cities all over the U.S. in which volunteers gather food that would otherwise soon spoil and be needlessly wasted. These volunteers receive a notification, pick up the food items, and deliver them to those who need them. It’s a thing of beauty. Last I checked, Little Rock isn’t quite there, but I think there are other grass root programs that serve the same purpose.

I took a quick drive with Casey to see the Little Free Food Pantry, and it’s fashioned just like the little libraries I’ve seen in small communities. Take what you need, and give what you can. Cool.

This is where some might say, “Oh yeah, it’s in front of a church.” It becomes a hang-up. I don’t regularly attend church, so I don’t get drawn into the minutiae of “What kind of church is it” and so on. That’s not the point. Food goes into the box. People who need it get food from the box. People who want to give put food into the box. I love it. It makes me a little emotional thinking about it.

See, I don’t do much. I create fake pressures to fret and to worry about things that don’t actually concern me. I’m a mess at times.

However, I have a great life. I have opportunities all the time. I’m surrounded by nice, caring people. My pondering and preoccupation of the Human Condition torments me because I don’t do anything about it. It’s a cognitive behavioral issue, and it’s not the first time I’ve thought about it or written about it.

I wrote this quickly just to put it out there, because I’m out of practice working to be a better human. Spooky Mike said it best: “Dig it! Humans helping humans. It’s big.” These moments are often all we have. I think I need to spend mine a little better sometimes.

I’m a little all over the place with this one, but I know some of you will get it. We don’t have a lot of time, but we have a lot more time than some do.

It might be time to see what else there is that we can do.

“Can’t you just zonk me out?” or “Sink the Bismarck”

I’m a slow learner. Not in the traditional sense, but more in a behavioral sense. The last eighteen years could be characterized thus: I develop habits which may or may not be detrimental for my well-being, a mild chaos ensues, I narrowly dodge disaster, and then I venture into something else.

It’s a pattern, and I see it. The question as I get older is really a simple What If. Will I stay ahead of the curve, or will I keep repeating a slight variation of the same pattern? Can I break new ground while accelerating change somewhere else?

My recent and seemingly more permanent diversion is figuring out how to steadily change my behaviors while largely self-educating in finance, en route to an early “retirement.” Where I just spent the last 23 years, most people are looking for a Forever job with some “nice benefits” and a pension. It hasn’t worked out well for those of us below a certain age. Without slandering specific industries, as many Valley residents strongly identify with their career choice–indeed, they bunker down and attempt to ride out conditions that simply cannot be sustained elsewhere in the country–there never seems to be a realization that a job is not truly part of who we are. The times have changed.

Market forces, technology, terrorism, politics, the changes wrought by social media and a few dozen more reasons have micro-shaped our behavioral economies. I long harbored a sense of unease in my last two professions. Something wasn’t right, but I could never put my finger on it. That something was that I cannot find identity in a job. In this I know I am not alone. However, since I am a slow learner, apparently I needed to create massive debt through half a decade of bad behavior, then spend the next decade digging out. This was how I earned my epiphany. More on that some other time, maybe. It’s likely that it doesn’t have much to do with anyone else’s vision. That’s fine.

As far back as 2002 or so, I had a little money in investments. Didn’t last long there. Had to buy six cars, drink thousands of bottles of beer. That kind of thing. Light finally struck my brain after a disastrous stint in Arkansas public schools. My Southern friends, I promise you this: a giant section of the United States is unaware of desegregation lawsuits. It’s really just not a thing in 2018 elsewhere. I can’t spend any more time on that here or in my mind. Just know that the Great Divide that other states worked through faded much more than it did here, and that was a few decades ago. ‘Nuff said.

Years eleven and twelve of teaching high school being the nails in that career coffin, I started to ponder the Macro again. Why do we have to wait until 65 to retire? Why do people work jobs they don’t really like for forty years to get a pension and possibly live where they don’t want to? Do people really think they’ll live forever? Here are two great quick reads about the origin of “retirement age” here: and here:

Some of these questions are bigger than I can answer right now, and some are awfully personal. My answers will differ from yours. Call me a pessimist, but I don’t think I’m going to live a healthy and functioning life until 95. That’s not really written into my genetic code. I’m also not saying that I can’t make a series of changes that would enhance and prolong my life. Those are experiments for another time.

What I am saying is We Don’t Have Time. We Never Did. I’m super happy if you found a job that really defines you and marks your time on this rock floating through space. I don’t think that works for a lot of folks these days.

In the weeks ahead, I’ll be posting things related to this most recent quest. I’ve been working on it for about a year. I’m hoping to have some guest posts from other like-minded folks. Not everyone is in the same camp as me, but I think this content could bring a lot of value. At the very least, it might have us question a few ideas. That’s never a bad thing.

