tool

I wrote in August 2010 (nine years ago!) about a product called the “money-band,” which was a cutting-edge elastic fastener (OK—household rubber band) marketed for the use of replacing the traditional bi or trifold wallet. I was enamored at the time by the idea of minimalism—and I guess I still am, though that word no longer crosses my mind¹—and it was enlightening for me to see an object that so demonstrably instantiated that “Hey—there are other ways to go about this 78.5-year trek. You’ve been doing it all wrong. Wake up.”

The money-band in particular was compelling for two reasons:

1. It was almost nothing—insubstantial, a relative filament—yet it served the same function as a standard wallet, which is to hold identification and money. Wallets can be elaborate. This was not. It blared the idea of doing the same (or more, or better) with less.
2. It was an evidential case of form governing function. Being so limited, it demanded a reassessment of what it meant to be a “wallet”—boundaries, working parameters, function—and from the there, it could only take shape as a more honed tool.

To elaborate some on that second point, my original money-band held three items: a debit card, my driver’s license, and around $20 in cash. That’s all. It could have held more, but not much more, and what else did I need? If I’d be able to navigate my way through 24 hours with nothing else on me, I was set. This was how I defined its core function. And I could do that with ID and cash. Common wallet-dwellers like receipts, rewards cards, photographs, and change—even at the time, in 2010—were superfluous and have since been obsolesced by digital movements of the past decade. The modern phone holds all of those items, and more. Which means: The bare-bones wallet is even more pertinent today. It was forward-thinking. It still probably is. Constraint can often force coherency, and paring down the wallet was invaluable exercise in critical thought that I still reach back to today.

Progression

I ditched the money-band in 2012 (after my stock of four overstretched) for a pair of standard, size #64 rubber bands chained together (how-to here). $7—the then going price—was exorbitant for a set of money-bands, and I had a full box of #64s idling in my filing cabinet. The chained RBs functioned almost as well. This wallet was finicky, though, with the two bands flopping every whichaway as I unfastened it. It was also more bulky and unsightly. Streamlined it was not. I used v2.0 for about five years too long, then one day became fed up with the two-strap system and sought out a single-band replacement, akin to the money-band. I landed on Alliance Pale Crepe Gold, size #82, and it’s a delight.

officedepot.com

These bands supersede the money-band in all ways I consider important. They retain their elasticity longer, the color is agreeably neutral, and the dimensions are about perfect, for me a least. If you carry a lot more in your wallet, you may need to size up in diameter.

The other functional change I made was in the way I carry cash. I previously wrapped my ~$20 in half around my cards. This was a flawed approach because it meant that I had to futz around with the cash each time I wanted to access my debit or credit card to pay for anything. And I used my cards to pay for virtually everything. So: The cash was in the way. It was a regular obstruction.

After realizing this, I folded my cash in half, twice (i.e., in fourth) (using this paper folder, which I adore) and stored it sandwiched between my cards. It was now out of the way, but still available, and the wallet became considerably smoother to operate. Despite being ostensibly simple, there is minutiae to this thing!

Contents-wise, 2010 vs. 2019:

2010

• debit card
• driver’s license
• less than $20 in cash

2019

• credit card
• driver’s license
• library card
• ~$20 in cash

The inclusion of a library card serves as a personal subliminal reminder to continually check out books, and read. I end up seeing it almost every day, and even though this doesn’t register mindfully (viz., “I am holding my wallet which contains my library card which has eclipsed my peripheral vision…”), I could probably substantiate with data² that I have been reading more since I started carrying my library card, and specifically since I positioned it on the outside of my wallet, in sight. (To clarify: I do not need my library card to check out materials, so I didn’t always carry it on me; in the past, I relied on my driver’s license instead.)

I switched from a debit to credit card for fraud protection. It’s a lot easier to get a fraudulent charge reversed on a credit card than a debit card, which gives me peace of mind when I’m at an unfamiliar gas station or otherwise traveling. Frankly, I assume there’s a possibility my card will be stolen each time I use it. So this decision is a precaution. Paying in cash would be another precaution, but carrying lots of cash is a liability as well.

Going Up: On Credit Cards

I’ve thought about this some, and I will try not to act like I’ve figured anything out (because I haven’t; what follows is conjecture) but here’s my sense: Credit cards levy an invisible tax on consumers. You should probably avoid them. But it may be too late to do so. To expound: Credit cards bind consumers in the following way:

1. Many consumers justify making purchases with credit cards (rather than cash or debit cards) because credit cards yield rewards. (For example, the Amazon card gives 3% cash back on Amazon purchases, other cards benefit travelers, etc.) In essence, consumers believe they are getting better deals by using credit cards over the alternatives. Consumer feel good—shrewd, even—about shopping this way.
2. Merchants are met on the receiving end with interchange fees (let’s say 2% per credit card transaction).
3. Merchants, if they are smart, raise prices across the board, because of interchange fees, by at least 2%. (In other words, they place the fee [and then some] on the consumer.) Consumers loathe surcharges, and it’s confusing to convey separate prices for credit and cash. So, to keep things simple, merchants raise prices all around.
4. Consumers end up paying more (not less) by virtue of widespread credit card use. They get worse deals, even when factoring in rewards.
5. At end: Credit cards virulently inflate the costs of goods and services for all who use them—and for everyone who eschews credit cards, too.

And, it should go without saying: Credit card users also expose themselves to a basket of other fees (e.g., interest fees, penalty fees, annual fees, cash-advance fees, etc.), which again outweigh the benefits the cards provide.

Script Flipped

To play devil’s advocate and not paint credit cards in a totally cynical light: There is overhead to processing cash. A customer counting cash from their wallet and handing it to a cashier who has to make change takes time. I estimate (from standing in line with a stopwatch at supermarkets…) that such exchanges are 10–20 seconds slower than electronic ones, from start to finish. Assuming a cashier makes $15/hour, that implies an initial 4–8¢ processing fee. Later, that exchanged cash may be removed from the cash register, counted again, and transported to a bank. These actions imply further processing fees. But, still, once the money has settled, you’re probably looking at something closer to a flat processing fee than the percentage-based interchange fee. I have to wonder if it ever isn’t cheaper for a merchant to process cash.

