Civilization was built on innovation. Industrious people using intellect and imagination to create something that didn’t exist before; something that ultimately became indispensable. The printing press. The cotton gin. The George Foreman Grill.

The main driver of innovation used to be need. Copying Bibles by hand took a long time, and there were lots of godless heathens to convert. I’d expound more on the cotton gin but I was never taught exactly what it does, just that it was invented by Eli Whitney, who I suspect also invented PR.

That kind of ingenuity and hard work is still going strong, providing us with inventions that better society and make our lives easier and sometimes even longer.

That’s not to say that innovation always does those things. Sometimes, it does just the opposite, mostly in service of greed, attaining power, or compensating for pitiful penises.

Very often, innovation is simply driven by brands trying to stay relevant, and therefore profitable, by convincing us we want something we never even thought of.

One category that outpaces most others in terms of innovation is food. In fact, food companies are binging on it.

I’m going to tell you about my shoelaces. It’s not that they’re particularly interesting in and of themselves, it’s that the situation I recently found myself in because of them is emblematic of how simple things have become way too complicated.

I was recently told that I have the spine of a man 20 years my senior. While I wish the remark had been complimenting my bravery, it was in fact a reference to my back’s lumbar region. My orthopedist said it as he showed me my MRI images.

Leaving the ongoing pain out of it, there’s a story to be told about the journey I’ve been on for the last five months. The weeks and weeks spent waiting for appointments to see doctors and get diagnostic imaging. I grew a knee-length beard during the MRI preauthorization process alone.

Yes, there’s a story to be told there. But this is not that story.

As I write this, I have a mouthful of blood. When I swallow or spit it out, more floods forth, like my jaw is the elevator from The Shining. It’s been like this for 15 minutes.

With Halloween just days away, it’s tempting to say that my wound is the result of something scary or sinister, like fighting off a horde of zombies, or gnawing through zip ties to escape my insane captor. But it isn’t.

What it is, is the latest in a long series of self-inflicted injuries resulting from shocking carelessness, horrendous judgment, and bone-chilling bad luck.

So, in this season of spooky stories, let’s take a tour through just a few of these macabre misadventures.

If you’re like me—which I’d never wish on anyone—you like decisiveness. Action. Forward movement.

That means you don’t like unanswered questions. Unresolved tension. Unsolved mysteries. (Unless it’s Unsolved Mysteries, obviously.)

In the past, this pressing need for some type of closure made me believe that in most situations I had to do something, even if I didn’t know what that something was.

You can avoid this feeling if you can train yourself to do the easiest, hardest thing in the world: nothing.

When the windows are open and the breeze is just right, the aroma of cooked meat and French fries wafts into my house. And if you’re quiet enough on a still evening, you just might hear a garbled voice croak something like, “That’ll be $15.23. Please drive around.”

You see, there’s a Wendy’s bordering my backyard. And we have a complicated history.

That's why I could empathize with another dissatisfied customer with whom I recently crossed paths.

Whenever you interact with strangers, there’s one question you’re guaranteed to be asked: “What do you do?”

While better than “Wanna see my rash?” it’s still not great.

The reason it’s troubling is because that’s become our cultural shorthand to assess who a person is. We do this with other people, and we do it with ourselves.

That’s because we, as a society, got hoodwinked. Somehow, we were convinced that we are our jobs.

That may be who we think we are, but is it who we want to be?

AI has numerous benefits that will continue to grow as the technology progresses. But there’s also a deep concern among creatives, as individuals and companies use AI to produce writing, artwork, music, and more.

Since AI learns from all of our work, we should teach it a lesson. Let’s introduce a fly into the ointment. A horsefly, if you will.

Let’s write about AI as AI.

My plan is threefold.

A Note on Substack caught my eye the other day. A man wanted it known that although he’s never written a book, he is an author. His reasoning was that he publishes regularly on Substack.

Knowing this was sure to ruffle the feather on someone’s quill pen, I grabbed some popcorn and headed into the comments.

Most people supported him. But after a scroll or two, I found what I’d come for. Another man told him that he is not, in fact, an author, but a writer. In a most thoughtful gesture, he included a dictionary definition of “author,” which said something like “a person who writes books as a profession.”

The original poster volleyed back with a different dictionary definition that supported his position.

More words were exchanged, and I found myself wanting to clonk these guys’ heads together a la Moe with Larry and Curly. (I know I went looking for the very kind of back-and-forth that annoyed me, but what can I tell you; neither Moe nor I are always the most rational of fellows.)

My issue with the first guy was, who gives a s**t what you call yourself? You can say you’re the Archduke of Wordsmithery for all I care. Your note seemed designed to provoke fussy know-it-alls.

My issue with the second guy was, who gives a s**t what the first guy calls himself? Is there an “author” ceiling that we’re butting up against? And is “title gatekeeper” an elected or appointed position?

I’ve seen this debate before, but what fascinates me isn’t the topic itself but the larger condition of which it’s a symptom: looking for a fight and being all up in other people’s business are fast becoming our national pastimes.

Those that excel at these activities have honed two distinct traits: anger and entitlement.

A killer combination

In case you haven’t heard the news, the saying “Live and let live” was shot in the head and dumped in a ditch. It was replaced by “Listen to me, you dumb f**k.”

Society is at a strange inflection point where a growing number of people think they deserve the utmost respect, while showing not a lick of it to others.

It’s easy to blame social media for the mass ego trip, so I will. At least partially. It’s become way too common for people to catalog every minute of their day online as if they’re auditioning for The Truman Show 2: This Time He’s Into It. And when there’s that much footage of you in the public realm, you must be a celebrity, right? Better start behaving like one!

