On The Fly

In this special 500th episode,  On the Fly  is moving to a new home. Here’s why—and what’s staying the same. For a very long time (since April 2012),  On the Fly  has lived on  Blogger . Blogger has been a reliable host—dependable, quiet, and never complaining when I arrived late with another half-baked idea, a guitar riff, or a story that needed a little air. It faithfully archived my thoughts, my music, and more than a decade of curiosity. But the internet has changed. It’s louder now. Flashier. More insistent. Every thought is nudged to perform. Every sentence wants to be optimized, monetized, or interrupted by something that really wants your attention right this second. I’ve been craving the opposite. So today, On the Fly is moving to Substack . If you’ve been with me for a while, you know my quiet obsession: the A rt of Seeing . I’m interested in the moments we rush past—the Aversion Trap, the discipline hidden inside a guitarist’s daily practice, t...

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...

In this episode. The Best Telescope By Patrick Ball Your telescope comes home in a box full of cheer, with galaxies promised and wonders quite near. The pictures shout WOW! The words say you’ll see. The whole universe—easy!—Just wait, you’ll agree. You open the box. Oh my, what a sight! There are tubes, knobs, and manuals . . . wait, that’s not right. It looks like it’s English, but maybe it’s not? So you build it–eventually–with the patience you've got. Then nighttime arrives. And suddenly— Yawn — You’re tired. You’re sleepy. You’re ready for dawn. The rig is too heavy. It’s bulky and grand. It’s cold to the touch, and it’s tricky to stand. It needs an alignment! It needs a new cord! The batteries died (and your brain is just bored). There’s an app that needs updating—right now, of course— While the telescope sulks like a stubborn ole’ horse. The couch calls your name with its soft, cozy light, so the telescope waits… just one more night. Then next week. Then someday. It slips out...

In this special bonus episode, Boy on a Beam. In a world long ago, when the days moved quite slow, Before buzzes and beeps and the fast things we know, A boy sat quite still on a very fine day, Just staring at nothing . . . and thinking away. No tablets! No gadgets! No screens shining bright! No earbuds stuck in from morning till night. No lists, no charts, and no chores to be done. He just sat there thinking—that's quiet-time fun! His name was Young Albert. He sat in his chair, Thinking of things that weren’t really there. “Suppose,” said Young Albert, with eyes open wide, “I ran super fast with my arms by my side! Suppose I ran faster than anyone knew, And caught up to sunshine that zoomed past me—too! If I hopped on its back for a light-speedy ride, What secrets would I find tucked away deep inside?” “Would stars look like sprinkles, all shiny and small? Would UP feel like sideways? Would BIG feel like Tall?” He giggled and wondered and thought, and he dreamed, Till his head fel...