I was in Austin Friday, going to tech startup/incubator/mentoring quasi-business quasi-service provider. It's the kind of place that's all over Silicon Valley, and which the owners of the place in Austin are trying to get going in Texas. I met a lot of engaging entrepreneurs, I saw that my brother-in-law and I are farther along than most people, and I heard some interesting ideas. But one business in particular struck me as something you could really only get going in Austin, and yet it was also something that my grandmother must have done in the depths of the Depression.
One guy has started a business recovering yarn from old sweaters. Really. And he's making money doing it.
I had a few thoughts. My first was 'Only in Austin' my second was 'He must have been laid off in the last two years,' my third was 'That's actually kind of cool' and my fourth was 'What else did my grandmother do that no one's doing now?'
Back in the Depression people recycled everything. EVERYTHING. That's why things like old tin toys and copies of Action Comics #1 are so rare, they were all recycled. When clothes got worn enough that they weren't presentable for company they became work clothes, and when they were worn enough that they weren't suitable for that they became rags and when they were so used up they couldn't be rags any more they got left for the rag picker who probably sold the scraps to be incorporated into paper currency. The ultimate in economically-enforced frugality.
And this guy, the sweater recycler guy, probably hit on his idea independently, I don't imagine he studied Depression-era re-use principles. Although it is Austin, maybe the dude's got a PhD in it.
It's with the Baby Boomers that we got the throwaway economy. Growth predicated on planned obsolescence. That crap don't fly no more. People are keeping things longer, cars, clothes, houses, furniture, what have you. And they're looking for sustainability; they don't want fresh-cut timber, they want the wood that's re-used from the demolished factory. And if they knit they want yarn that's recovered from discarded sweaters.
I think his idea has legs. And not just for yarn, for everything. I know I like to buy things once. If I buy a vacuum cleaner I'm going to have that appliance until the color fades and the wheels drop off. Same with my cars. Same with my clothes. And furniture. And pots and pans. So if I were an entrepreneur, perhaps with a mind to manufacture things, I'd go for quality right now. Made in the USA, durable, quality stuff. You could charge more for it because it would last. And I know customers would respond.
And if you could figure a way to dismantle, say, a couch into its component parts and re-purpose them, you'd have something. For as long as you had discarded couches, I suppose.
Showing posts with label rednecks. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rednecks. Show all posts
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Mega Lotto
I didn't win the Mega Millions jackpot the other day.
Big surprise, I know, but congratulations to those who did, that's a lot of money. Which got me to thinking, how much is enough? Certainly when someone wins $300 million, they're probably not going to have to work again. Ever. Unless they turn into one of those lottery winners for whom the money becomes abstract and meaningless, so they spend it like it's never going to run out. Which it does, of course, leaving them millions of dollars in debt instead of mere hundreds.
But assume you won the lottery, and further assume you were astute enough, or had astute enough friends, family and advisors around you, that you don't become a cautionary tale and you actually invest your money wisely and spend thriftily enough that you'll die before you run out of funds.
How much do you need?
And I don't mean just cash, I mean stuff. You'd splurge at first, of course, fur-lined sinks, electric dog polishers, that kind of thing, but once you have a house full of junk you'll never use again, then what? Once you've eaten at every restaurant in town once a week for a year, then what?
Wouldn't it be better to use your money to go places, to see things, to do things - or have them done to you - and to have experiences that only that kind of money can bring? The thing that separates me from Bill Gates is not his multi-billions of dollars, it's what that kind of cash can do. He's got waaaaay more options than I do, nothing but the freedom to go crazy. Which is why he's out there right now trying to guilt other billionaires into giving away most of their money to charity. Bill Gates realized that he'd much rather be remembered as Andrew Carnegie* than J.P. Morgan**.
I think it's good to be comfortable, meaning you have enough to live on, to provide a few amenities or possibly luxuries, provide for your family appropriately, that sort of thing. But too much money becomes a prison, a situation in which you spend most of your time and energy trying to maintain your wealth rather than enjoying what that wealth can provide. And if you're not extremely careful, your kids turn into privileged little bastards.
Lots of money, from the lottery or from deceptive, borderline-fraudulent business practices, should be funneled into arts and sciences. DaVinci was a genius without parallel, but he still had to go to the Italian nobility with his hat in his hand, asking for florins to keep doing what he loved. It seems to me that sort of noblesse oblige is lacking today; there are a lot of people expending a lot of effort to make a lot of money for no other reason than to have it before the next guy. Doesn't seem right to me.
