jstrauss

Thanks Gilbar for really stepping up this summer, and for instantiating one of the more niche ARCs to date. You will be missed. We all wish you the best of luck back at the lawyer factory, and there’s always a place for you back here in nerdland (at least as long as we have anything to say about it).

– the Go Desktop product collective

I have recently passed through three discrete stages of trusting my own instincts: believing too much that they’re right; believing too little that they’re right; and believing that they’re right, but feeling like nobody really cares about what’s right.

None of these extreme states are ideal, but I can safely say that I’ve found the third to be the most demoralizing. I subscribe to the philosophy that truly great success requires an unreasonable degree of self-confidence, otherwise no one would attempt anything beyond ordinary. And, the risk of reaching for the stars is that when you fall short it hurts a lot more – but to me that’s worth the risk. On the other hand, admitting that you don’t know enough to be certain is the first step in learning the things required to have reasonable faith in yourself going forward. And, that’s not such a bad thing either.

The final option reinforces a somewhat Nihilist phase I’m finding myself in – it’s essentially the “I’d rather be lucky than good” school of thought. Earlier today, I read how Steve Case told Charlie Rose that the AOL Time-Warner merger was a mistake and apologized to shareholders. He said he still stood by the idea behind the deal, but he had subsequently realized the importance of execution. Einstein said that genius is 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration. But, how much of it is circumstance – pure dumb, right-place-at-the-right-time, luck? I think inspiration and hard work are necessary but not sufficient criteria for success. And, I do believe that “you make your own luck” to the extent that being aggressive offers one more chances to succeed (and fail). But, what about the things beyond one’s own control that really make or break success?

It seems like the world keeps trying to remind me that real life isn’t a meritocracy. I think I’m trying not to listen because I don’t know how to play a game without rules.

5 packs of beef jerky, 3 cases of PBR, and a box of donut holes…good to go.

P.S. There was also a $9.99 DVD of Moonlighting in the cart for a minute, but Gilbar bailed on it before we hit the check-out (however, we were treated to some choice memorable quotations).

These clever posters went all up over the Yahoo! campus a few weeks ago. They are part of an internal campaign to get people excited about the upcoming search monetization panacea known as Panama. Not only do I have an issue with the company in general devoting what seems to be more time, energy, and dollars to marketing product launches to the 12,000 people in the world most likely to try them anyway (i.e. Yahoo! employees) than to the rest of the world, but this just seems like a bone-head move (as opposed to previously cited lapses in good taste).

I am assuming that the company knew when these posters went up, mere weeks before the announcement that Panama would be delayed, that it was behind schedule (if not, then we have much bigger issues). Considering that most people here have a non-trivial portion of their compensation in equity and that this announcement prompted a 20% drop in Yahoo!’s share price, doesn’t it seem a bit brain-dead to taunt us with these posters!?

This is a photo of me at the Redwood City Public Library (more on this in a minute) looking at Ian‘s Flickr slideshow of his trip to the skatepark this morning, while he gloats via IM.

(Slightly Edited) Transcript:

Which brings us to why I’m at the Redwood City Public Library…

It’s really not that interesting.

I’m having a new stereo put in my car because someone jacked mine about 18 months ago. For the first 6 months, I drove around with a hole in the top of my car (where they slashed it to break in) and no stereo. It was a twice daily reminder of how much I hated my situation at the time. In retrospect, I think I didn’t get them fixed because sometimes you get to the point where everything in your life is so miserable that you would rather add to it than provide contrast. I’m over exaggerating a little bit; I had my health, my family, a roof over my head, and a steady (if small) paycheck – especially when you look at what’s happening in the world right now, it seems a bit petty to whine when you have the basics. But, here I am whining anyway. That was a sucky time.

Then, I moved up to San Francisco and parked my car at Y! for the next 10 months. Until they threatened to tow it enough times that I believed them when they said, “No really, we’re serious this time.”

So, now I’ve moved to a new place and I take the shuttle to work. But driving, even occasionally, without a stereo is hard for me – I just fuckin’ love music. And, I’m apparently not in a place where I want to be masochistic. So, I’m finally getting a new stereo (I fixed the top right before I moved, because I no longer had an indoor parking option and it rains in San Francisco). And, guess what…I’m even gonna stop by Ikea after this and maybe buy some furniture for the first time since I moved to the Bay. Don’t worry, Ikea shit is disposable (that’s why I love it) – I’m not getting attached.

Even though walking around Redwood City with a hangover has actually been a unique experience – hangovers make me philosophical (what doesn’t?), walking is the only way to really absorb any place, and Redwood City is an interesting mix of barrio and cookie-cutter exurbanization, I’m feeling that my life is a little too mundane right now – even if I did meet Al Gore last night. Between 2 weeks in Europe, a phone call from my friend Biff on his cross-country roadtrip (something I’ve done three times and loved more each time), and Ian’s stories, I’m starting to get restless. Restless Jonathan can be dangerous, but is always fun to watch. So, stay tuned….

Derek and I just met the former Vice President of the United States. I said, “It’s kinda cool that you’re here.”

I was also wearing a name-tag that said “Audrey” at the time (pictured).

I kill me.

Subsequently at another venue, I met a young lady named Brooke. I introduced myself by saying, “Hi, I’m Jonathan. My favorite color is blue.”

