In America, a warehouse store. A fully roasted chicken costs five dollars, the raw chicken beside it costs seven, and I stood between them like a man between two truths.
Golden. Hot. Seasoned. Spinning in glory under the lights, in a line of its brothers. Four dollars and ninety-nine cents.
I checked the raw birds. Seven dollars. Pale. Cold. You must do everything yourself.
This is not commerce. Commerce does not move backward. Somewhere in this building, mathematics lies defeated.
I asked the man at the counter. "How is the cooked bird cheaper than the raw bird?"
"Been five bucks forever. They keep it that way."
"But the store loses."
"Yep. On purpose."
On purpose. I held my receipt with both hands.
In my land, a lord who lowered the price of rice in a hard winter was remembered for generations. They built him a small shrine. This store does it every day, with chicken, and tells no one.
A woman behind me grew tired of my reverence. "It's just a chicken, sir."
It is not just a chicken. It is a wound the merchant takes on purpose, so that anyone, on any day, with five dollars, eats like a lord. The bird is the message. The price is the vow.
I will confess: I bought two. I did not need two. The second was not hunger. It was gratitude, and it was delicious.
Some prices are not prices. They are promises.
I return every week now. I take one bird. I bow toward the deli, briefly, so as not to alarm the staff. They have begun nodding back.
The vow holds. The bird turns. Five dollars.
Long may it spin.
The vibes are insane. Driving through the great state of Louisiana on our way to New Orleans. It’s crazy how diverse this country is, every day the scenery looks different.
USA. On Saturday mornings, a parking lot near my home becomes a VILLAGE, and I have been studying its lords.
The farmers market. Tents rise at dawn. And beneath each tent: a specialist of absurd, magnificent depth.
There is a man who sells ONLY honey. Forty kinds. I asked one polite question and received the complete doctrine of bees — their politics, their travels, their work ethic. "Better than ours," he ruled, and looked at me until I agreed. He had me taste spring honey against autumn honey from THE SAME BEES. They were different. I said so.
"THANK you," he said, loudly, vindicated against enemies I could not see but absolutely believe in.
Beside him: the tomato woman, whose tomatoes are lumpy, scarred, magnificent. "Ugly ones taste better," she declared.
America, I nearly wept. In Japan, we have spent four centuries teaching that the crooked tea bowl outranks the perfect one. Wabi-sabi, we call it. Whole books. Tea masters. Museums.
Your version is one woman at a folding table saying UGLY ONES TASTE BETTER, and she is COMPLETELY CORRECT, and the lesson costs three dollars a pound.
I bought seven.
And then there is the bread man. The bread man REMEMBERS. "How'd that sourdough treat you?" It treated me well, sir. "Told you. Try the rye." This is not commerce, America. This is SERIALIZED. Each Saturday continues the last, and skipping a week has consequences — I missed one, ONE, and the bread man said:
"Thought we lost you."
THOUGHT WE LOST YOU. I apologized like a soldier returning late from leave. He let me. Then he gave me an extra roll, which I understand now was both forgiveness and a warning.
The supermarket sells the same foods, cheaper, in air conditioning, with no one watching your loyalty.
The market sells the foods PLUS the lords of the foods. There is no contest. Saturdays, dawn, cash in envelope, as is proper.
A man does not ask the bread man for forgiveness twice. He shows up Saturday. Dawn. Cash in envelope.
This week, the honey man is bringing me something he calls "the buckwheat." His exact words: "Not everyone's ready for the buckwheat."
I have trained all week, America.
I will be ready for the buckwheat.
USA. A diner. The waitress asked me how I want my eggs, and my mind went completely blank.
"How do you want your eggs, hon?"
Want. How do I WANT them. No one has ever asked me this. In my land, the egg arrives as the cook decrees, and you thank the egg, the cook, and your ancestors, in that order.
"Scrambled? Over easy? Sunny side up?" she offered, gently, the way one talks a man down from a roof.
The terms did not help. Over easy — over WHAT, easily? Easy for whom? Sunny side up — these people have named an egg after the dawn. Who does that. I needed time.
I have chosen battlefields faster than I chose those eggs.
She refilled my coffee and said she'd come back. It was the second refill. I had been deciding for nine minutes.
The man on the next stool leaned over. "Just say over easy, man. You can't go wrong."
"And if I CAN go wrong?"
"...it's eggs, buddy."
It's eggs. Eight hundred years of my family training itself to want nothing, and this man dismissed all of it with a fork in his hand. He was right. I will never tell him.
"Sunny side up," I declared, with the weight of a man choosing a path for life. "I will face the sun."
"You got it, hon."
The eggs came. Two small suns on a white plate, looking up at me. Golden. Ridiculous. Exactly what I wanted.
So THAT is what wanting feels like. I had to cross an ocean and hold up a breakfast line to learn it.
The man on the next stool got his check and left. "Good choice," he said.
I have never been more proud of anything.
A man does not ask the eggs to be simple. He only becomes a man who knows what he wants.
Tomorrow: over easy. I am almost ready.
And I know it's not much
But I've nothing else fit for a King
Except for a heart singing hallelujah
Hallelujah
So come on, my soul
Oh, don't you get shy on me
Lift up your song
'Cause you've got a lion inside of those lungs
Get up and praise the Lord
Oh, come on, my soul
I've got one response
I've got just one move
With my arm stretched wide
I will worship You
So I throw up my hands
And praise You again and again
'Cause all that I have is a hallelujah
Hallelujah
I've got one response
I've got just one move
With my arm stretched wide
I will worship You
So I throw up my hands
And praise You again and again
'Cause all that I have is a hallelujah
Hallelujah
#gratitude
All my words fall short
I got nothing new
How could I express
All my gratitude?
I could sing these songs
As I often do
But every song must end
And You never do
So I throw up my hands
And praise You again and again
'Cause all that I have is a hallelujah
Hallelujah
#gratitude
All my words fall short
I got nothing new
How could I express
All my gratitude?
I could sing these songs
As I often do
But every song must end
And You never do
So I throw up my hands
And praise You again and again
'Cause all that I have is a hallelujah
Hallelujah
i don’t have a patek, i have a seiko
i don’t drive a lambo, i drive an old volvo
i don’t live in a mansion, i’ve got a house in nature
i don’t wear fancy clothes, i wear comfortable clothes
maybe i’m not cool, but that’s okay.
the real prize for entrepreneurship, at least to me, is freedom, health, and people you love.
i keep a post-it that says:
status is loud. wealth is often quiet.
good reminder.
and if a lambo or a patek is your dream, that’s totally cool. you should go get it.
because a big part of why we become entrepreneurs is to chase what we want. it fires me up when other people are doing that, even if their version looks different than mine.
the problem is the internet trained us to believe there’s only one scoreboard.
because it’s easy to package. a lambo fits in a 10-second clip. a watch fits in a photo. virality loves symbols you can flash.
but my volvo starts every morning. my vintage seiko has a beautiful face. my house in nature doesn’t need impressing.
a big part of life is learning to tune out the noise and figure out your own signal.
and for me, the quiet version has always been the better deal.
in the end, the only real flex is figuring out your dream, and actually living it.