The Second Half

We saw Jurassic World:Fallen Kingdom today, and there was an incomplete feeling as the credits rolled. I felt cheated. The movie had some predictable and some cool moments, but I felt an uncomfortable shift in a franchise that was somewhat reliable in expectation. The feeling started when the erupting volcano forces the evacuation of Isla Nublar, but it intensified as Owen and Claire watch a Brachiosaurus reach the edge of the island. I admit I am probably a little more susceptible than the average viewer to movie moments like these, but Jesus, it was a terrible feeling. Twitter reacted like, well, like Twitter does, but to me, a rather ordinary, seemingly innocuous heart-tugger moment in a popcorn flick felt a lot heavier.

I guess it’s the way of things these days. Every moment of news or announcement carries dread, and I have had enough of the Ominous. For much of June, it felt like people couldn’t wait to extend their misery to everyone around them–like they were trying to match their unhappiness with the oppressive heat. Granted, my circles are smaller these days, work-wise, but c’mon, already. I’m naturally pessimistic, and even I tried to call a timeout mid-month. Today’s matinee put me over the edge. I don’t want any more negativity. I’ve tried to run down the reasons I could be feeling this way, but I really think a lot of it is environmental. I also don’t think it has to be. Here, then, is what I propose for the second half of this year: let’s share cool things. Let’s get back to celebrating things. Not in a social validation feedback loop, either.

I just spent three months straight transitioning out of a 12-year career, and I am barely adequate in my new industry. Old dogs, new tricks, that kind of thing. I’m not sad or unhappy that I made the switch; to the contrary–I should’ve made that move sooner. That’s what’s funny about constant transition, though…it wears one thin. There are days when I miss cooking on the Vulcan Wolf (remember this?) after a long day in the classroom than my current Where-the-Hell-am-I-now adventures, but I’m sure that’s all part of the eventuality of everything down here. Stranger in a strange land.

Maybe there’s a lot more to the dinosaur standing forlornly on the edge of what should have been paradise, consumed by fire. It’s definitely not what summers are made of, though. I don’t think that’s the kind of thing that we should be watching, and it’s definitely not the feeling I am interested in having. Honestly, I’m not just disappointed in the filmmakers for that scene. They let us down.

However, for the second half of this year, it looks like I’ll need to get back to some behavioral psychology on myself. I don’t think the masses out there are very interested in spreading happiness, so it looks like we’ll be doing it for ourselves. To that end, I’ll be sharing whatever things help get me through a rough day or give me something to think about. I don’t want to sound like it’s a bigger deal than it is–I just don’t think there’s a lot of happiness going around right now.

It’s time to play a game or two with Ashley now. Sleep well.

Year of the Shooter

38 is a pretty boring age, I think. I don’t know anyone in their late thirties who are doing things that are challenging. I’m not talking about an exercise regimen or any other kind of temporary escape or distraction, either. I’m talking big things. Shifts-of-reality things. My thirties have been a strange time, to be sure. Twenty-somethings are still discovering all kinds of stuff, and some forty-somethings are already beginning to reap the rewards of years of hard work. Then there’s the rest of us. We’re in some kind of holding pattern. Some kind of wait-and-see. I’m not into it.

To be fair, a lot of thirty-somethings have kids. That’s a game-changer, as everything becomes about the kid(s) as soon as that reality changes. If you make a list of people you know who have kids, a significant portion of their lives (calculated daily, weekly, monthly–whatever) goes toward the preservation and promotion of the kid(s). I get it. I sure as shit wouldn’t want to be a kid right now, either. Terrible music, a shit president, and a pretty rotten culture all-around. I’m also sure the same was said about my scene when I was younger. That’s the way it goes. I’m worried about the inherent cruise control effect that seems to go along with this part of my life.

The Ohio Valley Formula for living seemed to be something like this:

A. Find a “good” job with a “good pension.”

B. Work that job, and raise a family.

C. Retire from that “good” job and enjoy life, presumably until the age of death.

I have a big problem with the Ohio Valley Formula. I think a lot of people my age might have a problem with this formula, too, but there doesn’t seem to be a lot of people talking about that. I also don’t know anyone who casually discusses the giant timeline of whatever-age-they-are-now and age 59 1/2. So, what exactly is going on?

Does everyone have that “good” job? Tell the truth. And also, please tell me where to get that “good” job. I’d love to put in my resignation and sign up for the new/other scene. We don’t have kids, though, so I’m not sure that my metrics match yours. I also don’t really care about that “good pension,” either, so if that is part of your formula, I have to keep looking.

