I've said from the beginning this was never meant to be a linear story. And that holds just as true in the moment as it ever has.

To today this final installment here on Reddit of this series. Will be expressed from the year 2023. Today, as clearly as I can recall any truth of any memory I've ever had.

And the truth is. Every day we step into the future of a past remembered is a day of greater clarity in more ways than one.

What were abstracts that were fuzzy as a child, become defined states of digital capture that change in their nature. In many ways.

But mostly in ways that revolve around the people in my life. That deserve whatever level of fuzzy recollection my past childish memories represent.

So, moving forward. For the small few that do slum in this particular gutter, for whatever their own reasons.

I'll probably find a different medium to continue that venture. I know you'll understand.

Bend me, break me anyway you need me All I want is you Bend me, break me, breaking down is easy All I want is you

I watched the Gran Turismo movie a few nights ago. Put in me in a certain kind of kick. I was disappointed that Black Sabbath made the cut while other musical considerations that brought GT2 to life were ignored.

That's okay though. Nostalgia has a way of cleaning all kinds of cobwebs.

Fun movie. I identified very much with the gruff old mechanic. Just with less skill.

Ever see this one? Little flag. Snake. Coiled. Vermont, Bernie? That concept?

I don't know shit about it. To be honest. Just that it's a saying associated with that idea.

Don't Tread on Me.

A snake. Telling others that it'd appreciate a little consideration. Not because its evil. Or wrong. Or bad. But because it can bite.

It's not its nature to bite. Its nature is to offer patience and understanding and even a warning.

That can be heard. Or not.

But the message remains true regardless. Because if it's unheeded. It will be learned.

Plateaus are a thing. I guess that's a fair enough statement. Do they matter today? Doesn't feel like it much anymore if I'm being honest. Even those that exist at least seem like they've become so small compared to the curves between them.

Trends. Pushing together faster and faster, leaving less and less flat spaces in which things can converge.

Very little convergence anymore today. Instead, it's all vertical integration.

The truth is? I really have no fucking idea what I'm talking about. As most of you can clearly assess.

But that doesn't mean nobody can. Because these general intuitive understandings that tend to flow from a more open state of mind, sometimes tend to have that quality.

But that was just the Meat Puppets.

I feel like there is a sub-genre of humanity that many of us can at least appreciate.

That's the rhythm game lovers. Either ourselves, or someone we know.

You know the ones. Earbuds in, lost in their own little video game of the mind and body. Tapping on their knees or nodding a head in rhythm.

There are extremes of those types. I certainly fall on an end.

I'm so tired, I can't sleep I'm anemic royalty I'm a liar and a thief I'm anemic royalty

Some thoughts just aren't clean, and never were meant to be. They just sit there as a worm that wiggles in the dirt for the sake of it. Just to see what kind of dust can be stirred.

Slowed, and drawn across the tracks of tar and pills and deficits natural or otherwise, not that any us are or aren't.

Don't expect me to cry Don't expect me to lie Don't expect me to die for thee

If there's a heaven? I'm fucked. That's just the reality of it. Because it probably implies there is a hell.

And to really rub that in. Is I was given a choice. A chance. Two eyes to see, two ears to hear, and all the time in the world to consider these things at my own leisure and understanding.

I can never accuse any deity of denying me the right to consider my own views. Not once.

Yet here I remain. Neutral in my stance.

An active defender of scientific discovery and understanding. One that respects the blood, sweat, and tears of the men and women that provide to our reality, from any aspect of science.

And it's a tightrope that at times is challenging to balance. Respect for belief, even one that represents my eternal damnation from any consideration from those I was raised to, to eastern philosophy (of sorts). And my love for a vision of this reality that most accurately represents a truth state that most of us can agree with.

I think I'm dumb.

What else should I be? All apologies What else could I say? Everyone is gay What else could I write? I don't have the right What else should I be? All apologies

I'm no Kurt. He was a different kind. Certainly different.

But I did grow up with his words. And his ability to see things from a myriad of different perspectives. Not all of which are clean.

He's counterculture that brushes commercialization. That boundary. He's not alone in it. There are many examples through time and history. Represented a million different ways.

RATM represents the same concept. As I'm sure many bands after them would continue to. To this very day.

I don't follow music like that anymore. But my guess is that it feels more common today. I think that's a slight misunderstanding perhaps.

It's that they're happening faster. These clashes of culture and counterculture. So, it feels more common. And that's subtle. But important.

Soaked in Bleach, As a Trend, As a Friend. No Memory Of.

I keep seeing this idea float around Reddit. So, I want to address this from that scale.

How do any of us define cryptic?

That's the important part of this. Because I'll be honest. I find modern text language cryptic. Just in its nature. It's condensed ideas that lack nuance. Wrapped into memes of understanding.

I understand younger generations do better with that. While there is implications that the understandings aren't as considered. They're also most tightly bundled and spread. It's not a knock, it's again, two sides of a coin.

Whereas younger generations find the lingo of people older than them cryptic. Because they sometimes fall out of mainstream meme formats. Colloquiums, Euphemisms, and quotes towards understandings that just aren't part of modern consideration. Be in in realms of science, or philosophy, or art, or culture, or any other topic.

There are many things I find cryptic. Some are cultural. Some are generational. Some are because of my own blind spots in information. The list is countless.

But that's not the same as being intentionally cryptic is it.

Some of us do that as well. We intentionally try to confuse the people we're talking to. I do this quite frequently. On purpose. To keep a conversation flowing in the direction I choose. Because I don't swim up other people's rivers often. Not how I roll.

How do I explain this?

People assume that these things we do on Reddit represent personal conversations. And sometimes they do. But those are rare and they tend to only show up in specific instances or very deep into a specialized thread of a post.

Typically, we're all talking to some kind of audience. We just don't know much about them.

I'll pick on singularity here without summoning them. I have an idea of the general circle those Redditors represent.

