I started noticing this while listening—again—to Larry Carlton’s solo on “Kid Charlemagne.” Most people hear pleasant background music. If you play guitar, you hear tension and restraint. Harmonic precision. Control. The way he builds and releases pressure.

You hear mastery.

That’s when it hit me: this is what it’s like to listen carefully to anything.

Most of us don’t.

ADHD Forced Me to Slow Down

For years, I thought I did. I was quick. Engaged. Had something to say—often clever, sometimes funny, usually well-received. In meetings, I could shape a thought fast and land it clean.

I thought that was attention.

It wasn’t.

An ADHD diagnosis forced something different. Before that, my mind ran from thought to thought and I assumed that was normal. Medication didn’t make me profound. It slowed the sprint just enough for me to notice what I was actually doing.

I wasn’t listening.

I was waiting to talk. Preparing my solo.

Recognition vs. Discernment

I thought the issue was recognition—people not noticing what was hard. But the deeper issue was discernment. Accurate perception without inflation or dismissal.

Psychologists studying resilience have found that people who can accurately acknowledge their own progress handle stress better and sustain change longer. But accuracy is a discipline.

Richard Feynman put it bluntly: “The first principle is that you must not fool yourself—and you are the easiest person to fool.”

Listening turned out to be how I stopped fooling myself.

Not cheerleading. Not self-criticism. Witness.

Stepping Off the Stage

So I stopped sharing for a while.

That felt like withdrawal. I always have something to say. And not bad stuff. Insightful stuff. Things that sound smart. Things that make people laugh. Stepping back felt like voluntarily giving up oxygen.

But in the quiet, something changed.

Instead of composing my next insight, I started listening for what old-timers call “the melody of the words.” Not just content. Tone. Fear inside the theology. Longing inside certainty. Pain inside confidence.

I remember sitting there one night, arms folded, thinking, “This guy has no idea what he’s saying.” And then realizing—I didn’t either.

And I heard something uncomfortable.

I was harsh.

Internally dismissive. Quick to judge phrasing, belief, metaphors—especially the God language. I told myself I valued nuance. In reality, I was practicing superiority.

The ears I thought were trained were tuned to critique.

Everyone Is Talking From a Private Context

Here’s what listening longer revealed: most people are speaking from a context no one else fully knows.

They’re stitching together private history, regret, hope, fear—trying to make sense of it in real time. Of course it doesn’t always sound coherent. Of course language gets clumsy.

They’re the only ones who know where the danger was.

Just like the guitarist hearing the harmonic tension inside the phrase, only the person living the life knows the moment everything almost went wrong. The morning they almost didn’t get up. The resentment they didn’t act on.

From the outside, it can sound like noodling.

From the inside, it’s survival. Sometimes mastery.

The Paradox of Attention

Here’s the strange part: the more I practiced noticing real effort in other people—the consistency, the restraint, the small technical shifts—the more I developed the ability to see my own without distortion.

Edward Deci and Richard Ryan call it competence feedback. Specific recognition of real skill. We need that.

But sometimes the only qualified observer is you.

And you’re not qualified until you learn to listen.

Something else shifted too. As I trained myself to hear the melody underneath words—even words I disagreed with—I found I could connect with people I used to silently argue with.

The God language didn’t change. My beliefs didn’t change. But I could hear the human need inside the phrasing. The gratitude. The relief. The attempt to make meaning.

When you hear that, it’s hard to stay harsh.

What Quiet Transformation Looks Like

Quiet transformation doesn’t look dramatic.

It looks like restraint. Like fewer interruptions. Like letting someone finish a thought. Like noticing when your internal commentary sharpens into contempt—and choosing not to follow it.

It looks like stepping offstage long enough to hear the room.

You’re the only one who knows what you’ve overcome.

But you might not know it either if you’re always performing.

Sometimes the work isn’t becoming more articulate.

It’s becoming quiet enough to hear what’s actually happening—inside you, and inside the person sitting across from you.

And once you develop those ears?

