Posted on June 25, 2025
Turf War: Defeat and Resurrection in Suburban Lawn Combat
It’s late winter. I stare out my glass door to the backyard, looking at the grass as it starts to stir from its winter hibernation. Signs of life pop everywhere. Everywhere save one spot—the Patch. My nemesis, my personal Vietnam, the Patch is a quagmire of suburban defeat that grew into an obsession threatening to destroy me from within.
I stare at the Patch, sipping water like a commander surveying enemy territory. Last year’s campaign yielded only sadness, rage, and a burning desire for revenge. It wasn’t just dead grass, it was dead dreams with a mortgage.
Lawn care is not my forte—I am a suburbanite out of necessity, not choice. My dream yard maintains itself, yet here am I with a gauntlet thrown.
The stakes? My right to be an American man. This country was founded on the principles of life, liberty, and the pursuit of low-key flexing on your neighbors by having the better lawn. The Geneva Convention does not apply to lawn care. This would be total war.
I swore on my father’s Craftsman tools that I would fix this Patch or die trying, and if I died, my final wish would be that they use my corpse to fertilize that patch of dirt so that even in death, I might emerge triumphant.
The Enemy Revealed
Now it is spring, a time of new growth in foliage and war. I knew this moment was coming since turning off the sprinklers in October and watching the grass fade to brown.
We inherited an ‘A for Effort’ sprinkler system that I blame for the Patch’s emergence. Since I know even less about irrigation systems than I do about lawns, I bit the bullet and put money down on having the system upgraded from ‘Maginot Line’ to ‘actually functional.’ This was the point of no return—if I didn’t fix the Patch, I’d have been better served shredding up the cash using it as turf instead.
I surveyed the frozen battlefield like Washington at Valley Forge, but with worse results. I noted enemy positions: the weeds had established forward operating bases, dandelions ran special ops along the fence line. But these were merely proxy forces, easily handled—the Patch remained the enemy’s center of gravity.
Even the noncombatants recognized the threat. My wife briefly commented on the Patch, demonstrating her awareness of my failure as a suburban male. More worryingly, my son was thrilled to have his very own dirt patch to play in. I had not known the Patch dabbled in information operations, but it had already subverted one family member to its cause.
Much like the abyss, the Patch stared back into me as I stared into it. I would restore it to life, and by doing so restore my honor as an American suburban male. It was time to let slip the sod of war.
Operation Green Thunder
Operation Green Thunder commenced with a three-pronged assault consisting of air strikes, chemical warfare, and boots on the ground. For those not up to date on lawn care terminology, I poked holes in the dirt to aerate it, fed the lawn some fertilizer, and spread out new grass seed like cluster munitions. I looked about, saw that it was good, and rested from my labors to await the Eden soon to come.
Alas, it was not to be. I checked the patch dozens of times daily, like a POW counting days on his cell wall. While the rest of my lawn sprung into glorious green life, the Patch remained as barren as my knowledge of horticulture. It mocked my efforts, grassassinating my hapless seedlings. I’d sown hope and reaped humiliation.
This is when I realized something important. The Patch was not as dead as I once imagined. Not that any grass had taken root, of course. It had a malignant will of its own, one it set against me with malicious glee. It had not hesitated to embrace scorched earth tactics, and it had its eyes set on green pastures. For the first time in this war, I felt fear.
Day by day, I watched the Patch fester while the rest of my lawn grew around it. I couldn’t even pretend I made progress because the Patch was the closest section of lawn to the back door. It sat there like Lucifer’s doormat, taunting me. An old song echoed in my head with a twist: I fought the lawn, and the lawn won.
Things came to a head when I couldn’t put off mowing any longer. The Patch sat in smug defiance as my mower blades passed harmlessly over it, mower blades in fruitless search for blades of grass. The line between the Patch and grass was as clear as a DMZ, and contained just as much latent hostility.
I knew I needed a change. Something to shake things up, my own personal Operation Overlord or Inchon landing.
I needed a reinforcements. I needed tactical support. I needed someone who had fought this war before, a veteran, a survivor of the Great Dead Patch Campaign of 2007.
I needed my dad.
Calling in the Calvary
When calling for aid, it’s important that the calvary has the Right Stuff. My dad is a true suburban warrior. By virtue of growing up in the middle of nowhere and working with a constellation of family members involved in general contracting, he’s picked up a wide array of useful skills.
Unfortunately, most of these skills missed the generational hop to me. In his defense, he did try to teach me, but I was more interested in memorizing Lord of the Rings quotes or giving myself concussions in multiple contact sports.
Regardless, when I have a home maintenance problem the internet fails to resolve, he’s my guru. In this particular instance, however, it went beyond the normal interaction. That’s due to my dad’s own version of Stalingrad at our house in California.
Just as I had a Patch in my backyard, he had one in the front. I recall months of trial and error on his part trying to fix it, which I observed with casual indifference, unaware of the poetic symmetry life would inflict on me 20 years later.
Truly, I have never felt closer to my dad than the moment I called him to ask for his help with my lawn. In that moment, the Patch became our family crest—two generations united by horticultural failure. It was beautiful.
Once I had him on the line and explained my situation, our discussion went something like this:
Him: “Have you tried laying down sod?”
Me: “You can just do that? On your own, with no landscaper or…tractors, or whatever?”
Him (internally): Maybe all those contact sports weren’t the best idea.
Him (externally): “Yes, they sell it at Home Depot.”
This was it, the intelligence I needed to turn this war around. Operation Sod Drop was a go, my invasion plan set. I would get the sod and carpet bomb the Patch into submission. There would be no survivors. Except, you know, the grass.
The Final Battle
After wandering around Home Depot far too long, I found the sod and returned home to deliver my coup de grace. I plopped the sod down, unrolled it like a magician for his final reveal, and squinted in consternation at what I saw.
If life moments had a soundtrack, this would have been a ‘whomp whomp’ played on a dented tuba. Instead of lush, green grass lovingly cared for by turf professionals, my sod consisted of a scraggly brown mess more appropriate for a witch’s receding hairline. My carpet bombing campaign now looked like the charge of the light brigade.
I debated going back to get a different patch of sod, but time was not on my side. We had a road trip planned (a multi-day trip with a toddler and an infant; do not recommend, 0/5 stars), and my wife conveyed her slight displeasure with my unpacked luggage via subtle—then not subtle—threats.
So, we loaded up the car, pulled out of the driveway, and left the lawn to its own defenses. As I looked into the rear-view mirror, I heard the Patch cackling. But what could I do? A general goes to war with the army he has, and sometimes you have to roll for the hard six.
What followed was two weeks of trial and tribulation. Not due to the screaming children in the backseat. Not due to the inherent madness that comes with visiting family. Not even due to having to skip our go-to ice cream spot because the line was too long.
No, my trial came from not knowing how my sod warrior fared against my nemesis. Every lawn we drove past reminded me of the battle happening on a distant front. Like a general before radio communication, I could only wait for dispatches from the front. Had my green troops held the line? Had the enemy counterattacked?
The nights grew long. My confidence faded, and only the guttering flicker of faith kept me going.
Triumph Through Tribulation
Then, at long last, my time came. Two days and an unfathomable amount of driving hours later, we made it home. Like McArthur splashing back onto the shores of the Philippines, I strode through the house to the backyard and said, “I have returned.”
At first, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The grass had grown to knee-height in our absence. I half expected to see one of those Japanese soldiers who refused to surrender decades after World War Two ended come tearing out of the foliage in a one-man bonsai charge.
Given the height of the lawn overall, the shortness of the sod made me think all my worst fears had come true. The power of the Patch could not be denied, and I would forever bear the stain on my honor as a suburban male.
But then I looked closer, surveying the battlefield with a commander’s eye. Where brown desolation once ruled, green battalions now held every inch of contested ground. The Patch’s regime of terror had fallen. Victory was total, my revenge complete.