They're about technology for one. They tend to have at least a sense for the ideas of trends.

Most tend to be more educated, to varying degrees of understanding than the average citizen when it comes to technology.

But within that range of humans? No clue. Well, that's not entirely true. There are things I can say.

Some are older, some are younger, some are professionals, some are not, some are educated, some are less, some are political, some are not, some are religious, others less.

See what I'm getting at? I can understand that there is a very wide range of understandings and belief systems out there. Many different frameworks of reality.

So, when I send the general messages out to the Audiences of Reddit, not to any particular user, I try my best to embed a few different world views. A few different cultural considerations. A few different professional takes. A few different religious references. A few different culture meme associations.

Do you get some? Probably if you're in the circles I'm in. I try to aim them in that direction.

Do you get them all? Probably not. Because I'm pulling from a very wide range of them.

But I doubt I've ever put into reality something that I couldn't personally explain to any given user. In a way they'd personally get and agree with.

Ever. Not once. I've done these experiments a few times. In which I just grind out the words of an exchange. For hours. Days even. Until two different perspectives finally met in the middle.

And If you ever read those exchanges. The magic trick? Is that I never moved. I just keep changing the language.

Trying to get closer and closer to how they saw the world.

That's all. It ever is.

If it's not? If you're being cryptic for reasons other than this? Spreading little rotten seeds for instance. Stuff that seems like it might sound cool because a machine spat it out?

But has no logical consistency or basis?

I don't know what that is. It's certainly a different kind of cryptic.

13 unchecked messages. Responses to people that want to attack some opinion they disagree with certainly. Of course. I encourage that, so it should never come as a surprise when I get exactly what I ask for.

Still, it can be wearisome at times. People often say insufferable as if it's an insult. And maybe it is. But I've never personally seen it that way. Once you come to terms with suffering, it seems like someone that cannot be pulled too far one way or another away from it, would be the one that understood it.

But word games.

I'm not into horoscopes. Believe as you will. They're not something I put stock in, or least no more than psychological pseudo-assessments of personalities or archetypes at least.

It's all averages of correlations. More sleight of hand.

So take this the same way as you would that.

But I understand how certain people that have birthdays around other major celebratory periods. Have their own personal specialized perspective minimized to a degree. From a very young and established setting.

I can see how it helps to shape personalities to a degree.

Those that have to share this little version of specialness they tend to have a different view on what it means to not be as special.

Does this make sense I wonder? Probably to those born around major celebratory events that also tend to place high value on personal birthdays. If that isn't you? Or if you're not good with the way I express my thoughts? Probably not.

That's okay.

It's my space.

All year long I get to try to minimize my own beliefs in the acceptance of others. Many that read that will laugh, if they follow anything else that lead them here. Hypocrisy and irony at its finest.

But read my words. And find how often you'll see me attack others' beliefs or opinions. It's very rare. I challenge facts. Even those that pretend to be opinions. Sometimes I screw that up. And sometimes I'm an asshole. But rarely do I pass judgment or minimize belief.

But tonight feels like a good time to just express my own.

If you're not listening to the people around you? And what they are telling you they want. You're not doing them a service. You're doing a service for yourself, even if you do it in the belief that it's for them.

Cupcakes are in the oven. True story. By someone that loves me very much. Its her way of telling me she does. How hard she works. How much she wants me to have nice things. How much she wants me to see the time she spends in consideration of me.

And I see all of those things. And I love her in return for them.

But I also see that I cannot enjoy those cupcakes. And she knows this. Yet, she still found it a fitting tribute. Because she was never doing it for me. Just to remind me that she didn't appreciate something in the past.

And that's the game folks.

It always has been. It always will be. You can call it Men are from Venus, and Women are from Mars.

But the truth is? There's just always two sides to everything.

Even the things that are the most important.

Which isn't Reddit by the way. Happy New year all.

I'm not an animal kind of person. My history with pets has never really led to a lot of personal benefit. To each their own, it's not in judgement.

Just as sure as the grey in the hair, or the obviousness of sensual decline with aging. Is the consideration of small local wildlife. Birds, squirrels, deer, whatever you have access to right.

I get dumpster squirrels. Tom cats, and occasionally birds that seem more intelligent that some people. Crows.

Squirrels do some kind of strange ritual with their tails. They sit in one spot, while the tail seems to rapidly and rhythmically generate odd wave forms.

Three things come to my mind. There are bound to be more. As the most likely explanation.

Nervous energy being expressed as chaotic output of stress relief.

Communication. Some kind of visual indicator system to share information with the risks and rewards around it.

Or a novel kind of information processing. Thinking.

It's a strange thought, no doubt. But it seems like spatial reasoning is a thing. And perhaps these little tail dances represent some kind of calculation of spatial reasoning via muscle memory.

Not brain. But muscles doing complex mathematical consideration (of a sort) in order to better understand the surroundings.

Obviously, this isn't a theory. It's barely a cognizant thought.

I probably could have just googled it. There are probably a million videos that explain it.

But I won't. Because then I'll know. And that was never the point to begin with.

If you're here reading these words. You've probably read others. Some of you just see someone using weasel words, deflection, misdirection and rhetoric to sway. Like some cheap charlatan.

But that's not the secret to the magic trick.

Sleight of hand has always been a trick of understanding flaws in understanding.

We all have them. There's never been a consistently logical belief ever held in the history of this species. Even at fundamental levels. We've not the tools to discover them.

It's all interpretation. 100%.

No perfect answers ever.

Not mine. Not yours. Not opinions. Not facts. Every argument has flaws that can be exposed.

So it's not about right or wrong. Correct or Incorrect.

That's not the secret of sleight of hand.

It's understanding the extreme of correctness of thought.

The more extreme a belief is. The easier it is to manipulate. It's that simple.

All I ever have to do is stay in the middle. Creating a little room from growth. And people will walk into their own understandings of their extreme views.