You don’t need to win the room.

You just need to listen

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Letting go gets a fair amount of discussion in recovery circles. It’s the kind of thing you’ll hear over coffee after a meeting or scribbled in the margins of a Big Book.

“Let go and let God.”

“Hold on loosely.”

“Detach with love.”

Recently I wrote down a phrase that surprised me: developing a deeper sense of letting go. Not letting go but developing a deeper sense of it.

That wording stuck with me. Because it points to something important:

Letting go isn’t an event. It’s a practice.

It’s not a single gesture—it’s a lifelong deepening.

Not Just Letting Go, but How You Let Go

Early in recovery, letting go meant white knuckling through cravings. Deleting phone numbers. Avoiding old haunts. Biting my tongue. It was surface-level—and it needed to be. Survival lives at the surface.

Over time, though, I learned that real freedom comes from a different kind of letting go. One that happens inside. Releasing control. Letting go of outcomes. Accepting that I don’t know what’s best for everyone least of all myself sometimes.

Now, 38 years later, I see that letting go isn’t something I did once. It’s something I keep doing. And I keep discovering new places where I’m still holding on.

What Do We Hold Onto?

We hold onto:

· The illusion of control.

· The need to be right.

· Old identities that no longer serve us.

· Resentments that feel protective.

· Expectations we didn’t even know we had.

Sometimes we hold on so tightly we don’t notice until something, or someone, opens our hand.

Depth Has Layers

A deeper sense means you’re no longer just changing behavior. You’re letting go emotionally, psychologically-sometimes existentially.

· Letting go of managing other people’s reactions.

· Letting go of needing credit.

· Letting go of urgency.

· Even letting go of what “letting go” is supposed to look like.

It doesn’t mean you stop caring. It means you stop clinging. Not detachment in the cold sense—detachment in the wise sense. You don’t carry what isn’t yours. You don’t force what doesn’t want to move.

When Different Traditions Agree

I studied philosophy in college, and I’m struck by how often different traditions arrive at the same place. The Stoics talked about focusing only on what’s within our control. Buddhism points to attachment as the source of suffering. AA says, simply, “turn it over.”

The older I get, the less these sound-like theories and the more they sound like instructions for peace.

What I’m Still Letting Go Of

Even now, I catch myself:

· Holding on to control in my family life.

· Wanting applause instead of quiet self-respect.

· Trying to prove something long after it matters

So, I come back to that phrase: developing a deeper sense of letting go.

It reminds me that I’m not done. And that’s not failure—it’s growth.

People love to sound like they know what they’re talking about.

Whether it’s politics, parenting, recovery, or what the Big Book “really says” — confidence has a way of taking the microphone. I’ve spent nearly four decades in recovery meetings, and I’ve noticed something over and over again: people speak with absolute certainty about things they don’t actually know.

And it’s not just an AA thing. You see it in boardrooms, family gatherings, news panels, and comment sections. Confidence travels fast. Accuracy often walks.

In recovery, that gap between confidence and truth can be dangerous — because newcomers are listening. But this isn’t only about recovery. It’s about how we, as humans, confuse speaking with authority for actually knowing. And what happens when we don’t have the humility to say, “I don’t know.”

Thinking Out Loud Has Value

Before I sound too harsh, there’s real value in talking through things before you fully understand them.

Sometimes you don’t know what you think until you hear yourself say it. The act of putting confusion into words, of trying to explain your experience to other people, can clarify things you couldn’t see when it was all just noise in your head.

I’ve done this. You’ve probably done this. Someone shares about their resentment, and as they’re talking, they suddenly connect it to something from childhood they hadn’t thought about in years. Or they start explaining why they’re angry and realize halfway through that they’re actually scared.

This is legitimate. AA meetings create space for this kind of exploration. So do honest conversations, support groups, and late-night talks with friends. It’s one of the ways we figure out who we are.

When We Confuse Support Groups for Therapy

Here’s a phrase you’ve probably heard: “This is just like therapy.”

No. It isn’t.