For a high-volume merchant, though, every second matters. If electronic payments allow them to process more transactions per minute, then tolerating the interchange fees is a no-brainer. So they are fine with the levy. Convenience attracts customers. And maybe merchants don’t inflate their prices to offset interchange fees.

Answers, Out

I don’t see any obvious ways to empower yourself as a consumer besides either

1. paying with cash (even though there is rarely a discount for paying this way; it’s commendable to opt out of the system) or
2. treating credit cards strictly as cash (and not the plastic casinos they are).

My reluctant advice is to use one credit card with no annual fee that yields either no rewards (if you can find one; they’re rare) or unvaried, negligible cash back. Don’t waste your time juggling multiple cards to earn rewards under specific buying conditions. I did this for a while, and it turns out I was severely misguided: The rewards I earned over a two-plus year stretch would have been nearly the same (and as paltry) if I’d elected to use any one of my three credit cards exclusively (rather than wield them selectively, as I did). So it was a waste of time to deliberate between cards on purchases. And, because each card had annual fees or one-off spending bonuses to chase, I likely justified purchases I otherwise wouldn’t have made to reach those benchmarks. (Which means, rewards included, I spent more than I would have if paying by cash. N.B.: You do not have to overspend by much to cannibalize your rewards entirely.)

I played the game, and failed. Unsurprisingly. The banks know better. Lessons learned: It’s far more productive to improve your income and/or not spend money in the first place. And watch out for anything that appears to be free. It’s too good to be true.

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¹ My current interests lie in efficiency and plasticity, rather than the more ascetic notion of getting by with almost nothing. (These interests do still beget neuroticism about the objects I consider worth assimilating into my routines.)

² I won’t because it’s not that important and I forget exactly when I made this change to the wallet. I do keep track of what books I’ve read and when, though.

Along with writing thoughts in a personal, private, solitary manner, I speak likewise alone (i.e., yes—I talk to myself). I use a voice recorder to capture these sessions of self-conversation as a complementary practice to pen & paper journaling—the convention is not far out of left field. I rarely listen back to the recordings, but knowing that I’m being recorded wrenches higher levels of coherence out of me. I find self-talk helpful for working through whatever I’m stuck on. Most of life is an attempt to not become too fixated on any specific agenda and to place oneself in a continual state of adaptation, moving forward. Ideally we’d all have therapists, or be capable of telling anyone anything at any time without fear of annihilation, but self-guided voice recording is what’s doable for me, and I’m more honest speaking (and writing) alone than in the presence of another person.

I started recording with what I already had available—the Voice Memos app on my iPhone—rather than acquire anything new to begin. Voice Memos is a good app. Start there if you’re interested in voice recorder therapy. It’s free, and you already own it.¹ Initiating a recording with Voice Memos is quick, playback is first-rate, and the sound quality is beyond adequate for this purpose. Plus, talking through a phone is second nature for most people. There’s a sense of intimacy speaking this way, with a familiar voice box to held your head. Which is weird. But it is important to feel comfortable enough to divulge the thoughts you’re otherwise not articulating in regular conversation.

That said, I prefer to not interact with my phone when possible (stage right: goofy quasi-Luddite), so after using Voice Memos for two months and liking it (the app, the functionality it provides) but not liking grasping for my phone even more than usual, I bought a dedicated voice recorder.

It’s okay. It’s tiny (only slightly larger than a small pack of gum), so it’s easy to carry around, which is great. If I’m going for a walk or drive, I’m likely to stick it in my pocket or toss it in my bag. The form factor is significant (because if it’s bulky, it’s staying home, and I won’t use it) and the device’s most redeeming factor. Playback is painful without the touch screen which is afforded to Voice Memos, and the sound quality is weak, too. However, I’m willing to put up with those shortcomings. The big problem with this voice recorder is that it’s slow to power on after it’s been off for a while (an hour or more). It takes ~thirteen seconds to start up cold. That’s an eternity. The delay is enough to make me not want to use it. The irony: I want to want to use this thing. It should be more responsive for how narrow a device it is. It doesn’t do all that much, so what it does, it should do well. Developing positive habits is difficult—I’m trying here!—and the start time is fatally preclusive.

What I’ve done to enhance it: I tweaked the factory settings so that the voice recorder never turns off. This doesn’t mean that it’s always recording; instead, it’s put into a pseudo-standby mode—with screen off, software on—after a short period, rather than shut off entirely. None of these specifics matter much; the takeaway is that it should be fast, nearing on effortless, and automatic (like clockwork) to get yourself doing whatever it is you’d like to establish as habit. The voice recorder could be a pen and paper or library book; it’s all the same.

To make this specific voice recorder (the Sony UX560) useable:

• Settings > Common Settings > Sleep Timer > OFF
• Settings > Common Settings > Auto Power Off > OFF

There are other settings you may want to configure, but those are the critical ones. This config allows you at all times to begin recording in ~three seconds, which is a lot faster than intermittently waiting thirteen. The battery lasts for days, but I recommend habitually charging the recorder when not in use, like overnight. (A long charging cable can help.) I also recommend equipping it with a large memory card (I went for 128GB), so space is seldom an issue.

Professional dictation machines (which are what doctors and lawyers use, and are slightly different than generic voice recorders) are likely more appropriate for what I’m trying to achieve; quickly recording and listening to myself. They are also way more expensive. (I figured a $70 voice recorder was worth an initial trial over a $500+ professional device because I was unsure if this habit would last. I foresee diminishing returns beyond my entry-level recorder, which is objectively worse than Voice Memos in several ways, though I prefer having the dedicated device.)

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¹ I’m presuming that all readers have iPhones. Whatever you have, use it.

Again, picking up in the vicinity of where I left off: I own a GoRuck GR1 (21L, black). I bought it in 2014, just as it was beginning to garner the internet’s ubiquitous cult of approval as Greatest Backpack of All Time (GBOAT). I can’t tell you if it’s the best backpack ever. It’s the only notable backpack I’ve owned aside from an L.L.Bean monogrammed Deluxe Book Pack which lasted me from middle school through college. I haven’t touched a TOM BIHN or any others in the $200+ price range. I bought the GR1 and moved on from the domain. But, I will say: The GR1 seems fine to me. It doesn’t get in my way; it holds what I want, the pockets are convenient, the zippers are smooth, and it’s comfortable to wear. (I should note that I removed the supportive plastic frame sheet; I prefer it without, though I tend to carry rather little around.)

