Why I Write
On the decommissioning of Finance Fools, the birth of 'Utter Rubbish' and notes on proper hand washing.
One of my all-time favorite quotes aptly defines the difference between optimism and pessimism, yet does so in a way that is certainly pessimistic. I love this quote because it accurately sets the spectrum along which I believe we all exist, and it masterfully explains in one line why so much of what we do is utterly absurd.
It is in the utter absurdity of human episodes — the comedic escapes from doom, the ironic results of progress and survival, the ability to deny all things that are logical and rational yet somehow endure — that occur time and time again, that I find inspiration.
We, humans, have the ability to challenge both faith-based and science-based reasoning, and we can deny reasoning and rational thinking altogether, even though we are more capable of those two qualities than any other creature known to us.
This is fascinating and extremely funny.
It is for this reason that I write.
My silly purpose
I want to tell stories that are profound and honor the plight of the characters, while simultaneously demonstrating how meaningless those plights tend to be. Yet, there is still purpose in their existence and their journey and in what they do, they just never know what it is until it is finished and through.
We are a species that has discovered Acetaminophen and Ibuprofen and handwashing, amazing and simple things that eliminate so much pain and suffering and death; yet so many of us reject and neglect those things that improve life so much. We perform this defiance under the banner of skeptical thinking that allows us to believe that these medicines and practices are merely tools for others to control us, and that in reality, we are better off without them.
Yet we know better, and yet we don’t.
We avoid handwashing because we are lazy, or, we believe we are exempt for some reason, or, we believe that we are stronger and more resilient than others.
It is utter rubbish, utter nonsense, and yet so very many of us partake in neglecting what ought to be natural and true.
It’s a truly incredible power we have to be so absurd.
A human being neglecting to wash its hands is like a cat who chooses not to lick its own arse because it believes it defecates cleaner and holier than the other felines. A cat that did this would certainly be a YouTube sensation, likely with an affectionate and playful moniker such as Crusty Butt. The feline creature is made to clean itself, biologically inclined and equipped to do so, just as we humans have the dexterity to remove dirt and grime and germs from our hands with just a simple act that is as natural as a cat washing its coat with its tongue.
This is how nature intended it to be, and you will be hard-pressed to find a feline that does not engage in this practice and take its time to be thorough and complete, and yet nearly half of humans neglect this basic natural ritual that ensures longer life and less illness for themselves and others.
In the USA, arguably the world's most developed country, only 40% of people actually wash their hands regularly, while 97% do not wash them properly, either rushing the process or not using soap.
I hear this, and I imagine a cat that hurriedly licks itself from head to toe, missing entire portions of itself while maybe just dabbing others with its tongue, rather than the long thoughtful strokes that actually wipe away the dirt.
What would such a cat look like after some time?
Would the other cats notice?
I tend to think they would, though I have no proof because I’ve never seen such a thing. I can imagine though, and I do imagine a group of several wide-eyed cats watching their feline comrade rush the cleaning process in a near frenzy, then dash off to go do something that it believes it must do, such as stare out the window and observe, and then report back to the others. I imagine such a cat that believes it has such a purpose, separate from the others, a feline that believes that while all others can take the time to clean themselves, he simply cannot.
He alone must tend to an all-important task reserved for himself, a task that must be accomplished.
This is why I write.
I observe humans coming out of the toilet at the airport — an environment laden with internationally traveling germs — who haphazardly and quickly go through the motions of the handwashing ritual. They bang the soap once to get barely any at all, blast it off with a rush of cold water before lathering up, but then make the lathering motions anyway, in futility, yet still not well enough, not adequate enough even if there was soap, and then bizarrely rinse off the lathered water (as if such a thing existed) and then shake their hands to spread the droplets of contaminated water all around the bathroom.
Then, in a feat of curious logic, they actually take the time to use one of the many methods for drying their hands, depending upon the bathroom, because wet hands are of course a nuisance.
I observe this and I think of cats.
I see people neglecting a God-given natural process because they believe that they know better, and I find it furiously funny, hysterically maddening, and incredibly stupid.
I observe people rejecting vaccines because their imaginations tell them it’s part of a devious conspiracy to control or kill them, and I wonder how a veterinarian would respond to such a thing if a cat spoke to them and said the same thing. I have witnessed Catholics refuse to abort a hellishly deformed fetus because they believe in the immaculate conception, Hindus bathe in sewage because they believe it is holy, and Scientologists refuse to take medicine because it will lower their thetans; I have yet to see a cat be anything but a cat.
