12:24 am - The Tallest Man On Earth 2009.06.29
The Tallest Man On Earth is actually not so tall. In fact, at five foot six or so, he's rather unpreposessing. But just wait until you hear him sing.
If you haven't listened to The Tallest Man On Earth, you owe it to yourself to find Shallow Graves and give it a listen. It's one of the best albums of last year, bar none.
As a songwriter, he possesses all of the burgeoning talent of Bob Dylan. But ... unlike Dylan, this guy can sing. What a voice. What a voice.
I've just returned from seeing him perform. And, my ... what a show. John Vanderslice played after, but didn't play half the show. Check this guy out. Now. Thank me later.
If you haven't listened to The Tallest Man On Earth, you owe it to yourself to find Shallow Graves and give it a listen. It's one of the best albums of last year, bar none.
As a songwriter, he possesses all of the burgeoning talent of Bob Dylan. But ... unlike Dylan, this guy can sing. What a voice. What a voice.
I've just returned from seeing him perform. And, my ... what a show. John Vanderslice played after, but didn't play half the show. Check this guy out. Now. Thank me later.
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1:46 pm - Volunteering: It Doesn't Pay! 2009.06.27
I suppose one needs to find the correct balance between work and ... everything else.
At the moment 60 hours a week seems about right. And, you'd better believe I'm getting paid for every hour I work.
And that makes all the difference in the world.
I ran the student government-operated movie theater at MSU a couple years back. It was a lot of fun--but it paid a fixed (and miserly) stipend. And I did a damn fine job of it.
By the end of my year as director, I more doubled the theater's revenue, relative to previous years. (The two years prior, the theater made $6000 and $4000, respectively. During my year, the theater made just shy of $12,000.) At the same time, I CUT operating expenses--in both relative and absolute terms. Despite tripling the number of weekly expenses, my operating expenses for the year came in ~$6,000 (20%) under budget.
Toward the end, though, my motivation flagged. After the first 600 hours, I would have earned my total stipend twice over at a dead-end $7/hour job. By the end of the year, my average hourly wage worked out out to something like $2.60 an hour.
And I burned out, hard. My love and excitement fueling the passionate intensity with which I took to the job gradually faded into an oblique sense of begrudging obligation. Which is a miserable thing to feel. My grades faltered. My mood soured. My motivation to do ANYTHING reached an all-time low.
Did I burn out because I worked too hard? Did I burn out after too many late and sleepless nights? Did I just run out of energy? I thought so, at the time.
But now I reject that conclusion. I didn't burn out because I "worked too hard." I didn't overwork myself, and I didn't "run out of energy." I reject the idea that my energy is finite--that my productive capacity is limited.
I "burned out" because I gave too much--and received nothing in return.
Simply put, I received no reward for the work I did--aside from some measure of personal satisfaction and acknowledgment from my student government peers.
Maybe, for some people, that might be enough. But try buying a nice meal out with your sense of personal satisfaction. Try paying the bills with acknowledgment from your peers. Frankly, I earned some nice meals out. And I earned relief from the anxiety of making rent. But I didn't get these things.
Economists are fond of saying that "incentives matter." I realize, now, this applies to me, too. I've discovered that incentives matter--not just with respect to economic performance--but on a personal (maybe even psychological) level as well. Incentives matter--in terms of performance which, perhaps, is more closely linked to personal happiness than Alfred Marshall ever dared suggest.
Never again will I give my time away. Never again will I create value, and get nothing in return. If ever I give again--it will be only for the simple joy of giving. And I'll only give if I receive joy in equal measure to the expense--be that my time, or my money.
There's a shirt on Busted Tees that says "Volunteering: It Doesn't Pay." And that's more true than I've realized. Volunteering drains you--and gives precious little in return.
(As a side note--the "joy of giving" requires some modicum "bounty"--that is, having more than you need. To volunteer, I need to have extra time--spare time. To enjoy giving gifts, I need to have extra money. I need to have enough money to cover my needs--and enough to buy gifts for myself, if I so choose. I've missed birthdays and holidays over the last six months--and unapologetically so. I've been borrowing against my future to pay rent and buy groceries. It's hard to feel much joy in giving, not having money to spend on myself. Fortunately, that's changing now.)