I use the bag mostly for transporting my laptop and whatever else (notepads, a water bottle, candy, snacks) when I walk a half mile to and from my local library. To get there, I must venture on roads without crosswalks or sidewalks. Which is perilous, because I am certain I will be run over one day. (I had a very near miss in 2014 when cycling down a hill [Google Street View if you want to recreate the scene, head north] and a driver rolled through at a stop sign to make a left turn at an upcoming T-junction [I was on the major roadway; I had no stop and absolute right of way]. I’m having a slo-mo PTSD-type moment thinking about it. The car was a dark silver slash gunmetal Land Rover, and the driver was a well-to-do, immaculately-coiffed professional on his cell phone wearing mirrored sunglasses. It may as well have been Death himself. I yelled a yell for the ages¹ while clamping my caliper brakes with bone-white knuckles. My back wheel began to fishtail in variable road gravel. I was within feet of colliding head-on with Death, who nonchalantly puttered off, oblivious of one incoming cyclist, (business as usual),² and also within inches of skidding out into an indeterminable trail of biomatter. I steadied the rear wheel, but it—was—close. Ever since then, I’ve been understandably OCD about making sure I’m obnoxiously visible when I’m on the road, by foot or by bike.)

Because I often carry my bag on the library walk, I figured the most sensible approach to improving my visibility in this situation would be to affix a beacon semi-permanently onto my bag. Idea #1 was to attach a strobe to the outer webbing, because I already had a bike taillight that was compatible, but a light requires charging, and turning on, and turning off, etc. It would be fussy. I need a passive system. I want to be visible without thinking about it. Then (Idea #2) I learned that GoRuck sells reflective velcro bands (which, ProTip:, can be bought elsewhere for less). These bands are probably adequate for most people, but they only provide so-so visibility. Multiple pairs might do better; I only bought a single pair and wasn’t impressed. Remember: I’m neurotic about this, being seen; I believe the road will be my end. Idea #3 was to tie neon, reflective paracord to the webbing, since this in theory should be similar to but allow for more flexibility and better coverage than the bands. I could apply as much as I’d want, where I’d want. In practice, the cord was bulky, only mildly reflective, and couldn’t be secured firmly onto the webbing.

Finally, I discovered two glorious materials:

1. Pro-Gaff tape, which is great for daytime visibility, and
2. SOLAS tape, which is great for nighttime visibility.

Both tapes are thin, durable, lightweight, and flexible, and can be cut to shape. They’re (near) perfect for this application.

Anyway, as alluded to, sorry to bore you, (drumroll, please), this is my hi-vis GR1:

The SOLAS tape is applied directly onto the webbing. It is incredibly sticky. You could attach the SOLAS to the fabric instead of the webbing, in a different pattern, if you wanted. The Pro-Gaff tape is wrapped around the webbing. It doesn’t stick directly to the webbing or fabric, but it does stick tightly to its own adhesive.

I think the bag looks hideous, but I have received compliments from middle-aged women about it and I haven’t been run over yet.

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¹“FUCKKKKKK”
²To be fair, I did not use a headlight then, which may have been able to catch this driver’s eye. (I only used a taillight.) I bought a headlight immediately afterward.

I left off touching on digital bookmarks. I read books. Actual, physical books. Not the digital ones—the old technology. I am tempted by e-readers, though, starry-eyed with notion that they’ll get me reading more—because they are novel, and somehow, someway. This is misguided bunkum, I’m aware, so I’m reluctant to adopt, but: Book-reading is a habit I’m still trying to further ingrain. (Aren’t we all?) And I do need strategies for this century. I would so rather grab my phone, for example, given the vacuumed choice, than a book¹. It’s an unfair contest. This proclivity results partially because I can use my phone with one hand, whereas a book necessitates two.² I’m all-in reading a book. Phones, because of their form factor (small!), feign as if they lend to the art of multitasking, though I don’t manage to do anything besides be completely absorbed by my phone, while I’m on my phone, all that well. I also tend to think, in terms of commitment, of books as being fussy about time and focus, like I can’t casually flip open a book for two minutes and get anything out of it. The obverse of this is that phones are immediately gratifying, and they take no effort to operate. I can glance at my phone and feel strong emotion.

Anyway: Consequently, I have to skew the odds to get myself to read. The phone is one distraction. There are others, and there’s not all that much I’ve found can be done to sway the situation besides impose temporal and spatial constraints. My strats:

1. Borrow from a library (rather than own books). Due dates are strong motivators. (N.B., This is a temporal constraint.) (Also note my deliberate use “a book” and “my phone”—possessive indicators—above.)
2. Place books in sight, in the way, within reach. (N.B., This is a spatial [and visual] constraint.)

That’s basically it.³ And it’s chiefly the due date that gets me reading when I slack. However, when I do open a book, what took me a couple of years to realize is: I often forget where I left off, especially if it was in the middle of a chapter, and this causes your writer momentary panic and Extreme Visceral Consternation to have to regain his bearings. Shortness of breath, heart palpitations, sweaty palms—the works.⁴ The thought of rereading passages—and conjuring déjà vu—is enough to dissuade me (subconsciously) from opening a book and, less obviously, from reading short of a chapter at once (i.e., casually reading in spurts). So, this had (past tense now) been a constant obstacle that precluded me from reading: fear of losing my place. And this phenomenon occurred despite using a bookmark to denote where I’d left off.

I suppose now is the time to divulge my bookmarking history and habits:

My bookmarks are scraps of paper. I enjoyed doing origami as a kid, and a relic of that is that I still find myself folding bits of paper, more often than the average person, probably, so anyway: I was wont to fold paper into rectangles, which I stuck out from the tops of books. All store-bought and school-provided bookmarks I had when I was younger functioned this way—they jutted out and sometimes had a ribbon or tassel on the end. The reason for the bookmark protruding is so that the reader can readily gauge (or flaunt) their progress, I guess. I don’t know—I never thought about why I placed my bookmarks that way (I only mimicked what I saw others doing), and after giving it a moment’s thought, I realized this mannerism is rather nonsensical. So I reassessed the notion of bookmarking, and came up with a more precise, protrusionless method of doing it.