Therapy has trained facilitators, ethical guidelines, and accountability. Someone is responsible for what happens in that room.

Support groups — whether recovery meetings, peer circles, or open forums — often don’t. They have passionate volunteers, good intentions, and a format. But when someone shares something demonstrably false or dangerous, it often just hangs in the air, unchallenged.

And “take what you need, leave the rest” assumes everyone has the ability to tell which is which. Someone vulnerable and scared may not.

Why Insight Alone Doesn’t Change Behavior

Here’s an uncomfortable truth: having an insight doesn’t guarantee change.

Someone can have a profound realization — finally see why they keep sabotaging relationships, or recognize a pattern they’ve been repeating for decades. It can feel like a breakthrough. It can inspire others in the room.

And then they go home and do the same thing they’ve always done.

Insight and action are not the same. We love clean cause-and-effect stories: “I said this, then I got better.” Real growth is messier. It happens in layers, and not always on the timeline our storytelling brains want.

There’s a reason entire schools of psychotherapy have struggled with this exact problem. Decades of research have shown that traditional insight-based therapy — the kind where you talk and understand yourself better — can increase self-awareness but often doesn’t lead to lasting behavior change by itself. Therapists know this. It’s why so many modern approaches pair insight with action: skills practice, accountability, or structured change plans. Because understanding isn’t the same as doing.

Why Memory Isn’t a Perfect Recorder

Every time we tell a story, we’re not playing back a recording — we’re reconstructing it.

Details shift. Gaps get filled in. Narratives solidify over time. You end up believing the story you’ve told, even if it’s not entirely accurate.

This doesn’t make us liars. It makes us human.

And when belief itself becomes therapeutic — like believing a particular ritual, phrase, or step “kept you sober” — that belief can feel as powerful as fact. Sometimes it’s placebo. Sometimes it’s coincidence. Sometimes it’s both.

The Power of Saying “I Don’t Know”

One of the most helpful things you can say in any group — recovery or otherwise — is “I don’t know.”

Not “I don’t know, but here’s my theory.” Just “I don’t know.”

It’s honest. It’s humble. It models something we don’t see enough of: intellectual integrity.

The people who actually know what they’re talking about tend to speak with nuance and uncertainty. They’ve seen enough to know that what worked for one person may not work for another. They’ve been humbled by experience.

The loudest voices are often the least examined.

What This Means Beyond Recovery

This isn’t just about AA meetings. It’s about how humans behave when we’re scared, eager to help, or just in love with the sound of our own certainty.

We can honor the value of talking things out without pretending we’ve got it all figured out. We can recognize the power of insight without confusing it with transformation. We can respect stories without worshiping them as fact.

Before you speak with authority — in a meeting, on a stage, or at your kitchen table — pause.

Ask yourself if you actually know what you’re talking about.

And if the honest answer is “not really”? Maybe say that out loud.

Humility is contagious too.

---

📝 I’ve been sober since 1987 and have spent thousands of hours in recovery rooms. Many of the lessons I’ve learned there apply far beyond sobriety — they’re about being human.

If this resonated with you, consider:

• 🔸 Visiting Pause When Agitated for more recovery reflections

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• 💬 Sharing your thoughts in the comments — I’d love to hear them.

Humility, honesty, and curiosity go a long way.

— Jim Stalker

As a child, my dad would send me into the liquor store to pick up cigarettes and a Racing Form. Back then, Eatontown, NJ, was small enough for that.

Growing up near Monmouth Park Racetrack in Eatontown, I was immersed in horse racing lingo early on. Today, as I turn 65, I find myself reflecting on my own "clubhouse turn"—that crucial moment in a race when you've covered enough ground to glimpse the finish line, but still have plenty of track ahead.

What I’ve Been Thinking About

In the lead-up to today—an undeniably significant milestone in anyone's life—I've been grappling with a surprising revelation: I'm this old, and yet I still know so little about myself. How can I not know what I truly love? What moves me? What makes me come alive?