I turned to find my wife standing behind me, hair frazzled and nursing a thousand-yard stare. She had the look of a soldier who had fought through the enemy’s line, only to be told to do it again. I took her in my arms and swept a hand out towards the yard, wordlessly allowing her to share in my triumph.
She looked at me with eyes that had seen too much, and said, “Go unload the car before I stab you.”
Reflections on the Turf War
There are times when a plan requires constant adaptation. When a tactical genius proves their merit by snatching a smoldering ember of victory from the ashes of defeat. These are great stories, made all the better for their rarity.
Less potent yet just as satisfying is the feeling of when a plan comes together. I felt this as I looked at the Patch (after unloading the car). I’ve always appreciated the phrase vini vidi vici, but this moment brought home its true meaning to me.
As I look at the Patch today, sometimes I recall what I’ve read in books or heard from stories. How one might have a bittersweet respect for a worth adversary, a nostalgia for the fight.
I have none of that. What I do have is a feeling of righteous judgment as I laugh over the ruins of the Patch’s ambitions. I have fought the battle of the lawn warrior and emerged triumphant, and my verdant grass will see me to the Valhalla of Suburban American Men.
Some men are defined by their lawns; I was refined by mine. I am become Lawn, bringer of life.
Updated on June 12, 2025
Mud, Blood, and Life Lessons: My First Mountain Biking Crash
“This is not ideal,” I thought as I catapulted over my bike’s handlebars into the creek below. Time crawled as I plummeted off the small bridge, the three-foot drop now looking like a stunt jump from a Tom Cruise movie. The words of the instructor who gave me my first and only mountain biking lesson came to mind: we all crash eventually.
I splashed into the water, which wasn’t too bad. Refreshing, even. I also crashed into the rocks, which was less pleasant. The slow running water trickled over me as I sat up, grateful that at least no one else was around to have seen my fall from grace. Then I saw the blood streaming down the gash in my shin and thought perhaps riding solo had its downsides, like a lack of medical supplies.
This was my first major crash while mountain biking. Intellectually, I knew it would happen, but there’s a difference between knowledge and experience. Hurling oneself down steep mountainsides at high speed may get the blood flowing, but it isn’t a risk-free endeavor. And as it turns out, crashing also gets the blood flowing.
I crawled out of the creek and pulled my bike out with me. My soggy clothes squelched as I plopped down on the trail and squinted at my shin. With the mud, blood, and semi-embedded gravel, it was hard to tell the severity of the wound. But in the moment, what bothered me more was the sudden feeling that maybe this wasn’t for me.
I had flirted with the idea of mountain biking for over a decade, but never pulled the trigger. I like adrenaline-pumping activities. Heck, I’ve bungee jumped on three continents now, done solo skydiving, and continue to use the same cruise control joke with my wife after nine years of marriage.
What I haven’t done, though, is really commit to something (apart from the bad jokes, but that’s a separate topic). Mountain biking fit nicely into a slot of perpetual aspiration. I could lean on the dream of it, but never risk the effort, cost, and threat of doing it.
My wife, however, knows when to push the baby bird out of the nest. When we moved to Colorado, she insisted that I try mountain biking so that I would finally know which side to fall on. That or she was sick of me pining for it while staring forlornly out of windows. Either way, I signed up for a class and loved every second of it. The rush of tearing down a trail with trees whipping past hooked me deep, and I felt a passion just like I had imagined it feeling for years.
Now, sitting on a deserted trail with blood coating my shin, that passion curdled like old milk. It was a physical representation of the joke, “Well well well, if it isn’t the consequences of my own actions.” The speed of my attitude shift would have been remarkable if it weren’t my own.
As I wallowed, an old memory surfaced. When I was young, my dad taught me how to ride a horse. During one of my first rides, the horse got excited and took off at a gallop. I rolled over the back of the horse like a bobblehead getting flung off a car dashboard at a back-alley race. Hitting the ground knocked the wind out of me, and by the time I stopped panicking and could breathe again, the last thing I ever wanted was to get back on the devil horse.
So what does my dad do? Picks me up and puts me right back on the hoofed demon. I calmly and clearly expressed my displeasure with the situation. He, in turn, listened to my argument, acknowledged receiving the words, and promptly ignored them.
I ended up calming down and getting back in the saddle. The rest of the day went well, and I’ve been a passable horseman ever since with an appreciation both for the animal and the lesson of getting back on the horse.
As I looked at my bike, I recognized it for what it was—another horse after another fall. Sure, there was risk. But there was also joy, and thrill, and cardiovascular benefit in a way that didn’t just suck. The only question was if I had the grit to dust myself off and get back on my chrome steed without someone else forcing me to do so.
I got back on the bike. A drink of water, some quick test pedaling, and the trail rolled under me as I got back up to speed. As I did, some of the joy from earlier came back, but tinged with darker thoughts.
Lost opportunities flashed through my mind: passing on diving coral reefs that look like underwater cathedrals, unconquered mountain peaks standing like stone monuments to missed moments, adventures relegated to Netflix documentaries like secondhand living.
But what really hit hard as the wind rushed past and my legs pumped up and down was the erosion of time from procrastination. I could have biked that exact trail 15 years prior when I first moved to Colorado. I could have honed my skills over four years while living there, taking advantage of living in the Rockies. I could have taken my bike to all the places I’ve lived—Guam’s tropical trails, Germany’s mountain forests, Korea’s ancient paths, Hawaii’s volcanic slopes.
I could have done so much.
The question ‘why’ rattled through my head as my wheels turned. Why did I choose a trail of excuses over hitting the physical trail? Laziness? That probably played a factor. Lack of opportunity? Even I can’t rationalize my way into believing that one.
Fear? I rode down the last hill of the ride pondering that thought. It wasn’t fear of the activity itself—I rode recklessly fast my first few times taking on steep downward hills, and still do. Nor was it fear of financial cost. I’m cheap, but renting a mountain bike through the facilities here is peanuts. Doing it over a decade ago was likely the equivalent of pocket change.
It was fear of losing comfort, I decided. Staying in my room watching movies or playing video games had a known quality. Trying something new is a leap of faith—it may be fantastic, but it may take you to new lows. For the majority of my life, I’ve deferred to certain mediocrity over uncertain magnificence—comfortable chairs and comfortable lies. Now I wondered if comfort cost more than courage.
The ride finished in silence, me rolling back towards my starting point lost in thought. I trudged to the locker room and hopped in the shower, focused on cleaning off the mud and blood to get a true picture of the damage.
The wound turned out to be surprisingly small. With the mud washed away and the blood cleaned up, I saw that the wound had already closed up. No stitches needed, no awkward explanation to my wife later about a new limp. Like many of our perceived problems in life, perception outran reality.
I don’t claim to have had some mountain top epiphany. This crash didn’t change my life, nor have I stumbled upon a new life philosophy. Life is too messy for that, and the lesson of ‘get back on the horse’ is too simple for many of the issues we face.
What I can say, however, is that I’m still riding, crashes and all. I can say that my perspective on taking risks has expanded. I can say that I better grasp the cost of fear outweighing the cost of failure.
And I can say that when I struggle my way to the top of a hill and look at the winding trail heading down the far side, the joy of the ride still comes to me. Every single time, my heart races like it’s my first ride before I hit the pedals and launch myself forward
Have the courage to set comfort aside. Your trails are waiting.
Posted on June 1, 2025
Sheeple Blinders: When ‘Just Asking Questions’ Threatens Weather Radars
I like to follow the news—part civic duty, part masochistic tendency. Yet sometimes I come across an article so mind bogglingly bonkers, it makes me weep for our future. We had one of those recently.