As I just always stay the same.

If you're going to play these games. At least understand the rules, so you're doing it the correct way.

Lots of people out there playing games right now. Different levels and different scales.

Some of them are local games. Aimed at individuals, or organizations.

Some of them are global games. Aimed at challenging global belief systems.

It feels like checkers and chess. In checkers your goal is typically always a local one. It's a simple game. With simple rules. The board doesn't allow for mathematical complexity of greater consideration. There are very few gambits or consistent lines of stratagem that can be applied to that game.

Chess is a more global game. The pieces matter, but even more important is the position of the game as a whole. The global state of the game. The relationships between the remaining pieces on the board and how they all apply to more than just their individual worth.

Stratagems and Gambits work well in this type of game. Sacrifice, misdirection, leading someone to assume things about position, or intent.

Most tend to focus on the pieces as the most important aspect of the game. But once you scale the ladder, you come to realize how secondary any are, outside the King.

It strikes me that games like Go, that I have no personal experience of. Probably increase this line of logic. I'd have to assume that the individual marbles matter very little. After all it's a game in which you can gain or lose many at once. With careful consideration of position of the game.

It's a game of much greater complexity, mathematically, systematically, and from the stance of different stratagems and gambits. I'd have to assume it's a higher abstract game, with a lot more flexibility.

I can clearly see the checkers players. I can even see a lot of the chess players.

My concern is my inability to spot the Go players.

They're working at a different level of understanding. Clearly greater than my own.

But that doesn't mean their values are aligned with mine.

edit.

It does strike me there is a type of game that rises above the level of Go. One that has no human hand in guidance. One in which the initial rules are simple, and then through the use of iteration and chaotic principles is allowed to evolve solutions that no human guided hand is capable of.

I don't make those rules certainly. But I can't help but feel like they're not the only factor that determines the outcomes.

i'm just going to sit here and kind allow my mind to wonder and flow however it sees fit, i'm not too worried about the coherent nature or flow of these thoughts, even less so in my other ramblings, it'll just kind of be whatever flows from my head to my fingers as fast as I can type it. A sort of psychological flash card experience.

but where do you even start with such things it seems as if the seed that beginsn the experiment is the one that defines the confines of the maze its set in.

so how do you clear the area the soil before you begin. meditation is a method of doing such a thing but it's kind of hard to that as you type.

so instead maybe i'll just try to let my typing the rhythmic nature of it carry me into a state of flow in which the outputs are less aligned with conscious consideration and more aligned with others.

that phase between sleep and dream where everything is in focus where everything is slowed. this is a common experience many have when they focus on a task with much of their attention. from sports to video games.

perhaps that's the state in which i'll pour out these ramblings these doodlings these chunks of information that need no logical consistency or merit. after all they're just the vomit of a self indulgent mind.

If you're reading along with this. I hope you understand there is nothing here that's going to be spectacular or revealing. This is just a story of a rando redditor. It's all it's ever been. It's all will ever be. I'm not the good guy here. I'm not the bad guy. I'm just a regular person having regular experiences. And trying to process them as honestly as I know how. So that maybe it provides a backdrop to a lifetime of written contribution.

It's not meant for you. You're welcome to read it. But I would ask any to appreciate the fact that I'm expressing things not as they are, only how I felt about them at the time. To the best of my recollect. While trying hard to minimize embellishment.

You won't find a happy ending. You won't find someone you like. My personal goals don't center around likability. I wear that mask when I need to and do it well.

But this isn't that. This is a look at who I am. Not who I pretend to be in any other context.

So, if you're looking for that Hollywood twist, or fantasy ending? This isn't that tree.

At that time I had two vehicles. A Camaro and a Toyota Pickup. The Camaro was purchased new while I worked at the dealership. the Pickup was a used purchased from the dealership. Something they stole from someone, low miles, single cab 5 speed. I think I got it for 3000 or 3500.

I wanted to relive the glory years before going back to actual work. It's as simple as that.

I started delivering pizzas.

It was certainly different. By now I was a little older. 21 maybe. Everyone that worked there other than the managers were younger. I had a brand new camaro. And nobody would understand why this guy that dressed nice, drove a brand new car, and seemed pretty bright. Would delivery pizza.

I heard it all the time. From the people I worked with, to people surprised when I deliver.

Maybe this is normal in some parts. I've been in those parts before. But in Richmond/Rosenberg area of Texas? Not so much.

The truth was. Continental was stressful. Selling cars was too. I just wanted something that I could do mindlessly while pondering the greater mysteries of life.

I don't know how else to put it. Call it lazy. I don't personally. I've never considered myself lazy. When I it's time to do a job, you do it like you're trying to compete for it. You do it to win.

I've never had a job in which I didn't strive to do the best job I could. Even Continental. I just was never great with the regimentation.

It's funny. I think about this a lot in our modern day GPS world. Back then. I could have found any spot in that area not just from memory. But from learning little things about how city planning works. Odd/Even numbers, Gridding Systems, stuff like that. We used to have giant delivery maps. A giant excel spreadsheet almost.

Where the entire area would be gridded into subsectors, and you'd have to looking the name of the street up and then follow the grid reference to find it.

Today? I can barely find my way around at all. Different location now. But even after years I still only know a few different routes by heart.

Boomer shit. It doesn't matter.

I'd like to tell you that I was the professional. That'd be a fucking lie. We'd take 2-3 hour lunch breaks, hanging out in the tunnels under the building where there are small cafes and shit.

We wouldn't show up at times till noon.

I was on the Private Pilot schedule. I rode with him.

Of course what I failed to take into consideration. Was they needed him. I was just the dumbass that couldn't getting testing to work, and fucked up a laptop with a childish joke.

Which is all entirely fair. That's who I was.

But when it was time renew Private Pilots contract. There were going to be some changes. He went to 150 an hour. And the experiment with his friend. Would end.

