Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 53

Couch potato

In the United States, we use the phrase “couch potato” to describe someone who spends a significant amount of time sitting around, consuming content via a screen, and otherwise doing little else.

In other countries, couch potatoes are referred to as:

House cockerel (Ghanaian Ewe)
House mouse (Finnish)
One who squats in the parlor (German)
Slipper guy (Italian)
Living room pig (Norwegian)
Armchair fungus (Flemish)
Sofa turd (Chilean Spanish)

I love them all.

And yes, I know it’s possible that somehow, some way, someone is going to be offended by the implication that “couch potato” is a bad thing.

“Don’t judge my chosen lifestyle!”
“Let me be me!”
“How dare you elevate one way of living while denigrating another!”

Unfortunately, they can’t make any of these arguments because they are currently sitting on their couch, absent from the world. I suppose they could type their protests in an email or on social media, but those responses are blessedly, easily ignored.

I’d also like to head off any “exception highlighters.” These are folks who say things like:

“But what about people with serious mobility issues? Television is their window to the world!”
“Hey! Some of us are TV critics and are required to spend our workday on the sofa!”
“I spend my evenings with my cats, my books, and a mixture of almonds, roasted pine nuts, and dried apricots. Is that so bad?”

Please don’t be that person. Yes, there are exceptions to almost every rule, but an exception does not make an argument. It merely acknowledges that few things are absolute.

But we all know that already.

So, in the spirit that “couch potato” is perhaps a less-than-ideal way to spend a life, I offer a few of my own alternatives to “couch potato,” including:

Future regret machine
Meaningful moment stabber
Fictional friend collector
Passivity professional
One who does things that will be forgotten
Atrophy incarnate
Human glacier

You are not for everyone

You are not for everyone. Nor should you be.

The common adage goes:

“When you try to please everyone, you please none.”

While this may be true, I prefer this own twist on this well-worn phrase:

“When you try to please everyone, you’ll never please yourself.”

Pleasing others is great, but unless you’re content with yourself, nothing else matters.

So…

Ruffle some feathers.
Cut against the grain.
Question assumptions.
Reject norms.
Besmirch the status quo.
Laugh at inanity.
Challenge authority.
Annoy the hell out of people from time to time.

This is how you’ll know that you’re living well, being yourself, and acting with integrity.

Golfers are tough

Professional golfer Akshay Bhatia won the Valero Texas Open last month by beating Denny McCarthy on the first hole of a sudden-death playoff.

And he did it playing hurt.Despite entering the back nine with a six-shot lead, Bhatia needed to birdie the 18th hole of the final round to force a playoff after McCarthy had made seven consecutive birdies at TPC San Antonio to finish out his closing 63.If that wasn’t enough, a Masters invitation was on the line for Bhatia.So, as his 12-foot birdie putt dropped to force a playoff, Bhatia unleashed a furious fist pump of excitement.One problem: That fist pump popped his left shoulder out. Bhatia played the next hole—the playoff hole—with an injured shoulder. After hitting his drive and second shot, his trainer taped up his shoulder to help him finish the match.It ended quickly.After his opponent hit his approach shot into the water, Bhatia landed his ball on the green and finished with a birdie to win the tournament.

Big deal. A couple of measly swings with a separate shoulder.

I once played half a season of golf with a separated shoulder. Back in 1995, an idiot threw me down some stairs at a party. I hit the wall at the bottom of the staircase and separated my shoulder.

Crazily enough, the incident was caught on tape.

Also caught on tape is me jamming my shoulder back into place with a scream. But since the incident, my shoulder has separated a couple of more times, including a summer when it was eventually popped back into place by a doctor but continued to hurt for quite a while.

At one point, when the shoulder was still separated, I was playing golf with my friend, Tom. I hit a shot from the fairway – just my second shot of the round – when Tom noticed tears in my eyes.

The swing had hurt so much that I was nearly crying.

“Maybe we should stop playing,” Tom suggested.

But it was golf—always worth the pain. Besides, it hurt so much to swing that maybe the pain would incentivize me to play better and swing fewer times.

At least that’s what I told Tom.

It didn’t, of course. It was a painful, poorly played round of golf.