This uncertainty has led me to realize that what truly matters isn't the validation we receive from others, but rather:

• Staying curious about ourselves and the world around us

• Nurturing relationships that challenge and support us

• Finding joy in everyday moments, even as we search for bigger answers

My Mantra Going Forward

Through months of reflection, I've distilled what I want from this next chapter into three principles:

1. Know Thyself: Not just as a philosophical ideal, but as a daily practice of self-discovery

2. Apply Thyself: Because knowledge without action is like a Racing Form without a bet

3. Go Where the Love Is: I've learned that life's too short for unnecessary discord—seek out people and places that nurture your growth

What This Means in Practice

Living by this mantra means pushing through comfortable routines and familiar resistances. It means trying new things, even when they're uncomfortable. Meeting new people, even when it's easier to stick with familiar faces. Learning new ideas, even when they challenge long-held beliefs.

The beauty of this approach is that it creates a positive cycle: as we learn more about ourselves, we can better apply our talents, which naturally draws us toward supportive communities and meaningful connections.

A Question for You

As I round this particular clubhouse turn, I'm grateful to have you along for the journey. I'd love to hear about a time when you discovered something unexpected about yourself—what prompted that discovery, and how did it change your path? Your insights might just help illuminate the track ahead for all of us.

– Jim

As I sat in my living room, watching my son navigate the complexities of his mid-college life, a moment of clarity struck me. For years, I had been the go-to guy for advice, at least in my mind, whether solicited or not.

In some cases, my direct and personal encouragements had been welcomed and later positively acknowledged, as in the case when I encouraged a colleague to quit his job to start his own business. But these years of writing self-help articles on WordPress all went out into the ether without much (if any) feedback.

So, in that stark moment seeing my son’s frustration, I realized how little my well-intentioned words had truly helped this most important person in my life. I had given him so much heartfelt advice across the years that, for whatever reason, wasn’t making him either happy or clearer on his path.

This epiphany marked the beginning of a journey from being a compulsive advice-giver to beginning a journey toward becoming a more mindful listener. And while this journey is profound to me, I must admit that, especially in the publishing arena, there is no shortage of advice that just keeps on coming. And as well-intentioned and sincere as it may be, much of it is either stating the obvious or some not-so-thinly veiled self-promotion.

So maybe the lesson I’m getting might have broader application. In a society that seems to value quick opinions and assertive voices, the wisdom of silence and learning to simply listen without responding can easily be overlooked. The best advice is most taken when it comes from deep within. And letting people sit discerning their own thoughts is the best “advice,” gaining confidence in their decision-making.

In other words, the best advice is no advice.

The Wake-Up Call: A Father’s Crisis

The crisis that sparked this transformation involved our son. A bright kid with great grades and a partial athletic scholarship to a regionally prestigious school, he seemed set for success. But two significant problems arose, thwarting a slam dunk.

First, the COVID-19 pandemic turned what should have been a magical college experience into a series of lockdowns and online classes. Instead of mingling with peers out on the quad, he was isolated in his dorm, attending virtual lectures. The few times he was interacting with fellow students, there was social distancing and masks in force. To put it mildly, his college experience and many others from that first COVID wave was a dumpster fire.

Second, I had forgotten about the many details of my own college experience, creating an overly rosy (and imaginary) ideal that I expected him to follow. I had encouraged him to choose a major that would guarantee a good job, suggesting Computer Science because he enjoyed video games. A perfect match, I thought.

A key ingredient was missing in that counsel: what about my real-life experience? How had my Philosophy degree synced with my career in sales? How have my peers’ careers unfolded? Were they well-executed plans or a mix of opportunity and serendipity?

And, what about me and my job? Was I happy? How was my everyday attitude and how I carried myself at home? Was I to be trusted with this advice?

The truth was, I was missing most if not all of these critical facts. I was in full-fledged career and life denial.

Armed with this not pressure-tested advice, as the pandemic wore on, our son struggled. Computer Science bored him, his recruiting athletic coach left the school, and he wanted out.