I want to tell, immediately, by looking at the position of my bookmark

1. which page (left or right), and
2. which line

I left off on. This is able to relay that:

Placing the tape in a corner affords four horizontal orientations for the bookmark. This is my key for the tape’s positioning, in relationship to the spine:

1. Inside: right page
2. Outside: left page
3. Facing up: above line
4. Facing down: below line

I now open books knowing exactly where I left off, and I am more apt to read for a minute or two (in short sessions, in spurts).

Make Your Own

Step 1: Fold and Tear/Cut Paper to Size

ProTip: I use a Teflon paper folder to get crisp creases.

Step 2: Tape

I like Pro-Gaff tape. It’s durable, and the neon orange is grossly lurid, which makes the bookmark’s orientation easy to distinguish (plus the bookmark itself difficult to misplace).

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¹Or engage in anything else remotely productive, for that matter. The phone trumps all in a bubble.
²I will concede that it’s sometimes possible to hold a book with one hand, but often I need two. Page turns always require a second hand.
³Good lightning, a comfortable chair, and quiet help, of course, but none of those drive causality. I am as likely to sit in a cozy position and doze off.
⁴EVC is a verified medical condition. Look it up.

I want to forget—selectively. That’s why I stick with Google Chrome, even though Safari outclasses it in almost every way. Safari is zippy and mindful of system resources; it doesn’t slurp battery, or ever kick on a laptop’s fan. It’s prompt and polite. I think I’d call it courteous. Even Safari’s dev tools are probably objectively better than Chrome’s at this point.

However, I prefer to surf the web like an amnesiac—like someone who continually forgets, stumbling out of cyberspace, crumpled cig still lightly smoldering, figure mussed, and past erased. And for this reason, my go-to is Chrome. (It can be customized more in this regard than Safari.)

I’m terrified of tracking and predictive services. They ingrain what should be arbitrary, evanescent behaviors. A spontaneous search shouldn’t become an online identity, but, in a self-fulfilling way, it can. To combat this, I only want my web browser to know so much about me at once. When it’s able to build a profile—really, a magnified Polaroid—and it knows where to navigate before I do, I’m done. Volition is shot. I develop browsing patterns that become impossible to break. This was me after predictive features became commonplace in the late 00s. I almost never cleared my history (does anybody?), thus every letter I typed in my location bar corresponded with a website I visited too often. I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t change. Web browsing like this is a Groundhog Day-like ad nauseam repeat experience, except nobody ever figures out that they’re a disgruntled news reporter, they don’t fall in love or even bonk a former classmate, and they become generally worse human beings the longer they’ve trod around.

So: I now start each session with a clean slate: No history. No bookmarks. No hocus-pocus predictive services. Drop me into faraway white-sanded Sahara, queue up my magic carpet, and allow me to fly.

Browser Config #1: Cryogenic Chrome

What This Does

This setup preserves your identity, but wipes your history after each browsing session. The author’s most common use case: I’ve visited a bunch of webpages I regret having visited, and these pages recur as suggestions whenever I type in the location bar; Command-Q Chrome and—zap—I start over.

To Enable

1. Install, Configure: Auto History Wipe

Install from the Chrome Web Store then configure options to taste. My configuration:

• Each time Chrome starts:
  • Check: Clear Browsing History
  • Check: Clear Download History
  • Uncheck: Clear Cookies
  • Check: Clear Website Data
  • Check: Clear Cache
  • Uncheck: Clear Saved Passwords
  • Check: Clear Form Autofill Data
• When you exit Chrome:
  • Uncheck: Clear Local Data

Again, I’m trying to keep myself recognized across websites, so that when I choose to navigate anywhere, I’m able to access whatever it is I want with minimal friction. (N.B., cookies are what preserve logins.)

2. Install: Empty New Tab Page

Install from the Chrome Web Store (no configuring necessary).

Without this add-on, the New Tab page will display Google services and your most visited websites (and thus ingrain tendencies). I prefer a blank screen.

3. Configure: Chrome Settings

Open Chrome’s preferences (from the menu bar or Command-,) and configure the following:

• On startup
  • Select: Open the New Tab page
• Advanced: Privacy and security
  • Deactivate: Use a prediction service to help complete searches and URLs typed in the address bar

“Open the New Tab page” is selected by default; you may not need to change this setting. Prediction services will be activated by default. Deactivate this setting.

4. Delete: Bookmarks

Open Chrome’s bookmarks manager (from the menu bar or Option-Command-B), export (if you’d like), and delete everything.

If you keep bookmarks, Chrome will populate them in the location bar (Command-L) as you type (despite decerebrating prediction services). I instead throw URLs I may later reference into text files; Simplenote, nvALT, and Notes.app are all adequate proxies for managing bookmarks.

Browser Config #2: Always Private Safari

What This Does

This setup turns Safari into a burner browser. It saves almost nothing; back and forward navigation work, but no accessible history is maintained, and cookies don’t even persist from tab to tab, let alone from session to session. This configuration is conducive for not lingering online too long.

To Enable

1. Configure: Safari Settings

Open Safari’s preferences (from the menu bar or Command-,) and configure the following tabs/settings:

• General
  • Safari opens with: A new private window
  • New windows open with: Empty Page
  • New tabs open with: Empty Page
• Search
  • Uncheck: Include search engine suggestions

2. Delete: Bookmarks

And, again, keep no bookmarks, otherwise they’ll appear as suggestions in the location bar too. (Access Safari’s bookmark manager from the menu bar or by Option-Command-B.)

I should note: Safari does have an analog to Chrome’s Auto History Wipe—Safari Cleaner—but it hasn’t been updated in years. Steer clear.