But it was golf, so I’m sure we still had a grand old time. Perhaps not as grand as Bhatia experienced after winning the tournament, but probably close.

Navigating the world

A recent study examined why some people seem to have an innate sense of direction while others do not. The study found that people tend to fall into three groups:

Those who make good mental maps (and can improvise between known routes)Those who have good route knowledge (excellent in known territory but not-so-good outside of it)Those who can’t find their way out of a paper bag

I fall into category #1.

Elysha falls into category #3. Except at the mall. Somehow, she can navigate that location perfectly.

In fact, my ability to navigate effectively may have helped me win Elysha over.

Years ago, before GPS existed, when Elysha and I were still dating, we drove to Woonsocket, Rhode Island, to visit my mother, who was residing in a high-rise for aging and disabled residents. As I pulled into the parking lot, I remembered that she had been moved from one side of the city to the other. I pointed at a tiny speck on the horizon.

“See that building?” I said to Elysha. “That’s where she is now.”

“How are we going to find it?” Elysha asked.

“I’ll just drive over there,” I said.

Fifteen minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot of my mother’s new building.

“I can’t believe you just did that,” Elysha said.

“Did what?” I asked.

“Found your way without a map.”

I sometimes think that was the moment she decided to marry me. Had GPS existed back then, my chances of convincing her to be my wife might have been seriously compromised.

All I did, of course, was head south, keeping the sun to my right and maintaining a consistent heading.

It wasn’t too hard at all.

Before GPS, I would drive to Boston and New York City and find my way around the city in similar ways. As a Boy Scout, I did the same while hiking through forests and over mountains absent any trails.

Maintain a heading. Identify landmarks on the horizon. Create a mental map of your route. Monitor your direction via the sun or Moon if possible.

I can’t fix a damn thing. Can’t follow a schematic. Can’t build IKEA furniture or a Lego set. Still can’t zest a lemon.

But I can find my way around.

Years later, Elysha was driving to New York City from our home in Newington. She had driven west and crossed most of Connecticut when she took an exit to get coffee, then returned to the highway, driving in the opposite direction.

She had driven back across the state and was nearly home when she realized what she had done. When she called to tell me, I said, “Didn’t you realize that the sun was on the opposite side when you were heading back?”

“The sun?” she spat. “No, Matt. I did not note the sun’s position in the sky. Not everyone keeps track of the sun!”

“I do,” I thought,” but was wise enough not to say it.

Better to stay married than ask your spouse why she isn’t more like you.

But when it comes to the three categories identified in the study, I suspect that membership in category #1 – those of us who seem to have an innate sense of direction – has more to do with focus, attention, and vigilance than any innate ability.

Maybe some of us are just constantly keeping track of position and direction, and others are not.

Maybe some people constantly note the sun’s position in the sky relative to themselves, and others do not.

Perhaps it’s not that Elysha and her brethren can’t find their way around without GPS. Maybe they just can’t be bothered to pay attention to such trivial matters.

Especially when I am sitting beside you, navigating on your behalf.

Sans CGI

Peter Parker’s iconic tray catch scene from 2002’s Spider-Man took 156 takes, but it was done without CGI.

The old-fashioned way.

It’s odd how twenty years ago, you’d think, “Of course, it was done without the assistance of computer animation,” but today, it’s almost unbelievable.

You never know what might happen when you make stuff

I was speaking to a young person about the importance of making stuff.

She’s an artist who one day hopes to make her living making art, but she’s plagued with worries about investing time in a project that won’t ultimately pay off.

I told her to put those thoughts aside and just work. Find inspiration. Relentlessly make art.

I started writing amusing lists in faculty meetings because my former principal was a monster, and my colleagues desperately needed to laugh. So I began filling a notebook with amusing lists, and somehow, over time, they began to tell a story.

Eventually, those lists (and more) became my fifth novel, “Twenty-one Truths About Love.”

But when I began writing my lists, I had no thoughts about their commercial value. I was simply being creative. Making stuff.

The same holds true when I told my first story onstage in New York City at a Moth StorySLAM back in July 2011. My plan was to simply perform, share a true story with an audience, maybe make them laugh, and walk away unscathed.

