On The Fly

In this episode, A simple lesson about patience, modern life, and why slowing down still matters. We live in a world that loves to go fast. We want packages delivered today, homework finished instantly, and dinner ready in three minutes or less. Speed has become a feature, a selling point, almost a moral virtue. Last night at Nick’s on State in Carlsbad, a baked potato reminded me that speed isn’t always the point. Nick’s was lively—the good kind of lively. Grandpas telling long stories. Kids doodling on napkins. Conversations overlap in that comfortable way that says no one is in a rush to be anywhere else. Instead of the tall stools at the bar, we were led to a cozy table right in the middle of it all. The menu had plenty of tempting options: shiny fish, towering sandwiches, dishes clearly designed to impress. I ordered a baked potato. When the waitress asked what I wanted on top, I said, “Everything.” There’s something deeply satisfying about taking a humble vegetable that grew in t...

In this episode,  Chasing 70: A Respectful Negotiation with Gravity They say golf is a game of misses. If that’s true, my first round of the year at Rancho Carlsbad was a masterclass in missing efficiently . After a four-month hiatus—during which my golf clubs quietly evolved into a self-sustaining garage ecosystem—Lori and I returned to our local par-three proving ground. Rancho Carlsbad is a par-54, just 1,983 yards long. That sounds forgiving until it exposes every weakness you’ve been politely ignoring during the off-season. I finished with a 78. In most contexts, 78 is respectable. On a par-54, it means I spent a fair amount of time “getting my steps in.” But here’s the real motivation: I turn 70 this August. As a core principle of my Great Un-Working Lifestyle, I’m putting it in writing: I want to shoot my age by my birthday. The Bald-Headed Man Course Around here, we have a nickname for Rancho Carlsbad. We call it the Bald-Headed Man Course. First, because there are no woods...

In this episode: Why Your Mind Feels Like It Has 47 Tabs Open. Back in 2017, I wrote about how your mind was a blank slate at birth. A Tabula Rasa . Clean. Empty. Ready for some elegant code. Bless my 2017 heart. But in 2026, that “blank slate” looks more like a cluttered desktop. Forty-seven open tabs. A “Storage Full” warning. A cooling fan that’s screaming for mercy. If our minds are computers—and I’m convinced they are—most of us are running cutting-edge, high-demand software on hardware that’s still trying to process a resentment from 2004. So . . . let’s update the experiment. This isn’t about reinventing your life. It’s about fine-tuning your firmware—without crashing the system. The Legacy Code  (Or: Why You’re Still Like This) We all run on firmware: low-level code installed early and rarely questioned. The Good Stuff: Breathing? Big fan. The Buggy Stuff: Ancient survival logic from ancestors who assumed every unfamiliar sound meant “ Run or Die. ” That same code now trea...

In this special episode, When Fear Becomes the Default. Early Sunday morning, I was cycling past a small veterans’ pocket park in San Marcos. The air was still, the streets nearly empty. On one corner stood a young woman, alone, holding a hand-painted sign that read: “Be ANGRY. ICE agents are murdering people.” I pedaled past, but the words stayed with me. I knew the context—the footage and headlines from Minneapolis the day before, already ricocheting through the country and hardening opinions. Even in the quiet of the ride, the noise followed. Two miles later, I stopped at a red light. A black car with dark windows pulled up inches from my bike. My heart jumped. My first instinct wasn’t neighbor —it was threat . I found myself bracing, scanning, and wondering if the person inside was angry, armed, or looking for trouble. Then the door opened. A well-dressed young woman stepped out, walked to the trunk, and pulled out a sign that read “Open House.” She turned, smiled brightly, and sa...

The Remarkable Ronnie-Happy Birthday You’re sixty-six years! What a wonderful age! A brand-new " Route 66 " turn of the page. In the town of old Cuba , right where you began, you’ve retired ... and become a much busier man! You raised up three children, all sturdy and true, plus one extra child—who, of course, is just YOU. For though you grow older, you’re stubborn, it’s true, you refuse to grow up! (And we’re glad that you do.) Now grandkids arrive with a zoom and a shout, Like geese on espresso, they’re all let-let out! They’re frantic! They’re loud! They are bouncy and bright! They’ll keep you awake from dawn till night. So you grab up a pole or a gun, and you flee, "Gone hunting!" you yell, just to let yourself be. With a nap in the woods or a fish on the line, you tell yourself, "Ronnie, you’re doing just fine." So here’s to the garden where big veggies thrive, To the tall-as-a-mountain fish stories you drive! You’ve hit Sixty-Six! Now enjoy the whole...

Have you ever wondered about  the Nobel Prize? Let's look at Where Genius Meets “Wait—Where’s My Medal?” Every October, the Nobel Prizes are announced, and humanity pauses to celebrate the "greatest benefit to mankind." And every year, like clockwork, a specific type of person appears online to complain—at length—that they were robbed. (Well, maybe this year more than most.) The Origin: A Legacy of Guilt The prize exists because Alfred Nobel, a Swedish inventor, had a crisis of conscience. Nobel held 355 patents, but he was most famous for inventing dynamite. When a French newspaper mistakenly published his obituary, calling him the " Merchant of Death, " he decided to buy a better legacy. In his 1895 will, he left the bulk of his massive fortune to establish five prizes (Physics, Chemistry, Medicine, Literature, and Peace). Because he was Swedish, he entrusted the selection to Swedish institutions, such as the Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences. The only outlier...