Why Steve Jobs Never Gave a Zebra an Ulcer

So, I recently finished "Unconscious Branding" which J gave me for Christmas, bless her heart.

 Mostly a how-to guide about applying recent developments in neuroscience and evolutionary psychology, the book is a great foundational play-by-play overview for well-intentioned marketing. There are lots of case studies.


Another great book, that you might not think of as being chock full of case studies, is the Steve Jobs Biography. I just finished that one yesterday.


And now I'm beginning to read "Why Zebras Don't Get Ulcers", by a biology/neurology researcher and professor, mostly coming from a zoological perspective, which has always been one of my favorite perspectives because it tends to keep people from saying absolutely dumb things about people not being animals just like the rest of 'em.

And also because I heart Richard Dawkins, even if he, unfortunately, has decided to judo-flip evangelical creationism with equally short-sighted evangelical evolutionism.

 But I digress.


The branding/marketing book taught me that people respond to baser instincts, namely defensive ones- the brain is a homeostasis machine, first and foremost. To get someone to do something, appeal to the 'reptile' brain.


The Steve Jobs book taught me that dedication and single-mindedness help produce great things, as does that feeling of a good play: where the tension of the crew and actors is equal and palpable, and stress rises and falls as a group. 

In a play, for no particular reason all these people are going nuts, but the high level of camaraderie is equally nuts. I think if you tried to shut down a play in the middle of hell week you'd have a mutiny because in some ways a fully-invested performance is more important than life itself. And I've always wondered, what is it about certain circumstances, like a play or a rocket launch, or a climbing expedition or a sail around cape horn- that encourages this thicker-than-blood synergy in a group of otherwise extremely different people?

Then the Zebra stress book tells me animals don't get ulcers basically because people overcomplicate things.

 We get all bent out of shape over continual risks to our survival or perception. We stress out when there's no need to. 

 So I realized: Steve Jobs was successful because he was able to get everyone on the same stress playbook, so-to-speak, by scaring the shit out of everyone at the same times. He also forced people to either become experts at managing their own stress responses, or he burned them out of the company, increasing his odds of keeping only strongly motivated and dedicated people on his team. 

 He also used these baser instincts to propel people into doing nearly impossible feats- by forcing his team into picturing things at the bottom (this is shit), people are more willing to gamble for big payoffs. It’s a crucial part of “reality distortion”. 

 He somehow intuited a way to force himself and others to do amazing things by conducting that stress response. 

 This also explains why the saying “Stick with the system” (our new product slogan at RMS, whether people realize it or not) is nigh-magical to Andy and I. 

 It is playing off of people’s risk aversion. And when people are generally fairly comfortable, there is no reason they would want to break the system, because that induces a stress or anxiety response.

RMS has a system, we take care of the stress for you. 

 “System” implies the individual need not take the blame if something goes wrong, they are merely a cog in the machine. It allows a deferral of responsibility, just like in big corporations (or at RMS). We are taking on the accountability of you using our system. 

 Mirror-image: In order to get people devoted to really big hard scary tasks, Jobs had to make the individuals each personally accountable for perhaps even more than what was really within their control. 

 And this might also explain the paradox of why A-types tend to be super stressed-out in order to get really high grades but every once in a while you get a casual cucumber who can just waltz through with top grades.

 Most of the time, I don't think it's because that person is a genius- I think it's probably because they figured out a way to get their brain to focus single-mindedly on things for a while, and so they get to reap the benefits of that single-mindedness. 

 Most people have to get stressed out to get that focused. 

 And sometimes, we get so stressed that our stress responses go haywire and harm us. 

 And that's where the Zebra book seems to be headed. I'll let you know. 

 But... 

 Maybe some people have figured out other systems, ways of accomplishing single-minded focus and dedication without triggering a stress response. 

 What if people had learned to flip the roles of what we generally consider the conscious and unconscious brain? 

 What about Zen Buddhism? 

 Could that be the secret key to unlock human potential without getting as bent out of shape?

How can I lead?

As you graduate today, ask yourself, how will you lead. 

Will you use simple and clear language? Will you seek out honesty? When you get honesty back, will you react with anger or with gratitude? As we strive to be more authentic in our communication, we should also strive to be more authentic in a broader sense. I talk a lot about bringing your whole self to work—something I believe in deeply."

From a speech by Sheryl Sandberg. 

Just yesterday I was thinking about how bad I've gotten at remembering and using big words.

I was playing a bunch of different wordgames with my friends and over and over again I was soundly trounced.  I got a perfect verbal on the SAT and here I am unable to remember basic vocab and spelling.

I felt sorta stupid, but I realized- it's very important for my work, in marketing, to use the simplest language to reach the largest audience.  And I gave myself a pat on the back.