When she replied, “That’s it?”

I responded, “And my favorite food is corndogs.”

Suffice it to say, it didn’t work out for Brooke and me. Go figure.

Lots of free beer makes it hard to write anything meaningful. Frank would be impressed. Berlin is beautiful and I’m going to see my grandma’s house today. The event is spectacular – mad props to Judy and team. Not sure what else to say other than “brilliant!” Allez les bleus!!!!

Two years ago last weekend, Nyima Sorenson was shot in an attempted robbery in Oakland. He died at 6:24am on the morning of his 26th birthday.

Nyima was the best friend of one of my close friends from college, Anthony (aka Tony Famous), and we had all spent some fun times together. I still remember getting the call from Anthony on a Sunday night two weeks after I first moved to Palo Alto.  I had gone to sleep early, in an attempt to get a fresh start at getting my ass kicked by my new job, and the call was more like a bad dream – I was wide awake as soon as I heard the news, but the conversation just didn’t seem like it could be real.

A week after his death, Nyima’s family and friends held a memorial BBQ at Live Oak Park in Berkeley. Over 500 people showed up, and it has now become an annual event. Last Saturday, I attended the third BBQ (my first, due to travel conflicts the past two years) with my cousin Ben. The turnout was more intimate – about 50 people, mostly high-school friends, and the emotions had fermented from a raw mixture of shock and grief to a mellower, but still potent, tragic acceptance blended with fond memories.

The BBQ is a beautiful and unique tribute – like an Irish wake with a Berkeley twist. Other than the single table in the center that was discreetly laid out with a dozen or so photos that normally hang in Nyima’s parents’ home and the several middle-aged family members mingling with the crowd, it felt like a fun group of 20-somethings enjoying a beautiful Saturday afternoon. There was no moment of silence or any other overt memorial – the memories and stories flowed happily in the natural way that close friends talk about a member of the crew who moved out of town, but still comes home to visit. Each year, Anthony and Kevin, the third best friend, arrange everything and Nyima’s dad throws in a keg of Sierra Nevada. He and Nyima’s mom wander the party sharing the fondness and vitality of their son’s friends’ memories and the indefatigable optimism with which all youth must approach great loss in order to continue to be young. I have to imagine that these days are when his parents’ loss paradoxically feels most poignant and least alone.

I remember a late-night IM conversation a few months after Nyima’s death in which a friend asked me how I would like to be remembered when I die. It was an inspired question that occupied me for more than a few days. When I finally responded, I said that more than being remembered for any particular thing, I want to lead a life that makes people miss me when I’m gone. Nyima is definitely missed. And the beauty of this event is that, once a year, all those who miss him join forces to miss him more powerfully and less painfully at the same time.

The irony of the overall mood of happiness and fun is that it was reinforced by the inescapable reminder of mortality that was our reason for being there – it was like we were trying to show Nyima that we weren’t wasting the time that was taken away from him but not us. Yet between the stories, jokes, and games of catch, you could spot intermittent pockets of deeper conversation and sobering moments. As the party entered the extended late afternoon, cousin Ben and I found ourselves sitting on one of the decreasing number of spots on the grass where you could soak in the sun as it moved behind the trees at its summer pace.

Ben is a few years older than me , but we’ve always been on the same wavelength. He is probably too good at what he does in an industry that could be as far from meritocracy as anything in American business today, and it is a source of much frustration. In many ways, Ben is the idealistic risk-taker that I wish I could be. And I think in many ways, I am the pragmatic conformist that he envies not without resentment. But, we’re both trying to reach the same equilibrium point, just from opposite sides. That point is the optimal mixture of living for the now and sacrificing for the future. Either extreme is dangerous: save everything for later, and later will never come; enjoy yourself too much today, and invite misery tomorrow. Nyima’s death was the third event in a six year period that prompted reassessment of my personal now & later index. And those memories are probably what got Ben and I on the subject.

The interesting thing about the now & later index is that it is not as pure a dichotomy as it appears to be on the surface: each person has their own individual definition of happiness (which is constantly changing over time), and for some, not having to worry about the future is a big part of enjoying the present. Ben and I agreed that the middle ground that we were both approaching after several pendulum swings of diminishing amplitude was not as much about balancing the two sides against one another as blending them together – feeling good today about saving for tomorrow. So it is in fact our maturing tastes, and not any monastic self-discipline, that is responsible for our increasing success in this pursuit.

The personal philosophy task of the day completed, we returned to the party just in time for Crank‘s arrival. As we dodged errant passes between John – the bartender from the art-gallery-slash-bar where I chugged Guinness out of martini glasses while listening to “soulful Jewish a cappella” with Anthony and The Pear – and Evan (pictured) – who paid $80 to have a  few of his gold chains turned into those dope grillz, we traded “remember when…’s” with shots to the dome of Blanton’s (which Nyima brought back from his roadtrip through the South) and Andre Cold Duck (which I likened to sparkling Manischewitz). The next morning, I realized we never got around to Anthony’s epic re-telling of the tale of the commitment (as in institutional) of The Pear – quite possibly one of the funniest true stories I have ever heard in my life. I guess we’ve got something to look forward to next year…

R.I.P.