- At work, we continue to be bombarded with Archer’s Talc Powder Settlement documents, and it continues to wear on me. Work leaves me in a dark mood. And apparently we’re only 10,000 signings in, out of a current contract of 65,000. I feel like I’ve done 10,000 myself.
- The Director of Notary Operations asked if he could give me a call for an informal chit-chat. We spoke for about 20 minutes about my experiences working for them and whether I had any advice for how they handled the Talc project. He admitted that they didn’t factor in the mental toll it would take on us, notaries. The guy sounds out of his depth. He’s not even an active notary. I’m not sure how one obtains the role of Director of Notary Operations without even being a notary. The conversation did little to instill me with faith in this company’s leadership.
- I had an odd experience with one of my signers. Like many of the other Talc settlement sessions, this man had a tragic story to tell. His wife died of ovarian cancer, and he was visibly torn up about it. In the middle of the session, apropos of nothing, he asked, “Were you vaccinated?” I answered, “Yes, but I haven’t received a booster in several years now.” He sort of giggled to himself, “I think a lot of this has to do with that, but I won’t get into it. Well, I’ll pray for you.” We live in a world where an entire generation has been indoctrinated.
- My son was home for a couple of days more this week. His doctor called on Monday and told us that his throat culture had come back positive for strep. So, he had to be medicated and feeling better before returning.
- I finished reading Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro and the Dictionary of Fine Distinctions by Eli Burnstien, and began Because of Winn-Dixie by Kate DiCamillo.
- I did a lot of music listening this week, as per usual. Most notably, I listened to Weezer’s new Gold Album. Very mediocre, but not disappointing since I expected a complete trainwreck. Though it did lead to me listening to some of their classic back catalogue.
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Starting around the mid-90s, corporations started using diversity as a marketing tactic. The fat cats in boardrooms across America stuck their piggy noses skyward and sniffed out a change in the zeitgeist.
While browsing through any clothing catalogue during this time, one might come across a new edition to their novel-sized clothing compendiums: the token black model. Companies would hire a single black model to mix into the pale sea of posing Chads and Kyles. The token black model would appear once every 3 or 4 pages, strategically placed to be visible, but not too visible.
Arguably, hiring one sole black model was even worse than having no black models at all. In hindsight, it felt more like a quota companies were expected to fill, rather than an organic result of a more inclusive culture. Sadly, diversity has become mostly a commercial concept, rather than a cultural one.
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Trump to skip 9/11 remembrance at Ground Zero because they wouldn’t let him give a speech
Thank you, lord! Can you imagine the giant, orange scumbag rambling about stolen elections and Barack Hussein Obama at a 9/11 remembrance ceremony? This is truly a blessing. Thank you for looking out for us, whoever it is that is coordinating the speakers.
“RFK Jr. has lied to the Senate”: Lawmakers call for criminal probe, ouster
RFK Jr. creeps me the fuck out. He’s got the same creepy, blank, sociopathic stare of Roy Kohn. And just like any true sociopath, he has no quibles lying his ass off for self-gain.
Bluesky now has a feature to save you from accidentally going viral. I want it everywhere.
I kind of like this idea. Not that I’m ever at risk of going viral at any particular moment, but it would be nice to have the option not to regardless.
Grok Not Only Generates Child Porn but Was Also Trained On It, New Lawsuit Claims
X is an absolute cesspool and it sucks. There is so much potential, but the sheer toxicity is truly sickening. And it all starts from the top.
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A few times per year, I dream about a preschool that doesn’t exist. Or if it does exist, it’s so deeply buried in my memory that it might as well not be real at all. The preschool isn’t your typical preschool; it instead feels sort of like some sort of fringe religious indoctrination program. Each time I have the dream, there is another surreal element introduced. And you probably won’t believe it, but every time I wake from the dream, I have the same stale, musky taste in my mouth. A taste that is unique to this particular dream.
Last night’s version was unique because instead of being a student at the school, I was returning to see former teachers and offer a pep talk to current students. The whole experience was oddly normal except for what we were all wearing. It’s too odd even to put into words, but I’ll do my best. We all seemed to be decked out in the same set of belts; that’s the closest description I can think of. And these belts circled our bodies from head to toe.
There is something different about this dream that sets it apart from all the rest. It almost feels like a repressed memory, even though I know I was never a part of a cultish fringe preschool program. Oddly, elements of cult-like experiences pop up in my dreams quite often. I have another similar dream where I’m reading or watching children’s cult-like media. They are profoundly disturbing in a way that’s hard to describe, mostly because they seem so harmless in a way, but have such a sinister undertone.