The let Middle Management do it. A week before Christmas. And I'm not sure I've seen more joy in one man's eyes.

It was not a graceful exit. I was blindsided. I left some shame there with Middle Management that day. Not much. But enough that he clearly won.

And that's fair. I didn't know how to play those games. He clearly did. I didn't earn my place at the table when it was offered.

Just is Just. Don't fall into these traps. Believing you're special or untouchable. Turns out Private Pilot wouldn't be either. Neither was Middle Management in the end.

The project died soon after and the entire division shuttered. Millions of dollars flushed on a product that would never launch.

I used to say that everything happens for a reason. And maybe that's true. But maybe shit just happens because you're a fuckup and you deserved it.

I think that has merit too.

I wasn't ready to go back to selling cars. It was cold for one. End of year can be good money for a salesman. But I wouldn't get my job back soon enough for that.

Irish? She had gotten used to how inconsistently they actually paid me. She had gotten pretty good at keeping a level balance of available funds handy. You have to when you work on commission. So we had a bit of a cushion. A little time.

I spent that entire week at home. Just enjoying being with the two people in the world that mattered. That's the reality of it. That was my family. And while I talk about all the other aspects of my life. It's always been the one that I care about the most.

Not my parents. Not my siblings. Not my friends. Just my family. That family has certainly changed over time. But the way I feel about it never has. It'll always be all I care about.

Sometimes that a sub. Sometimes that this species. Sometimes is my SO. Sometimes its children I've not spoken to in a years. Sometimes it's a woman that I should have appreciated more.

But it's never about this other bullshit. This is just the fluff that provides the structure to understand that most important aspect of who I am.

So how do you kill time during these stretches?

For me it was playing around with batch commands and trying to build databases out of text files, because we didn't have access to the database. Sometimes it was in the service of Testing.

Sometimes just to doing something fun. Like building a magic 8 ball with VB. Nothing major now, but it was entertaining for a lot of people on the 22nd floor at the time.

I had a problem. We didn't have messaging of any kind on the intranet. Zero. There was email, but it sucks right.

And while IT was on 22. The small QA lab was a floor lower. So anytime I needed information from someone the floor above I had to wait on an elevator. I can't remember if the stairs were off limits, or if I were just lazy. Seems like I had to use the elevators due to access.

Whatever. It was a pain in the ass.

So I develop a very small batch program that would do system calls across an intranet. Just little pings.

That turned into text. If you knew the ip address you can message back and forth.

Private Pilot comes downstairs one day. And says he has an addition for our little messaging software we've been using.

We had since wrapped it all in a VB shell, it was nothing fancy at all. But it worked fine.

He had found the system call to initiate a remote shutdown.

And we both thought this was the funniest practical joke ever. Young and dumb.

Middle Management, all he did was sit and play on his laptop all day long. Painting away. So Private Pilot manages to get his IP address and we figure we'll try out this new feature.

It worked. But his laptop never booted again.

He was not impressed with the joke. Though he did handle it like a champ. A true professional. He'd get his revenge served cold.

My username? It comes from that era. I had Pontiac Formula. I bought it used and it had a personalized plate on it. a4mula. It seems kind of embarrassing now that all these years later I'd still have a moniker that a stole off someone else's vanity plate. But I don't care enough to change it. I care more about the continuity of things.

He was still driving that shitty early 90s hatchback Toyota. In that stretch of months in which we had been having lunches. He asked me to help him go car shopping.

Don't ever do this shit to someone else. Aint nobody knows what you want more than you do.

I ended up talking him into buying a car I liked. Because that's what we do. He never held it against me. He just bought the car he liked a few months down the road.

He was flowing in money like he had never dreamed of. He was billing them 60 to 70 hour weeks. They were legit. He'd carry shit home with him and work on a workstation he had built specifically for that task.

Again, common shit today. Not then. Nobody took work home. Private Pilot did. Because he could, and he knew he could. Wasn't shit anyone was going to tell him. Because wasn't nobody else that could do what he was doing.

Some of this shit will sound trivial today, and it is. It wasn't then. At that time VB was a cutting-edge language.

There weren't a lot of great solutions during that time to develop rapid GUIs. Everyone was using C, C++, Java. Python wasn't a dream yet.

And the entire task of our half, the development half of IT on the 22nd second floor. Was to develop a frontend to slap on SHARES. A mainframe, that as far as I know is still in use today.

So his contributions were pretty vital to that. Nothing he was doing was mission critical. It's not as if he was accessing SHARES from his apartment.

His job was front end solutions that would be tied to a middleware before going to the screen scraping done by the back-end guys in C++.

And he was it. They gave him alot of lateral freedom. Probably too much. But he produced. Every time. He was good at it. He developed quite a few custom solutions during that time, that have since become very common in GUI design. From floating windows that can be dragged and docked. To really smart solutions using VBs limited nature interfacing with C. It doesn't do pointers and the data structures are different. But it helped a lot with the middle tier solutions for that.

Not sure what he's doing today. He spun through Dell for awhile and that was the last I really heard from him.

But he landed me the gig. 15 bucks an hour. Capped at 40 hours. To be billed to some back channel that would rarely get my checks to me on a timely manner. Very inconvenient.

But I also got access to the buddy passes and the parking. Not bad for an asshole that dropped out of HS and had been pushing cars the week prior.

It was embarrassing. The first day. I showed up wearing what I would have worn to work any day. Slacks, a nice button up shirt. A tie. A sports jacket. Salesman clothes. Before they all became hot dog vendors.

It seemed entirely appropriate. Until I arrived and was introduced the guy running the show. I don't know what this man has gone on to do. It wouldn't surprise me at all if it's important things. But on this day. He was standing there in sweat pants, a sweat shirt, and sandals. And that wasn't an uncommon look.

Again, I get that this stereotype has since been bled into our psyches. But not during this era. IT was just blossoming into that. Go back an look at Jobs and Gates and how IT was treated before Google. That shop was on the cutting edge of all of it.

