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...

  I didn’t build this system. I asked for it. I have wanted a world class group of advisors for every aspect of my life, and I was tired of waiting. 🧠🧭 The Frustration 😤 It started like this: I was using ChatGPT regularly and getting a lot out of it — more than most people, probably. But over time, things got messy. Conversations would drift. Memory would fill up. I'd lose context, or worse, start preserving the wrong kind of context: fragments of specific details that clogged the system while the important, core parts of me — the way I think, the values that drive my decisions — got buried under domain names and test scores. It wasn’t that ChatGPT was broken. It was doing exactly what I was asking — just not what I wanted . So I stopped. And I asked it a simple question: "What if I want a team of world-class advisors who think like I do, but who each specialize in a different area of my life? What if I’m not the same person in every domain, and I want AI that re...

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...