I jot notes, physically, on paper, by hand, often, though I produce work predominantly through the abstraction of a computer screen. I’m notably less productive when I don’t scribble—even just a few words or fragmented incoherencies—over the course of a day. I tend to make sense of whatever faster when I scratch into matter, which isn’t quite replicated by way of the ephemeral processes of electronic journaling or noting. The act is akin to catapulting globs of stagnant, fetid goo out of the skull and onto stiff bedrock. “Here we are, thoughts: face to face. I see you, now, and you are demonstrably mine.”

We are cavemen at heart, after all, and it’s impertinent to constrain a spatial being. The keyboard is a straitjacket of sorts; it limits movement. Try to dismount. Try pirouetting away. It’s not easy. The right brain yearns to express at least slightly more than which it can computationally. (Kersplat!) So jot!

Tools of Trade

I choose to jot with pens, gel- and click-style, in particular, because they are effective and low maintenance. But there are many pens one could choose from. Too many, in fact: It’s perilously easy to lose oneself in the multitudinous aisles of online pen retailers (see: “timesuck”). I demoed about twenty pens the past couple of years because firsthand was the only way I could translate the practical scope of these objects in working contexts—and I advise readers to do the same. JetPens’ popular section (under $10) is a logical place to start. (ProTip: Use their filters.)

My formerly gross collection has been pared down to two pedestrian pens, in two categories, selected scrupulously for specific ends:

For Writing Quickly

The Pilot G2 (0.7mm) is my go-to in most circumstances. I write fastest legibly with this pen. Rapidity is mainly all I care about—fast, fast, fast; go and a minute ago. The pen doesn’t yield the most consistent lines, but I find the ink clear to read and the point satisfying to push/pull/yank across a page.

I write quickly with this pen because of how it’s balanced. I’m able to hold the pen in a way, with fulcrum (i.e., grip) distanced from the gel point, that allows minimal effort to write legible characters. The technique is similar to that of “choking down” on a baseball bat to swing with more force but less control. In this case, the ballpoint moves further with each gesture of the hand at the expense of precision.

I also use the 0.5mm G2, but in less instances, like when I’m scribbling notes while reading. Results from this pen tend to be sloppy; thinner points expose deficiencies in handwriting. I don’t particularly enjoy using the 0.5, but it’s the appropriate pen at times.

For Writing Neatly, in Small Spaces

I use a goofy, hybrid setup in these scenarios: I’m partial to the ink from the Uni-ball Signo 307 (Micro Point)—it’s grand!—but I abhor the Signo body. It’s thick and unwieldy, not unlike the jumbo crayons I scrawled with as a kid. And the clicker is a bore, no fun. But the ink!—it makes me want to attempt art. It flows smoothly and is consistently neat. I’m sure I could reproduce The Sleep of Reason… if I tried.

So: I attempted to transplant the Signo ink refill (while donning a surgical mask and scrubs) (“SCALPEL!”) into other pen bodies that I prefer, and found it’s compatible with the Zebra Sarasa Push Clip (any size). I really like the Zebra Clip. Its clip mechanism is novel and I think flat-out better than that of the average pen, whose mechanism is more susceptible to breaking and doesn’t engage with a pocket nearly as well. (I confess: I delight in clipping the Clip; I swoon when a marginally fussy, unthought task suddenly becomes a conscious cinch.)

Furthermore, the Clip is conducive to neat handwriting because there is little distance between the gel tip and where the pen is comfortable to grip in hand. It encourages the user to “choke up.” This gives way to higher precision than the G2, at the expense of speed. (Which makes sense: The faster one writes, the sloppier the handwriting. The Clip, by way of form, slows the hand down.)

Clip ink is okay—0.5mm I find to be best—but Signo ink is more reliable.

The most common use-case for me, for this Franken-pen, is addressing envelopes, which I don’t do all that often, truthfully. It sees sporadic use, now, though I wrote with it more in the past.

Uni-ball Signo 307 (Medium Point) ink is also compatible with the Clip body, but I almost always prefer to write quickly than neatly at 0.7mm size, so I seldom operate this combo.

Hastily, On Paper

When structure seems apposite, I write on cheap, yellow legal pads. Otherwise, I jot on plain, unlined computer paper (lightweight stock, high brightness, e.g., 20lb / 96 bright) to afford my thoughts abandon.

And Where to Buy

I’ve included product links above that point to Amazon. I get a small kickback if you purchase from them, which allows me to continue producing this type of content. But: The Pilot and Uni-ball can be found for the lowest price at Walmart. That’s where I buy them. The Zebra Clip is only available online (and at specialty stores, I assume); JetPens had the best price on the Clip, last I checked.

PHILOSOPHY: Objects should be useful, meaning that they are subjected to regular velocity and displacement. Objects that remain motionless—frozen in space—should be difficult to understand and cause the mind to move. Objects that meet neither of these criteria are deadening to the perceptual faculties, and useless, and should be hidden from sight, momentarily or otherwise.

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THE SPARK: The past winter was cold. And dark. (Like most winters…) I prefer warmth. And light. (Like most people…) Something has got to give. Birds fly south to compensate; I’ve yet to enter migratory pattern. Until then, an artificial sun will do…

The past five years I’ve used a 250W incandescent heat bulb (photographed above), rather than a space heater, to keep myself (semi-)cozy while sitting at home in the Northeast as the temperature dips through March. I was turned onto this type of bulb by Dr. Raymond Peat who writes and talks of the red spectrum of light it emits. To encapsulate its reported importance, red light is conducive for life. It facilitates energy production. An extensive compendium of studies on the therapeutic effects of red light is in active compilation. The sun gives off red light. Etc. And I tend to feel “better” when I am getting strong incandescent light exposure during the dark months, numbers 9–3. When I go without it, (e.g., when I leave home for a few days), the light feels intense when I resume treatment. So I’m pretty convinced red light does at least something, likely net-positive. And even if the pro-metabolic effect I’m perceiving is merely psychological, I’m at least verifiably kept warm (the bulb itself gets hot to touch).

In short: The 250W incandescent bulbs throw heat and good light. Win, win—these are the two yens of winter. But the average light socket cannot handle 250W, so a typical lamp or ceiling light fixture will not accommodate the bulb, and really, the most practical option to enable household usage of this bulb is an appliance most contextually appropriate for use in a barn or garage: the brooder fixture.