I’m sure there are other factors at play, but having no expertise in any field ending in “ology,” I’ll leave that to the professionals to sort out.

Maybe those poindexters can also enlighten us on why so many people are so freakin’ mad. Politics, along with lingering emotional and financial damage from the pandemic, are no doubt major contributors.

Can that be all, though? Or is there something else going on that’s raising the temperature? Because there haven’t been this many people this pissed off since the finale of Lost.

Do as I say

I’m not a big fan of people telling me what to do. I’m guessing you aren’t either. Unfortunately, there’s an army of self-appointed bastions of propriety who make it their business to do just that.

Someone doesn’t like the color of your shutters? They’ll ring your bell to tell you your house is an eyesore.

You’re a day late mowing your grass? They’ll put an obnoxious note in your mailbox.

Put up a lawn sign they don’t like? They’ll rip it out of the ground and post it on Instagram with the title, “This doesn’t belong here.”

That’s what you get for moving into their neighborhood.

Of course, this kind of behavior isn’t limited to dreadful neighbors. It’s widespread. In fact, I’ve just been made aware of a publication that provides instructions on how to be the ultimate irritant. It’s called Handbook for the Horrible, and it explains what to do in hundreds of situations. Here are a few excerpts:

Apartment complex pool: Question anyone whom you don’t recognize and whose appearance makes you uncomfortable. Demand to see their driver’s license with their current address. If they refuse, scream “Help! Somebody please help!” and call the police. Your rent pays for that water. You have every right to monitor who goes in it.

Coffee shop: Your order is going to be subpar the first time, so don’t even bother tasting it. Save precious seconds by handing it right back and berating the barista. Suggested phrases include, “Why do I always have this problem with you?”; “Do you know how much money I spend here every week?; and “Maybe you should spend less time getting tattoos and more time learning how to do your job.”

Grocery store: Pass by a customer who has a child with them. Look in their cart, point to an item, and say, “You know, I wouldn’t feed that to my kid.” When the person gets indignant, reply, “I was just trying to help. Let him eat poison—I don’t care.”

Office: Your colleague mentions that she’s excited about going to a concert that evening. Explain that the artist she’s going to see (it doesn’t matter who) isn’t a true musician, like your favorite artist (it doesn’t matter who). Liken her artist to a karaoke performer and/or suggest that they get by on their looks.

Parking lot: Upon finding a spot where someone is about to back out, turn on your signal and immediately try to rush them by sweeping your arm back and forth with the fervor of a baseball player waving a runner home. Count to three and lay on the horn like you’re trying to stanch the bleeding from a deep wound.

Comment vivisection

Things are bad in real life, but the anonymity of the internet is like inhuman growth hormone for these behaviors.

You may be familiar with the three questions you can ask yourself when faced with the choice between speaking up or piping down:

Does it need to be said?

Does it need to be said right now?

Does it need to be said by me?

In comment sections, the self-reflective questions are different:

Can I say it first?

Can I say it like a dick?

Can I say it so poorly and with so many typos that it’ll look like the keyboard was pecked by a coked-up crow?

A tech site I like announced this week that it’s shutting down. When I read the post, there were five comments, two of which insulted the site. One said, “Meh, one less Apple fanboys” (sic).

Like the Great Author/Writer Debate of ’24, this comment wasn’t the most egregious example. But if that’s how you feel, responder, why are you even on the site, let alone taking the time to leave a snotty, grammatically alarming response?

In a more general sense, why would someone roll up their sleeves, crack their knuckles, and excrete bile from their fingertips because of something a stranger said instead of, say, ignoring it?

It’s because all this anger has to go somewhere. There’s only so much you can unleash in public without taking a haymaker to the jaw.

But you can sit there alone in your tantrum and put some other faceless schmuck in his place. You can be as self-righteous and mean as you want to be.

Some of the recent insults I’ve seen include: fuckwit, slutbag, asshat, cum stain, and douche nozzle.

Imagine typing something like that and feeling good about yourself.

(I mean, I felt good typing all of them, but you know, different circumstances.)

Serenity now

Is this just a phase we’re in? Is this the “worse” we have to pass through to get to “better”? Or is this simply the current stop on the elevator to anarchy?

I guess that’s up to us. So, in the interest of preventing society from turning into a whole Mad Max situation, I propose the following interventional steps to help bring a sense of calm into people’s lives:

* The cultural tone starts at the top, so we should elect to office the most laid back, easygoing people. For example, President Jeff Bridges and Vice President Keanu Reeves. The Cabinet will be made up of professional surfers and jazz musicians.

* The national anthem will be changed to “Slow Ride” by Foghat.

* Every business is to have a golden retriever on premises.

* Every third song on every radio station will be from the yacht-rock genre.

* Businesses, medical practices, and all other entities will no longer be permitted to message you simultaneously by text, email, and push notification.

* Two-factor authorization will be outlawed.

* Every restaurant meal comes with ice cream. Even breakfast. Especially breakfast.

These steps are just a start, but I believe if we band together to put in place measures like these, we’ll help lessen our collective anger. And that, in turn, will help breathe life back into “Live and let live.”

But let me be clear: these are suggestions. I’m not telling you what to do.

What other policies should we put in place to help us all chill out? Let’s talk in the comments.

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I send these OSIs out in Notes, not as posts. If you’ve seen them there, great. If you’ve just stumbled upon them here, that’s great too. I do them to amuse myself. And maybe you.

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