Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 227

I better, safer alternative to lottery tickets

I watched a man purchase $50 in lottery tickets yesterday.

I see this all the time, and it makes me crazy. I've never played the lottery in my life. Never purchased a Powerball ticket or a scratch ticket. Never felt any compulsion to do so.  

This is because I understand the odds involved with playing the lottery.

I also know that a disproportionate number of people who play the lottery are poor, minorities, and often addicts. The lottery preys on the most vulnerable members of society. 

I hate it. 

But I also understand the importance of hope. I know how impossibly hard life can be when all hope is lost and any dreams that you once had are gone forever. Living in my car in 1992, awaiting trial for a crime I did not commit, unable to get work because I had no address or phone, cold and hungry and tired almost every day, I thought I would never have a home again. Never have a real job again. Never make any of my dreams come true.

I was 22 years-old and thought my chances of happiness were gone forever. It was crushing. The loss of hope is a terrible thing. Maybe the worst thing.

So I understand the desire for a little hope, as astronomically improbable as the lottery might provide.  

Still, it's such a waste of money. 

As I watched that man purchase $50 in lottery tickets yesterday, I wanted to take him aside and say this:

"Listen, I don't know why you're spending $50 on lottery tickets, but I have a better idea. Download Robinhood on your phone. It's an app that allows you to purchase stocks commission-free. Then take the $50 you're spending here and purchase a stock instead. Something big and relatively safe. Mastercard or Visa. Microsoft. Home Depot. Apple. Or an index fund. Your money will be relatively safe, but you'll still have the excitement of possibility. Will the stock go up or down? When will I receive a dividend? And you can experience that excitement on a daily basis. That $50 will continue to provide hope and excitement day after day. Hour after hour if you'd like. Even minute by minute. But your initial investment will be relatively safe compared to that lottery ticket, and at the end of the year, you'll have still have something to show for your $50."

I wanted to say this so badly.  

I know that the hope of a 12% annualized return on $50 isn't the same as a $32.8 million dollar payday, but if it's hope or excitement that these people are craving, maybe investing the $50 they are spending weekly on lottery tickets in the American stock market could offer enough hope and excitement to satisfy them and a $2,600 nest egg at the end of the year. 

Or $2,912 with a 12% annualized return.

Mind you, I don't advise people to invest without understanding what they are doing. I studied the market for 5 years before investing a dime, but if the choice is between $50 in lottery tickets or $50 in the stock of a relatively well known company, blindly investing in the company is the better choice every time. 

I suspect that the man purchasing lottery tickets yesterday wouldn't have appreciated my suggestion, and that kills me, too. A simple shift in spending could yield an enormous change in the quality of a person's life over time, and yet for so many, change is so hard. 

It appears that I might be less fallible than the Pope

Good news.

Pope Francis has declared the death penalty wrong in all cases. This is a definitive change in church doctrine. Traditionally, church doctrine accepted the death penalty if it was “the only practicable way” to defend lives, which was a ridiculous loophole exploited by church officials and politicians as a means of justifying the death penalty. 

But Francis said executions were unacceptable in all cases because they are an attack on human dignity.

It's about time. I've opposed the death penalty since I was in high school, which means I was about 25 years ahead of the infallible supreme pontiff of the largest church in the world.

Maybe I should've been named Pope. It would seem that I might be slightly less infallible than the supposed apostolic successor to Saint Peter. 

Just imagine if Elysha Dicks had to refer to me as "Your Holiness" or "Most Holy Father."

Amazing.

The Pope's reason for opposing the death penalty is all fine and good, but the reason for my opposition has always been far simpler and more logical:

Human beings are fallible. We make mistakes. Since 1973, 144 people on death row have been exonerated, which means that it's very likely that the United States has executed innocent people throughout its history. 

In fact. a study in Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences in 2014 found it very likely that 1 in 25 death row inmates are innocent.