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amzn.to

FREEZE: Brooder fixtures come with a clamp. The clamp affixes the fixture (i.e., shield, socket, and cord) to a plane surface like a windowsill (shown above), table, or two-by-four. (The fixture is otherwise hung if not clamped.) To communicate this in the most concise way possible: The clamps suck. They afford little on-the-fly adjustability. The fixture can be rotated some through a wingnut-tightened, knurled, quasi-ball socket located opposite the clamp end, but it is finicky to set and thus frustrating to often manipulate. If I could get the lamp ever pointing vaguely in my direction without immediately drooping, I left it and was thankful.

This meant the fixture was essentially fixed (static, frozen) yet I am often moving around, and want light in different zones, nearer or farther from me, precisely aimed, etc., so it was practically (in practical terms) incongruous with how I dwell. I also wanted multiple lamps beaming during the winter (more bulbs equals more warmth), and I had no space near my desk to mount a second clamp lamp. This was a problem that demanded a solution. I needed to think.

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MOVE, MEANT: After multiple mockups and a prototype or two, I arrived at this: the fully-adjustable, easily displaceable red-light (or whatever type of light) lamp. What is so great about this design is that it longs to be moved and adjusted, unlike the clamp lamp. It welcomes interaction. The feet can be nudged to tweak the horizontal beam angle. The arm slides up and down for height adjustment. And the tilt is easily fine-tuned too. It is mobile. It is concise. It is elastic. The lamp is an embodiment of the way of life.

Two stationed around my desk keep me warm during the winter. During the summer, one ten feet away allows me to see. When the days are shorter, the light shines longer. Whenever I read, it’s on.

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PARTS LIST:

• Caps
• 3-Way
• Sling Tee (see: height adjustability)
• Union (allows the fixture to rotate 360° along an x-axis)
• Reducing Tee (or a standard tee, depending on the fixture)
• Shock Cord (for holding the fixture inside the tee) (paracord can be more suitable, depending on the model of fixture used)
• 10′ 1-1/2″ Sch. 40 PVC Pipe (JM Eagle brand from Home Depot is preferable) (bring sling tee to store to check fit before buying) (sand labels off w/ moist 220-grit sanding sponge, then clean w/ original Windex + old towel)
• Fixture (remove sticker residue w/ acetone + nylon-bristle toothbrush, then clean w/ original Windex + soft towel) (if this fixture is unavailable, any rated for 250W should suffice)
• Bulb
• Extension Cord (optional) (but recommended)

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DIMENSIONS:

• Feet: 12-1/2–13″ (feet can be disproportionate in length if light is placed parallel against wall) (photo below)
• Leg: ~5′ with 10–20° angled top
• Sling Tee to Union: 1-15/16 to 2-1/4″ exposed distance (pipe length depends on insertion depth)
• Union to Reducing Tee: 1-1/8 to 1-1/2″ exposed distance (ditto)
• Shock Cord: ~13-1/2″ (secure through holes in base of fixture w/ overhand knots, then lace through and pull around tee)

(Cut pipe w/ miter saw for precision, or by hand w/ hacksaw.)

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A note on stability:

This is essentially a tripod. The center of mass of the overhanding arm piece (which can be gauged by removing and balancing it on one finger) should drop midway between the three ground contact points of the base. Traditional tripods function the same way—center of mass equidistant from ground points—but with an equilateral foundation rather than the isosceles configuration used here.

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YOUR TURN: See what you can make from this. Build it, and try to improve upon the design. Do not fret too much over precision: Start. Cutting. Pipe. And once completed: Email me! Send me your photos and ideas!

My objectives were to (1) use as little material as possible (to keep costs, weight, and volume down) while (2) maintaining a high level of adjustability. Meeting these criteria would help make a reality my intention for the lamp to incorporate movement. I went through a few iterations before hitting on this design. The sling tee was a part I was not originally aware existed (it’s not carried at Home Depot which is where I went initially to survey for available pipe fittings), and by chance the specific brand of sling tee I’d ordered online fit perfectly with the pipe I had on hand (this is not always the case, I’ve found out; the 1-1/2″ advertised diameter can vary a millimeter or more, which makes all the difference with regard to fit).

The lamp could use an on–off switch. Currently the plug controls the power: plug into outlet (power), unplug from outlet (no power). It’s not the most elegant mechanism. A remote control outlet is one alternative. It would probably offer a huge improvement in usability. (I haven’t bought one yet to try out for whatever reasons.) A foot switch extension cord is another idea I’ve entertained cursorily. Readers are invited to investigate further.

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BONUS: Adapted for a red light device.

pcmag.com

Having immersed myself in the WordPress publishing platform and its accompanying coding languages for intensive stretches while working on websites over the years, 2009–17, specifically, for posterity, (in case any of my fervid readers are wondering), I gained appreciation, disdain, and affinity for the various aspects of writing computer code and what it—computer code—can do and the extreme leverage it can provide. The programming languages used for writing code are similar to written languages (e.g., English, Mandarin, Tuvaluan, Crustacean) in that they serve as means of communication possessing inherent flexibility and thus can be deployed discretionally. Conversation between human and computer can proceed circuitously, linearly, verbosely, or concisely to the same end, much how an author can dispositionally lead a reader to feel, think, or behave a certain way. Here, amidst the 1s and 0s, the objective is to make the computer act a certain way.

To demonstrate the latitude a programming language can provide for achieving an end, below is CSS (cascading style sheets) code, which controls the appearance of an element on a webpage:

#sample-element {
border-top: 1px solid black;
border-right: 1px solid black;
border-bottom: 1px solid black;
border-left: 1px solid black;
}

This can be written instead, for the same effect, as:

#sample-element {
border: 1px solid black;
}

Lo! The four-liner condenses into a single property–value pairing.