In short, I'm working 60 hours a week--and I'm thrilled. I'm in the thrall of being able to put my skills to productive use. I'm learning at an incredible pace--I can almost feel myself building human capital. I love it. And I'll bet my bottom dollar that I never burn out again.
At the moment 60 hours a week seems about right. And, you'd better believe I'm getting paid for every hour I work.
And that makes all the difference in the world.
I ran the student government-operated movie theater at MSU a couple years back. It was a lot of fun--but it paid a fixed (and miserly) stipend. And I did a damn fine job of it.
By the end of my year as director, I more doubled the theater's revenue, relative to previous years. (The two years prior, the theater made $6000 and $4000, respectively. During my year, the theater made just shy of $12,000.) At the same time, I CUT operating expenses--in both relative and absolute terms. Despite tripling the number of weekly expenses, my operating expenses for the year came in ~$6,000 (20%) under budget.
Toward the end, though, my motivation flagged. After the first 600 hours, I would have earned my total stipend twice over at a dead-end $7/hour job. By the end of the year, my average hourly wage worked out out to something like $2.60 an hour.
And I burned out, hard. My love and excitement fueling the passionate intensity with which I took to the job gradually faded into an oblique sense of begrudging obligation. Which is a miserable thing to feel. My grades faltered. My mood soured. My motivation to do ANYTHING reached an all-time low.
Did I burn out because I worked too hard? Did I burn out after too many late and sleepless nights? Did I just run out of energy? I thought so, at the time.
But now I reject that conclusion. I didn't burn out because I "worked too hard." I didn't overwork myself, and I didn't "run out of energy." I reject the idea that my energy is finite--that my productive capacity is limited.
I "burned out" because I gave too much--and received nothing in return.
Simply put, I received no reward for the work I did--aside from some measure of personal satisfaction and acknowledgment from my student government peers.
Maybe, for some people, that might be enough. But try buying a nice meal out with your sense of personal satisfaction. Try paying the bills with acknowledgment from your peers. Frankly, I earned some nice meals out. And I earned relief from the anxiety of making rent. But I didn't get these things.
Economists are fond of saying that "incentives matter." I realize, now, this applies to me, too. I've discovered that incentives matter--not just with respect to economic performance--but on a personal (maybe even psychological) level as well. Incentives matter--in terms of performance which, perhaps, is more closely linked to personal happiness than Alfred Marshall ever dared suggest.
Never again will I give my time away. Never again will I create value, and get nothing in return. If ever I give again--it will be only for the simple joy of giving. And I'll only give if I receive joy in equal measure to the expense--be that my time, or my money.
There's a shirt on Busted Tees that says "Volunteering: It Doesn't Pay." And that's more true than I've realized. Volunteering drains you--and gives precious little in return.
(As a side note--the "joy of giving" requires some modicum "bounty"--that is, having more than you need. To volunteer, I need to have extra time--spare time. To enjoy giving gifts, I need to have extra money. I need to have enough money to cover my needs--and enough to buy gifts for myself, if I so choose. I've missed birthdays and holidays over the last six months--and unapologetically so. I've been borrowing against my future to pay rent and buy groceries. It's hard to feel much joy in giving, not having money to spend on myself. Fortunately, that's changing now.)
In short, I'm working 60 hours a week--and I'm thrilled. I'm in the thrall of being able to put my skills to productive use. I'm learning at an incredible pace--I can almost feel myself building human capital. I love it. And I'll bet my bottom dollar that I never burn out again.
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7:28 pm - Notes From a Journey to Spain 2009.06.19
A friend wrote me, noting that the first part of my address--9226 E Via de Vaquero--sounds as though I could live in Spain. A lovely thought, indeed.
But Scottsdale is no Spain. Both for better, and for worse.
It's different here. I'd describe Scottsdale as having a culture of conspicuous consumption.