Here’s the headline: A militarized conspiracy theorist group believes radars are ‘weather weapons’ and is trying to destroy them. So yeah, that’s where we’re at these days.
The group behind the threats is called Veterans on Patrol, which is both offensive and ironic: offensive because I’m a future veteran and don’t want my identity associated with this sort of nonsense, and ironic because the founder isn’t even a veteran.
You may be surprised to hear that the original purpose of the group was not to patrol for nefarious government weather weapons. Actually, it was quite noble—raising awareness for the plight of veteran suicide, which is an actual issue. Somewhere along the way, though, things appear to have taken a hard turn. I’m not sure what linkage exists between veteran suicide awareness and weather weapons, but apparently they found it.
From Noble Beginnings to Weather Weapons
This story resonated with me. My core professional interest is information operations (IO), especially understanding the how’s and why’s of influencing people. Having spent a few years of my life planning and analyzing information campaigns, seeing it live in the wild like this both intrigues and terrifies me. I find the mechanics of misinformation and disinformation (yes, there’s a difference) fascinating, and this event speaks to what happens when things go wrong. Or, depending on where you’re standing, very very right.
The weather weapons posing such an existential threat to freedom loving, gun toting, cheeseburger slamming Americans everywhere are actually NEXRAD weather radars. They’ve been used since the 1990s for getting accurate data on severe storms, helping NOAA provide lifesaving early warnings to American citizens. They also augment FAA and Air Force radar capabilities that watch our nation’s skies. All in all, these are highly useful and ultimately quite boring capabilities that operate in the background to make your life safer.
Enter the conspiracy theory. Like most of these ‘theories’, it’s heavy on insinuation and light on facts. Apparently, these aren’t weather radars at all—instead, they’re doomsday weather weapons bent on poisoning our skies because reasons. Exactly what they do or how they do it doesn’t matter, because that would require inconvenient stuff like evidence.
The lack of evidence hasn’t stopped the militia group from becoming a threat. The group has publicly directed its members to find weaknesses in these sites, with their leader—again, not an actual veteran—claiming they will take down as many as possible. Because why not disrupt the system that tells us where hurricanes are heading right as we enter hurricane season?
The situation would be comical if it wasn’t so serious. Not only would attacking these sites potentially injure or kill the weather wizards who predict storm patterns, but even a slight disruption to that capability would mean hundreds or thousands of needless deaths from people who otherwise would have been warned their homes stood in the path of Zeus’s wrath.
As tempting as it is to write off these folks as crackpots and mock them from our high towers, that doesn’t work. In fact, that tactic works about as well as convincing a toddler to eat veggies by lecturing them on nutritional science—it frustrates both parties and now there are condiments dripping from the ceiling. What we have here is a situation that calls for a meaningful response. It breaks down into three parts: understand, empathize, develop.
The Psychology of Falling Down the Rabbit Hole
It’s depressing how often we condemn without making even a paltry effort to understand. I’m not saying we need to understand the conspiracy theories themselves—those are generally loonier than the fact the US military has lost at least six nuclear bombs to date. We need to do better understanding why people fall into these rabbit holes in the first place.
First, we need to understand that most conspiracists start their journey with legitimate grievances. You rarely find the person with everything in life going their way trolling through Illuminati fan boy message boards at three in the morning. Instead, these beliefs—and the organizations that push them—prey on the vulnerable.
It’s the man who lost his job to outsourcing overseas and thinks the system is rigged. It’s the mom who reads about how the government has done secret medical tests on US citizens and wonders what else they’re up to. It’s the boy on the cusp of adulthood who has no community institutions or social support structures to help him transition into the wider world and feels alone and abandoned. It’s people looking for a simple answer to a maelstrom of complex situations.
Once someone is primed like that, there are a host of psychological effects that suck people in like 90’s-era cartoon quicksand. Let’s just list a few of them:
- Proportionality bias – belief that big events must have big causes
- Pattern recognition short circuit – the brain finding patterns where none exist
- Agency detection – tendency to attribute effects to intentional action instead of chance or systemic factors
- Dunning-Kruger effect – overestimating our own knowledge on a topic outside our expertise
- Confirmation bias – seeking and prioritizing information that confirms existing beliefs
- Backfire effect – when correcting information reinforces incorrect beliefs
- Identity protection – when beliefs get tied to who you think you are as a person, ensuring you defend those beliefs even if they’re wrong
These vulnerabilities are precisely what an information operations campaign target. In my professional experience, effective IO campaigns don’t create grievances from nothing—they identify fault lines and apply pressure. The most pervasive conspiracy theories naturally use amplification techniques I’ve studied, like narrative layering and credibility building through partial truths.
When you see it laid out, it’s a wonder we aren’t all conspiracists. Then again, the artist formally known as the History Channel makes its money off reruns of a show about how aliens built the pyramids, so maybe we aren’t as enlightened as we’d hope.
The Hotel California Effect
Once someone gets roped into a conspiracy, there’s a better than decent chance they’re stuck. Like the proverbial Hotel California, you can check out anytime you like, but you’ll find yourself as an ostracized hermit if you leave.
A conspiracy theory community is first and foremost a community. It’s a group of people with a shared belief that informs both their values and their identities. This is the sort of thing religious congregations and social clubs provided before the majority of people abandoned them.
The thing is, though, we need those connections. So if the old guard of social organization falls apart, something will fill the gap. For some, that’s depression. For others, it’s getting together with other people that think Denver’s airport is a speakeasy for lizard people and mole men.
This becomes a self-reinforcing condition. As one goes deeper into a conspiracy, it stresses relationships with non-believers. That encourages further integration with other believers, which causes even more stress with non-believers. Rinse and repeat until the only people left in a conspiracist’s life are others who share their belief. And that makes it almost impossible to leave, because where would you go?
Sheeple Blinders: How Conspiracists Close Their Minds
There’s another side to this, one that blends psychological quicksand with social bindings. Conspiracists love to point the finger at others and label them as government/corporation/local PTA stooges, but for folks that claim to have opened their eyes, they have remarkably closed minds.
This narrowing of perspectives is called ‘audience isolation’—an IO technique where targets are gradually separated from contradictory information sources. It’s particularly effective because once established, the target maintains their isolation for you by actively avoiding outside perspectives.
I call this effect sheeple blinders. The word ‘sheeple’ is the best part of conspiracy theories, hands down. I love this word—it rolls off the tongue well and has a nice heat to it. Even the Russian judge gives it high marks. Why should we let the conspiracists own it? No, I’m taking it back and it starts here.
Conspiracists put on progressively narrower sheeple blinders as they get further wrapped up in their beliefs. Concepts mentioned earlier like confirmation bias and identity protection create an environment where contradicting information is a threat to be avoided.
The problem is that with conspiracy theories, almost all the information out there—along with all the facts—tend to be contradicting information to the conspiracy in question. So what’s the solution? As a friend of mine used to say, “admit nothing, deny everything, make counteraccusations.”
Any evidence contrary to their belief must be a threat. Anyone who disagrees with them must be a shill. Any sign of doubt must be purged. The sheeple blinders are broad, opaque, and relentless.
Finding the Human Beneath the Conspiracy
Hopefully you now have a better understanding of what goes into making a conspiracist. That’s crucial for the next step: empathizing with them.
Right up front, let me say there’s a difference between empathizing and accepting. Just because I’m willing to extend a hand of friendship and mercy to someone who got tricked into believing something doesn’t mean I’m good with them blowing up weather radars. Actions have consequences, and harmful consequences deserve an appropriate response.
That said, there is a difference between dangerous actions and confused thinking. The latter tends to lead to the former, so it’s the latter we should focus on. We already covered why people might get sucked into a conspiracy, but let’s take it a step further.
We are social creatures. Stick us in a room with no social contact for an extended period, and you’ll have us trying to emulate Jackson Pollock with our feces on the wall before long. It’s hardwired into our brains to seek companionship and acceptance from the tribe, because that’s what enables us to survive as a species.