As a person who nearly confessed to a crime he did not commit and came close to being convicted of that crime, I know all too well how insidious the criminal justice system can be when someone believes that you are guilty. 

And I'm white American. Just imagine what might have happened to me had I been a minority or an immigrant.

The death penalty is dangerous. Its very existence endangers the life of every innocent American citizen who might end up in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

Frankly, this is a no-brainer. A slam dunk. An obvious decision, even though it took the Catholic Church about two thousand years to finally agree with me. The death penalty should be abolished immediately, as it has been in almost every European and Latin American country in the world. In fact, 95% of all known executions in 2017 were carried out in only six countries:

China, Iran, Saudi Arabia, the United States, Pakistan, and Iraq.

We keep great company. 

Yet 55% of Americans still support the death penalty because they are incapable of imagining that any one of those 144 men and women exonerated while on death row could ever be them or a loved one. 

How many more death row inmates must be exonerated or even executed before we decide that human beings are far too fallible to allow the state to take our lives as a form of punishment?

I'm happy that the Pope finally agrees with me. Everyone else should follow suit. 

Insecure cowards are leading the most powerful nations on the planet.

Disney's latest film Christopher Robin has been banned in China. While no official reason has been given, government sensors have previously blocked images of Winnie the Pooh after bloggers used him to parody Chinese President Xi Jinping.

A particularly widely-shared post, which first popped up in 2013, shows a photo of Xi Jinping and Barack Obama alongside an image of Pooh and his friend Tigger.

It takes a special breed of thin-skinned, humorless coward to be so upset and afraid of being compared to a fictional bear that he must prevent a country of 1.3 billion people from ever seeing a film featuring the bear.

It's also so incredibly stupid. Banning the movie from China only brings attention to Xi Jinping's resemblance to the lovable bear. I had no idea that he looked anything like Winnie the Pooh, nor had the resemblance ever occurred to me, but now I can't not see it.  

So dumb.

People who are unable to laugh at themselves are sad and weak, and if they have accumulated power, they can be very dangerous.

We've witnessed this unfortunate truth in our country, too.

People like the Chinese President and Donald Trump do not understand that strength is not demonstrated through bravado, hyperbole, the strong arming opponents, the censoring of criticism, and an unwillingness to apology. 

All of these things are signs of weakness and insecurity. 

Truly strong people are capable of honesty, authenticity, and vulnerability. They are willing to make fun of themselves and are not afraid to speak about their flaws, foibles, and weaknesses.

They don't ban films, dishonor men and women of greater accomplishment than themselves, denigrate opponents through name-calling, and erupt into angry tweet storms every time someone criticizes them.

People of great strength are able to criticize themselves. Laugh at themselves. Admit fault. Apologize. Ask for forgiveness. 

They might not like the fact that they look like a cuddly Disney bear, but they don't shrink from the comparison. They laugh along with us and move on. 

It's tragic that the leaders of the most power countries in the world do not understand this.  

What the Heck? - Episode 2

As you may know, I've launched a third podcast called "What the Heck?" It's an occasional conversation with my kids, Clara and Charlie.

"What the heck?" is a favorite expression of Charlie. 

I launched this podcast grudgingly. The kids love podcasts and wanted one of their own, so I decided that recording their voices for posterity might make the effort worthwhile. 

Boy was I right. I can't tell you how excited they were to listen to their first two episodes, and I can't tell you how thrilled I am to be capturing conversations with them for the future. 

As a person who has about two or three dozen photos of his childhood in total, creating a meaningful record of my children's childhood has always meant a lot to me. This is one of the ways of making it happen.

Remarkably, we had about 100 listeners for our first episode, so I don't expect this podcast to blow up and become a hit, But the kids were thrilled about the audience, so if you were a listener to episode #1, thank you. 

But if you're interested in hearing Clara and Charlie talk about sports, princesses, and what they want to be when they grow up, you can listen here to episode #2 or subscribe on Apple podcasts, Spotify, Overcast, or wherever you get your podcasts.

