Experiment

How do you know whether an idea is stupid or not if you don’t act on it and see what happens?

Ideas have always caused me problems. I have lots of them. Some may even be good. Until a few years ago, I wasn’t writing any of them down. Something would come to me, I’d spend a minute or two congratulating myself for potentially shining my brilliance on humanity, and then the thought would pass on through, never to be heard from again.

Then, through a combination of technology—Siri plus Evernote on my iPhone—and the obvious practice of carrying a notebook everywhere I go, I enabled myself to capture all these ideas as soon as they materialized.

You’d think this would’ve solved the idea problem by now, but it hasn’t. This is because I don’t act on any of these things—thinking, in retrospect, that they’re too stupid to go anywhere. That’s the common theme here—that idea of just letting things rot. I’m nothing more than a list maker. I make lists. But what good is a giant to-do list if you’re not planning on doing any of it?

I’m writing this post because I had an idea last week that I’d really like to try. I should probably just go ahead and do it, but I’m also trying to figure out why I have such a hard time pulling the trigger on so many things—so I’m both analyzing this little character flaw and issuing a disclaimer, of sorts, regarding what I’m planning on doing here next week.

Saying all this in public is also a way to leverage myself into doing something about it—although we all know I’m full of shit when I claim I’m going to do anything on this site. I mean, how many “comebacks” can one guy claim he’s about to make? This time, however, I want to see what happens when I step up and take action on one of these random ideas. In keeping with this week’s theme, this might be a good habit to adopt.

Anyway, discipline week continues. Stay tuned, I guess.  

Moderate Success

Day one of my new discipline enforcement program has been a serious success. I’ve had my most productive workday in months, I plotted out a schedule and stuck to it—including the writing of this blog post, which is happening precisely when I scheduled it last night—and I’ve accomplished everything I’ve set out to do today.

The most important thing here has been an absolute blackout of Facebook. It’s out of my phone, it’s no longer a tab on my browser, and for today, at least, I haven’t even thought about it. I haven’t checked it at all since before I wrote yesterday’s blog post, and I think this policy has saved me at least an hour today, if not more.

The Gmail situation needs improvement, but it’s still better than it was. I checked my email more than the once per hour I’d originally planned, but these were more “situational checks,” meaning I didn’t go anywhere near it until I’d finished whatever task needed my extended attention.

I’ve also gone back to my old habit of keeping a very detailed calendar. I planned today out on Google Calendar, allowing a decent amount of leeway in case something ran long—or in case things went completely sideways, which often happens. Thus far—and this period of writing is the last thing I have scheduled for today—everything’s been perfect. I’ve stayed within the time parameters I’d set up, I’ve stuck to my plan, and I’ve gotten a shitload of work done.

So far, so good. Hopefully this level of discipline, once it becomes habit, will enable me to dig out some entertaining shit on this site—but for now, you’ll have to bear with me as I exorcise all this shit in public.

On to DAY TWO.

Friend of Bill W

My name is Robert, and I’m addicted to stupid shit. This addiction has turned me into a very unproductive person, a lackluster friend, and a generally maladjusted dimwit with dwindling reserves of both creativity and common sense. I need to break this addiction to stupid shit and relearn the ability to focus, concentrate, and pay attention to one task for long, unbroken periods of time.

One stupid thing I’m addicted to is Facebook. I don’t start my day intending to let Facebook sidetrack me, but it always does. I’ll scroll down and read every post that’s been put up since the last time I looked—which is typically right before I go to sleep. I’ll comment on a few, I’ll “like” a few others, and then I’ll invariably start clicking on any links I see. This is ironic, because although I don’t give a flying fuck about any of this shit, I don’t think I’ve missed anything any of my “friends” has posted in several years.

I’m also addicted to Gmail. I’ve read scores of articles on productivity over the years, and one common theme that’s always addressed is the idea of checking email on a set schedule—at the top of the hour, or a set number of times each day. At a minimum, I check mine every two minutes. All day, every day, whenever I’m home. I’m not kidding.

In fact, I’m tempted to check it right now. My plan here is to finish this post without any interruptions, and I’ve blocked off a period of time during which I intend to do just that. In all probability, I have at least two new emails sitting in my inbox—along with a handful of text messages and missed calls on my phone (don’t get me started on my instant messaging problem)—and it’s killing me that I haven’t checked any of this in at least ten minutes. My internal alarm is fucking screaming at the moment.