I'll keep playing the lottery, but I'll need to think about what I'd do when I finally win it. Be careful what you wish for and all that.
First things first, though. I'd install those fur-lined sinks.
* now known for his Carnegie endowment and libraries instead of his social Darwinism and cutthroat business practices
** now known largely for being the focus of the fierce anti-trust legislation of the early 20th Century
Big surprise, I know, but congratulations to those who did, that's a lot of money. Which got me to thinking, how much is enough? Certainly when someone wins $300 million, they're probably not going to have to work again. Ever. Unless they turn into one of those lottery winners for whom the money becomes abstract and meaningless, so they spend it like it's never going to run out. Which it does, of course, leaving them millions of dollars in debt instead of mere hundreds.
But assume you won the lottery, and further assume you were astute enough, or had astute enough friends, family and advisors around you, that you don't become a cautionary tale and you actually invest your money wisely and spend thriftily enough that you'll die before you run out of funds.
How much do you need?
And I don't mean just cash, I mean stuff. You'd splurge at first, of course, fur-lined sinks, electric dog polishers, that kind of thing, but once you have a house full of junk you'll never use again, then what? Once you've eaten at every restaurant in town once a week for a year, then what?
Wouldn't it be better to use your money to go places, to see things, to do things - or have them done to you - and to have experiences that only that kind of money can bring? The thing that separates me from Bill Gates is not his multi-billions of dollars, it's what that kind of cash can do. He's got waaaaay more options than I do, nothing but the freedom to go crazy. Which is why he's out there right now trying to guilt other billionaires into giving away most of their money to charity. Bill Gates realized that he'd much rather be remembered as Andrew Carnegie* than J.P. Morgan**.
I think it's good to be comfortable, meaning you have enough to live on, to provide a few amenities or possibly luxuries, provide for your family appropriately, that sort of thing. But too much money becomes a prison, a situation in which you spend most of your time and energy trying to maintain your wealth rather than enjoying what that wealth can provide. And if you're not extremely careful, your kids turn into privileged little bastards.
Lots of money, from the lottery or from deceptive, borderline-fraudulent business practices, should be funneled into arts and sciences. DaVinci was a genius without parallel, but he still had to go to the Italian nobility with his hat in his hand, asking for florins to keep doing what he loved. It seems to me that sort of noblesse oblige is lacking today; there are a lot of people expending a lot of effort to make a lot of money for no other reason than to have it before the next guy. Doesn't seem right to me.
I'll keep playing the lottery, but I'll need to think about what I'd do when I finally win it. Be careful what you wish for and all that.
First things first, though. I'd install those fur-lined sinks.
* now known for his Carnegie endowment and libraries instead of his social Darwinism and cutthroat business practices
** now known largely for being the focus of the fierce anti-trust legislation of the early 20th Century
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Squatchologist
Over the past several months I've been pondering my options, so to speak. Thinking about what I'm going to do with myself, how I'm going to make a decent living doing something I actually want to do, what sort of a mark I'm going to leave on this society when I'm gone. I hope to make an impact with my novels, of course, but there's no reason fiction has to be my only outlet. I can do other things too. But what...? Then, last night, it hit me right between the eyes. The answer. The thing I can do that will both contribute to society AND make my name a household word. I know now the path my life must take.
I'm going to find Bigfoot.
That's right, I'm going to get out there in the wilderness - what little there is left - and find the hairy ape-man of North America. But I'm not going to do it like those other crackpots, I'm going to do it right. I figure I'll need lots of scientific equipment, you know, the kind with lots of lights and dials. I'll need a helicopter too, and an iPad for some reason. And new boots. And some sort of flannel shirt because Squatchologists always wear flannel. Just like Canadians.
How will that make me a household name? I'm not only going to find Bigfoot, and capture him, and bring him back to display in a series of cross-country railroad stops, I'm also going to make him the darling of the salons. And I don't mean hair salons or nail salons - where they really are talking about you* - I mean the intellectual salons. They still have those, don't they? Places where adults can have a calm, rational discussion about the issues of the day? Like Fox News? HA!
Hoo-boy.... anyway... That's right, I'm going to make Sasquatch into the Mark Twain of the 21st Century. I'm gonna need corporate sponsorship, of course. I figure Nair would be a good first sponsor, seeing as how I'm gonna need to de-fur Sasquatch to make him presentable. And then maybe a Big and Tall Man store, because Sasquatch is gonna need a tuxedo. And a top hat.
Yeah... sounds like a plan. All I gotta do first is get out there and find him. How hard could that be?