Generally, when coding, the ideal is to have written less to achieve the end, whatever it may be, as demonstrated above—but for the sake of clarity for the human who might later be attempting to parse or revise the code, (which human may be and is often you), more lines, characters, and specification can be preferable. Another reason for the long-windedness: manipulation. In the first code block above, defining the top, right, bottom, and left borders separately allows more readily for the customization of each—that is to say, individually; during software development, it’s common to incessantly tweak attributes in the search of “just right.” Above, it’s totally plausible that (1) various border colors, types, and widths were fiddled with, (2) a rather unimaginative 1-pixel solid black border was deemed satisfactory for enclosing the element and (3) by the time the code was deployed to the production setting (i.e., live) the four discrete border attributes remained in the code, uncondensed into the superior one-liner.

This is ok. Yes, the shorthand definition is more elegant, but the form factor here matters little to the end-user (the person visiting the webpage where this style sheet is located). In the 90s or even 00s, the compactness of front-facing code like this was a bigger deal because (A) the internet was slow (think: download speeds under 56Kb/s) and (B) the front-facing code must be downloaded. (The attentive reader will have pieced together that the more compact the code, the faster it is downloaded.) But with download speeds averaging over 1000Kb/s globally now, in 2018, the penalty for an inflated style sheet is unnoticeable. Case in point: The main style sheet for this website at the time of writing is 10KB (kilobytes; 1KB = 8Kb) and I made no efforts to streamline its code. On a below average internet connection, this equates to a less than 0.1s download time. Comparatively, the “organ donor” photo of myself is 19KB, the thumbnail images on the homepage add up to somewhere around 200KB, the typefaces alone account for 325KB…and very quickly the 10KB style sheet is trending towards nothingness and a consequential state of nirvana. This file, the style sheet, also loads only once and is cached (stored for X period of time locally on the device) by most browsers. It is a drop in the digital ocean. So I do not enjoy writing CSS because the language tends to neither reward nor demand scrupulosity of me. Until internet connectivity is throttled to oblivion, which, who knows, may happen, and the size of a webpage becomes relevant again, I will continue to write lackadaisical, semi-bloated, -sloppy CSS.

Other languages that interact with databases (i.e., query them) I feel do reward the meticulous and attentive programmer for writing “better” code. For those unfamiliar with databases, they are essentially spreadsheets: rows and columns with cells full of data. Querying a database retrieves the data contained within these cells under specified parameters. To pull data from a database takes time. To process that data for display on a webpage also takes time. This runtime, or “wait time,” can actually be felt—verifiably perceived—by the end user in many instances, unlike the style sheet download mentioned above, because the querying process typically happens on the constrained server-side. It can only go so fast, and until it has completed, the end-user is left idling with a white screen in their face. Faster internet does nothing to mitigate the wait time. Until the webpage is generated, it cannot be loaded.

As a workaround, webpages are often served statically, which involves pre-generation, storage, and then retrieval of the pre-generated pages. This eliminates the runtime. In other cases, such as when logged into a website or app, the content will be served dynamically to tailor the display. This means the webpages will be generated on the fly and necessitate querying and data processing—wait time. The wait time hurts in two ways:

1. Websites become less functional the more slowly they serve content (humans don’t like waiting)
2. The slower the website, the higher the runtime (and thus web hosting costs)

Since querying and data processing are often what bottleneck the transmission of a webpage to the user, I think it’s especially important to optimize the two for any website that draws traffic or anticipates longevity. To illustrate conservatively: Suppose 0.1 seconds can be shaved off of a query and that query is executed 1,000 times per day. This equates to 100 seconds of runtime saved per day, which adds up to roughly 1 hour per month and 10 hours per year. (These are plausible figures for a low-traffic website.) I am absolutely content to emerge with a gain of this magnitude. And it’s often possible to reduce the runtime of a rogue query further than one tenth of a second. The savings can be dramatic. In the vacuum of a single runtime instance, the time-savings aren’t always noticeable, but the repeated occurrences add up. I won’t delve into the language of queries, like I did above for style sheets, but strategies for optimizing queries often involved eliminating queries (e.g., running them less often by storing results for a period of time) or tweaking comparison methods (e.g., resolving from the opposite angle). Shrewder processing of the data returned by queries increases efficiency as well.

So: I became particularly interested in page generation optimization after realizing the tangible utility of and return for deconstructing queries. A day spent remediating a slow query into a more lively one would translate into a net savings of hundreds or thousands of hours.

en.wikipedia.org

After burning out on my job and the internet in general last fall (see: “Drugged Out”), the physical, actual, verifiable (“Pinch me—ouch.”) environment around me materialized into view as I distanced myself from technology, and through the lens of query optimization I realized I could reduce the time and energy I spent on recurring tasks within this environment—the tangible one—much like how I felled inefficiencies within the digital realm. Actions or tasks are essentially the same as queries. What we are trying to reproduce—or, more analogously, “retrieve” (to borrow from the digital sense above)—are specific states with regularity and precision. Consumed during these real-life processes are resources too. For the sake of example: I boil water at least once per day. State retrieved: water @ 212°F. To refresh to this state from ambient water requires X time and Y energy, which variables hinge predominantly on the construction of the heating vessel (material, shape, capacity, etc.) and type of stove (gas, electric, conduction, etc.). By manipulating these factors (vessel and stove), water can be brought to a boil at varied rates—and why not attempt to raise the speed, (reduce the time), if possible, for a comparable amount of, or even less, energy? (“He’s right!”) Rather than modify my stove, I upgraded cookware. Implied with the acquisition of a new, more efficient pan is a moderate upfront cost, but if I am saving (1) time, because the water boils faster, and (2) energy, because less electricity or gas are spent, why not invest? The water only needs to come to a boil 30 seconds faster for the pan to save me 3 hours per year, and at that point, one year in, I’ve already seen a comfortable return on investment; the water does boil at least that much faster, and I value my time. To make this switch seems like a complete no-brainer to me in retrospect, and I wish I acted sooner. I would be remiss not to mention that there are other considerations inherent to any item besides how quickly it functions—read: you can’t microwave everything—but time is often the prevailing factor. Energy can be renewed; time cannot.

