Our Old Dad

I remember the ’92 election mostly as a pile of commas. Clinton, Bush, Perot—and Perot’s money. Sources put his fortune around $3 billion then. At a plain 5%, that throws off $150M a year ≈ $12.5M a month ≈ $411k a day ≈ $17k an hour , without touching principal. Why keep grinding when the interest alone buys the world? Here’s where my brain went then (and honestly, often still goes): if I had that pile, I wouldn’t work. I’d live like a rock star—beach, planes, chasing the party, margaritas, following the Dead, dumb grins in new cities. Not a “serve the republic” phase. Pleasure, autonomy, no boss. So I couldn’t understand Perot: why would anyone with that kind of glide path choose more work? And then it clicked: that’s exactly why I’ll never be a billionaire—I don’t think like one. He wasn’t counting interest; he was counting the next thing. Not moral, not immoral—just different wiring. My default question was “How do I stop and enjoy this?” His was “What do I build next?” If y...

Hey, Dudes! As I embark on this journey of directly communicating with you through this blog, I’m grappling with the essence of honesty. How transparent should I be? Can I dare to expose my imperfections, those not cushioned by humor or light-heartedness? Despite my efforts to conceal them, you’ll likely see that my flaws are a substantial part of me, providing more than enough unflattering material to define me if I let them. This journey into uncharted honesty is daunting, yet it feels crucial. In this pursuit of openness, I'll start with a small confession: I often worry about how much time I have left to know you both. My father passed away when he was 53, just as my youngest sister turned 16. I'm now older than he was at his passing, and you aren’t even here yet. It's a race against time for me, and if I'm blessed with longevity, I hope you'll be reading this on your own, while I’m still sharp enough to discuss it with you. If that day comes, remind me to cheri...

  Here's the deal: I'm done making a mess of things, especially my workouts. So, I'm trying a new tactic: I'm letting AI take over my exercise regimen. Crazy? Maybe. But when your push-ups look more like a belly flop, it's time for a change. I'm giving the power to the algorithms. It's like having a trainer who never messes up, never forgets your weak spots, and always knows just when to push you harder. And if this goes well, I might just let this digital genius make more of my life decisions. Why trust a robot? Well, if you saw me in the gym, struggling through another set of whatever-the-hell I'm trying to do, you'd understand. That's me, the poster child for "help needed." So, I'm taking a leap into the AI abyss, where my left hamstring is more than just a vague concept. Sure, there's a bit of a rebellion from the human touch enthusiasts. But when you've got a track record like mine, a little robotic precision might be j...