My initial reaction? More unsolicited advice. “Hang in there,” I said. “We’re paying a lot for this experience.” Sounding a bit like my father, I think I threw in a, “I wish I had attended a private college like you are!” Seriously, how is that type of comment helpful?

Making matters worse, I chose this occasion to lecture him about playing too many video games, not acknowledging his being effectively locked in his dorm room all day, every day. What else was he supposed to do? Clearly, I was failing to offer the compassion and understanding he desperately needed.

Self-Reflection: Unpacking the Compulsion to Advise

The Emotional Roots

This crisis forced me to reconsider my habit of giving unsolicited advice not just to him but to anyone with ears. Through therapy and self-reflection driven by my own battles with the new reality of the work-from-home domain in the COVID workplace, I began to understand the emotional roots of this compulsion suggesting I had answers.

Giving advice wasn’t about helping others despite its rationalized appearance as such. When clear facts are overlooked or ignored, how good can that advice be anyway? When seen in the bright, unflattering light, giving advice is about validating myself and maybe even giving credit to oneself for being a bit smarter than the raw facts would objectively indicate.

Filling the Silence

Plus, when the blackness of silence on a Zoom call gave the appearance of being weak or uncertain, I reactively filled silence with my opinions. Good and bad. Articulate and inarticulate. I realized with some stark profundity that I had been doing this for a long time. And, in the workplace, I noticed I wasn’t the only one.

Realizing this, rather than being critical of colleagues and coworkers, I paid more attention to my behavior, noticing how rarely people asked for my advice, to begin with. But, even seeing this, I continued to offer it, even on topics I was hardly qualified to discuss. It was a compulsion of some sort. This realization was humbling and, frankly, embarrassing.

The small consolation was that I wasn’t alone. I noticed this advice-giving behavior everywhere — people eager to offer their two cents, not out of genuine concern or deep experience in the topic, but quite possibly out of a need to appear smart or important. Or, do we actually have amazing answers on everything? Not likely.

I found myself so busy thinking up clever things to say that I forgot to simply listen? Plus, people weren’t mesmerized by my answers. The time was right for me to simmer down and simply listen.

The Journey to Change

Admitting I had no answers for my son was the first step in this journey. Again, through therapy, I learned to surrender my need to control and instead focus on offering unconditional love and support. Isn’t that what a good parent does? Create a safe space for their loved ones to think out loud without judgment?

This was unfamiliar territory for me. I had grown up in a different environment where many reactive and thoughtless behaviors were passed along. Maybe this treatment was why I was miserable in my career? Was I unconsciously passing along the bad behavior rather than providing the sunshine of love and support for whatever our son’s journey was to become on his own terms? That, not nervous unchecked advice, was exactly what my son needed.

I learned and began practicing active listening, not just with my son, but in all my interactions. I learned to sit with uncertainty and vulnerability, resisting the urge to fill every silence with my opinions. I paid closer attention to noticing body language and vocal tone. I saw how some (including me) talk over others and how rude and visible it is to everyone in the discussion. Except, of course, to the person steamrolling the other talkers.

I also learned to listen and not think of what I was to say. Instead, if I came across something I didn’t understand, if there was an opening, I learned to comment, “I’m not sure I fully understood that. Can you elaborate on that a bit?” Or, “Let me repeat that back to you, and let me know if my understanding is correct.” I think this might be the difference between hearing and understanding.

Lessons Learned

This journey taught me several valuable lessons:

1. The power of unconditional support, especially in parenting. Our children don’t always need our advice; sometimes, they just need to know we believe in them. This approach has broader applications. In my own life, when it came to making decisions, I always had a finger in the air trying to see where the wind was blowing, which turned out not to be important. What mattered was knowing if the decision was “to thine own self true.” That only comes when the person sitting across from you believes in you.