* my friend Andrea went to one nail salon where the ladies speak Chinese. Andrea speaks both Mandarin and Cantonese but she was born here so she speaks English without an accent. And, evidently, she looks a little more Korean than Chinese, so the ladies assumed she couldn't understand what they were saying. They weren't being nice. At. All.
I'm going to find Bigfoot.
That's right, I'm going to get out there in the wilderness - what little there is left - and find the hairy ape-man of North America. But I'm not going to do it like those other crackpots, I'm going to do it right. I figure I'll need lots of scientific equipment, you know, the kind with lots of lights and dials. I'll need a helicopter too, and an iPad for some reason. And new boots. And some sort of flannel shirt because Squatchologists always wear flannel. Just like Canadians.
How will that make me a household name? I'm not only going to find Bigfoot, and capture him, and bring him back to display in a series of cross-country railroad stops, I'm also going to make him the darling of the salons. And I don't mean hair salons or nail salons - where they really are talking about you* - I mean the intellectual salons. They still have those, don't they? Places where adults can have a calm, rational discussion about the issues of the day? Like Fox News? HA!
Hoo-boy.... anyway... That's right, I'm going to make Sasquatch into the Mark Twain of the 21st Century. I'm gonna need corporate sponsorship, of course. I figure Nair would be a good first sponsor, seeing as how I'm gonna need to de-fur Sasquatch to make him presentable. And then maybe a Big and Tall Man store, because Sasquatch is gonna need a tuxedo. And a top hat.
Yeah... sounds like a plan. All I gotta do first is get out there and find him. How hard could that be?
* my friend Andrea went to one nail salon where the ladies speak Chinese. Andrea speaks both Mandarin and Cantonese but she was born here so she speaks English without an accent. And, evidently, she looks a little more Korean than Chinese, so the ladies assumed she couldn't understand what they were saying. They weren't being nice. At. All.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Wishing Ring
There are tons of fables, fairy tales, and stories about being granted wishes. Almost all of them involve finding a ring, or catching a fish, or rubbing a magic genie lamp that results in you getting three wishes. The first two are usually ill-advised and you need to use the last one to undo the effects of the first two.
That seems like a lot of wasted effort just to learn a lesson about morality or greed or lust that you probably should already have learned.
So I got to thinking, what would good wishes be? I'm talking about ones that wouldn't ironically backfire on you or wink you out of existence.
*Fix the air conditioning in my building. Of course, that would probably make it like the South Pole in here, and I don't like penguins. They're not trustworthy.
*Bring prices down in Whole Foods. Of course you can't use wishes to make impossible things happen, like touching your right hand to your right elbow, so this would probably just be a wasted wish.
*Make it so my shirts would never need to be ironed. Which would probably turn them into polyester.
*I'd never want to go hungry. Which would probably turn me into a tree or something else photosynthetic, like phytoplankton.
*Give me the power to run really fast, like the Flash. But I'd probably run right out of my clothes, which would be freeing but would ultimately be embarrassing.
*Find out the secrets to everyday things that no one seems to know the answer to. Like what fire is, exactly. Can't think of a way this would backfire... except I'd probably have to become one of those mountaintop monks, dispensing wisdom only to those with enough moral fiber to make it all the way to my cave. Which ain't bad, actually, as long as I had really fast wireless.
That seems like a lot of wasted effort just to learn a lesson about morality or greed or lust that you probably should already have learned.
So I got to thinking, what would good wishes be? I'm talking about ones that wouldn't ironically backfire on you or wink you out of existence.
*Fix the air conditioning in my building. Of course, that would probably make it like the South Pole in here, and I don't like penguins. They're not trustworthy.
*Bring prices down in Whole Foods. Of course you can't use wishes to make impossible things happen, like touching your right hand to your right elbow, so this would probably just be a wasted wish.
*Make it so my shirts would never need to be ironed. Which would probably turn them into polyester.
*I'd never want to go hungry. Which would probably turn me into a tree or something else photosynthetic, like phytoplankton.
*Give me the power to run really fast, like the Flash. But I'd probably run right out of my clothes, which would be freeing but would ultimately be embarrassing.