I had no idea that storytelling would change my life.

Last week, I consulted with the CEOs of two large tech companies and a longtime marketing client. I also conducted a workshop for a startup with whom I am a cofounder and worked with a group of YouTube personalities in Europe. I designed a storytelling workshop with Canyon Ranch for later this year and sent proposals to two other companies that want to work with me.

I also replied to a query about a word choice – foundered vs. floundered – in my upcoming book on storytelling and met with my team at Storyworthy – my storytelling company – to prepare for the launch of a new product.

And I delivered a TEDx Talk at Boston University on Saturday.

It was admittedly a busy week.

I envisioned nothing like this when I took the stage 13 years ago to tell a story. I went to New York to do something creative, and somehow, my life changed forever.

So be creative. Make stuff. Then make some more stuff. Trust that diligent, relentless, focused efforts will eventually produce results, even though they are still unimaginable.

Here’s one of my favorite examples of this:

Ajinomoto is the leading global supplier of MSG seasoning powder. In the 1990s, however, the company discovered that one of the byproducts of MSG production was a dielectric insulator.

Dielectric insulators can be found on every computer chip, separating and insulating the copper wires.

As a result, Ajinomoto has enjoyed a 90 percent market share in the dielectric film industry for the past three decades.

They have made a fortune on the stuff.

A company founded to produce a food product became one of the most important suppliers to technology companies around the world.

They also continue to make MSG.

This was not the plan when they first went into business long ago. It was simply a happy accident. The byproduct of making stuff.

Literally.

So make stuff. Be creative. Be relentless. It’s impossible to know where your work will take you, but I can promise you this:

If you’re not making stuff, you’ll never produce anything of value. There will be no happy accidents. You will not experience any unexpected surprises.

Good fortune only comes from good work. So make stuff.

We may be doomed.

According to a recent Cash App Taxes survey, a whopping 25% of Gen Z taxpayers said they’d need a therapist to deal with the stress of tax-filing season.

Additionally, 54% said filing taxes has either brought them to tears in the past or expects to be brought to tears this year.

I’m frightened for the world if any of this is true.

I’m trying not to sound unsympathetic, but this is ridiculous. Have people really become so fragile that tax season requires the assistance of a mental health professional?

CNBC, which first reported this study, also quoted Richard Pianoforte, managing director at Fiduciary Trust International, as saying he’s surprised the number isn’t higher.

“I have children in that age group…and I don’t think they’re prepared for it, school doesn’t prepare them for it, and it’s totally understandable,” he says.

No, Richard. It’s not. Schools have never prepared students for tax season. “Tax Preparation 101” cannot be found on a syllabus anywhere, yet, for decades, Americans have filed their tax returns without needing a weekly appointment with a trained therapist.

No, Richard. If someone needs a therapist to cope with filing their taxes, something has gone seriously wrong with the world. Americans of a certain age have become the equivalent of Faberge eggs.

CNBC adds:

Even figuring out which documents you need to file can be anxiety-inducing, with 62% of first-time filers saying they aren’t sure where to get their W-2s or 1099s.

Really? Not sure where to get their W-2s and 1099s?

That’s weird because I just Googled “Where do I get my W-2 or 1099?” and strangely enough, I found the answer.

Almost every W-2 and 1099 required to file your taxes can be found in your mailbox. Your employer is required to send them to you before January 31. And if you don’t receive these forms after January 31?

Ask your employer for a copy.

The survey also reported that almost half of Gen Z members were unsure of the tax deadline.

That’s weird, too, because I just Googled that question, and believe it or not, the answer popped right up. I could’ve also looked at almost any calendar, which often marks tax day. Or I could’ve asked my 11-year-old son, Charlie, who also knows—I’m not sure how—that the filing deadline is April 15.

How can anyone in the age of the internet whine about not knowing something when almost all human knowledge is now available at their fingertips? When I was younger, before the internet became what it is today, information was admittedly scarce. Hunting down much-needed bits and bytes was challenging. Facts were not served up on a silver platter.

But even then, I didn’t cry, nor did my friends. No one required therapy after April 15. Instead of Google, we asked friends, consulted coworkers, and enlisted the support of parents.