I didn't know what Lands' End was, and it makes sense.

I was teaching a workshop last month. A storyteller mentioned Lands' End as a detail in her story. When she was finished, I asked her what Lands' End was.

"You don't know what Lands' End is?" she asked. "No. You have to know what Lands' End is."

A woman sitting beside her said, "I really don't think he knows."

It's true. I didn't know.

"Do you know what LL Bean is?" the first woman asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Lands' End is like LL Bean," she said. 

"Oh," I said and moved on.  

At the time I thought LL Bean was a store in Maine that sells outdoor clothing and camping equipment. It's the company that once offered a lifetime guarantee on their products until a bunch of jerks tried to return 25 year old boots and ruined it for everyone.

So I assumed that Lands' End was another store, possibly in Maine, that sold similar products. Boots. Tents. Flannel shirts.   

Last night I mentioned this moment to my friend, Jeni. Her response:

"You don't know what Lands' End is? How is that possible?" A few seconds later, she asked, "Do you know what LL Bean is?"

Deja-vu. 

Rather than accepting this LL Bean analogy and moving on, I asked, "What exactly is Lands' End?"

Here is what Jeni told me, distilled to its essence:

Lands' End is a catalog company that sells clothing, primarily to middle-aged women.

This is essentially true. I did some research into Lands' End and found that it's a clothing and home decor retailer based in Dodgeville, Wisconsin, that specializes in casual clothing, luggage, and home furnishings. The majority of Lands' End's business is conducted through mail order and internet sales, but the company also runs retail operations, primarily in the Upper Midwest, along with international shops in at least five countries. 

I also learned that although Lands' End sells men's clothing, more than two-thirds of their business goes to women. In recent Bloomberg and CNBC pieces, Lands End is described as "a label known more for courting mothers and kids." 

Knowing all this, I'm confused. Why is it so odd that I wouldn't know what Lands' End is? I've never driven by a Lands' End store in my life. Never seen or held one of their catalogs. Never seen a Lands' End commercial on TV, and based upon my research, they almost never advertise on TV or radio. I'm also not a middle aged women looking to purchase clothing, luggage, or home decor or a child whose mother is dressing in Lands' End garb.  

It appears that in 2015, Lands End attempted to pivot the company in the direction of a younger, "cooler" (I happen to think middle-aged women are exceptionally cool) customer, but as of 2018, their customer demographics have changed very little. 

This is a company that sells clothing to women through mail order catalogs. 

Of course I don't know what Lands' End is! 

This does not mean that all men are unfamiliar with Lands' End. I'm quite certain that many men have seen these catalogs before and are aware of its existence. Perhaps a mother or wife or sister is a Lands' End customer. Or maybe he's one of Lands' End's minority male shoppers.

In fact, perhaps most Americans are familiar with the Lands' End brand, but, but to be surprised that I am not is frankly a little surprising. 

It's a store that sells clothing to women through mail order catalogs. If I'm going to lack awareness of any retail company, wouldn't Lands' End be that company?

No physical presence in the Northeast. No advertising on television. No catalogs in my home. And no "Lands' End" labels on coats or shirts like the annoying North Face.

Happily, I know what Lands' End is now. I've filled that gap. Infused myself with knowledge. 

I feel no better for doing so.  

Speak Up Storytelling #13: Leland Brandt

Episode #13 of the Speak Up Storytelling podcast is ready for your listening pleasure.

Elysha and I start off this week's podcast by talking about finding and crafting stories in your everyday life using my strategy "Homework for Life." I talk about how a storyworthy moment can sometimes consist solely of a thought that you had in your head. 