To express the idea of speed, or time-saving, in another format, listed below are generalized comparisons of common objects, concepts, and attributes. Each should be situationally scrutinized, selected, and discretionally employed:

• writing: click pens are faster than capped pens
• stationery: notepads are faster than journals
• laundry: hanging is faster than folding
• enclosures: the zipper is faster than the button
• footwear: slip-on is faster than tie-on
• containers: transparent and bare is faster than opaque and adorned
• objects in motion: lightweight is faster than heavy

The usual solution-seeking pattern is to deconstruct an action, identify its components, and reduce the friction precluding its end state. Forming a comparison base like this can help ramify creative channels. There is infinite possibility. In the case of boiling water, eliminating friction (or, more accurately, conserving energy) saves time. This strategy can also be used to form new, positive habits, rather than just reduce the time it takes to complete old ones. (Or, conversely, by increasing friction, bad habits can be broken.) To provide another example, which demonstrates habit forming and incorporates bullet points #1 and #2: I write down thoughts daily. (“Dear diary…”) Or I try to at least. I’ve found that if I don’t, I get stuck. Repeated thoughts will fester in my brain. I enter states of helplessness, inaction and delusion without regular extrication. It can get bad. I tend to perceive issues more clearly when they’re a foot or two away; left in my own head, I’m blind. And there’s something specifically therapeutic about transmuting these thoughts in my own handwriting, so I scribe with pen and paper rather than an electronic device. The pebble in my path is that I’m rather kind of unenthusiastic about recording these thoughts. It’s at times painful to confront reality or what I’ve initially perceived to be reality, and so I will avoid doing so. Unless I have paper sitting out in plain sight, within grasp, ready to be written on, and pen, too, I’m unlikely to write—so that’s precisely what I do: I leave an open-faced notepad with clean sheet on the top of my desk with engaged pen alongside ready to jot. Bound, covered journals require too much fuss; I can’t be bothered to flip open to my last spot. Serendipitously, the sheets of the notepad necessitate displacement once filled (i.e., tearing off), adding further distance to the thoughts. (“What’s in the past has passed.”) This may sound like psychobabble but in practice I’ve found the philosophy to be sound. Capped pens I am aware can be left uncapped; click pens have the edge in portability, which can matter, but this is largely a personal preference. To get to this point, where journal-keeping has become a sustainable habit, for me, I identified the high-friction aspects of the activity—(1) retrieval of paper and (2) engagement of pen—and attenuated them. There’s more to it than that, but this is enough to be illuminative.

In short, I am far more likely to establish a desired habit when the end state is nearer (e.g., with faster cookware, I am more likely to cook; with faster stationery, I am more likely to write) and it is easier to get started (think comparably of the activation energy required for a chemical reaction to proceed). The ability to establish and sustain new habits leads to personal growth—increased awareness and heightened potential.

To bookend with an extrapolation on the role of efficiency: As blatant hold-ups in action are addressed, previously imperceptible bottlenecks surface. These subsequent hold-ups warrant remediation, induce new ones, and so on. (Picture a metaphysical game of whack-a-mole.) As this sequencing progresses, and perceptual mastery is borne, habitual attentions begin to shift. Words like “routine” and “menial” give way to “variable” and “meaningful.” The less time and energy required for an individual to sustain an existence, the more favorable the conditions for them to flourish.

Strategies for identifying routine actions involve distancing oneself from them. Distancing inherently involves velocity (see: time) (see: space) and displacement. Traveling helps disrupt routines or forces the performance routines in new situations, which can highlight or make more obvious what is limiting about them. If traveling isn’t possible, time and space can still also be manipulated by varying the order, frequency and direction in which tasks are performed in their home environment. Writing, talking with a friend, and speaking into a voice recorder are other methods for distancing oneself from a situation and interpreting it in a new form.

The aforementioned “programming languages” are accompanied by mostly static manuals detailing the limited number functions and components the language possesses, which, when sequenced together strictly, can draw or manipulate query results; the real world is in flux, undefined, infinitely detailed, and incomprehensibly complex. But just as the database query and its corresponding functions may stifle the request for a webpage,—making it inefficient, less functional, and less likely to be used,—so do the minutiae of routine tasks preclude end states, and both are worth scrutiny.

By way of this process of translocating digital ideals to the physical plane, I’ve come to realize: Everything is kind of the same and reflects back what we see in it,—“If the doors of perception were cleansed…,”—and with each experience the apertures shrink or grow.

In my quest for minimalism and simplicity, one of the first areas of my life I looked to reduce was my wallet.

I’ve never kept a titanic trifold, but it was always big enough to bother me when I sat down… forcing me to wag myself into a position where it wasn’t as much of a pain in the butt (literally).

Keeping it in my front pockets hasn’t been an option the past couple years because that would compromise the nice fades I’ve got going on with my jeans… no way I would ever ruin them with some bogus wallet fade.

After some searching on mnmlist (the guide to all things minimal), I came across the solution:

The money-band.

I was sold. I didn’t think there was any way a “wallet” could get any more unobtrusive than that. I confidently clicked away $5 and eagerly awaited the day my money-band would arrive in the mail.

When it finally came, I felt like I used to on Christmas mornings when I’d rip open a present in hopes of a new video game, only to find socks…

… I thought the money-band was going to be made of some fancy stretchy material, devised by a team of chemists and physicists, fabricated for the sole purpose of being the single greatest money holding device known to man…

… but it’s just a dinky rubber-band. I paid $5 for a rubber-band.

Some son of a gun was able to reposition a rubber-band (a 2 cent product) as a cutting edge $3.99 product and I fell for it.

Well played.

In any case, it does its job. I now only carry 1 debit card, my license, and less than $20 in cash, all snuggly held together by my money-band.

This bundle is extremely light weight and I often have to double check to make sure it’s still in my pocket… that’s how discreet it is.

It is kind of awkward getting your money out the first few times you use it though… you have to get used to pulling the band off and not fumbling your cash and cards looking like the dufus I did the first time I used it.

It’s only supposed to last upwards of a year before it deteriorates, as it is just a rubber-band. I’ll probably end up getting another one after mine breaks… I don’t think it’s worth the time to scavenge for a similarly sized rubber band at Staples when this one fulfills my needs.

If you end up getting one or start using a rubber-band, let me know what you think.

… and don’t let Constanza influence you otherwise.

-Adam