When Elysha and I first met in 2003, at the dawn of the consumer-friendly internet, she asked me to help her with her taxes. Her father had assisted in previous years, but since I was two doors down and knew something about tax returns after having to complete my own for years, she asked me for help. I could’ve completed her taxes in 15 minutes, but I stretched it to more than an hour because I already had a crush on her and wanted to spend as much time with her as possible.

But she didn’t cry as we filled in the boxes. She didn’t seek out therapeutic support once the forms were complete.

Tax filing can admittedly become complicated if you own a business, sell products overseas, invest in stocks and bonds, or sell property. But if you have a job or even two or three jobs but don’t own a business or do business overseas, you can probably complete your tax return in less than 30 minutes.

Even with those complicating factors, most people can do their own taxes in an hour or two.

Not sure how to complete those forms, which are rife with specific instructions on how to do so?

Get a free guide at the post office.
Watch a YouTube video from a reputable source.
Ask a parent or friend to help.

Or how about this?

Why not pay an accountant instead of a therapist? It will likely be less expensive and time-consuming, and you probably won’t cry.

Please don’t get me wrong. It’s fine to cry. I’m not opposed to crying. It can be quite cathartic.

I’m also not opposed to therapy. I’ve made excellent use of therapy in the past.

But I’m opposed to making a big deal out of an ordinary thing. I’m opposed to large numbers of people falling apart over paperwork. I’m opposed to people whining about their inability to locate information readily available with a few clicks of the keyboard. I’m opposed to people who spend an enormous amount of time staring at screens who are unable to use those same screens to complete a task that generations before them have completed with far fewer resources.

If I were a member of Gen Z, I would be thinking one of three things after reading this survey:

What the hell is wrong with me? I should not be this fragile.What the hell is wrong with the people in my generation? They are making us look like buffoons.This survey is bogus. It can’t be accurate. I demand a recount.

As a member of Gen X, I am left thinking one of two things, too:

Please don’t let this survey be an accurate accounting of the mental fortitude of Gen Z. It can’t be correct. Right?If this survey is accurate, we are all doomed.

Best names I have been called

Every now and then, my school’s cafeteria serves “Nachos Grande.” When I announce this meal option to my students, I add that “Nachos Grande” might be an excellent nickname for me that they might want to consider.

None do. Most groan.

I can’t imagine why.

While I continue to try to convince my students to adopt this nickname for their fearless leader, I am reminded of other names that I have been called in the past, including:

My mother: “The Instigator”

Many of my friends, especially those who have known me for two decades or more: “Matty”

High school bullies (noting my – at the time – exceedingly large head and slender frame): “Egg Head”

My high school French teacher: Dickus

My high school French teacher once my brother and I occupied the same class: Big Dickus

My high school girlfriend: “Trouble”

Elysha: “Skookum” (a word meaning “marked by strength or power, first-rate”)

A college professor: “The Opposition”

Another college professor: “The Not-So-Silent Minority”

A class of students about a decade ago: “The Grinch”

Golfing buddies who workshopped two different insults into one: “A neckless stump with legs for arms”

My friend and former principal: “Arms like legs and legs like people”

Friends who know how disaster often strikes when I’m around: “The Matty Factor”

Adding “Nachos Grande” to this list would make me very happy, though I don’t see it coming any time soon.

Big, fat religious liars

The National Bureau of Economic Research has made a shocking discovery.

Polling data routinely indicates that about 22 percent of Americans report attending religious services on a weekly basis.

However, by analyzing geodata from the smartphones of more than two million people in 2019, researchers found that just five percent of Americans attended religious services weekly – significantly lower than the information reported to pollsters.

This means a whole bunch of reportedly Godly people are big, fat liars.

Not only are they lying to pollsters, but they are lying to pollsters to make themselves appear more religious to a pollster – a person who they will never see again.

That’s so weird.

They’re also lying about their relationship with God, which probably won’t sit well with a deity whose FIRST THREE Commandments (30% of total Commandments) are all about not dishonoring him.

That’s a lot of rules related solely to him.