2. The value of sharing experiences rather than dictating solutions. By being open about our own struggles and uncertainties, we create space for genuine dialogue and connection. Plus, we have a better chance of being grounded with facts rather than thoughts. Early in my adult life, I was given advice on NOT finishing my college degree with a quarter to go. The reasoning was that returning to college after a layoff would be unnecessarily disruptive to my life. Another friend said, “Ask your friend what his experience was with going back to school?” I then learned this advice was coming from someone who hadn’t finished college himself. I decided to finish, and it was the best thing I ever did.

3. There is freedom to be found in letting go of the need to impress others. Constantly trying to prove our intelligence or worth is exhausting and ultimately unfulfilling. Wise but difficult advice: Be Yourself! The only person to impress is yourself, only now with possession of mad listening skills.

Putting Lessons into Practice

Thoughtful Communication

These realizations are changing how I communicate. I now pause before offering advice, asking myself if it’s truly needed or asked for. By focusing on listening and understanding the emotions behind the chatter, I find it more useful than exiting the conversation to begin formulating responses.

Recently, my son, who has understandably taken a break from attending “The University of Zoom” as he calls it, shared that he thinks he’d like to finish his degree locally attending one of the state schools. Internally, I was ecstatic and ready to give advice and encouragement but instead opted to follow up with, “I’m curious why you’d like to do this?” His answer thrilled me to no end: “Because I think it will feel good inside to finish it!” Had I chimed in with the normal third degree of logistics questions, I would’ve missed that important and lovely thoughtful answer. Clearly, he’s working things out not on our terms with referents going back decades, but on his own tied to his own experiences.

I’ve been told this shift has been noticed, improving my other relationships. By stepping back and offering implied compassionate support demonstrated through focused listening instead of interrupting with unsolicited advice, I’ve watched friends flourish as they figure things out for themselves, often in front of me! No input or advice required.

Authentic Writing

Even my approach to writing has changed. I’m learning to share genuinely and authentically, rather than trying to impress readers with clever insights and attention-getting verbiage whose goal is to accumulate likes and subscriptions.

I’ve also noticed a tendency in my writing to convince myself of the ideas I think sound good but have no direct experience with. Could this be because salient original ideas based upon facts and experience are hard to come by? What often happens when the thought is presented without deep rumination is that I end up merely stating the obvious, which is, well, obvious.

As a writer, I’m striving primarily to be authentic and, if possible, original, holding true to my experience. Unfortunately, that hasn’t always been the case. I think writers seeking subscribers through self-imposed deadlines to generate articles that generate income are on a one-way ticket to banality. This is why I’m out on paid subscriptions.

Conclusion

Personal growth is an ongoing journey, and I’m still learning to curb my advice-giving tendencies. Each day brings new opportunities to practice listening more deeply and sharing rather than telling when asked. Before offering an experience that might be relevant to the discussion, perhaps I should put effort toward confirming I understand what is being said.

In my professional life, I’ve seen the transformative power of mindful listening and authentic communication. However, this doesn’t come naturally and, in my experience, requires extraordinary leaders taking risks to get there. A few years ago, I was part of a team that was smart, successful, and cohesive, despite being quite varied in terms of experience.

Suddenly, news came that our company was being acquired, putting the whole team on edge with worry about what would happen to their jobs. In this moment of uncertainty, our manager called a meeting to bring the team together, not to discuss work, but simply to be present with each other and share concerns. He openly acknowledged the anxiety in the room and stated his commitment to ensuring everyone found new roles in the new company.

That evening, we came together for a night of dinner and fun activities, engaging in candid conversations about our hopes and fears. The manager followed up with question and answer sessions where everyone felt safe to voice their concerns. Through these open dialogues, the anxiety level within the team diminished, and a sense of trust and solidarity emerged.

True to his word, our manager worked tirelessly to find new positions for every team member within the new company. While not all of these new roles worked out in the long run, the manager’s commitment to his team’s well-being during the transition was a testament to the power of authentic leadership.

This experience taught me that when leaders create a safe space for authentic communication and mindful listening, even in the face of uncertainty, they build resilience and loyalty within their teams. By fostering an environment of trust and open dialogue, leaders can help their teams navigate even the most challenging circumstances with grace and unity.