*Find out the secrets to everyday things that no one seems to know the answer to. Like what fire is, exactly. Can't think of a way this would backfire... except I'd probably have to become one of those mountaintop monks, dispensing wisdom only to those with enough moral fiber to make it all the way to my cave. Which ain't bad, actually, as long as I had really fast wireless.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
More Travel Notes
I spent 10 hours in transit yesterday - DFW and snow never mix well - and I'm trying not to be resentful of the delays and inconvenience. It's a miracle of modern technology that I can be annoyed when it takes me 10 hours to get from Texas to California when it normally takes about 5 hours. Just hours to cross 1,300 miles is a privilege I kind of take for granted, honestly. If I had been traveling 70 years ago, 5 hours would have gotten me about 100 miles West of San Antonio. Maybe. So I count myself lucky I can make the trip as quickly as it happens now.
But still...
Some random stuff I noticed during my sojurn yesterday. My lengthy sojurn... see? I just can't let it go.
Extra classy- I saw a fat redneck wearing knee-length camo shorts (yes, while it was snowing outside) but the best part was the 'F' and the 'U' tattooed prominently on each of his meaty calves. I bet that brings the ladies a-runnin'.
When you haven't eaten in five hours the smell of the onion rings from the TGI Fridays by gate C29 in DFW is almost enough to make you want to kill for a taste. Then you realize that it's TGI Fridays and you get over it.
More red sneakers. I mentioned before that I saw more red shoes at the airport than I ever had and the trend continued this time. One pair in San Antonio, one pair in DFW. I swear, I never see them anywhere else.
Standing side-by-side: a guy with the biggest head I've ever seen and a guy with the smallest head I've ever seen. These were not deformities or abnormalities, these were just regular guys, one with a noggin the size of a jack-o-lantern and one with a head the size of canteloupe. As far as I could tell they did not know each other, but they would have made a great comedy duo. Big-head and Tiny.
When you wash your hands with yellowish antiseptic soap they end up smelling like Band-Aids. It took me a little while to figure out why I imagined I was back in the infirmary getting stitched up after wrecking my 3-speed on the elementary school parking lot.
In a truly odd travel-related coincidence, I saw a friend of mine in DFW. Turns out she was on the same flight as I was back to Burbank. But I have unexpectedly encountered people I know in airports before, it happens. The really freaky part is she was in the seat right next to me. Really.
But still...
Some random stuff I noticed during my sojurn yesterday. My lengthy sojurn... see? I just can't let it go.
Extra classy- I saw a fat redneck wearing knee-length camo shorts (yes, while it was snowing outside) but the best part was the 'F' and the 'U' tattooed prominently on each of his meaty calves. I bet that brings the ladies a-runnin'.
When you haven't eaten in five hours the smell of the onion rings from the TGI Fridays by gate C29 in DFW is almost enough to make you want to kill for a taste. Then you realize that it's TGI Fridays and you get over it.
More red sneakers. I mentioned before that I saw more red shoes at the airport than I ever had and the trend continued this time. One pair in San Antonio, one pair in DFW. I swear, I never see them anywhere else.
Standing side-by-side: a guy with the biggest head I've ever seen and a guy with the smallest head I've ever seen. These were not deformities or abnormalities, these were just regular guys, one with a noggin the size of a jack-o-lantern and one with a head the size of canteloupe. As far as I could tell they did not know each other, but they would have made a great comedy duo. Big-head and Tiny.
When you wash your hands with yellowish antiseptic soap they end up smelling like Band-Aids. It took me a little while to figure out why I imagined I was back in the infirmary getting stitched up after wrecking my 3-speed on the elementary school parking lot.
In a truly odd travel-related coincidence, I saw a friend of mine in DFW. Turns out she was on the same flight as I was back to Burbank. But I have unexpectedly encountered people I know in airports before, it happens. The really freaky part is she was in the seat right next to me. Really.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Sun's Out, Guns Out
One of my friends took me to a gun show yesterday. Not my first time, I've been to my share of questionable events, but certainly my first gun show since moving away from Texas years ago.
I gotta say, I missed the atmosphere. Definitely not the Algonquin Round Table, but there is a certain poetry in hobbyists - gun nuts, right-wing crazies, call them what you will - indulging in their passion. I'd nearly forgotten how familiar an afternoon at the Joe and Harry Freeman Coliseum with the 'from my cold, dead hands' crowd can be.
You have your cranky old coots... lots of them. And with them the intolerant bumper stickers, the grousing conversations about how the country isn't going the way Rush Limbaugh thinks it should, overheard remarks about prostates in various states of disrepair, etc. You have the rednecks looking for a good hunting rifle, you have the rednecks looking for a rocket launcher. You have the occassional black man. You have the 'not a gang member' young Hispanic guys trying to spot the undercover cops in the crowd and not realizing I can understand the bad Spanglish they're speaking. You have the for-real historical gun hobbyists, who know waaaaaaay too much about the provenance of the their WWI Browning rifles. And there's the patch guy, the ammo guy, the taxidermist, and - best of all - the candied pecan vendor.