When you look at the average conspiracist, it’s hard not to just see a crackpot raving about how contrails are poison clouds the government uses to control us. What we need to see, however, is the human being underneath the confusion, anger, and helplessness.
Beyond social needs, we all also crave meaning and control in our lives. Sadly, life isn’t too keen on offering much in the way of those externally. Meaning and control come from within, but that’s a different Wandering altogether.
I guarantee that at some point in your life, you’ve felt like you’ve lost control. Like you weren’t sure what the meaning of it all was. Now imagine at that at your lowest point, someone came to you claiming to have all the answers, and offered you a community of fellow believers that knew what it all meant. Tempting proposition, no?
That’s what happens to conspiracists. It’s truly a “there but for the grace of God, go I” situation. Any of us could find ourselves there had the cards been dealt just a little different. So maybe we should try a little harder to see ourselves in those that weren’t so lucky.
The Critical Thinking Crisis
Unlike what the vast majority of conspiracy theories claim, there are no easy solutions to complex problems. In the case of deprogramming conspiracists and preventing others from putting on sheeple blinders, that’s doubly true for one reason: we’re actively making the situation worse.
I speak, of course, about the state of critical thinking in the United States. It’s as though we are actively opposed to both the critical part and the thinking part, which would be impressive if it wasn’t so depressing.
For example, can you think of any class you took K-12 that the main objective was to learn critical thinking? Or was your education like mine, where “critical thinking” got sprinkled on as an afterthought in every syllabus, like a teenager making minimum wage at a froyo shop adding my cookie dough chunks.
We don’t prioritize critical thinking, and the evidence is all around us. Look at our media landscape. It’s the least trusted it’s ever been, largely because most outlets cater to specific audiences as opposed to the truth. At this point, I’d say The Onion might be the sole remaining city on a hill.
How did it get that way? Because people stopped caring about the truth versus having their sweet, sweet confirmation bias fix. Sound familiar? That’s right, baby—we all have sheeple blinders on!
Critical thinking implies looking past the headline to find truth. It means acknowledging our biases and preferences, determine how to overcome them, and accepting reality as it is, not as we want it to be.
How do we fix this? No clue. Obviously, some sort of educational campaign for youth is a good place to start, but it doesn’t do much for those of us who have already done our time in the public education system. Naming and shaming doesn’t work either (that pesky identity defense system and the Dunning-Kruger effect would like a word). Like I said earlier, complex issues don’t have simple answers.
Maybe we start by recognizing we all have these tendencies. If there’s one facet to a solution that might trump all the others, it’s embracing humility. There are few forces more powerful for advancing the greater good than an ability to acknowledge when we’re wrong. If only it was easier to swallow.
‘Just Asking Questions’ and Other Deflections
There are those that would defend conspiracy theories and those that hawk them with high-minded ideals. These fine folks are ‘just asking questions’ or are ‘free speech advocates.’ Balderdash, I say!
Let’s start with the ‘just asking questions’ bit. Questions are great. They lead to things like finding that item at the store I wasted 30 minutes looking for because social interaction terrifies me, or clarifying with my loving wife that no, she would rather I not send our toddler to daycare painted like an extra from Braveheart.
The difference between these questions and ‘just asking questions’ is that only one of them involves wanting to hear the answer. If the average conspiracist actually cared about the truth, they’d listen with an open mind to the overwhelming evidence that they’ve been misled. Instead, the sheeple blinders come on and only the answers they want to hear make it through.
The ‘just asking questions’ technique has a technical name in information operations: implied falsehood insertion. It’s when you create a misleading impression through a technically true statement, omissions, or implications. In this instance, it moves the burden of defense on the listener, allowing the ‘questioner’ to throw up their hands behind a thin veneer of plausible deniability.
More often than not, anyone saying they’re ‘just asking questions’ is either ‘just wanting attention’ or ‘just deflecting your justifiable outrage that I’m claiming the government made up a school shooting.’
As for free speech, I’m also a fan. It’s why I can write ridiculous blog posts on the internet with virtually zero consequences. When conspiracists cower behind it, however, they’re twisting something noble to ugly ends.
First, free speech does not mean freedom from consequences. All it means is the government can’t censor you. There’s nothing that says companies can’t kick you off their platform, people can’t call you an idiot, or house pets can’t look at you with shame in their eyes. Consequences are like gravity—if you don’t prepare for them, certain situations will end poorly for you.
Second, conspiracists will cry about free speech when someone does something unimaginable like fact checking them. Again, this isn’t how free speech works. This is how dialogue operates in a functional society. If you can’t handle the heat, stay out of the kitchen of ideas.
Finally, conspiracists use the claim of free speech like a reverse uno card. Instead of providing actual proof of their claims, they just yell “free speech” like a magician mumbling in Latin, acting like it somehow protects them.
Oh, one final thought on conspiracists: if you know what you’re peddling is false and do it anyways for personal gain, you are a garbage human being. People like Alex Jones that push excrement like how the Sandy Hook mass shooting was fake then have the gall to claim in court that they’re just entertainers are evil, sadistic cowards. They are parasites with the aesthetic appeal and backbone of an Amazonian river leech, and that’s not a fair comparison to the leech.
Building Bridges, not Barricades: Moving Forward Together
Weather radars that save lives are good. That there’s a group threatening to destroy them for outlandish reasons with zero evidence is bad. The people who believe such things are neither good nor bad, they’re just confused.
This fight is in desperate need of more empathy. When we vilify those that have pulled sheeple blinders over their eyes, we make the problem worse. Nobody ever mocked their way into a positive relationship, and all yelling at each other does is drive up the stock price of whoever makes ibuprofen.
If there’s someone in your life who has put on sheeple blinders, trying to rip them off won’t work. You have to convince them to take them off themselves. Resist the urge to ridicule. Ask genuine questions about how they came to believe this information. Create safe spaces for doubt by acknowledging your own ignorance. But most importantly, practice some humility—none of us are immune to mis- and disinformation.
Let’s work to think more clearly. Let’s work to make a shared understanding of reality. But most importantly, let’s work to treat each other like human beings.
Posted on May 13, 2025
Board Game Theory: Winning at the Games of Life
Before we had children and lost all control over our lives, my wife and I enjoyed playing board games together. Our personal philosophies on those games, however, differs somewhat. While she plays to have a pleasant evening with friends and loved ones, I play in order to lay waste to the competition. There are moments when if Machiavelli happened to be playing Catan with us, he’d sit back and say, “Dude.”
Thinking about that side of me led to my own personal game theory. Every situation you find yourself in can be treated like a game—there are rules, objectives, and strategies. Knowing what those are gives you an advantage. Failing to see them means you do not pass go, you do not collect two hundred dollars.
Most importantly, recognizing your circumstances as a game means you have a goal: to win. Not to dominate for its own sake, but because if you want to better yourself and learn, you need to put forth your best effort. Winning means growth, victory over stagnation.
And if you’re not playing to win, why are you even in the game?
The Games We Play Every Day
Every action you take is a move on multiple game boards. Working on a project in the office, reading a book for pleasure, convincing your partner you’re not quite as dumb as the evidence suggests—these all have rules to understand if you plan to get the most out of them. They all have objectives to achieve for the best outcome. And they all have an incredible number of strategies you can apply to them.
Knowing the game you’re playing is a prerequisite for enduring success. Luck and tap dancing only get one so far—eventually, the wolves come to play. And when you find yourself across the board from someone who understands the rules better than you and is there to win, every move you make will come up snake eyes.
Thankfully, there’s an easy formula anyone can apply to the games of their life:
Assessment → Strategy → Action → Growth
It’s simple, but not easy. Though if it was easy, where would be the fun in winning?