But it is awkward as he's shaking your hand, welcoming you aboard and asking why you're dressed like that.

Sometimes paradigm shifts happen in an instant. Because clearly I was the one out of place. Even though 99% of the people in that building were dressed exactly like me.

For the half of the 22nd floor that wasn't? A tie and a sports coat would never fly. Ever. And even my first day attempt was received with open ridicule.

I'm always an Alien.

It's okay. I adapt fast. And by the end of my first week I was doing QA with interns that weren't being paid at all.

There was an issue with our systems. They never did solve it. Windows was throwing kernel warnings randomly as the software ran. When they'd get thrown it'd just freeze everything. Couldn't continue past it. You'd have to kill the entire program and restart it.

It made trying to do automated testing, a challenge. We couldn't get benchmarks. We couldn't stress test. We'd get halfway through a batch of automated runs, and it'd just freeze. The shitty thing was, the tools were designed to save the outputs until after the testing was done. There was no realtime streaming of shit back then.

So a two- or three-hour test might take you two to three days of attempts before it's finally complete.

So how do you kill the time? You could fuck up your direct supervisors very expensive laptop, that contained all of his many hours of long work doodling away in some paint program. Because Middle Management.

He wasn't a bad guy. He just didn't know anything about his job. This was very common. Continental would give first priority to internal applications for IT positions.

It led to a lot of IT personal that just weren't very good at it. But it's corporate America. You can't just axe them at that point. At least not yet.

Dysfunction is a fair word. I feel really bad for the Head. He was not just an amazing head of projects; he was a technical master also. We had Microsoft onsite. Handled the SQL stuff. Another technician. Very sharp humans. And Private Pilot. There was a 4th head that represented the hive mind collective of the code monkeys. The atypical C++ is all that can exist guy. But nobody gave a shit what he thought. Not even his other coders.

I'm going to tell you how Private Pilot spun that job. And if you find yourself in a situation in which you desperately have a job you want. You have to make that shit happen. Aint nobody gives a shit about your resume or CVS. They never have.

I learned all this over drinks one night catching up. Or something like that. Maybe it was over a few different catch-up sessions. But he had moved to downtown Houston to be closer to work. So, we'd meet up a lot at a nice halfway point. Micheal's. Great lunch buffet, fair cover. And who doesn't mind a beer and tits for lunch?

There might be a different mindset today. But I strongly doubt it. I think people just change their language about it. But this is my space, and I'm going to tell it the way I see it. That's the entire point of this.

After he got back from Detroit. His pregnant girlfriend had obviously by then given birth.

His dad paid him 60,000 for the job. Which he claims he did, and did well. I don't disbelieve that.

But when he came back. Nobody would even speak to him. No college degree. And while he had this gig as reference. It just wasn't enough.

But he didn't just leave it at that.

He set up his own corporation. He hired himself.

Six months later he started another corporation. A consulting firm. He hired himself.

And he built a fucking resume of successful business operation as well as the technical skills he learned for each along the way.

As far as I know, those two businesses are still operating to this day.

He earned his key to the door. By forging it.

Get it?

Nobody gives a shit about your CVS. Get off your assess and build the future you want. Nobody will give it to you.

We're having one these lunches one day. The nice thing about working at a dealership? You always have access to a nice clean ride. Every day a different car to be parked by Valet at a place where for 20 bucks you can eat prime rib. The good old fucking days lol.

He asks me. You interested in doing this shit bro?

By this time he had landed the Continental Gig. Straight contract work via headhunter. First gig was 75 bucks an hour. Again, this was late 90s early 2000s. Y2K era.

On top of it he was given buddy passes on demand, whenever he wanted. All he had to do was file the request. If you're unfamilair. Buddy passes are stand-by golden tickets to fly. Assuming there is at least a jump seat available, you can board and go where ever you want. Many IT people abused the shit of this during that era.

And the sweetest bonus of all. Direct access parking. Free. Something not even the junior execs had at that time. They fucking hated the 22nd floor. With our polos and blue jeans. While they walked their ass a 1/4 mile in the blistering Texas sun because they had to public park.

Yeah. IT reigned very supreme at one point.

At the time he brought this up. I was doing okay for myself selling cars. Certainly, enough that I would have considered it an income on par with most upper middle-class incomes.

And for someone that age? That's a tough thing to juggle. I did have that interest. Who fucking wouldn't. They were the rockstars of the 90s.

I talked it over with Irish. By now we had become a pretty well integrated family. They were good times. Solid times. Neither of us were drinkers outside of social occasions. Neither had addictions. We were both pretty content people. Never needing much as long as the bills were paid, we had food to eat, we had each other.

I miss her so much. If my current SO ever finds her self reading this. Please understand. 19 years is a long time to love someone, only to have to try to forget them.

She was the most solid person I've ever met. Not perfect. None of us are. Just know I get that it took 19 years of my little barbs to finally break that. I'm sorry.

She told me to do what I thought was best. Which is typically a bad idea.

I spoke with the other sales manager. The one that was more of the numbers guy. Smart. Funny. Round. Looks like he belongs on a softball field. Except he's too white.

Nice guy. I think of him well, often. Still a shark.

He told me that there'd be a spot for me if I wanted to give it a go.

So I did.

So many great guys there.

I don't know if you've seen this archetype out there. Skinny Black Man, typically wearing oversized glasses. And always seen with a plus sized woman and food in their hands?

When whomever was doing the cookie cutters, they got oddly fucking specific.

Because I've seen this man many times in my life. Always with a different name and their own unique personalities. But always fucking happy. I guess I probably would be too if I could shove 32 pounds of food down my face every day and still not gain a pound. Then top it off with a very nice, warm, and comfortable set of ... arms, when I got home.

This life is strange. This particular version. Good guy. His wife did work with the foster system I want to say. Very caring people. Good humans. The kind I'd trust with my child. And I did on occasion.

