Slouching into Oblivion

For the last month I have been moving. Not once. Twice. Sounds like a college kid, doesn’t it? From my home of a dozen years to a rental, and today I will finish moving my worldly possessions from the rental to my new home. Moving is hideous. Everyone knows that. But why? There is the physical reality of boxing up everything I own efficiently, only to find the boxes are too heavy to carry. Which leads to the question I repeat to myself, “Do I really need what is in this box?” And so I open the box and find a stack of plates. Not plates I use. Or have ever used. Rather, plates that were my grandmother’s who got them from her mother. Then the self-talk begins . . . “Tape it back up, bro. The guilt associated with giving them away would be far worse than that numbness in your feet caused by that disc in your lower back. Be a man. Remember, lift with your legs.” “What the fuck does that mean?” “I don’t know but I read it. Lift with your legs.” “Why are all those b

LAX is perhaps the dirtiest, most unfriendly piece of shit airport in the world, and that is saying something. Even the best airports, like Amsterdam and Singapore,are no more than long crowded hallways filled with gemcracks and the harried soulless who have been beaten senseless by corporate America but read the Wall Street Journal anyway. And these fools are punctuated by the truly evil who wear uniforms and badges that say things like, "May I help you?" but in a special way to make sure you understand clearly that they don't mean it. The main airport into Los Angeles is different than most, older and dirtier, an architectural nightmare built long before interminable security lines were invented to make us all feel better about our total vulnerability. And, to make matters worse at LAX there is no legal way to move from one terminal to another and stay inside security -- a real problem for those who despise the General Public and count the number of steps to the next

There is one true love out there. Just for you. If you look hard, you can find him, or her. Your “soulmate.” That thought is romantic, beautiful, exclusive . . . And, it is ridiculous. In a world of almost 8 billion people, the odds of finding “the one,” if, indeed, there were only one, would be the same as winning the Powerball lottery - twelve times. In a row. Yet, when we find someone we are attracted to and compatible with, many of us take our good fortune to its logical absurdity: “I found my one and only.” Proving that love is, indeed, blind. The problem with the “one and only” mythology, besides its mathematical impossibility, is that the belief puts too much pressure on a relationship when conflict and disappointment arise, as they certainly will. But, on another level, maybe there is “one true love,” or loves, that are experienced serially over a lifetime. Anthropologist Helen Fisher identified three different romantic relationships that some experience in a

The most successful corporate leaders I have known attribute their success to “surrounding myself with good people.” Early on, I wrote this self-effacing line off to false humility. I believed institutional success was the result of creative and visionary leaders. In retrospect, I was wrong. And they were right. Steven Jobs, the most visionary business leader of a generation, once said, “It doesn’t make sense to hire smart people and tell them what to do; we hire smart people so they can tell us what to do.” Indeed. The least successful business leaders with whom I worked retained me and then wasted a lot of my time, and theirs, telling me how to do my job, questioning every decision I made even though I had decades of experience advising businesses in a very narrow and specialized area of the law. The most successful leaders, on the other hand, did their research, and then, after spending time face to face, hired experts and deferred to their judgments. They felt free t

So many topics to write about in these latter days. Climate catastrophe, pandemics, extinction of life on the planet, ecological collapse, increasing inequality, rising authoritarianism, and, of late, the threat of a nuclear world war . . . All serious, existential inquiries to be sure. But readers of this blog most often ask me to address a deeper, more personal, question: “How are the Chiquitas?” If you have read this blog more than a few months, you know Cohime, Cómeme, and Lámame —the Chiquitas. If not, let me introduce you . I met the girls months ago at a gas station on a lonely stretch of Mexican highway at dusk. Twenty-something girls selling gasoline additive in short skirts with beautiful smiles. I ended that entry with this Epilog: “Now, months later, I still deliver tacos and tequila to the girls twice a week. My most vivid recollections are the joy I see and feel when we are together. They giggle and show me their tits, what they call “regalitos,”

Practicing law for 40 years taught me the importance of planning, of projecting different possibilities and risks, and producing plans for each. I learned the importance of controlling the battlefield which is what life looks like when everyday is a battle and you are paid to fight. Indeed, being surprised was tantamount to failure. It meant I had not considered a possibility that suddenly became reality. The surprises drove me deeper into projection as a way of life. Over years, I became better at anticipating the moves of adverarles which led to success on behalf of my clients but also gave me a reputation of being a “control freak.” And I was. I genuinely believed, in almost every situation, that I knew what was best if only because I had anticipated more possibilities and prepared for them. I learned that what was happening wasn’t as important as what might happen. It was what might happen that could be changed or redirected. Life was not happening out there. It was ha

The adage “the only thing that doesn’t change is change,” is true, albeit mostly feared and unwelcomed. Moving out of my home in the center of San Miguel de Allende, one of the world’s most beautiful cities, was difficult, an emotional experience I recounted last week. I am now living in a home in the countryside. No intent to be here longer than a month or two. As I write this, I have been here three days and three nights. In the transition, I lost this view . . . And I gained this one . . . There are no restaurants, concerts, or things to do out here. Likewise, there is no busyness, noise, traffic, or pollution. Nothing to do. But time to think. To feel. The transition reminds of something I learned long ago but forgot while chasing airplanes and living urban: Solitude isn’t the same as loneliness. Indeed, I have felt more alone in a room full of jabbering, self-important people with nothing interesting to offer, than I am here, now. I spend the same am