Assessing Your Position on the Board
We start with assessment because it’s hard to get anywhere if you don’t know where you are. The number of games you could be playing is infinite, so take the time to figure out which ones you’re in.
One accomplishes this in the most terrifying of ways: thinking. I know, I’m clutching my pearls at the horror of it as well. Modern society has done its absolute best to ensure that you never have to think again, and our new AI overlords make the threat more pressing than ever before.
Thinking, however, is somewhat important to understanding. And that’s what we’re doing in this step: understanding our situation and recognizing its rules. Here’s how I recommend you break it down:
- Categorize your situation into one of four buckets: Craft (work, hobbies, etc), Community (relationships, friendships, etc), Constitution (mental and physical health), or Contemplation (spiritual wellbeing) [special thanks to Cal Newport for that framework]
- Define your ideal end state for each bucket
- Identify how your situation aligns with those end states (these are the game objectives)
- Map the systematic obstacles blocking your path (these are the game rules)
Couldn’t be simpler! This leaves you in an excellent space for the next phase: strategizing.
Strategizing Your Next Moves
Strategy is a word that gets tossed around more than a Caesar salad, and with far less satisfying results. If you think that you’ve got a strategy because you underlined “go big or go home” on a whiteboard, the ghosts of Clausewitz and Sun Tzu both say you have brought dishonor on your dojo.
Let’s break down what strategy is, then apply it to our games of life theory. First and foremost, a strategy is a theory of success. Theory because it hasn’t been proven yet but is backed by evidence, and success because obviously. That’s what strategy is, but what does strategy do? Three things: create advantages, develop new sources of power, and exploit weaknesses in the competition.
Strategies in board games are a good example. When someone who knows what they’re doing moves a chess piece, they’re doing it to set themselves up for success down the road, establish positions of strength on the board, and prevent their opponent from doing the same. When I move pieces on the chessboard, it’s usually because I blacked out and panicked. We can’t all be Bobby Fischer.
Now let’s move it from the chessboard to the game of life. A position opened up at work that you want like I want Cinnabon—an unhealthy fixation that must be met at any cost. Boom, there’s your objective. Now you need a strategy to get at that gooey goodness, your theory of success. A quick brainstorm, and you’ve got a few ideas:
- Create advantages: build a relationship with the person who owns that position, highlight your relevant skills, lower your stress so you perform better
- Develop new sources of power: learn new skills that fit the role, practice your interviewing, look for alternative opportunities to leverage
- Exploit weaknesses: identify process gaps you can work, understand where other applicants might fall short and learn from that
Now your strategy has some meat. Obviously, each situation will differ with environment and context, but this step separates players from bystanders. Because once you have a theory of success, it makes the next step that much easier—taking action.
Taking Action That Matters
The best strategy in the world is as useless as my once-held ability to quote Star Wars Episode One verbatim if it’s not backed up by action. This is where rubber meets road, birds take flight, and possums hiss at people throwing their trash away. But not all action is created equal. There are two types: performative and useful.
What do I mean by performative action? I mean busywork we use to pretend we’re actually accomplishing something. Reorganizing your desk, rereading the same “productivity hacks” that have been regurgitated by the internet ad nauseum, 99% of meetings—these performances convince us we’re advancing when we’re just treading water.
We are excellent rationalizers. I can convince myself that yes, I need that fourth cinnamon roll because if I don’t eat it, it’ll go bad and we’ll have to throw it out. And that would be wasteful. Similarly, we dazzle ourselves with excuses as to why the performative actions we assign ourselves are just as important—if not more so—as useful actions. Why do we do this? Because useful action is hard.
Useful actions are those that move the ball forward in your theory of success. By definition, they act against resistance because if there was no resistance to reaching your goal, you’d have already accomplished it. And as anyone who’s ever upped the weight on their squat can tell you, resistance doesn’t care about your goals or your feelings. Resistance is there to jack you up like a playground bully desperate for the love he or she is so clearly denied at home.
Imagine you want to improve your relationship with your partner. I say “imagine” because that doesn’t seem to be the norm these days, but I digress. You’ve assessed the situation and determined the rules of the game. For sake of argument, we’ll say they involve acknowledging your partner’s feelings, prioritizing mutually enjoyed activities, and sharing the load of household tasks. You’ve also put together a strategy: studying your partner’s emotional responses to see what does and doesn’t work in your interactions (creating an advantage), creating shared goals that unite your efforts and provide motivation (a new source of power), and identifying what it is you do that most drives your partner up the wall for immediate correction (exploiting weaknesses).
Now it’s time for useful action. To continue the example, you might develop a relationship dashboard to track your shared goals, with fun date night celebrations baked in when you hit milestones. Or you could have weekly “highlight” conversations, where you share with each other what made you feel valued over the past seven days. Or you could put on a shock collar your partner gets to trigger every time you reuse that pun they hate. The options here are endless—what matters is that each action directly makes progress on the strategy.
This has echoes of deliberate practice, a concept that states the obvious because we need to be spoon fed these days. In brief, the only practice that counts is practice done with deliberate intent and focus. The evidence in favor of the concept is overwhelming, but my favorite tidbit is this: how many hours do you spend driving in a week? In a month? A year? Yet with all that, are you any better a driver now than you were a year ago? No, because you are not deliberately practicing—you’re coasting on instinct. As the saying goes, that dog don’t hunt. Also, if you don’t use your blinkers, you’re a bad person.
If you’re ever in doubt that your action is useful and deliberate, ask yourself this: what tangible result will this action have that brings me closer to my goal? The further your answer strays from your desired end state, the more you’re lying to yourself. You’ll know the difference because deep down, you know what you need to do.
Growing Beyond the Game
Assessment. Strategy. Action. These steps lead to the most important one—growth. It’s critical for two reasons. First, without growth we stagnate, and there are few things as disappointing as a life wasted on stagnation. Second, growth is what prevents us from becoming a hyper competitive jackwagon.
We’ve all hit moments of stagnation in our lives. Maybe you struggle to find the energy to workout, or the effort of keeping up relationships seems too onerous, or you think maybe that fourth cinnamon roll is a step too far. It’s ok, we’ve all been there.
Here’s what I’ve come to believe about stagnation: it’s like a little form of death. Not so immediately permanent, but the longer it goes on, the harder it is to tell the difference. It starts with a day, then a week, then you look up from the grave you slowly sunk into over decades, realizing the entire world has passed you by. Because if there’s one constant in our temporal existence, it’s that the world will keep moving, with or without you.
Growth is a choice. The world will never stop throwing challenges at you, but whether you rise to meet them is entirely on you. Could I have passed on that fourth cinnamon roll? Absolutely. Should I have? Actually, probably. But my dear reader, mountains exist for one reason: to be summited. It is how we learn and how we improve.
Growth has another side. By approaching these challenges with humility, you acknowledge you have something to learn and room for improvement. This is the anti-jackwagon tonic.
It’s entirely possible to this point you’ve assumed I’m a raging, hyper competitive tool that you’d hate dealing with. I like to think that’s not the case, but you have to ask my wife (just not after I’ve crushed her at Everdell). Instead, I’d propose that I’m committed to growth in every aspect of my life, and that growth only comes when we push ourselves past our current limits. That push is when we either fail or discover new strengths. Both are central components to being a better person tomorrow than you are today.
Recognizing the difference between ego-driven competition and growth-oriented excellence keeps you on the right path. Otherwise, good luck keeping any friends on the invite list for game night.
Playing to Win Without Becoming a Sore Winner
Similar to the jackwagon sentiment above, you might also be thinking, “Hey man, isn’t focusing too much on winning unhealthy?” That depends on your reason for wanting to win.
There’s a simple rule to determine if you’re in the right headspace on this. Are you focused on winning because a) you want to improve and become the best version of yourself for yourself, or b) you desperately need your ego stroked like needy chihuahua thirsting after undeserved love?