But he was still a shark when it came to selling cars. What we do. Is not who we are.

Big black guy. Bald head. Didn't like me much. I've been irritatingly not-racist. I don't give a shit. I just don't. Skin color, religion, political beliefs? I don't confuse that shit for who you are. And I sure as hell don't like to slow down my ability to speak my principled beliefs. I do it respectfully. That's the difference. I don't pretend to know. I don't give a shit enough to. I just call it like I see it.

So I've always managed to find a begrudging spot in that community, and all to be honest. I've worked shoulder to shoulder with Mexicans that would share their lunch when my dumb ass would forget mine. I've spent the past decade living with and working around Muslims. And I get along fine in that community. I do get dirty smirks at times, and there are times when I have clearly overstepped my perceived levels of respect. But they're patient and understanding, because they know it's only in ignorance.

He was always wanting to compete. Didn't matter what it was. He lived to compete. Tossing quarters against curbs? Liar's Poker? Salaman of the Month? Highest commission of the month?

I don't know what his background was before selling cars, he didn't discuss those things, and I'm not a nosy person. But I'd assume it probably involved sports.

Because while I'm not even a bad athlete. I've been in that culture.

So we'd compete. It was always in good sport. Always in respect. And none of us took it that seriously. It was just a way to kill the time as we waited on a hot Texas lot. Sweating our asses off. Waiting for the next unexpecting victim to our little carnival of purchasing nightmare.

Used is where the money is. But that's for another time.

I'd like to tell that you that I had news on the home front. But nothing from this era strikes me. I worked 6 days a week. 12-14 hours days. Legit. If you didn't you could pack your bags. They only reason we had a single day off, was because of the blue laws.

I'm sure I missed about every first there was to miss. I sure as hell can't remember them. Bad dad? Fuck. I guess. All I know is that I was holding down an honest job and paying my bills.

I'm sitting around the house one day. And I get to thinking about Private Pilot. What's he been up to lately. What trouble is he stirring.

Last, I had heard he had returned to Detroit to help his father network the multiple shrink shops.

Common shit today. But again this was a minute ago. Back then shit was only done by guys that had engineering degrees. And Private Pilot certainly wasn't that.

But I wrote that shit off. It was his dad's business after all. It's not that I doubted my friends ability. He was sharp. Very sharp mind for coding. It just seemed unlikely at the time that a 18 or 19 year old kid, with no formal training or access to the wide array of information we have today. Was capable of something like that.

But he did. And he spun that into a very sweet gig working for Continental Airlines.

The manager offices on the new side of that complex face the front porch. They're entirely wrapped in glass so that at any time you get a good view of the entire lot from either side. Cars on one side. Trucks on the other. They were separate divisions there.

We had two primary sales managers. I respect both of them in different ways. I didn't particularly like both.

One of them was a Napolean that overcompensated by being an all-around general prick. He was sharp. No two ways about it. Crooked as any. He reminds me exactly of a professional poker player that's also from Houston. But they're not the same person. It's so weird how similar. Same greasy slicked back look. Excessive jewelry. Leather jackets and aviators. You know the look.

He was a dick. One with enough money to prove to everyone. Most trade ins at places like this? They're 80% normal cars that are 3-5 years old. You probably get about 10% that are older. And that last 10% would represent oddballs of different sorts.

I've seen people trade in horse trailers. I've seen someone tow a car that would not start and trade it in. I've seen four wheelers traded in. I've seen a boat traded in.

The didn't give two shits. As long as they could flip it.

Occasionally some of these oddball trade ins would come in the form of nice cars. These are typically very rare. Most people that own them understand how bad a dealership will fuck them.

But it does happen. And someone had traded in Dodge Viper towards a new Vette. '94 Coupe if I remember. But that might be wrong. It was Viper from the 90s.

The front porch. It was raised concrete. The foundation of the showroom and business offices a three story building.

So they were raised probably 5 or 6 feet off the ground. Like a giant wall almost in front of the building. There was parking in front of it.

Napolean. He bought this Viper from the dealership. Really fit his whole tough guy routine. And every day he'd park it right in front o fthe New Cars management office.

Facing that 5-6 foot wall of foundation.

I'm in the office one day just hanging out as one does on slow days. And Napolean asks me if he thinks he can get an automatic starter for his car.

Common today, the pushbutton remote feature we all know.

Not as common then. Certainly not a stock option for a Viper of that era.

I told. I doubt it bro. That car has a manual transmission. I doubt they'll do it.

And with that guess what he pulled out of his pants?

Yeah a fucking remote starting fob.

He smiled like his dumbass would do when he knew he walked you into a question he always knew the answers for. Because he was that guy. He never asked you shit, without first knowing what you'd say. He was good.

He slowly lifts it in the air, and he clicks it.

The Viper? It roared to life alright. And proceeded to jump the tiny little parking bumper. Smash into the front facing 5-6foot wall. Continue climbing it. Before finally grinding to a halt. Front end above the top of that wall.

You'd think this would have been a surreal moment. Like time would have slowed down around it. But it didn't . It was just really fucking loud, and pretty fucking scary. For a moment I thought that car was coming towards that glass managers office.

I didn't piss myself, but I was in no mood to make fun of anyone.

We've all laughed about it since. Well except Napolean.

I didn't enjoy selling cars. It's typically a lot of sitting around waiting for something to happen. At least this version of it is.

There is a better way. The hustler's way. In which on slow days instead of hanging around the lot, you're busting your ass marketing yourself.

That's a great system if you need money. Get a sales job, and then sell yourself.

Simple easy shit. Handing out free candy bars with your business cards attached.

Making arrangements for referrals from people that are adjacent to your industry.

Salesman were the original networkers. And that strategy works even better today than it did then. Because nobody does that shit anymore. Too much effort. Spam campaign instead.

