The YAMA System

I was 13 years old and drowning in dirty dishes on my first night at an '80s Panhandle restaurant. No motivational meeting was going to save me. What saved me was a juvenile delinquent named Ricky, who walked into the dish room in a spotless white shirt and blew out every dish in the place while trash-talking the whole time.
That was the day I learned the difference between being told how to do something and being shown. My martial arts teachers had a word for it: transmission. The lowest form of teaching is standing in front of people and telling them what to do. The highest form is transmitting through experience.
This piece is about the executives who pumped me up with hype and empty words, and the criminal who actually taught me. It's about why the paper awards and drink tickets given out at company meetings will never replace the moment a real practitioner shows you what excellence looks like. And it's about what I now call The Ricky Effect — the mark a true warrior leaves on you when he does the work in front of you and lets the transmission happen.
If you've ever sat through a self-development seminar that felt like hype without substance, or worked for a company that called itself a family while forgetting to pay you like one, you'll recognize both sides of this story. [link in comments]

Clear Heads Sell Out Rooms

The kid stops by the old man's place on his way out of town. His band’s first real show. Opening spot, three states away, in front of people he’s never met.
The house smells like cardamom coffee, old books, tube amps, and leather that has played more shows with more bands than the kid even cares to know. There’s an area on the back porch where he grows mescal and pe**te cactus, though the kid doesn’t know what those are yet. The kid flops down on the couch and starts scrolling.
The old man asks, “You good? Is that important?”
“Yeah. It’s about this gig.”
“What's the gig?”
“Opening slot. I don't know anybody there. Nobody's gonna come out for us.”
The old man points at a framed flyer from a basement show in 1986. Not sold out; no one really came out.
“Good, enjoy these shows, and save the flyer.”
“Why is that one framed and not any of your huge sold-out shows?”
“Hipster high ground. The masses don’t know what’s good; they just do what they’re told. That flyer is to music as buying Apple stock in the 80s is to tech.”
The old man pours some tea.
“You know why you don't know anybody?”
“Because it's my first show out of town.”
“No. You don't know anybody because you're full. You care too much about who cares. Your mind is like a room that’s packed with other people and other s**t that you think is important.”
“I just want to do good. We got lucky on this gig.”
“Yeah, but you're not here right now. You're on your phone, stressing out, and you think you’re on my couch, but in your mind, you’re onstage already bombing. You got lucky; say thanks, but they did too. They found a band that’s willing to travel for free and just play for exposure.”

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I was at a coffee shop in Arizona, covered in dust, smelling like a campfire in a gym bag. A couple of trucks pulled in flying American flags — one with "MAGA Warrior" written on the side in a font that can only be described as "Paintbrush with Claws."
One guy saw I was as dirty as my Jeep, sat down, and asked what I was writing.
I told him I was writing about the Second Amendment, and I didn't think it was actually about guns.
We didn't argue. Nobody got preachy or punched. He left with my number and some journaling exercises. A week later, he sent me an email…
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