I’ll give you a hint: don’t be a chihuahua.
“Isn’t this, I don’t know, manipulative?” you might follow up with. My response: an astute observation! Again, it depends on your reasons. If you approach every situation with an eye towards self-improvement and a commitment to humility, I’d say no. If you do it purely to crush others, yeah, that’s probably leading down a path that involves pulling the wings off of flies.
Remember, no model is perfect, but most models have value if applied appropriately. This game theory is just another framework to view your life through, and how you choose to utilize it makes all the difference in the outcome.
“You’re coming across pretty judgy—I’m already trying my best.” Are you? Are you really? If so, that’s great! I applaud your effort. But even then, we all inevitably fall short. To quote the immortal Captain Picard, “It is possible to commit no mistakes and still lose. That is not weakness, that is life.”
The great thing about this game theory, though, is even if we lose an individual game, we can still move our piece forward on the Big Game of Life. So long as you learn and grow from your failures, you are improving and overcoming stagnation. You, my friend, are winning.
Your Move
If there’s one thing I want you to take away from this Wandering, it’s that eating four cinnamon rolls in one day should be acceptable in polite society. If there’s a second, it’s that viewing your goals in life through a game lens—complete with objectives, rules, and strategies—is a tool to help navigate the white-water rapids of life.
Next time I’m crushing my wife at a board game, I’ll have a good time. And next time she stomps me, I’ll sit there with a smile on my face. Winning means nothing if it doesn’t involve growth. Recognize the true adversary in your life as stagnation, and play to win.
Updated on May 3, 2025
When Toddlers Rule the Zoo: A Lesson in Parenting Priorities
Toddlers love two things above all: chaos and the zoo. My son and I had a Dude’s Day at the zoo last week, and it proved to be a lesson in understanding priorities. Specifically, my priorities no longer exist.
I went into this experience prepared. Snacks? Check. Weather-appropriate clothing? Check. Meticulously planned animal-viewing strategy to ensure an on-time departure for the afternoon nap? Abso-floggin-lutely.
What I failed to consider is how in almost three years of parenting, not a single plan has survived first contact with the toddler. In the military, we say the enemy gets a vote. Well, toddlers don’t believe in democracy—they rule by the iron fist.
The Giraffe Pilgrimage
The day started out well. The child woke up excited, provided minimal resistance to breakfast, and loaded into the transport with alacrity upon request. Blasting Johnny Cash and R.L. Burnside as we went—because my toddler is cooler than you—we arrived at the zoo right as it opened.
Once we arrived, though, I knew the day would take a turn. Our zoo is undergoing some construction to expand exhibits, so they blocked off the main entrance. Instead, we entered through a small gate into the back of the zoo. No issue, I thought. We’ll just do everything in reverse.
Can one look back on the person they were a week ago and think, Oh, sweet summer child? One can indeed.
My son loves giraffes. Allow me to emphasize this fact. My son LOVES giraffes to the extent that when I floated the idea of seeing a different, more logistically appropriate animal first—the penguins, another favorite—his body filled with an incandescent rage fueled by a sense of profound betrayal.
Giraffes it was.
The long-necked ungulates occupy the space directly past the main entrance. Thus, we got to trek through the entire zoo to see our spotted friends, passing by almost every exhibit to do so and leaving all signs of other human beings behind. Prompts to stop and look at the other animals were met with derision. Apparently, my son is a fan of Napoleon, who once said “When you set out to take Vienna, take Vienna.”
The giraffes were a hit, of course. And one positive to the forced march he made me endure was that we had the whole exhibit to ourselves. Our zoo has an interactive giraffe experience where you can feed and pet the animals, but my son hasn’t worked up the courage to try again after a giraffe slurped up his arm like it was a bowl of ramen.
As his interest waned, I thought we could get back on track with my original plan. But when I asked if he was ready to see the next animal, he looked me in the eye and said, “I want to see the wolves.”
Ah. The wolves. The ones on the complete opposite side of the zoo from the giraffes. Those wolves? Yes, those wolves. Sweet.
Marches with Wolves
What followed was my holding action to circumvent toddler logic. Each exhibit we passed became an attempt to lean into the toddler’s inherent desire for stimuli. Look at that bear! Do you see the owl? Isn’t that a cool lizard?!
But suddenly, the toddler who cannot stay focused for half a second at home became the guy from A Beautiful Mind. Wolves were what he came to see, and wolves would not be denied.
I gave my plan one last shot at the mountain lion exhibit. He loves mountain lions, I love mountain lions, everyone loves mountain lions! It’s also my favorite exhibit at the zoo because of how it’s designed. You get to be inches away from some of the coolest cats around, with just a thin pane of glass between you and death cuddles. What’s not to like?
The answer to that is everything. Upon realizing that these beautiful, amazing creatures were not, in point of fact, wolves, my son lost his mind. He had a fever, and the only prescription was the Mexican Gray Wolf.
I waved the white flag and beelined for the wolves. Mercy of mercies, the wolves happened to be asleep right near the viewing area—not a guarantee with these guys, who take great pleasure in hiding from onlookers.
My mission accomplished, I sat back and appreciated the majesty of these graceful quadrupeds. They’re the most endangered subspecies of wolf, you know, and something interesting about them is—
“I want to see the penguins.”
I looked at my watch. Not ten seconds had elapsed since arriving at the wolves’ den. I looked at my toddler, my eyes pleading. He looked back with iron in his gaze, and penguins on his mind.
So I turned the stroller around, and we walked back to the entrance to see the penguins.
Priorities, Schmiorities
Though the day did not turn out as planned, it ended up where it needed to. Sure, a lot of cool animals got ignored, but my son and I got to spend time together appreciating some of the wonders of our world. I saw his face light up seeing giraffes, his excitement when the wolves were sleeping just feet away, and his little penguin waddle as they glided through the water behind him.
You’d think I’d have learned by now that while parents plan, toddlers laugh, but I still cling to that hope that one day, we can stick to a schedule. But perhaps the more important lesson to learn is that in the end, time spent together is time well spent.
But next time, we’re going to see some mountain lions.
Posted on April 3, 2025
The Monsters in Our Closets: A Grown-Up’s Guide to Conquering the Unknown
I stare at the cracked closet door in our bedroom night after night. That slight gap—maybe five inches wide—between door and frame haunts me more than I’d care to admit. My wife often reminds me I’m a grown man (mostly in jest, I hope). Yet here I am, lying awake wondering what lurks in that sliver of darkness while she sleeps peacefully beside me.
It’s not that I actually believe there’s a monster in there, some slavering beast with tentacles and a thrashing maw craving my blood. Or an MLM founder. It’s the not knowing. That small space of uncertain potential represents something we’ve all struggled with since we crawled out of the primordial ooze and started thinking—fear of the unknown.
This fear is woven throughout human history, from ancient sailors marking the edges of their maps with “here be dragons” to modern politicians leveraging uncertainty to whip supporters into a frenzy. We’re hardwired to be suspicious of what we don’t understand, and that suspicion manifests as fear more often than not. The answer, as any toddler who makes their parent check under the bed understands, is knowledge. Shine a light on the darkness, and the monsters usually disappear.
So why does the unknown scare us? What is it about a lack of control that causes us such distress? And most importantly, what can we do about it?
The unknown scares us because it’s inherently outside our control. We can’t predict it, plan for it, or prevent it. Tests on human lab rats show that uncertainty triggers a stronger negative response in the brain than even known negative outcomes. We’d literally rather have certain bad news than uncertain possibilities—the devil we know over the devil we don’t.