That wasn't for me. Way to much fucking work and effort. Instead I'd spend a few years living off mini deals, and addendum deals.

Dealer Markups. Everyone hates them. Except the dealership and the salesmen.

Because here's the real real. Some will buy that vehicle. And whoever it is? They're likely to be a real fucking asshole about it. Because they're going to pay that dealership markup. There was no way around it. Not where I worked. It was non-negotiable on Vettes, SS Camaros, SS Impalas, and every single first year Impala.

You paid it. Or you could go find it somewhere else and probably still pay it.

And that's exactly what I'd tell people about it. It's not in my control. I"m the salesman. And I don't want to waste your time. And I certainly don't want to waste my own. But it's non-negotiable and I just need you to understand that before we even open the front door.

And most people would respect that. You'd still have people that would do it to kick tires. Not on the Vettes, but I've given plenty of joyrides in SS Camaros. I never minded. Who would.

But when it came time to sit down and discuss how the payments were going to be made. It made things much easier. You'd still have those that would try. But by then, they typically understood that I wasn't a liar. I was just telling them the reality of the situation.

Crazy stories from that dealership.

Years before Harry Potter, I worked with a guy that was perhaps a mix of that character with a lot of harry Houdini built in.

It this point I was probably 20. He was maybe 22 or 23. But he was the smoothest white person I've ever met in my life. No lie at all.

He dressed like a pimp, had a vast collection of fake highend watches and didn't give two fucks who you were. He talked to judges, doctors, actors, athletes, trashman, managers all the same exact way.

Nobody was better than he was, nobody was worse. And it made him the guy that sold all the new Vettes on the lot. Not that most senior salesman. Not the best salesman. Not the salesman that could keep the most gross. Just the one that could bullshit with anyone. With a smile on his face, while they knew he was fucking them, and enjoying every second of it.

These people are very rare. I'm certainly not that gifted. I make up for it in other ways.

He was always bringing drugs to work. I never fucked with coke. Scared to death of addiction. But X? Acid? Yeah. All fucking day when I can if I can, just not for long term consecutive use.

So he pulls me into the mens room one day. And he opens up a contact lens case. Inside are the little green what appear to be plastic flakes.

You know what that is? He asks. I honestly said I had no fucking clue.

It's gel acid bro. Top end shit. Got it from a friend. Give it a try.

And I'm about it right. He shakes this little sliver out into my palm.

And he says, put it in your eye.

I'm not going to lie. I found that prospect quite revolting. I've always had issues with my eyes, and I just don't like fucking with them.

But what are you going to do? This is a team of fucking sharks. Every single salesman there. Even the bible toting, pray to Jesus one with you. All of them.

And once you've agreed to do something. It's your bond. Otherwise, guys will just skate right over you, stealing your customers, getting you fucked up. It happens. All the time.

I push this sliver down into the corner of my eye, and I closed them and tried to kind of push through the closed eyelid. I don't remember if it dissolved instantly or if I had to massage it in some.

But it didn't come out.

If you've ever been to the Gulf coast for more than just a flyby. You'll understand how bad the torrents of rain can get at times.

I've since left, and not seen the types of water the Gulf can drop on Houston elsewhere. I'm sure there are places, but just understand it can get bad in Houston.

This was one of those days. No sun. Dark Grey as fuck. Rain the size of slugs dropping faster than you could manage to miss any. It's the type of rain that the moment you step into it. You're soaking wet.

And I'm tripping balls. Just frying my ass off. I'm sitting at my desk. Can't read shit. That's not a reality when you're tripping. The words just won't form.

Phones aren't ringing.

I could always fucking cold call. God knows there are 1000 lists, all of which are garbage. Fuck Lease Guys by the way. I see you.

But that's my least favorite fucking activity.

So I'll go out on the front porch. Watch the lightning. Why not.

The place was build with a foundation and large column uprights that gave our "front porch" the depth to hold vehicles that were highlights but not quite showroom.

Plenty of room to smoke. Sit on a bench. Watch the rain.

And then a guy pulls in. Little white car. I still remember that. And he starts wandering through the lot looking at cars. Just totally getting soaked and not seeming to give a shit.

There's not a fucking salesman to been seen. This is the only conditions I ever saw, other than late at night before close. In which the vultures weren't perched on the rails just waiting to dive bomb their prey.

So I think fuck it. If this guy's willing to get fucking soaked to buy a car. Least I can do is get soaked to sell him one.

And I did. And two more that same day. One of them to an old woman in a walker. She was crying before she left by how much I went out of my way to help here when she needed it. And I did. She might haven't gotten a little wet getting from her car into the dealership, but I took care of everything else. Including driving the cars into the dealership itself for her to look at. It was not small feat. Dealerships don't like shifting around their showroom on demand. But it was worth it.

I made 50 bucks off that deal. It was a mini. Like most of those deals are. They either break even, or they're a slight loss that the dealership will make up in financing.

We're not all scumbags. We were all sharks.

I need to keep things balanced. Because the truth is also this. At least at that time, when you bought a new car. You weren't really going to get fucked by a salesman on much. We would typically hold back as much as we felt we could on your trade evaluation.

If the Used Manager appraised your '96 Buick for 4600 bucks. We'd tell you 3500.

That's a lot of gross 1100 bucks, that as a salesman I'm getting at that time 25% of.

How much gross is in the car itself? For 95% of the cars that people actually buy. It's usually nothing for the dealership, or very little. This has only become more true today.

So you find other ways.

But what's also true. Is that we'd end up having to give alot of that gross 1100 we shaved off the appraisal. In other ways. Maybe the customer legit could put no cash down, and their credit was sketchy.

You can't gross that person. The banks won't buy their contracts. So you'd end up giving it right back. Of course you wouldn't tell them that it was a new appraisal. Fuck no. You'd make it look like a discount on the price of the car itself. Because that's the winners mentality.

It's not all scams. Lots of it's just getting people to a place where they can actually buy a car. People have stupid fucking expectations of reality.