If you too want to be a better listener, I encourage you to examine your own communication patterns. There might be something to learn that will surprise you. Are you truly listening to others, or are you just waiting for your turn to speak? Are you offering advice that will help and be useful, or are you trying to sound smart and clever?

In a world that often rewards quick and broad judgments and decisive bombastic opinions, learning to embrace silence and listen deeply can be a radical act. Maybe even smart. Listening well is an act that has the power to transform our relationships, our workplaces, and our communities. By creating space for genuine understanding and connection between us, we open the door to collective wisdom and growth.

In the end, I’ve found that there’s profound wisdom in silence — in the space we create when we stop filling every moment with our opinions. It’s in this space that true understanding and connection can grow while creating the fertile soil where new ideas can develop.

I have also become focused on two very personal questions to ask myself whenever I’m engaged in communication. First, “What are we doing here?” And second, “Do I know what I am talking about?” Failure to address these questions with brutal honesty is a formula for a world where integrity and reason aren’t virtuous. What we have is, what we sort of have now, a world where it’s hard to distinguish between real objectively presented information and subjective data with a payoff of some type to the presenter. In other words, what we have is chaos.

A wise friend once told me, “Sometimes the best I can do is not add to the chaos.” Thinking twice before chiming in is a good way to thwart that. I think we can all agree that the world can benefit from less chaos.

And if you’ve read this far, you might realize the irony of me sharing all this advice about not giving advice. But hey, I never claimed to be perfect. I am just a work in progress, learning to listen more and speak less. If you try it, you may find like I have it’s not easy. I invite you to join me on this journey

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A Nostalgic Farewell

Several years ago brought a poignant announcement that sent ripples through the hearts of many a baby boomer: the end of an era with Columbia House, where you could once snag 13 albums (or tapes) for just a penny. Columbia House—the pinnacle of the 1970s' "record clubs"—has bid its final goodbye, marking yet another chapter closed in the book of cherished memories.

The Golden Age of Record Clubs

Columbia House wasn't just a company; it was a cultural phenomenon, emblematic of a time when music was not only heard but profoundly felt. The days of meticulously examining thick, glossy catalogues to choose those 11 albums resonate as a sweet echo from the past. Each selection felt like a commitment, a new addition to one's personal soundtrack.

The Unparalleled Charm of Vintage Stereos

A few weeks prior, I aired my sentiments regarding the contemporary counterparts of the beloved "stereos" of yesteryears. Those who had the privilege to experience it know that there's nothing quite like the sound of the debut Boston album blaring through 12-inch 3-way speakers boasting a minimum of 100 watts RMS. Modern earbuds and digital streams, despite their convenience, can hardly rival the immersive aura of stereo sound echoing from colossal speakers strategically placed in a wood-paneled living room. Imagine the wonders of Dua Lipa and Taylor Swift resonating through a pair of Acoustic Research 3a stereo speakers, rather than a mere digital stream from a single Sonos speaker. The comparison seems almost unjust - despite what you might think of today’s top selling artists.

An Ode to the Record Album

But the true heartache comes for the iconic record album itself. It wasn't just the vinyl that captivated us, but the entire album experience—the tactile joy of handling a 12x12 canvas adorned with artwork, detailed song information, credits, and those quirky liner notes. Holding an album, you could transcend reality, particularly when a double album cover doubled as a makeshift rolling tray.

Filmmaker and ex-Rolling Stone critic Cameron Crowe captured this magic in "Almost Famous," notably in the scene where his young protagonist becomes enveloped in the Who's "Sparks." This moment beautifully encapsulates the shared nostalgia and collective youth of countless music-loving baby boomers.

Recounting the Record Club Days

For many, the Columbia House Record Club was the gateway to this musical enchantment. The promise of 11 albums for a penny seemed too good to be true. I remember spending countless hours poring over Columbia House ads, daydreaming about the albums I would choose. When I finally had a steady income from my paper route and permission from my parents, I made my selections. The day that box arrived was one of the most exhilarating of my youth.