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I’ve been mixing in some YA and Children’s fiction into my reading recently. As I get older and increasingly more nostalgic, I find myself seeking comfort in simplicity. It’s nice to take a break from adult literature from time to time and just read something cozy and straightforward.
I’m currently reading Because of Winn-Dixie by Kate DiCamillo, a cute little coming-of-age tale about a girl and her dog. And I swear if the dog dies at the end I’m never reading anything about an animal ever again.
I also recently read the first book in the Fear Street series, The New Girl by R.L. Stine. Obviously, it was corny and dated as hell, but it was a light, cozy, quick read that really acted as a reset after the serious lit I’ve been reading lately. It’s part of a Fear Street The Beginning, which is a collection of the first four Fear Street books.
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This is a pretty recent one, so it hasn’t really had time to marinate, but it’s notable enough because I’ve never not finished a book for this reason.
I picked up The Bones at Point No Point by D.D Black during my most recent Goodwill book hunt because I read fairly positive reviews on Goodreads. I blind-bought a few other of his books while I was there since I’ve been on a horror fiction kick and they seemed right up my alley.
Bones at Point No Point wound up being more of a formulaic true crime story, but with utterly gruesome subject matter. And when I say gruesome, I mean truly vile and dark shit. The plot centers around a serial killer who kidnaps weeks-old babies, pretends to be their parent for a few days, and then proceeds to drug the infants and boil them until all that remains is there bones. They then etch holiday-themed poems into the baby’s bones and leave the stripped bones in a holiday-themed bag somewhere public enough where an unsuspecting bystander will come across them.
I used to have the fortitude to stomach pretty dark subject matter, but that grit has dimmed as I’ve crossed the path into my 40s. Though I suspect even at my staunchest, the subject matter of this book would have rubbed me the wrong way. It’s just not fun. In fact, it’s frankly nauseating.
It doesn’t help that the characters are true crime paper cutouts, and the main protagonist acts like a widow in his 70s, rather than a man who just left his 30s. He can’t help but tell everyone he meets how bad he is with technology. As a recently retired NYPD detective, he absolutely would have had experience with technology and social media. So there are some truly frustrating holes in the tale besides the disgusting plot.
10 years ago, I might have gotten further into the book, but as I age and the time crunch becomes ever apparent with every passing day, I’ve become more sensitive and definitely more selective of what I read. 60 pages was enough for me here.
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I’ve been really getting into reading personal blogs recently, and one thing I’ve noticed is that many of my favorites include a weekly (or partially weekly, really the best they can do) post about what happened in their life in the past 7 days. Most of them are nothing spectacular. No heroics or life-altering thoughts. Rather, just a straightforward highlight of personal events. So I think I’m going to give it a go.
- Had a nice, laid-back dinner with my son at Taylor Beach House Cafe in Hobe Sound. The restaurant has a tiki-bar feel with a thatched roof and a sand-covered floor, which one could dig their toes into if they were so inclined. The food was fine, but it’s really the type of place you go to for the ambiance. There was also an acoustic live singer performing a bunch of light rock and hippie hits.
- I’ve been working hard on growing the subscription-based model for Treasure Coast Today, which I introduced last week. Experimenting with different CTAs and various exclamations and mission statements. It’s slow going, just like any other new product rollout. I have managed to snag 9 paying customers, so that’s at least a proof-of-concept that people are willing to pay.
- My son was home sick most of the week with a tummy bug. I expected he’d only be out for a day or so, because he really didn’t seem too sick, but for whatever reason the doctor wanted him out of school until this upcoming Monday, so that’s what we did.
- I did a bunch of book shopping and Little Free Library hopping. I really can’t help myself. At one of the Free Libraries, I found books 2-4 of the Outlander series, which I suspect might be a little too romance-heavy for me, but I want to give it a whirl. I also grabbed a copy of The Nightingale. I also went to the local Goodwill Bookstore and bought around 20 books, including some for my son and me to share. I’m really trying to get him into reading.
- Work was fine. We continued to work on the Johnson and Johnson talc powder class action paperwork, which can truly be a depressing task. The sheer breadth of the number of people affected is truly staggering. And very sad. It’s a lot to take in, and you almost have to numb yourself. You either check out a bit or crumble.
- Had a nice, laid-back dinner with my son at Taylor Beach House Cafe in Hobe Sound. The restaurant has a tiki-bar feel with a thatched roof and a sand-covered floor, which one could dig their toes into if they were so inclined. The food was fine, but it’s really the type of place you go to for the ambiance. There was also an acoustic live singer performing a bunch of light rock and hippie hits.
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Last night’s sleep was fitful. A serpentine, part-wakeful dream filled the night.