Next, we listen to Leland Brandt's story about falling in love with the character in a movie and then meeting his childhood crush later in life. Then Elysha and I discuss the strengths of his fantastic story as well as suggestions for improvement, including:

Summarizing stories within a storyTelling stories that span years chronologically Maintaining delight and surprise through pacingInhabiting the story for emotional effectFinding universally connective moments in storiesSeeing storytelling as a matter of engineering or choice

Finally, we answer a listener questions about preparing and practicing stories for the stage and the nature of Moth storytellers today. 

If you haven't subscribed to the podcast in Apple podcasts (or wherever you receive your podcasts), please do. And if you haven't rated and/or reviewed the podcast in Apple Podcasts (who are the best people ever), we would love it if you did.

Ratings and reviews help listeners find our podcast easier, and it makes us feel better about ourselves and our work.

I got mentioned in the New York Times yesterday for a teeny tiny thing that I feel so good about.

I made the news yesterday. A tiny bit of it, at least.  

From The New York Times:

WASHINGTON — A U.S. free speech group on Friday asked President Donald Trump to unblock 41 Twitter users after a federal judge in May ordered him to restore access to a group of individuals who filed suit.

U.S. District Judge Naomi Reice Buchwald in Manhattan ruled on May 23 that comments on the president's account, and those of other government officials, were public forums and that blocking Twitter users for their views violated their right to free speech under the First Amendment of the U.S. Constitution.

The Knight First Amendment Institute at Columbia University on Friday sent the Justice Department a list of 41 accounts that remain blocked from Trump's @RealDonaldTrump account. 

The blocked users include a film producer, screenwriter, photographer and author. 
__________________________

I'm that author.

The Knight Foundation issued a press release that included a copy of the letter sent to the Justice Department. That letter includes a spreadsheet listing the 41 Twitter users who they are requesting to be unblocked. 

I'm #30 on the list.

It's not a big deal. I'm not an attorney trying desperately to protect the rights of asylum seekers on the border. I'm not writing the briefs that stopped Trump's bigoted travel bans from going into effect. I'm not a prosecutor on the Paul Manafort trial or an investigative reporter looking into emoluments violations in the Trump administration.

I wasn't protesting in Charlottesville one year ago when a Nazi who Trump equated to counter-protesters just a day before drove his car through the crowd, killing Heather Heyer and injuring dozens of her fellow protesters. 

My participation in this lawsuit is not a big deal. It's a small thing. Tiny, really. A thorn in Trump's side at best. I didn't stand in court and argue the case. I'm just one of 41 Americans who used a social media platform to speak directly to the President in a way that he didn't like. 

Or more likely Trump didn't want my fellow Americans to see me speaking directly at him anymore. Didn't want my fellow Americans to see what I was saying. 

In response, Trump blocked me.

So I asked to be included in the Knight Foundation's lawsuit. I found the right person and sent an email. Several more emails were exchanged. I provided some information and agreed to allow my information to be made public.

That's it. It's not much. 

But it feels good to stand against the tide in my small way. It feels good to stand alongside those doing the hard work. The important work. The work that history will remember and honor.

I'm just a teeny-tiny cog in an enormous machine that is attempting to protect and save our country and its people from this corrupt, incompetent, unethical, and immoral Presidency.

But damn it feels good.    

Seeking submissions for my annual list of shortcomings and flaws

Years ago a reader accused me of being materialistic after I wrote about my lack of a favorite number, specifically criticizing me for saying that when it comes to my salary, my favorite number is the largest number possible.

After refuting the charges of materialism, I acknowledged that I had plenty of other shortcomings and offered to list them in order to appease my angry reader. Then I did. Then I added to the list when friends suggested that I had forgotten a few.

Nice friends. Huh?

So began an annual tradition of posting my list of shortcomings and flaws, starting first in 2011, and continuing in 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015, 2016, and 2017.  

The time has come to assemble my list for 2018, which means I will be reviewing the 2017 list carefully, hoping that I might be able to remove a few and looking to add any that I think might be missing. 