Along with the enormous pickup trucks in the parking lot, this was a really good welcome home. It'll make me think twice next time I decide to have tofu back in SoCal. Don't want to stray too far from my roots.
I gotta say, I missed the atmosphere. Definitely not the Algonquin Round Table, but there is a certain poetry in hobbyists - gun nuts, right-wing crazies, call them what you will - indulging in their passion. I'd nearly forgotten how familiar an afternoon at the Joe and Harry Freeman Coliseum with the 'from my cold, dead hands' crowd can be.
You have your cranky old coots... lots of them. And with them the intolerant bumper stickers, the grousing conversations about how the country isn't going the way Rush Limbaugh thinks it should, overheard remarks about prostates in various states of disrepair, etc. You have the rednecks looking for a good hunting rifle, you have the rednecks looking for a rocket launcher. You have the occassional black man. You have the 'not a gang member' young Hispanic guys trying to spot the undercover cops in the crowd and not realizing I can understand the bad Spanglish they're speaking. You have the for-real historical gun hobbyists, who know waaaaaaay too much about the provenance of the their WWI Browning rifles. And there's the patch guy, the ammo guy, the taxidermist, and - best of all - the candied pecan vendor.
Along with the enormous pickup trucks in the parking lot, this was a really good welcome home. It'll make me think twice next time I decide to have tofu back in SoCal. Don't want to stray too far from my roots.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
...And Horses Too, Maybe Cows
Those who are acquainted with me know that dogs, cats and babies love me. Pets flock to me, especially when I'm wearing wool dress pants and don't need the extra cat hair, and I'm a baby magnet even though I have none of my own. Yes, 'that I know of...'
Evidently my dominion now extends over horses and cows too.
I was recently visiting a friend in Idaho who keeps a horse or two and four steer in her pasture. The first day I was there we went to feed the animals, and I was standing at the fence rail, minding my own business as my friend rounded up one of the horses. The other horse, Cheyenne, was in the barn behind me. Before I knew it she was shoving her head under my hand, demanding that I scratch her nose, shoving up against me as if I were another 1500 pound horse instead of a puny person. Instant friend. I also made instant friends with my host's dog Buddy and the other neighborhood dogs, who roam the apple orchards in what has to be an Earthly representation of doggie heaven, where there are infinitely many trees to pee on.
The cows, though... ah, the cows...
I was the center of attention the moment I got out of the car. They followed my every move whenever I was in the pasture, wary and cautious and yet fixatedly curious. When I approached they'd scatter, move off a few yards and then watch me again.
Here's a picture of all four of them, watching me as I was watching them:
From left to right they are: Lester, Lucky, Rufus, and Rex.
Lucky is the only one with horns, and, as you can tell, the one who gave me the most attitude. Rufus was the leader of the gang - sorry, it's not a gang it's a club - kind of like Pinky Tuscadero and the Pinkettes.
The guys are yearling cattle, which means that come winter they're destined to become hamburger, which is too bad because otherwise I could see boy band in their future.
Evidently my dominion now extends over horses and cows too.
I was recently visiting a friend in Idaho who keeps a horse or two and four steer in her pasture. The first day I was there we went to feed the animals, and I was standing at the fence rail, minding my own business as my friend rounded up one of the horses. The other horse, Cheyenne, was in the barn behind me. Before I knew it she was shoving her head under my hand, demanding that I scratch her nose, shoving up against me as if I were another 1500 pound horse instead of a puny person. Instant friend. I also made instant friends with my host's dog Buddy and the other neighborhood dogs, who roam the apple orchards in what has to be an Earthly representation of doggie heaven, where there are infinitely many trees to pee on.
The cows, though... ah, the cows...
I was the center of attention the moment I got out of the car. They followed my every move whenever I was in the pasture, wary and cautious and yet fixatedly curious. When I approached they'd scatter, move off a few yards and then watch me again.
Here's a picture of all four of them, watching me as I was watching them:
From left to right they are: Lester, Lucky, Rufus, and Rex.Lucky is the only one with horns, and, as you can tell, the one who gave me the most attitude. Rufus was the leader of the gang - sorry, it's not a gang it's a club - kind of like Pinky Tuscadero and the Pinkettes.
The guys are yearling cattle, which means that come winter they're destined to become hamburger, which is too bad because otherwise I could see boy band in their future.
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