Do you know that feeling when you wake up and for a few moments you can’t figure out what’s real and what isn’t? For hours I drifted in and out of this state. Aware that I was dreaming, but unaware of reality when awake.
And I must have woken up over a dozen times throughout the night. It felt like every few minutes. My rest was restless.
The dream itself made no sense. It can’t even be adequately described in words. Something to do with developing an app or a website. This isn’t too far of a stretch since I have been actively working on developing various projects over the last few months, but this project didn’t even exist. Some mashup between an ordering dashboard for restaurants and a meal delivery service.
And no matter how hard I tried, this dream project would not leave my head. It was as if my mind had become obsessed with a fictional design, and it couldn’t shake the idea. After a few hours of interrupted fever dreaming, my brain finally decided to shake the idea from its web and let me sleep uninterrupted for a few hours.
Some dreams are hard to shake. Mine had no discernible deep meaning. My mind just thought it was very important. Tonight will hopefully be less fitful.
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I get misty watching corny TikTok clips, algorithmically designed to make me choke up. I mean, hell, I even tear up during overly sentimental commercials. I’m an easy mark.
So it might not be surprising that the last movie that made me cry didn’t make me do so in the traditional sense. Over the past year I’ve grown addicted to other people reacting to movies on YouTube. There’s a whole sub-genre of YouTubers who make money by watching videos and reacting to them on camera. Most of them claim to never hace seen the movie before and their emotional response to the scenes are often closer to that of an infant than an adult human.
I was watching a mashup of these reactions early today; a mashup of react tubers watching the ending of Band of Brothers where the identities all of the living survivors are revealed. I don’t know whether it’s the crying of the reactors or the actual content of the scene that made me cry, but I cried regardless.
I never really thought about it, but I think I’m sort of an unwilling empath. Other people’s sadness and hurt have a tendency to rub off on me.
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Daily writing promptWhat’s the best advice you’d give to someone younger than you?
On my 18th birthday, I received a $25,000 check in the mail. Then again, on my 19th birthday. And my 20th birthday. And my 21st birthday.
At the age of 12, I was struck by a drunk driver as I rode my bike home from my friend’s house. The pick-up truck side-swiped my wheels, and I latched onto the rear view mirror. I don’t remember much after that until I came to on the side of the road. I remember standing up in the middle of the street and spinning like a top. Surely a reaction to the shock.
According to witnesses, I had somehow flown over the bed of the truck and landed back and headfirst on the concrete. A group of construction workers had witnessed the accident and called my parents. I don’t remember how they got my phone number.
The accident happened only a two-minute drive from my home, so my parents arrived on the scene in what felt like seconds. My mother was frantic. My dad held up two fingers and asked how many he was holding up (I saw two). At the hospital, I fell into a sort of post-traumatic euphoric haze. I was alive, but I didn’t know what sort of injuries I had sustained.
After a series of tests, the doctors determined that I had fractured my L1 vertebra in my spine and had a pretty nasty concussion. As a result of my injury, I would never be able to play football for my school team, nor would I be able to do much of any strenuous physical activity for almost a year.
While I wasn’t paralyzed, and I didn’t need surgery, I was forced to wear a full-torso back brace for nine months. Eighth grade is hard enough, but being the metaphorical thumb that stuck out, I was the topic of much discussion and the subject of many stares. The majority of my classmates were very helpful and not judgmental, which made recovery easier.
As I healed, insurance claims were being litigated in the background, unknown to my 13-year-old reality. The only involvement I ever had in the undertaking was a deposition, which my teenage brain didn’t fully wrap its tendrils around.
As a result of the lawsuit, I was to receive a certain amount of money every year on my birthday, starting at the age of 18, and continuing every year for four years, with one larger payment happening when I hit 30.
So what’s the point of this whole drawn-out tale of woe? The truth is, at 18 years old, I was completely unprepared to deal with that amount of money unsupervised. Every year, I would roll through the money in months. I’d lend my friends money for rent when they were about to be evicted. I brought people out for meals and always paid. I showered myself in gifts.
I had never been properly taught how to handle money. There was no personal finance course in school. There was no education about credit, and how your credit rating would rule you for the rest of your life.
As a result, I spent with abandon. I spent as if there would be no tomorrow. I spent because at 18, $25,000 seems like the grandest of riches. I spent it because I wanted to fill the hole that PTSD from the accident had left behind.
So, my best advice I would give someone younger than myself is to never go into debt. Learn about credit. Study how to manage your finances. Invest well and at the right time. Build yourself a nest egg. Never spend what you can’t afford. You’ll thank me later.