As always, I offer you the opportunity to add to the list as well. If you know me personally or through this blog or my books or my storytelling or my podcast and have detected a shortcoming or flaw to add to the list, please let me know. I will be finalizing and publishing my list in about a week, so don't delay. 

I look forward to hearing about all the ways in which you think I suck. 

Open mouth. Insert foot.

Someone recently told me that I always know just what to say in any situation.

"You can talk your way out of anything," he said. "Or into anything. You're good that way."

This may seem true, but I assure you that it is not. 

Case in point:

Earlier this week, I met a person in real life who I have known for a long time online - via email, social media, and even a podcast interview.

My first words upon meeting him:

"Wow. I thought you were a lot taller." 

These words were especially dumb. Elysha was standing beside me and wanted to kill me. Thankfully, the person in question is a very kind, very confident human being who didn't seem to mind my moment of extreme stupidity.

But I assure you that this moment wasn't exactly unique. These gaffs happen more often than you think. Perhaps not as often as they once did, but still too often.  

I promise that I can be just as dumb (or even dumber) as anyone else.

Right, Elysha?

Clara's first Patriots game. NOT WHAT I EXPECTED AT ALL.

I took Clara on a rite of passage last night:

Her first New England Patriots game.

I've been attending Patriots games regularly for almost 20 years, and I've been a season ticket holder for almost as long. I've spent some of my favorite, most memorable days at Gillette Stadium, tailgating with friends, cheering in the stands, hugging strangers following touchdowns, and celebrating victories. 

It was odd that my daughter had never seen this place where I have spent so much time. I was so happy to finally introduce her to this place that I love so much. 

It was a preseason game, which was ideal for a nine year-old girl. Warm night. Low stakes. Lots of empty seats. An absence of opposing fans. Fewer drunken brawls. As we pulled up Route 1 in Foxboro and saw the stadium for the first time, Clara was impressed. 

"I know it doesn't look so big from so far away," I said. "But it's pretty big."

"No, Daddy. It's huge."

We talked as we made the 15 minute walk to the stadium. Clara asked questions. I told stories about this spot and that spot along the way. Stories of snowstorms and lobster carcasses and a burning Christmas tree. She waved at the police horses and said hello to random children.

I managed to sneak her through security with the backpack that she had strapped to her back, and I'm still not sure how. Security officers are fanatical about there being no bags brought into the stadium unless they are clear and plastic.

Somehow we skirted by.

Then we began the climb up the ramps to the 300 level and our seats. When he hit the fourth of 10 ramps and Clara said, "I hope you're seats aren't too high, Daddy,"

I knew I might be in trouble. 

My seats are four rows from the very top of the stadium. The climb up those steps to our seats would be steep and long. But it was a preseason game. Lots of empty seats along the way. We could probably find seats in the first or second row.

Clara was nervous just being in the concourse of the upper level. Just her awareness of how high we were was increasing her anxiety considerably. We ate some food, walked around the stadium a bit, and then it was time to see the field for the first time from actual seats. 

"Let's go see the Patriots," I said. 

"Okay," she said. 

My hopes soared. No protest. She was going to be brave.

As soon as we stepped out of the concourse and up a small flight of stairs, Clara fell apart. I managed to grab two seats in the second row, just six feet from the landing, but Clara clung to the handrail like she was on the deck of a ship, caught in a storm. The size and height and scope of the stadium terrified her. I managed to get her into a seat, thinking she might calm down once she was anchored to a spot, but no good. She was crying and begging to leave. 

I coaxed. I cajoled. I pointed out some features of the stadium. The championship banners. The big screens. The football being played below. 

No good. We had just driven almost three hours to a football game, and I was in danger of seeing fewer than three plays of actual football.

I tried once more to inspire her to enjoy the stadium. The crowd. The game. She continued to cry. 

"Okay," I said. "Take a couple of photos with me, and we'll go. Try to smile."