This lack of control wreaks havoc on our poor mammalian brains. Other human lab rat studies found that perceived lack of control increases stress hormones like cortisol, which can lead to everything from poor sleep (hello, closet door) to impaired decision-making. Anyone who’s ever panic-bought toilet paper during a global pandemic understands this viscerally. We are not, as much as we’d like to pretend otherwise, perfect stoics calmly accepting what we cannot change. Instead, like a squirrel chattering from a tree at a dog that doesn’t know any better, we rage against an unfair world.
The good news is that there is an answer. And like all good fairy tales and free online management strategies, it comes in three parts.
First, learn about what you don’t know. Nature abhors a vacuum, and it will fill the gaping holes in your knowledge with nightmares, conspiracies, and late-night infomercials. Opening the closet door lets you know what’s in there, one way or another. You might not like what you find, but certainty beats imagination running wild every time.
Second, embrace a growth mindset. Once you’ve learned what there is to know, ask yourself what the next step might be. Maybe checking the closet isn’t enough—perhaps you set up an entire CCTV system with motion-triggered alarms and wire it all yourself. Or maybe you realize that the fear wasn’t about the closet at all, but about something else in your life you’ve been avoiding. Growth means using knowledge as a stepping stone rather than a destination.
Finally, accept that you can’t control anything beyond your attitude. The closet is going to do its thing whether you lie awake worrying about it or not. But how you react to that slightly ajar door is entirely up to you. This isn’t about pretending fears don’t exist—it’s about recognizing that fear is just information, not a command.
Now, I can already hear some of you protesting: “But experts have agendas! How can we trust what they tell us about the unknown?” This is a dangerous path to walk down. Yes, expertise can come with bias, but wholesale rejection of knowledge has never led anywhere good. Expertise has given us space flight, vaccines, and dishwashers. Deciding that experts are idiots unless they tell us what we want to hear gives us ignorance, Jim Crow laws, and people thinking wildfires are caused by Jewish space lasers. I know which tradition I’d rather follow.
Learn, grow, accept. This is the formula that has gotten humanity from discovering fire to walking on the moon. It’s how we’ve survived plagues, wars, and reality television. And it’s how I make peace with that closet door.
Every morning, I get up and open it all the way. Inside is exactly what I expect—too many clothes, boxes from the latest move I’ve yet to put away, and the occasional child’s toy. No tentacles, no glowing eyes, no interdimensional portal (unfortunately). Just the known, waiting to be discovered.
So open the closets in your life and see what you find. The monsters you imagine are almost certainly worse than what’s actually there. And even if you do find something with tentacles? Well, at least then you’ll know what you’re dealing with.
Posted on March 4, 2025
Please Excuse the Interruption
I vanished from the internet. Not in the way celebrities do when a scandal breaks—more in the way socks disappear in the dryer, suddenly and without explanation. One post, then nothing. Radio silence. The cold, hard, vacuum of space.
Why, you ask? Because we, in our infinite wisdom, decided to have a second child.
Having your first child is like being thrown into the deep end of a pool. You flail, swallow some water, and eventually figure out a rudimentary form of swimming that keeps your head above water. You even start to feel somewhat competent. “Look at me,” you think, “I’m parenting!”
Having your second child is like being thrown into that same pool, except now you’re wearing ankle weights and someone’s also tossed in your firstborn, who can’t swim and keeps climbing on your head for safety.
With her arrival, we found ourselves thrust back into the chaos of sleepless nights, diaper explosions, and panicked crying with no discernible cause—both hers and ours. Added to that, we now have the existential dread of realizing we are engaged in man-on-man defense. My home is no longer under our control—it is a hostage negotiation where the tiny dictator demands tribute in the form of milk and cuddles, while her older brother plots terrorist strikes to shift the political narrative back in his favor.
This means my recent writing has consisted mainly of text messages like, “Where is the burp cloth?” and “How long past the expiration date is the last bit of food in the fridge?” My attempts at philosophical musings have been met with cries that I can only assume mean, “Your priorities are out of order.”
Still, despite the exhaustion, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. There is something about holding this tiny, screaming human and knowing that, for now, my primary job is simply to be there. To absorb the chaos, embrace the sleepless nights, and remind myself that one day—one glorious day—she will be old enough to take out the trash.
But I’m back now. Sort of. The kind of “back” that comes with asterisks and fine print about response times and coherence levels. The kind of “back” where I might suddenly stop mid-
Posted on January 5, 2025
The Magic and Mastery of Brandon Sanderson’s Writing Universe
To say Brandon Sanderson is a prolific author does him a disservice. His most recent book, Wind and Truth, comes in at 1,344 pages. That brings the series the book is a part of—the Stormlight Archives—up to 5,890 pages. It contains a cool 2,181,623 words. For a frame of reference, that’s about three times as long as the Bible, which is a compilation that took hundreds of people thousands of years to put together. Oh, and this is only the halfway point for the series.
So yeah, Sanderson can put words on paper like a machine. But that’s just the impressive part. The intimidating part is how those words are linked to millions of other words across multiple other series. Sanderson did the whole “combined universe” thing well before Marvel started pumping out their movies. His latest book has interplay from almost all of his other interconnected books, making it both fascinating and daunting to read.
As someone who cosplays as a writer on weekends, I am astounded by the level of intricacy Sanderson has built into his universe. I struggle to keep my plotlines succinct and on point when I’m dealing with a single character on a planet I’m relatively familiar with—Earth. Meanwhile, Sanderson has dozens of planets, hundreds of characters, multiple realms of existence, oodles of unique magic systems all reliant on the same underlying energy source, and a bevy of gods each playing a grand cosmic game of 4D checkers with each other. It’s a level of mastery of the craft I don’t know if we’ve seen before.
That said, I’m sure we will see it again. That’s one of the most interesting parts of human nature, how the achievements of one can inspire a host of follow-on achievements either matching or eclipsing their progenitor. After all, Sanderson isn’t the first to link a single overarching storyline across multiple series—Steven King has done it for years, as one example.
But what Sanderson has done is elevate the process to more than an occasional easter egg or cameo. The linkages are an essential part of his overall story, and each book he adds exists as a chapter in a larger tale. It’s the work of a lifetime, and he’s on record as saying he’ll need his entire life to finish everything he wants to accomplish.
I look at that drive and I can’t help but feel chagrin looking at the number of pages and words I have written. It’s especially mortifying to consider that his numbers are actually published words, while mine are just what Word tells me at the bottom left of my screen.
But one of life’s most important lessons is that the race is long, and in the end it’s only with yourself. Every word I write is another in my column, and another towards my own writing goals. I wish the best to Sanderson on his journey—especially given how much I enjoy reading his works—but mine will take me in different directions. Will it be an integrated master piece like his? Probably not. But will it serve my ultimate goal of enjoying the art and process of telling a story uniquely my own? Absolutely.
Posted on December 22, 2024
On Christmas (2024)
‘Tis the season, as it were. A time of joy and hope, prayer and merriment. The Christmas season is one many of us cherish, and for good reasons. But as I sat down to consider what it means to me, I realized that answer isn’t easy to pin down.
I have an early Christmas memory that while perhaps not my earliest chronologically, feels like my earliest spiritually. My family and I spent the holiday at my grandpa’s ranch, and that gave us a unique opportunity. On a day with a quiet dusting of snowflakes coming down from a gray sky, we rode out on ATVs into the woods behind his house and found a Christmas tree.
We cut it down and brought it back, snow on its branches and the scent of pine heavy in the air—a scent I still adore to this day. Christmas, then, meant a sense of adventure with those that I love.
Fast forward, and we enter the period I’m least proud of. Some kids may go their entire lives focusing on what’s truly important during Christmas, but I was not one of them. It became all about the presents, and I cringe at some of my brattier moments.
One that stands out was how I once threw a fit when I received a package of socks, something that had been—and continues to be—something of a family tradition. I stomped off in a huff, mortally offended that my parents would dare give me such a thing. Christmas, then, meant taking.