Two days later, I used the word "opined" in a report and confused a senior manager at my office.  I guess I still have a ways to go.

I tend to think in complicated ways, from a very specific perspective.  This means there's often a communication gap when I'm working with other people.

It's hard to tell when I ought to bend to others and when they ought to bend to me. In other words, if neither way is "wrong," who am I to call my way better?

I strive to be authentic, but I am constantly re-contextualizing what that means.

When languages are young, there tends to be a greater number of uses for a word.  As languages mature, the vocabulary get bigger and bigger.

As I mature, I am trying to use a vocabulary of words and ideas that can be understood by most people.

How far can I go with a limited vocabulary?  Do I eventually need to expand my repertoire if I want to express complex ideas?


Post Script

She also mentions a god bit about women in power:

But women at the top c-level jobs are stuck at 15 or 16 % and has not moved in a decade. Not even close to 50%. We need to acknowledge openly that gender remains an issue at the highest levels of leadership. The promise of equality is not equality. We need to start talking about this. We need to start talking about how women underestimate their abilities compared to men and for women, but not men, success and likeability are negatively correlated.

Read more: http://www.businessinsider.com/sheryl-sandbergs-full-hbs-speech-get-on-a-rocketship-whenever-you-get-the-chance-2012-5#ixzz2GxAz6lt3

Problem-solving through uncommon channels...

The throngs heave & pound heavily upon thick steel doors that bar entrance to a vast fortress.  

But wait!  

Stepping back from the throng reveals a hole in the roof.  

A few tries for a limber rascal to reach the top.  

A pry and a spry slip and the rascal finds her way in.

I have found that to be competitive I have to look for unique ways of doing things.  People so rarely try to encompass all the possibilities in a given situation.

"I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference."

Create Your Way Out Of A Paper Bag

So, google search results for my name are awful.  Please, do me a favor and don't look at them.

But it does force me to think about something interesting, something I believe in whole-heartedly.

That is: An unbiased record encourages honesty and truth.


Even when a huge bold headline proclaims I will do something naughty with people's relatives and lists my real phone number besides, I can't take it down from google's search results.  I can weep, I can laugh.  I cannot delete it.

Instead of destruction, I must bury the negative result with mounds of content that paints you in a good light.

When faced with this problem, one must create their way above an obstacle.  You have to build results you'd be proud of.  It's a pretty cool idea, motivating me to really think about who I am and what my image is online.  I will have to work to improve that.  It will be hard work.

It has taken me most of my life to get to a point where I felt I had something to say.  I finally feel like I can really contribute when I write, rather than use writing as a learning experience or some memetic catharsis.

(Granted, it's still those too).

And of course, I realize people suffering cyber-bullying and defamation don't deserve to have to maneuver  their way past embarrassing crap.  

And now that I'm older, I am a wee bit more cautious, although I do still largely believe people who are turned off by a little bit of silliness aren't the sorts of people I wish to associate with regularly anyhow.

But it's really nice, to have to put my money where my mouth is.  I have to let my life speak for itself.

There's no delete button in life.

-B

Parking On Life's Parkways

I think a lot.  I have a lot of thoughts.

I have a hard time caring.

So, I think, I plan, I can be over-meticulous.

And I do not care deeply enough. I fail to connect with people.  I come across as callus.

If I think so much, why am I not more thoughtful?

If I care so little, why am I often too careful?

Here's to parking on parkways and driving on driveways.

In other news...

Serendipity, or why I never got my GED:

College, to me, was being Wednesday Addams at summer camp.  Academia is much the same sort of brainwashing as being sat in a room to watch Disney and Brady Bunch.  $20,000 for what is often no more than a more powerful magnet striking a lesser magnet repeatedly, aligning the lesser magnets to its field.

And surely, if I had such difficulty, those less privileged than I suffered all the more, continue to suffer, and all the more unjustly.  So there is a part of me that will not pick up those tools that when encountered, still set my heart in a vise.  I choose other tools, which I find fairer, and dedicate my life to sharing these tools with anyone and everyone: the tools of the toolmaker.  Learning how to learn for one's own purpose.

A GED is not this.  A GED is trying to force an already hurt person into passable conformity.

Let us learn for the sake of survival and sustenance, let us learn for the joy of learning and experience.  There need be no other reasons.

How A Living Legend Keeps Me Up At Night

It is a perfect picture.

From afar, it looks as if a brightly-festooned paraglider has just landed in the middle of Palisades Park during the most beautiful day of Autumn.

 I briefly wonder if Felix Baumgartner made a wrong turn.

Then I see the beautiful blond Labrador retriever sniffing about, and, further away, a ski pole stuck in the ground with a piece of surveying ribbon serving for a windsock.  It's definitely a paraglider.  I tell my father to park the car nearer to this person, and when we come to a stop I set off in search of an explanation...