We did, and then we left. She wanted off this level immediately, and so we took the stairs all the way down to the exit. When I tried to pass through the gate into the parking lot, a police officer stopped me. "You can't exit this way. No re-entry from here."

"I know," I said.

"You don't understand. You won't be able to go back into the stadium."

I looked at Clara and then at him. "I know."

He looked at Clara, smiled, patted me on the back, and we were on our way to find ice cream in the Patriot Place shopping area.

Here is the truth:

I was annoyed at that moment. Really annoyed. Thousands of people - adults and children - were sitting around us, enjoying the game, reveling in the beautiful weather, bright colors, and excitement of a football game, and my daughter had been reduced to tears because her seats were too high. When I offered to find seats in a lower level, she declined. She just wanted to leave. Hours on a highway and still more hours of driving ahead had been reduced to three plays of football. 

Two incompletions and a punt. 

I was annoyed. Angry, even. I was prepared to talk about the importance of being brave. I was ready to talk about perspective. "Even though you were afraid, you were perfectly safe. Thousands of people around us agree. Can't you use that knowledge to overcome this fear?"

I was annoyed. Ready to speak. Ready to let her know how I felt. Then I said this to myself:

Three or four hours from now, when you're tucking this girl in bed, will you be happy that you told her that she needed to be brave? Will you be pleased with the conversation that you're about to start? Will you think of yourself as a good father when you tell your frightened little girl what she did wrong? Or will you regret speaking to her while you were annoyed?

It's something I say to myself often. As I'm about to complain, argue, order, demand, or criticize my children (and my students) for their decisions or behavior, I ask myself:

How are you going to feel about this later? Are you in the right frame of mind for this conversation? Is he or she in the right frame of mind? Is this the right moment to speak? Will you feel good about what you're about to say later on? 

So I squeezed Clara's hand instead as we crossed the parking lot and said, "I love you, Clara." She pulled me to a halt, hugged me, and said, "I love you, too, Daddy."

We ate ice cream in the courtyard and laughed. Checked the score on my phone. On the way to the parking lot, the horizon opened up to us. The sun was making it's final appearance of the day, just dipping out of sight. "Look, Daddy," Clara said. "It's so beautiful! Look at all the colors! Red and orange and yellow and even green. I think I see green!"

"It's the gloaming," I said. "Twilight. The few minutes before the sun disappears for the night."

"I love the gloaming," she said. Then she pulled me to a stop again just before we were about to cross Route 1. "Hold on," she said. "I want to watch the gloaming a little more."

We did. 

We listened to music on the way home. We played songs from our family playlists, designed specifically for long rides, skipping songs that we hadn't added to the list ourselves. 

Most Charlie's Coldplay and Elysha's Steely Dan. 

I told her stories about the musicians who made some of the music. She asked lots of questions. We sang loudly until she got sleepy, and then we sang quietly. 

She was already asleep when I tucked her in a couple hours later.

I'll probably talk to Clara about being brave today. I'll tell her that I'm performing standup comedy now because it scares me, and that whenever I find something that frightens me, I run to it.

I know that the right thing and the hard thing are often the same thing.

I'll tell her that even though I wanted to stay in my hotel room on the nights when I was recording my audiobook in Michigan earlier this summer, I forced myself to find a comedy club and perform. I did three sets on two different nights, and even though I was terrified to take those stages, I'm so happy I did. 

I'll tell her how important it is to try new things even though they might be scary. I'll tell her that missed opportunities should be the most frightening thing of all.

But I'll talk about all of this in the light of day, when we are relaxed and happy and thinking about that moment in the gloaming when all was good and right. 

Maybe she'll listen and believe. Maybe next time she'll give it another minute or two before asking to leave. If not, we'll find a way to make the best of it. We'll stand in the gloaming and listen to Springsteen and eat ice cream and laugh. 

It was certainly not what I expected from my little girl's first Patriots game. Not even close.  

It was so much better than I could have ever imagined.