Luckily, this phase ended as I matured. Christmases started to happen at my aunt’s house, and all of the family on that side would gather together for a day of kith and kin. Some of my best memories with my extended family come from these get togethers, generally the only time all year we would see each other. Christmas, then, meant catching up with family I rarely saw.
My high school time and *ahem* gap year ended, seeing me off to college several states away. This proved a tumultuous time for my family and myself, both for the normal reasons and for some unexpected ones. But one of the constants I had was getting to travel home for the holidays each of the four years I was gone.
These visits taught me important lessons about what it means to maintain family relationships and how they take effort. When you see your family members every day, you can’t help but expect them to be there. When you live hundreds of miles apart, that assurance doesn’t seem so sure anymore. Christmas, then, meant appreciating the bonds of immediate family.
Soon after graduation, I found myself stationed in Guam. For those unfamiliar, it is an island in roughly the middle of nowhere on the other side of the world from the United States. Ticket costs prevented me from coming home, and I spent my first Christmas apart from family.
What stands out the most from this phase was the lack of pine scent. I didn’t see the need to buy a tree just for myself, and I didn’t bother with any decorations. My apartment looked much the same as it always did, spartan and functional. What I saved in money, I lost in other ways. Christmas, then, meant being alone.
The next year, however, my life had a major change. Instead of being single, I was in a committed relationship with the woman who would become my wife. Much like the food critic from the movie Ratatouille, she does not likeChristmas—she loves it. Her enthusiasm rubbed off on me, and the next few years saw her excitement for the season seep into my life. We hung stockings, developed our own Christmas traditions, and fought to see who could get the other the best gag gift.
The scent of pine came back into my holiday season.
Christmas, then, meant being with the woman I love during the time of year she enjoys most.
Then, another major change—we had a son. No longer did the Christmas season revolve around her and me, now it was her, me, and him. And while we certainly get joy out of the season, I find that I get more now from watching his joy blossom more each year.
Our son carries such a sense of wonder within him during this time, I can’t help but be drawn in by it. He points excitedly out the window every night when our neighbor’s decorations turn on. He loves to read Christmas books, coming up with his own stories as he flips through pages to look at the pictures. He stared with rapt attention at a church nativity play, drawn to the baby at the center of both the play and Christmas itself.
Soon, we will be joined by a daughter, rounding out our family to an even four. What will she find in the Christmas season? Joy and peace, I hope. A focus on Christ and charity, I pray. Regardless, I know that it will be all four of us together. Christmas, now, means sharing in the season together with those I am closest to in this world and seeing the wonder in their eyes.
Christmas, then, isn’t one thing to everyone. It isn’t even one thing to each of us individually. The meaning changes with the years and our circumstances, and we can only guess what those will be in the future. But we each have a say in our approach to the season, and I appreciate what that offers us.
Merry Christmas to all. Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.
Posted on December 8, 2024
Twinkle Trials: My Journey to Holiday Illumination
“When are you going to put up the Christmas lights?” my wife asked.
I looked at her much like how a cow looks at an oncoming train. In the eight years of our marriage, I had yet to undertake this husbandly right of passage. I had a legion of excuses over those years, of course. We live in an apartment! German 220v power outlets will explode! What even is South Korea!
Now, however, we live in a place so violently suburbia I can’t walk out my front door without getting slapped by an HOA violation. As we approached the holiday season, more and more of the houses surrounding us put up their own lights. Each incandescent bulb accused me with their twinkling, illuminating my cowardice.
“Most of the people around us have theirs up,” my wife continued. I writhed in my seat, trying like a young school child to avoid eye contact so the teacher would pass me by even though she had already called on me.
Then my wife pulled out the big guns. She sighed. “I guess it’s not that big a deal if you don’t. I’ve basically given up hope on ever having Christmas lights up anyways.”
A double-barrel sawed-off shotgun blast of guilt. I never stood a chance.
Several days later, I had three boxes of lights, a hundred plastic clips, a ladder, and an extension cord. I stood ready for battle, and threw open our front door to make my wife proud.
“Please don’t hurt yourself,” she said as I stepped outside.
I looked over my shoulder at her. “I will return with my shield or on it.”
She gave me the customary eye roll that I choose to interpret as deep affection, and battle was joined.
My first salvo went well. I felt the excitement of balancing a fully extended ladder on only three solid touch points, the thrill of pushing said unbalanced ladder off a rain gutter to slide a light string behind it. A whisper in the back of my mind mentioned behavior like this likely spurs most Christmas movies to paint the husband as an idiot, but it’s easy to ignore such quibbles while making progress.
I finished the first string and stood on the ground to admire my handywork. It had gone far better than anticipated, and my morale soared. I snapped a finger and thought I should plug it in to verify everything worked right. That’s when I realized I had put the lights on the wrong way, leaving me with no way to plug the lights into the extension cord.
I briefly debated leaving the lights up and telling my wife we bought a new hyper-energy efficient bulb that doesn’t light up very well, but demurred when I realized that would only result in another Home Depot trip. Up the ladder I went, clawing against the plastic clips that stubbornly clung to the lights they had so recently fought against holding.
Having taken far too long completing the easiest part of my exterior illumination project, I now turned to the most dangerous: the peak. Our house has a barn-like aesthetic, with a sharp peak jutting upward like the Himalayas. This is problematic for two reasons. First, my ladder can’t go high enough to reach the tip, and second, the peak has a large tree blocking a ladder from reaching the area anyways.
I stood with my hands on my hips and engaged in the age-old practice of men everywhere—frowning at the problem and hoping it would resolve itself. The peak looked down on me and scoffed.
Undeterred, I decided if I couldn’t come from below, I’d have to go over. Sure, the roof angles down so steep that even the most experienced long hall trucker would think twice before taking his rig down a grade like that. And yes, only most of the ice from a previous snowfall had fully melted. But I had a wife to impress and boots with moderately good tread on them. Up the ladder I went.
I took one step onto the roof, and immediately realized I would be disappointing my wife. My foot slid backwards as soon as I put pressure on it, and only a quick scramble served by years of athletic endeavors prevented me from a holiday trip to the emergency room.
My wife, of course, was devastated. I could see the question behind her eyes as I explained the situation, wondering how she wound up with a husband who couldn’t properly decorate a home for the holidays.
“What if I just skipped the peak and strung the lights from one side to the other in a straight line?” I asked.
I might as well have asked if she wanted me to toss a bucket of fish heads across the front of our house. Horror mingled with disgust as she tried to keep her facial expression under control.
“That…could work,” she ground out, every word like a fingernail getting pried out with a pair of rusty pliers.
As I mentioned before, our marriage is eight years strong. Subtle though her displeasure was, I somehow managed to pick up on it. “So that’s a no, then,” I said.
“Well, what else can you do at this point?” she asked.
I cast about frantically for a solution. Jet pack? Too unpredictable. Trained birds? Too much poop. Paying someone else to do it? Too much pride.
Then my eyes fell on the tree blocking easy access with the ladder, and the voice of Marcus Aurelius echoed in my head—the obstacle is the way.
“What if I run the lights around the tree and along the ground before coming up on the other side of the peak?” I said, not daring to let the desperation in my voice come out.
She paused a beat, and I sensed the moment pass where she had been prepared to reject whatever I said. “I think that will work,” she said, her voice hesitant with just a touch of hope.
So I got to it, making quick work of my impromptu lighting solution. The tree fought me, and the plastic clips drew blood as I finished the rest of the run, but at the end, I stood triumphant.
Is this house perfect? No. Is my wife convinced she married the most competent of men? Probably not. Are the little lights twinkling? No, and thanks for noticing.
But for the first time in my adult life, my home can bring a little bit of joy to those who pass by during this Christmas season. And if that isn’t a reason to be merry, I don’t know what is.