Within that treasure chest were gems like "The History of Eric Clapton," "The Who — Who's Next," and "Elton John — Honky Chateau." These albums, and hundreds that followed, were more than music; they were companions through my high school years—hours spent deciphering lyrics and marveling at album cover art. Albums like "Jackson Browne — Late for the Sky" and "The Who — Quadrophenia" became lifelines.

Signing Off

Despite the criticisms aimed at these record clubs, particularly for their "negative option billing" practices, I cherished each delivery. After all, this was an era devoid of instant streaming platforms like Rhapsody.

As we bid farewell to Columbia House, I reflect on these memories with a fondness that time cannot erode. My initial tryst with these musical masterpieces on my parents’ hefty Magnavox console—well, that’s a story for another day.

Ever noticed those 26.2 stickers plastered on the back of cars? They’re becoming as common as morning coffee runs—which, ironically, they’re probably meant to offset. Here’s the deal: I’m not the guy who decks out his car in bumper stickers, custom license plate frames, or vanity plates. Why? Maybe it’s the same reason I don’t have tattoos. (Controversial, I know.) To me, there’s nothing so profound that I feel the need to etch it onto my car or skin. I’m a fan of the ephemeral—give me notepads and photographs any day.

That said, there was a time in college when I sported a “no bozos” sticker on my car. A comical emblem of Bozo the Clown caught in the universal “no” sign. Perhaps, subconsciously, I’ve always seen those adorned in permanent decals as… bozos? It’s a theory as tightly knit as the degrees of separation in Kevin Bacon’s universe.

But let’s pivot back to the main spectacle: the marathon sticker.

To the uninitiated, 26.2 miles is the marathon’s length—a feat some runners wear like a badge of honor on their vehicles. These stickers scream, “Look at me, I can run really far!” or “Hey, you, I’m part of the marathon club!” It’s a tribal call to arms, or rather, to legs, signifying inclusion in an elite group of pavement pounders.

But let’s dissect this, shall we?

Training for such a race involves a 16-week, nearly 200-hour commitment. The health implications are dubious, swinging from beneficial to downright detrimental (looking at you, Pheidippides, the OG marathoner who keeled over post-run). This sticker phenomenon? It reeks of vanity. An emphatic “look at me!” in traffic.

Sure, completing a marathon is no small feat. But when it morphs into a societal Pyrrhic victory, one must ask: why this? Why not flaunt achievements that encourage societal upliftment? Imagine stickers that read:

• “Monthly donor of blood, plasma, and platelets.”

• “Volunteer at [insert charity here].”

• “I champion savings and sustainability.”

• “Cultivator of my own happiness—for a happier world.”

• “Seeker of balance.”

But then again, maybe it’s just me. After all, I’m not exactly the poster child for bumper sticker advocacy

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I’m a writer and fitness instructor. Over 5,000 classes taught. Thirty plus years in corporate sales which taught me plenty about running and truth-telling.

The name “Tell the Truth and Run” comes from experience: speaking truth often makes people uncomfortable, including yourself. That discomfort is where growth happens.

I write about the philosophical questions most people avoid because they are hard, and in nearly all cases, are perennial. And, the answers I found and continue to explore don’t “all work together for the good!” Life is messy, complicated, full of seeming contradictions and hard to clearly articulate.

Yet, here we are, meaning makers foisted into a universe making no effort to provide any. So seeking coherence, we kid ourselves about wanting to matter when we just want to be comfortable and thinking out of convenience they are interchangeable.

All part of this human condition where the constant interior inner monologue that might be the very thing that brings us all together, is ignored while the barrage of manipulation takes over.

All those discussions involve integration with my favorite passions, culture, fitness, and mindfulness.

I’m committed to no clickbait. No guru energy. No BS.

All posts are free because good ideas should be accessible to everyone.

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One week Wittgenstein, the next Vince Gilligan. Always some Steely Dan.

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