Do you know a lot of healthy retired 59 1/2-year-olds, up to age 70? Really? Are they spry? Traveling? Exploring? No. No, I don’t think they are. Why do we pretend that working for 30 years and progressively giving up things is a good way to spend half of our lives?

Here’s a big shift: I don’t know anyone talking about being financially independent. We talk a lot about jobs, and what we want to buy, but no one seems to really care to discuss what life would look like if we actually got to dictate the majority of it. It’s overwhelming and empowering at the same time. As with anything of value, there’s a catch: we have to rewire our brains and behavior, and we have to swim against the tide to pull it off. Being financially independent looks different to everyone. For some, it’s a certain financial number arrived at through luck, investment, inheritance, or some other method. I’m not even sure what my magic number would be right now, as we still have a little bit of debt which will soon be gone. I have a working number buried deeply, but it will take one more career shift and some behavioral maintenance, combined with some investment before I can reassess that value.

What is the difference between “financially independent” and “retirement,” anyway? I don’t know any retirees that say, “I’m financially independent.” To the contrary, retirees are financially dependent on the pensions or retirement plans that they worked decades to obtain. Nobody says, “I want to be dependent on the fixed income I worked most of my adult life to obtain.” Not only is that incredibly unappealing from an I’m-allegedly-a-sentient-being point of view, but it doesn’t exactly say “free will.” To me, it says, here is the amount I hope sustains me after years of potentially doing things I don’t want to do. That bothers me.

I have been citing Office Space too much lately, and I know it. Peter Gibbons is the perfect everyman, though. He works a job he finds unfulfilling but that is otherwise considered a “good” job. Condo, Japanese econobox Corolla, girlfriend. He’s not feeling the cruise control, and the hypnosis session that ends with Dr. Swanson’s death makes for good comedy as Peter stays zonked out and inadvertently is provided with an Out from his life. The film is also nearly twenty years old, and it’s still good. It’s probably Mike Judge’s best work.

Confession: this is all a long wind-up for me to leave education, an industry that I find deeply unsatisfying, especially in my current capacity and in my incredibly strange locale. That’s a story for another time. But I wanted to jot down some thoughts, if for nothing else than to send out low currents to see if anyone else needs sparks. I don’t have decades to spare. I’m only setting up for 59 1/2 if I have to. I think I can lower that milestone by a few years, or–at the very least–I can stroll toward that marker on my own terms.

I took a stroll through an email account looking for some financial numbers, and I found a lot of emails suggesting that more had changed in this last year than in previous end-of-years, but overall, I think I holstered my guns too soon for too many years. I think it’s time to break them out again, Holliday-style.

Here are some of the things I read the past month that steered me here:


Here’s to 2018 being the Year of the Shooter.

Related image


Gut Check

87 days ago I applied for a job for which I wasn’t qualified. I didn’t get it.

Now, there are a few ways to handle this, and those that know me well might think that I almost certainly reacted a specific way. Much to my surprise, I did not.

A little bit of failure now and then is good for you. It forces you to really use a wide angle lens. I have spent so much energy being unhappy in my job, I didn’t effectively deploy any reserves elsewhere.

I did not do anything else for 87 days. I casually opened thirty tabs a few weekends in a row, and I kid myself something along these lines: “Hmm, I could do that…”

I probably could not have. And, if I could have, it certainly wasn’t with a half-assed effort. Gut check. It’s grime time.

There is a reminder uncovered in this–a lesson I learned in grade school, and forgot over the years: nobody owes you anything, and nothing is guaranteed.

So, as a tumultuous 2017 (job-wise) spirals to a close, this is the final punch.

Next up: The Winter Contingency.

Shit’s Rad

I don’t know why, but when I was young, I thought adulthood was going to be like T&C Surf Design. Yup, the NES game. I have no idea why. Probably the same reason that launching a BMX bike off the end of some pavement was my favorite original extreme sport. Everything was big and forever, and then came college prep classes and school dances and jobs and insurance and all manners of other shit that were decidedly not rad.

As I get ready to enter a Third Renaissance–each Era looks really different in each decade–I ask, “What is rad now?” I can populate the list fairly easily, but not in an ultimate fashion. Some element of radness is missing, though. That T&C vibe, whatever that looks like these days.

The math on negativity bias shows that we need a 5:1 positive-to-negative input. That’s pretty ridiculous, as you’d know if you’d been outside for the last ten years. People in general don’t seem to be happy. Consumerism is rampant; the psychological infrastructure of Buy This to be Complete requires that inequalities are solved by buying something. Dopamine hit. Temporary bliss. Rinse, repeat. Social media participation alone horribly skews that ratio; if we use certain apps too much, it is nearly mathematically impossible to find the proper balance. Our happiness architecture is constantly besieged.

