Blaming feels like a comfort

From James Altucher

Blaming feels like a comfort. An escape. Complaining pretends to soothe. But it's just a siren calling from the sea to drown you. Everyday I stay on my no-complaints diet. Or I try.

I just need to say Good-bye. To stop the aging that the leathery finger of failure beckons to me from the shadows. Hooded, yellow eyes, fear, "come here, James. Stay with me for awhile. Stay with me for part of your life so neither of us are alone." The finger... barely out of the shadows. Come here.


Subscription link to his mailing list.

Good stuff.

 Quality over quantity. Again.

When I was in Portland last month, I spent too much time in bookstores and paper stores. Wait, wait, wait, no, not too much time, one can never spend too much time in these places. I did, however, spend a lot of time in these places. I like this. I like paper. I like books. These facts are well established.

When I was in the Paper Source while in Portland, I saw a set of hand made note cards. It was the last set, well handled, the top card bent over from people opening it to look inside without opening the whole pack. I loved the pattern, so I picked up that last set, and, surprising to no one, picked up a couple more sets of hand made cards, and bought them all. The cards are I've had these cards for a month, and started writing to family and friends.

nicely printed notecards

Side note, if you want a note mailed to you on paper, written upon with pen, send me your address.

My goal is to send two or more notecards or postcards a week. If I can establish a good habit, that'll increase, but for now, it's a good number that I'm achieving.

Inspired by this, when I was in the local Michaels yesterday and saw a box of note cards with cute designs on them, I thought, sure, I'll keep this up. I bought the box, and with anticipated delight, opened the box last night.


And I am disappointed.

The expensive, handprinted notecards are a delight to write on. The pen sinks just right into the paper. The texture of the paper is lovely. The colors are vibrant.

With the inexpensive notecards I bought last night, they're glossy, with a smooth writing surface that is likely to smear. There's little joy in the texture of the inside, much less the outside. It's a card. There's no art in the card the way there is with the expensive handmade cards.

And I'm reminded, again, how much choosing quality over quantity is important. I'm reminded that spending more money for exactly what you want, instead of saving a few bucks and buying something "close enough" just isn't worth it.

What I don't understand at this moment is why I keep needing to learn this lesson. Especially with paper. Well, notecards anyway. I already knew this with journals, so buy only ones I love. I know it with furniture and vehicles and computers and electronics and clothes.

Next bunch of cards, I'm totally ordering off Etsy.

 Dew in Portland

Walking this morning in the neighborhood with Matthew, we saw lots of dew and water drops on leaves. This one was my favorite.


While winter is coming, fall is already here.

It was snowing on Friday in Portage. Snow. Beginning of October. Northern Indiana.

And Dad still denies climate change is a thing.

 Confirming identity

"Hi, I'm calling from the water company. May I speak to Kitt?"

"This is she."

"Hi. To confirm identity, could I have your date of birth?"

"Absolutely not. You called me. I have no way of verifying who you are."

"I'm from the water company. I need your date of birth to confirm who I am talking to."

"That's nice, but I don't know who you are, so no. What's this about?"

"I can't say until I confirm I'm talking to Kitt."




WTF? Seriously? Does that work with other people? Hi, let me give my personal information out to any caller? It's not like finding my date of birth is difficult, so using it as a way of confirming identity has to be one of the dumbest ideas ever.

Syndicate content