I'm glad I didn't bring my car--I would have been painfully self-conscious. Not that there's anything wrong with my car (there's certainly not!). It's just that it'd stand out like a sore thumb parked between the Maseratis and Porches that fill a typical parking lot at your local Target Super Center. I had my first ride in a Dodge Viper the other day--80mph in second gear, in mere seconds. 515 horse power? Yeah ... it's a commuter.
My sister suggests that everything in Scottsdale is fake. She might be on to something--the cosmetic surgery industry is certainly booming, here.
Now, mind you, there's nothing wrong with conspicuous consumption. There's nothing that makes an afternoon shopping better or worse than an afternoon hiking in the mountains. You do what you like to do.
I've never thought of myself as a big consumer ... but maybe if I had the money, I would be.
But I like Scottsdale because it's a hive of industrial activity. Not industry in the traditional sense--conjuring images of smoke-stacks, fiery furnaces, men of industry, dripping sweat as steel is poured. Rather, Scottsdale's industry is that of the 21st century. In a world where men's sweat has increasingly been replaced by the whir of a machine, the new face of industry is health care, financial services, dot coms, design studios. This "industry" lacks the romance of material form--of vision forged into steel. But it's industry nonetheless--and produces far greater value than the East Coast's dying and decaying manufacturing industry.
But Scottsdale is no Spain. Both for better, and for worse.
It's different here. I'd describe Scottsdale as having a culture of conspicuous consumption.
I'm glad I didn't bring my car--I would have been painfully self-conscious. Not that there's anything wrong with my car (there's certainly not!). It's just that it'd stand out like a sore thumb parked between the Maseratis and Porches that fill a typical parking lot at your local Target Super Center. I had my first ride in a Dodge Viper the other day--80mph in second gear, in mere seconds. 515 horse power? Yeah ... it's a commuter.
My sister suggests that everything in Scottsdale is fake. She might be on to something--the cosmetic surgery industry is certainly booming, here.
Now, mind you, there's nothing wrong with conspicuous consumption. There's nothing that makes an afternoon shopping better or worse than an afternoon hiking in the mountains. You do what you like to do.
I've never thought of myself as a big consumer ... but maybe if I had the money, I would be.
But I like Scottsdale because it's a hive of industrial activity. Not industry in the traditional sense--conjuring images of smoke-stacks, fiery furnaces, men of industry, dripping sweat as steel is poured. Rather, Scottsdale's industry is that of the 21st century. In a world where men's sweat has increasingly been replaced by the whir of a machine, the new face of industry is health care, financial services, dot coms, design studios. This "industry" lacks the romance of material form--of vision forged into steel. But it's industry nonetheless--and produces far greater value than the East Coast's dying and decaying manufacturing industry.
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1:57 am - Random thoughts while packing 2009.05.20
I've built a citadel out of cinder blocks!
...
Packing vs. never moving vs. not having any "stuff." ... Hrm.
...
Perhaps packing is like childbirth--one tends to discount how painful it's going to be, until it's too late, and there's nothing you can do to avoid the pain.
(Thankfully, I've never know.)
...
Remind me again, how did I spill wine there?
...
Waste not, want not, and whatnot. (Fives times fast!)
...
The Buell Blast would more appropriately be named the Buell You-Were-Dumb-Enough-To-Buy-An-American -Motorcycle-so-this-is-what-you-get-Sucker!, or, perhaps more simply, the Buell Migraine.
...
Packing vs. never moving vs. not having any "stuff." ... Hrm.
...
Perhaps packing is like childbirth--one tends to discount how painful it's going to be, until it's too late, and there's nothing you can do to avoid the pain.
(Thankfully, I've never know.)
...
Remind me again, how did I spill wine there?
...
Waste not, want not, and whatnot. (Fives times fast!)
...
The Buell Blast would more appropriately be named the Buell You-Were-Dumb-Enough-To-Buy-An-American -Motorcycle-so-this-is-what-you-get-Sucker!, or, perhaps more simply, the Buell Migraine.
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