The explanation I will eventually get is so compelling, it makes me just want to hold my woman tight in our bed.  It's keeping me up at night, the image I keep replaying through my head.  Some sort of late-night indulgence into the meaning of mortality and old age has me out on the couch writing a blog instead of sleeping.

Today, my father and I decided to ride our bicycles to the top of Bear Mountain.

This 1,300' (or so) flagship of the Palisades Interstate Park System has a winding depression-era scenic drive that ends in splendid views of the Hudson River and a 50-mile vista over the Hudson Highlands all the way to Manhattan.

We started our day with breakfast at a local 50's theme diner.

We ordered hamburger-steaks and talk about health in diet, aging, and getting the most out of your time and your mind.

My father talks about how he is always thinking and planning, and how he doesn't see himself as a genius.  His business is finally successful, and is growing at a prolific rate, and he can finally take a moment to think about his accomplishments- ones worth being proud of.

I mention he is very good at personal efficacy, at geting the results he wants out of himself, but not as good at getting that from his employees and other people he works with.  He has a hard time knowing how to give over responsibility.  He is so effective at what he does that he often can get away without passing the responsibility over to anyone but himself.

This is all in a larger context: I am working for the family business with an ulterior motive.  

I believe my father, who has dedicated his life to this company, deserves more free time.

We finish breakfast, and start to take some of our precious time driving to the hiker's lot at the base of Bear Mountain.

 Unfortunately, it's the peak of leaf-peeper season and all the city folk come upstate to remember what a tree looks like.

The Palisades Parkway was a zoo for Oktoberfest, and we found ourselves mired in endless traffic the likes of which we'd never seen.

When we finally arrived at the exit for Bear Mountain, it was closed off.  At the encouragement of a wage-slave park worker, we ended up having to ride the grass and pull a marginal u-turn across the median, with the bikes on the back of my dad's sedan bouncing precariously.

We worked our way back to a parking area the next exit down, which is predictably empty in stark contrast to the frozen bumper-to-bumper madness on the parkway only 3/4 of a mile away (Pareto's Law).  This is where we see the colorful airfoil fluttering provocatively in the wind.

This is where I approach what I assume is yet-another-extreme-sports-geek.

I walk up and greet the dog, who accepts and nuzzles me, kind and gentle.  The man is clearly attuned to his task and I notice two things about him:

1) This guy is really old!

2) This is a very small paraglider, in a most odd place to go gliding!

We strike up a conversation.  Eventually my father comes over, after unloading our bikes.

I ask,"Are you practicing your pop-ups?"

The man responds; "Yes. Do you do this?"

"I've done it a couple time before, in New Zealand".

He looks at me slightly more, replies "...Ahh, I go to France every year to climb and hike and I see these things soaring over my head and I finally decided I am getting too old.  I don't have much time left to try this and I am losing my agility for climbing."

I ask "You rock climb?"

He says "Oh yes."

I ask him,
"You climb at the Gunks?"

He takes a deep breath,

"I was climbing at the gunks in the 1940's. I'm the oldest member of the American Alpine Club."


It's my turn to take a deep breath.  I think for a moment of how to respond.  So far, we have been playing each other, feeling eack other out to see if I am a yuppie tourist and if he is another over-rich crackpot finding hobbies to try reclaiming his youth.

I finally say "Not a lot of people climbed there back then."

It's the only thing I can think of to say.  I am awed.  This man is living legend, and I don't even know who he is.  His full-face helmet distorts his features and hides his jawline.  I don't know his name and it might not mean anything to me if I did.

My father asks some questions about flying, and micro-meterology.  I idly mention refill recovery times or somesuch.  My father says he is worried about breaking bones at his age.

Matter-of-factly the man gestures at the pack on his back and replies,

"Well, that is why this has so much padding, and I wear the helmet.  And with a good gust, this thing will just drag you along the ground."

I find I really like this man.  He feels like a kindred spirit.  I don't want to interrupt him any further.

We chat awkwardly a few more moments, my father and I looking for beta on how to get our bikes to the next exit without getting jammed-up in traffic and without cycling on the Palisades Parkway.  With brief description, he tells us the trail will get us close, and I confirm on the map.  At a lull, I say:

"Well, we'll let you get back to it.  I'm Brad."

He says "I'm Fred."

I shake his hand.

My father and I walk back to the car, get our helmets out.  I say:

"This trip was worth it, even if it was just for that and the bicycling turns out to be a bust.  That guy is a living legend.  He's probably done crazy shit you can't even imagine!  He's from the old-school of climbing, and he was probably doing crazy routes, like the hardest stuff in the world."

The name Fred also sticks with me.  