God chose to leave rape, assault, slavery, bigotry, human trafficking, racism, sexism, and child abuse off his list of Commandments in favor of warnings about believing in other Gods, taking his name in vain, and making false idols. Yet, these religious folk are lying about attending his house of worship on Sunday?

This seems risky at best.

Yet another commandant demands that the Sabbath Day be kept holy, which essentially means go to church, damn it, and certainly don’t lie about going to church. Keeping the day holy also means that you can’t work on Sunday (the Bible calls for you to be stoned to death if you do), nor should you be playing golf, going to brunch, mowing the lawn, or attending a ballgame.

All of these activities are strictly forbidden on Sunday, presumably alongside lying about attending religious services.

But if only five percent of religious people are attending services on Sunday, more than three times that many are lying about it, and a kabillion percent more are openly admitting to not attending services despite their belief, what the hell is going on?

Has that Sabbath Day commandment been repealed?

I’m a reluctant atheist. I wish I could believe in a higher power, eternal life, and the possibility of a golden halo, but so far, I have failed to find the faith I so desire, but not for want of trying. I’ve attended many places of worship throughout my life. Explored a variety of religions. Read the Bible cover-to-cover three times, plus parts of it many other times.

I’ve never met another human being who’s read it cover to cover once.

So far, no luck. I want to believe but simply cannot.

But if there is a God, and someday I meet him or her or they at the Pearly Gates, I hope he or she or they might say something like this:

“Listen, I would’ve preferred that you’d believed in me while on Earth, but you certainly tried. I give you loads of credit for making an effort and possessing the desire to believe.

Yoda said, ‘There is no try. Do or do not,’ but he was fictional. He also failed to defeat the Emperor and ran away. Where was his ‘Do or do not” then?

But I digress. Effort counts for a lot. And unlike a bunch of supposedly religious people, you never lied about attending church services to make yourself look better to some random pollster, which is weird. Right?

Who cares what a pollster thinks about you?

So you get a failing grade in faith, but you get a gold star for not lying about it, and you’ve earned an A+ for reading that book three times. Even I haven’t read it three times.

You also didn’t commit any of those awful sins that I left out of the commandments, which was great. What the hell was I thinking not including rape and bigotry and child abuse off the list?

So, taking all of this into consideration, congratulations! Welcome to heaven! Now let’s go make fun of those people who lied to random pollsters before sending them to Hell to burn in eternal damnation!”

I still can’t believe that people would lie to pollsters about attending religious services.

I also can’t believe how many churches, temples, and other religious facilities exist in our country, given that less than five percent of Americans enter these houses of worship on a regular basis.

Only $250?

I was teaching a storytelling workshop last month when one of the participants lamented that his parents had “only given $250 in pocket money” per month while he was attending college.

And this was in 2005 when $250 could be stretched considerably further than today.

My instant reaction was to recoil. I have not received a single penny of support from my parents since I was 17 years old.

For my entire adult life, I have taken care of myself and my loved ones without a financial safety net or parental handout of any kind.

No college tuition. No gift of a car upon graduation. No family business to take over.

Not even a toaster or vacuum cleaner.

I thought a $250 monthly allowance sounded ridiculous, and it sounded even more ridiculous to complain about such good fortune.

But I also know that my situation may be unusual. Perhaps I was being judgmental and unrealistic. Even though I was taking care of myself at a young age, perhaps college allowances and other forms of financial support are more common and expected than I thought, so I told my wife, Elysha, about the $250 per month allowance and asked what she thought.

Her response:

“I had to work for my spending money in college. I had jobs. Multiple jobs. He complained about only being given $250 per month?”

She was equally outraged.

Admittedly, Elysha and I could both be wrong. Maybe it’s perfectly normal for someone to be upset about only receiving $250 per month in spending money from their parents while attending college.

$329.44 adjusted for inflation.

I don’t think so, but maybe Elysha and I are a couple of judgmental jerks who are failing to recognize the limitations of certain weak-minded people in especially privileged circumstances. I’ll allow for the possibility that this whiny little jerk had every right to complain about the size of Mommy and Daddy’s allowance, alongside the tuition they were also paying.

But here is something I know for certain:

It’s always better when someone is outraged alongside you.

And when it’s your spouse, it’s amazing.