RIP: Tom Luce was the epitome of a public servant, a pioneer, a visionary, and friend who was committed to bettering the lives of all Texans. His impact on public education in Texas was second to none. My prayers are with his wife, Pam, and their family as they grieve this extraordinary Texan.
Every CEO in America, no matter how large the company, knows the first and last names of their top salespeople.
They do everything they possibly can to keep those folks happy - because CEOs know exactly what keeps them as the CEO, and what keeps Wall Street happy.
Companies will tolerate A LOT from their sales aces.
My wife just got home from a baby shower and I am actually crying, this is the peak of "Main Character" delusion.
She’s at this party for a girl who is, how do I put this, the "Live, Laugh, Love" type.
The mom to be stands up and announces she’s giving the baby a "spiritual" name she picked up while backpacking in Southeast Asia.
She says the name is *’Chai-Yo’* (or something similar) and tells the whole room it means "Pure Soul of the Morning Mist." She’s getting all emotional, everyone is clapping, it’s a whole vibe.
My wife is sitting in the back, choking on her cupcake.
Why? Because my wife actually grew up there.
She leans over to her friend and whispers: “That doesn’t mean Morning Mist, That’s literally the word for 'Fried Chicken.' She is naming her daughter Fried Chicken.”
The moral dilemma was real. Does she let this kid grow up as a literal snack, or does she kill the vibe?
My wife chose chaos, She waited for a lull in the conversation and gently asked, “Oh, like the street food?”
The silence was DEAFENING. The mom to be turned a shade of red I didn't know humans could achieve.
She tried to argue that her "guide" told her otherwise, but the damage was done. The "Morning Mist" era ended right there.
The party ended 20 minutes later and now my wife is officially banned from the group chat.
If you're going to use a culture as an aesthetic, at least make sure you aren't naming your firstborn after a $5 bucket of wings. 😭🍗
USA. A small eating house. Before I could present my purpose, I was asked to declare my allegiance to a location.
"For here or to go, sir?"
This was the Trial of the Setting. In my land, one enters the eating house and it is understood: you are here. To declare otherwise is to imply flight, or perhaps a hidden ambush. Yet, this American asked me to choose. To declare myself for 'here' meant committing to the physical space, to endure whatever fortunes might unfold within its walls. To choose 'to go' was to take the provisions and retreat, to conquer hunger on a battlefield of my own choosing.
I considered the gravity of the decision. "For here," I said, with the weight of generations in my voice. The server, a young woman with a kind smile, merely nodded and punched a button. "No worries, man. It's just a sandwich."
But it was not merely a sandwich. It was a commitment. A man does not choose a 'here' lightly. He chooses a 'here' because he intends to hold that ground. And I will hold this ground until the last crumb has been vanquished.