Not rad.

What exactly is rad differs greatly by person, but fun is a necessary part, which is completely relative. Some people’s ideas of fun make me queasy, but I accept that they are embracing their Rad. We should be so lucky.

At 38, I’m a lucky man. I know some amazing people, and even though I interact with some of them using (*hissssssssss*) social media, that’s a geographical handicap, more than anything. (I’ve filtered out a lot of Not Rad.) Wife and life are good, so if my rad is a little lacking, it’s in minute fashion. Shout out to anyone whose rad is focused. I’m thinking I’m only a quick shred away from the next level.


There is something to being able to laugh at chaos. Currently there are four meetings going on, but only two were scheduled. The “needs” of the masses are mostly artificial, but never-ending. There has never been such a fake job that was so necessary. Outside my door, actual audio from a Dean of Education at The Local University: 

“Teaching is such a rewarding profession

…the pay isn’t great…

you get summers off…

job availability…

teaching is a rewarding profession

…you don’t want to work when you’re 80, do you?

…teaching is rewarding


Five feet behind my chair, through a wall, there is a fifth meeting, and discussion of RTI. Response to Intervention is inherently good, but I have yet to see it actually carried out with consistency anywhere. The idea of a personalized curriculum (both behavioral and academic) is utopian by nature, and while it’s soothing on paper, in a high-poverty, ever-shifting environment, it is impossible to implement with fidelity. Incidentally, “with fidelity” is something oft-repeated in this industry. It’s Kool-Aid that everyone drinks, but everyone knows it’s bad for you. Jonestown. Amazing. “Thank you! May I have another, please?”

Overheard through the wall: “…has a very real problem with any kind of authority, and refuses to work or do anything asked…”

Ninety degrees from that meeting: “very rewarding profession…”

My phone rings: “Uh, yes, do you know about Situation X?”

“No ma’am–never heard of that; wasn’t aware of that…”

…rewarding profession…

All of this, swirling. I’m thinking of psychological studies that prove Learned Helplessness is real in adults. I’m thinking of how long October, September, and August were. 


An email comes through. It’s one of our teachers newer to the profession 


and she isn’t sure what to do when her laptop


I’m pouring another cup of the Kool-Aid. Two meetings have ended, and the heat has cut off. 

“At the new school” is another adverbial modifier that I love to hear. Construction is “moving along” on the site, and “at the new school” things will be dandy.

“‘Incentives’ are important”




Why Escape Matters

The original Blade Runner came out in 1982. I was three years old. The first time I watched it was on a VHS copy, probably around 1984 or 1985. We were in Germany, then. VCRs were $800 and it was a huge deal to score a copy of any movie, as they took a long time to reach consumers. It was a different era.

Three decades distort memory, but I recall sitting cross-legged on high-pile carpet, my face too close to the screen full of flying cars, the imposing Replicant of Rutger Hauer, neon lights through a gray city dystopia, and Harrison Ford’s Rick Deckard as probably the first anti-hero I remember that won by failing. It was unsettling. It was invigorating.

There are more than a handful of moments in Blade Runner 2049 that took me back to the original. Gosling is one of my favorites (I immediately forgave him for La La Land–Ryan, you “saved jazz,” but that ending was inexcusable), and he brings a silent suffering to some of his best roles. Blade Runner may be equal to The Place Beyond the Pines and Drive in that regard. The cinematography and the deliberate pacing asks viewers to think (really think) about what’s really going on in the quiet moments on the screen. I haven’t seen a movie like it in a long, long time.

Good science fiction makes you wonder, but it also demands an introspection.

What do you think?

What do you feel?

What makes it (or any of this) real?

And, most importantly:


I watch films to escape. I used to escape a lot more frequently. I’m down to about four trips to the movie theater a year, so the bar is set high. I waste a lot of my days in a job I hate. I complain a lot and I pretend that I am powerless to do anything about it. Yet all it takes is a 164-minute to remind me, that’s why it’s so important–the right escape. It reminds us that nothing is permanent, and that we are still supposed to be looking for the answers to our own questions. Just like science fiction.

Watch this film when you are ready for something different. Look for the small moments, like the brief meeting Edward James Olmos’ Gaff places an origami sheep on the table strategically: Denis Villeneuve is winking at us as he slips a comforting arm on our shoulders. 2049 shows us, more than once, how we were “drunk on the memory of perfection.” By the time “Tears in Rain” plays again, we remember Why.