I can't put a finger on it, but I have a waist-high stack of Climbing magazine going back to 1998 that attests to countless hours of a younger me poring over pages in search of lore.

My father and I mount up, and ride off.  We are trying to ride to the top of Bear Mountain, right at the peak of leaf-peeper season, and I am soon lost in the joy of sharing a spectacular fall day with my dad.

We make one wrong turn, quickly remedied, and happily find the feeder trail (an old access road) is bikeable.  A brief technical downhill section full of thorns has my dad walking, and me grinning.

In no time, we emerge into the shoulder of the Parkway.  Usually, people fly at terrifying speeds on this stretch, often upwards of 70MPH.  Today, we are cruising past every type of imaginable vehicle, all mired in the same misery.  I take smug satisfaction in beating the game.

We ride up the closed on-ramp and suddenly it is silent but for the wind rushing past our faces:

We have the road to ourselves.

Many more smiles ensue.

The Park, bless them, is only allowing a quota into this area, controlling traffic for Oktoberfest, and it has deterred the vast majority that usually throngs in dense droves to the top of Perkins Drive, the only paved route to the top.  We are occasionally passed by a car, but mostly we can talk and revel in the splendor of our precious Hudson Valley, passing unforgettable views of Peekskill and the Bear Mountain Bridge.

We hear babbling brooks, our faces are caressed by shimmering waves of falling leaves.


The trip is, generally speaking, wonderful.


We arrive at the top to no fanfare.  We suffer the one disappointment of the day- usually there are a lot more motorcyclists riding interesting machines, we settle for chatting up a couple women on CBR-600's.  They gave us the dish on the traffic, and I asked them where they were riding from.  When they replied Westchester, I figured they wouldn't be much help in getting Juliana riding, so we wandered around a bit.

We did all the touristy things, walking down the path the where the viewers are, climbing up the tower (a somewhat tragic massacre of ladybugs under impatient tourist's feet) and taking a few pictures of  the view.

When we are ready, it is only a five minute ride back down the 800 vertical feet of Perkins Drive.  I take video on my cellphone the whole way.  The rest of the ride back is pleasant and uneventful.

When we return successful, Fred is still there.  He has been standing in the same spot for hours, doing a most improbable thing for an 89 year-old.  He is meticulously practicing his technique for popping up his paraglider.  It confirms what I already knew:

This guy has some serious dedication.

Burned into memory: I see Fred Beckey hunched over in the middle of a big field, looking old, tired, and vulnerable, waiting for the wind to blow the right way.

He is a perfect metaphor for aging.  


Back at home, I look Fred up.  Turns out, at least for a climbing geek like me, that yeah, he's kind of an anti-hero- my favorite kind of hero, and he's definitely a world-famous climber.  His name is Fred Beckey.

“If Thoreau and Emerson describe the transcendental American theme, then Beckey — after Ahab, akin to Kerouac — describes the oddly manic drive to scale and map and detail the wilderness in a modern way,” said Steve Costie, executive director of the Mountaineers, which eventually accepted Beckey as a member. “Almost adversarial; never transcendental.” -NYT

"The current crop of the world's best climbers waited in line to have their picture taken with Fred, so they could post it on their Facebook pages," she said. 

Fred Beckey is this sort of role model for the alternative lifestyle, like Yvon Chounard.  He's the epitome of doing what you do because of what you love.

It's funny; here my father and I are trying to find our way. We want to have more time to do the things we love . 

I think back over our breakfast conversation.  We need to be able to do good work, and stay financially independent, while living full and rich lives.

And here we ran into an expert!

Beckey has a degree in business administration from the University of Washington and had a career in marketing, though he chose to work part time seasonally.  

"That was the way I could get enough time off to climb," he said. "I don't know where I got the reputation for being a climbing bum."  

Beckey said a famous photograph of him standing at the side of a road holding a sign reading, "Will belay for food," was staged as a joke. 

"I have a car, a house and a money market fund," Beckey said. 

Reisner, his climbing partner from Portland, has been inside Beckey's house in Seattle's Lake City neighborhood. The walls are decorated with mountain photos taken by Beckey, and also by Austin Post, the USGS aerial photographer who made classic images of the North Cascades and southeast Alaska.  

"It's like walking into the throne room of the mountain god," Reisner said. -T.R.

Unfortunately, that god, at least today, looked very tired, stubborn, 

and alone.

Yet, I still would be honored to be his friend.  It's his drive and passion and dedication and accomplishment that have made him so admirable to me. 

 I just don't know how to reconcile that with a rich family life, with a deep immediate personal connectedness to other people.  I am scared of this feeling that I am disconnected from my immediate world, despite all the zen vibes I get from climbing and playing music, and despite all my best efforts to foster closeness in my relationships. 

 And that's what keeps me up at night.  That's what makes me want to hold my woman tight.