This happens when I read, too. I’m a fast reader, and I can usually plow through a 300 page book in two or three nights. Over the past few years, I’ve become completely incapable of reading more than ten pages or so before I’m compelled to pick up my phone and start fucking around with it.

It needs to stop. I need discipline of the sort that’s only going to be formed by forcing myself to cut the shit. This isn’t a luxury. It’s not a skill I’m looking to cultivate just for the hell of it. My inability to focus is hurting me professionally, it’s not doing me any favors personally, and it’s the primary reason why I’ve been so unproductive on this site and everywhere else, writing-wise.

BREAK: I was just interrupted by my fucking landline. See?

To combat this shit, I’m putting myself on a program. Starting today, I’m going dark with Facebook, and I’ll only be checking my email at the top of every hour. I’ll force myself to avoid abusing both of these things, and I’m going to devote more of my time both to actual work—and to getting my writing skills back (provided I ever had any in the first place).

I’ll let you know how this goes. 

Something Else

Fuck it. Here’s another product review. When I don’t have anything of interest to say, I’ll tell you about some of the useful things I’ve found recently that I like. This is stuff that’s made my life easier, helped me to be more productive, or made me look like I have more money than I actually do.

Here, then, is the Moshi Concerti iPad case:

This fucker is substantial, it stands your iPad at whatever angle you want, it closes like a book, and it has a strap that keeps it shut. It’s also black, and I like black and silver shit when it comes to my technology. This makes me feel like I’m in a William Gibson novel, especially when I’m in the airport, whatever the fuck that means.

I think I’ve deluded myself into thinking it makes me look less trashy.

I’ve tried three different iPad cases. This is the only one I’ve liked. I use my iPad for damned near everything—including, in combination with the Apple Bluetooth keyboard, as a light-travel laptop—so I needed a solid case. I also didn’t want one that looked asinine or made me look like a pussy. Mission accomplished, maybe.

Get one of these. I found mine in some liberal store in San Francisco. When people root through your briefcase, your Moshi Concerti iPad case will make it look like you have important shit going on, and that’s what matters.  

Recommendation

I’m a big fucking dude. Just big, now. No longer fat. I used to be kind of fat. Even though I lifted weights and ran like a maniac, I ate like shit and drank far too much beer. This is no longer the case. I don’t drink anymore, I’ve cleaned up my diet, and I’m doing everything the right way. I still lift weights like a madman, though, so I’m still significantly larger—in both height and muscle mass—than the average American male.

Not that height has anything to do with lifting weights, mind you. I just wanted to emphasize that I’m not a little New York dickhead with a Napoleon complex. I’m too tall to have one. 

This all leads to severe complications with my laundry. My size and my activity level make managing laundry a royal pain in the schlong. I have an in-house washer and dryer now, but when I’ve used laundromats—or the laundry rooms of the buildings I’ve lived in—I’d always walk in with triple the amount of shit everyone else seemed to have.

People always want to know why I check a bag for a two-day business trip. It’s because I can’t wear clothes for more than a few hours without completely fucking them up.

Dress clothes? Fuck that, man. My shit gets ruined before I even leave for work. Especially during the summer, the simple act of putting on a shirt cancels out the money I spent to get the shit dry cleaned in the first place.

That’s why I’m convinced that Under Armour is the greatest clothing company in the history of mankind:

Every piece of workout clothing I own is made by Under Armour. So is every pair of underwear, every pair of socks (even my “dress” socks), every undershirt, and every pair of cargo shorts I wear in the summer.

The underwear, especially, is a must-have. It’s the single best shit I own. After using this stuff for the past year or so, I’ll never, ever wear anything else. If I knew about Under Armour’s socks and underwear while I was bouncing—a piece of shit job where you’re supposed to stand in one place for hours on end, then engage in periodic bursts of fighting with drug-addled Guido fuckbags who want to stab you—I probably wouldn’t have been pissed off enough to start this blog.

If you’re as abusive of your clothing as I am, get yourself two pair for every day of the week. You’ll thank me for it.