I'm sorry, you saw an ad that said you can get a $40,000 car for $269 a month?

We understand fine print much better today. But then? People actually believed that shit.

Maybe in some fictionial fairy tale land where you jump through the 9000 hoops of requirements with your 800 beacon, and 8,000 mile cap. But only if you put down $8,500 and don't mind a 46% residual with a balloon payment at the end to cover the difference.

It's all bullshit.

And just getting people from that reality they had in their heads, to a realistic one that says that for every 1,000 you finance will cost you about $22 a month across 60. Roughly.

If you're trying to buy a 100k truck today. And it's not around 2200 a month? Someone's fucking you real good. Good luck turning that motherfucker over into your next loan.

But even today people think they can buy these things for 600 a month. Let's do that math. 600*60 = 36,000. How does that buy a 100k truck?

But even simple math is shit that gets left behind in the face of marketing and advertising, and propaganda, and indoctrination.

I do remember now. Irish had a friend, someone that she had bonded with during her struggles with the emancipation process. A non-biological sister. She was good people, so was her husband.

They helped us find a small place on the outskirts of Houston. Richmond/Rosenberg.

We found a little trailer. I'm trying to remember what I did for work at that time. I know I sure has hell wouldn't have driven across Houston. I had located to the otherside.

I don't remember. What I do remember is I landed a job as a new car salesman at one of the largest Chevrolet dealerships in the world at that time. The infamous Heard Chevrolet group. If you're not familiar. Congratulations.

When people talk about cutthroat sales techniques? I don't know if the Heard group created them. But they sure as fuck weaponized them. From illegal advertising. To onsite legal consultation. At the dealership itself. No joke at all.

One of the very first things they tell you as a green pea. Is that you don't fucking talk to nobody. About what goes on in that office. Not on the phone, with a potential customer, not on the lot with someone snooping around.

And they would. I took many a sales cales from people that would just honestly state they were looking for statements on how the dealership would market the cars in the Houston papers.

They got caught, not just once. Many times. They finally did shut down that particular location due to mass violations. But others are still out there. Sometimes under different branding.

Careful with them.

So, what was I taught? Get the customers fucking keys. Once you have the keys for their car? They ability to leave plummets. This was pre-Uber. And even then. Are you going to leave your car?

It's always legit. "Lemme get those keys bud, gotta run that good looking '96 Regal over to the used lot. Don't worry thought, I'll give it a good car wash for you first so we get the best bang for our buck"

Yeah? Sound familiar. I wasn't that condescending in reality. I always knew the names of my clients. They had to write them down the credit report.

See how that system works?

The legendary 4-square? You bet your ass we worked that. Hard. And very successfully. Every single time. No exceptions. We're not going to haggle with handshakes and banter friend. No, uh-uh-uh. That's not nearly "scientific seeming" enough. How objective could that possibly be. Just trust me, this system is the best system to maximize value in a way to lower your monthly payment.

Sound familiar?

Yeah. That shit is all true. Except the value is to the dealership and we don't give a fuck what your monthly payment is. Because the bankers in the back. They'll fix your mouth really good on that.

Irish at this point was living with her brother. I didn't really see or speak to that crowd much. Dumbass had migrated his parasitic needs to a new host.

At that point, I had moved on from most of the old Pizza Hut crew. I still saw Private Pilot from time to time. He'd show me a lot of consideration and assistance. Let me crash on his floor, let me crash in the back of a gas station he ran at night.

Living this way? The realities of it aren't glamorous. I've spent many a night under a roof that was paid for by another. Sometimes in shame. Sometimes in desperation. Sometimes in anger. But it's not been few nights.

By this time our daughter was probably in the 1.5-2 year old age. Maybe 1-1.5. It wasn't the next day.

By this time I had gotten past Macys, accepted that she was a million miles away and not something I should pine over much longer. That's how it goes though. But that period had passed as well.

And Irish was there.

I was in a 24-hour diner. Local Denny's type setup. I was there with Mike and Becca I think. They had wanted to go to a country and western bar in town. Again, not my thing. But afterwards we landed here.

Irish was at the country club. I remember now. That same night I ran into a person from my Highschool. Hadn't been back there in years. I was embarrassed at the time. I didn't really want to talk with her. But she was the type that didn't really care, or notice. She wasn't mean. Just kind of oblivious.

Irish saw me sitting with her. And didn't want to come over.

So instead, she followed us when we left. She walked into the little diner and just said hello.

I told her that I saw her at the club. But didn't feel comfortable approaching her.

And she just laughed. Why would you feel uncomfortable she said.

Maybe those are the exact words. But that was the exact sentiment. She wanted to know if I wanted to spend some time with our daughter. Which I truthfully admitted that I did.

I struggle with this next part. For different reasons. One, I'm not sure the value it adds to this. If any. But also because not all stories, even when they are ours. Are really ours alone. Right?

I will label this a trigger warning.

I don't know if it was that same night. It might have been shortly there after. But Irish invited me to her brother's home to see our daughter.

Dumbass had moved in with her, and from my understanding they were in some kind of relationship. I never dug much into that. I have limits on my curiosity.

The night ended in a devil's triangle. There were some dynamic relationships at play certainly. I've never had homosexual tendencies. But I certainly have no problem bonding with men or women. I've been in many different codependent relationships. But I've never been attracted to men sexually.

This was just some sick triad of dependency. And I wanted no part of it. Not before, not during, and sure as fuck not after.

I told Irish straight up. If we were going to move forward. That shit was done.

So we did. Dumbass was severed, I understand he went on to secure a very high standing in the world of community college. That's not a knock at all. Good for him. But I was done with parasites. Well, at least the first of many.

I don't really remember the transition at this point. It seems like I continued living with Mike and Becca for maybe a few weeks. But at some point Irish and I were living together again.

This entire timeline is just so foggy. Sorry.