I have yet to witness a cat be resistant to treatment other than by the nature that it is resistant to pills or being put in a cage, but beforehand and afterward there is no protesting or blogging about how another cat is trying to implant mind control chips. There is only the momentarily struggle of subduing an animal and stroking its throat so that it swallows, but no debate, no conversation.
When it comes to basic sense, humans are far more finicky than felines.
My compulsions
I grew up with a cat, a big one with a big personality, and as a child, I was a compulsive hand-washer, to the point where my skin would become dry and cracked, and at times bleed. Yet, despite the discomfort, I continued to wash. I would wash anytime I touched anything foreign or outside my comfort zone. The other kids used to mock and ridicule me for this, and the adults sent me to therapy. Yet, despite the obvious and mild self-harm it appeared to be causing, no one stopped to ask if maybe I wasn’t crazy, and instead question if my behavior was actually the result of my environment.
My grandfather, whom I lived with, never washed his hands, and he picked his nose chronically and constantly. He made it known that after he used the toilet he didn’t even bother to rinse, because it was “unnecessary.” In the house were several animals; dogs, cats, and birds, none of whom existed in proper sanitary conditions (except for perhaps the cat), and all of whom were able to roam about as they pleased. The birds at times would exit the cage and move about the family room and kitchen — just as long as the cat was outside. The dogs would lay on the couch, and the beds, and sit at the dining table during meals.
This was normal for me.
There was always wafting cigarette smoke, and dust and old pet hair would float aimlessly through each and every room; the kitchen and family room were the worst.
At school, the popular consensus was that hand washing was for girls and sissies, and boys believed that washing your hands after peeing was silly. Young kids at that time and in Detroit were never gentle about things they viewed as weak or feeble. Kids, boys and girls alike, were ruthless at any sign of sensitivity or vulnerability and they would attack it like a vicious pack of hyenas who had discovered a wounded lion.
I took to washing my hands in secret, away from adults who would lecture me and see it as a compulsion, away from my peers who would bully me as a consequence, and away from my Grandfather who would barge into the bathroom when he heard the water running and shout at me. He was a large and loud man, a bear of a man who had fought in WWII and killed dozens of people, and he was yelling at me and demanding that I stop washing my hands.
They all told me there was something wrong with me. They all said I would have major skin problems in the future.
I became a closet case hand washer.
The true irony here is that not only was I not insane, I was actually way ahead of my time. Thirty years later, the entire world order would be feverishly encouraging handwashing even more obsessively than anything I had ever done. They would tell people to ignore the dryness and discomfort of their skin and keep washing, scrubbing all the way to the wrist, and apply copious amounts of sanitizer every time they entered and exited any building or establishment.
And don’t forget your thumbs.
For my part, it turned out that the redness and cracked skin were not because of hand washing at all, but because of allergies to pets and dust and smoke, compounded by the incredibly cold and harsh weather of Michigan. As a teen, I moved to New York City, where handwashing and shoe removal was practically a religion, and two things happened: First, I felt less disgusted all the time because the general sense was that hand washing was normal, and in general people were more aware of germs, thus I washed less (but still to the recommendations of health professionals). Second, my hands got better, because I was no longer exposed to all the allergens, and the weather wasn’t as cold and wet, for as long.
This is why I write.
I grew up in a twilight zone of sanitation, one that I was liberated from, and I was blessed enough to see that I was actually correct. As a child, I was shown that the entire world can be wrong and that disregarding caution isn’t okay just because the popular sentiment says so.
And so all those years later, I entered the pandemic era a seasoned and faithful hand washer, but yet again I had to witness people defy this basic natural ritual, one that could have saved the lives of others, and for no reason other than they believed that they knew better or had something more important to do.
Just like that cat who I imagined rushing to stare out the window.
This is why I write.
My literature
My personal experience here is just one of a long list of absurd stories I have seen play out, over and over again. If history is any guide, there are more coming.
I ask myself questions about the experiences I have had, the history I have read, and the people I have known in all contexts. I think about people in popular circumstances, “normal,” and apply a bizarre twist so that I can question how they would respond.
Did ever a pilot of a bomber in WWII shit themselves because of a hangover, and did he stop mid-bombing run to try and wipe it up? Was there ever a Confederate captain who discovered a wagon load of stolen freeborn black girls from the northern states who were being illegally trafficked overseas? What if corporate fundraisers went to visit an Angel Investor, and while listening to them, the wealthy angel proceeded to slice up large pieces of animal meat during the meeting, then offered his guests some only to take none for himself, citing that he was a vegan; he confesses that he just enjoys carving flesh.
In my mind, these absurd situations are no different than witnessing an ordinary man rushing his handwashing to catch his flight, because he thinks it is important. And maybe it actually is in that moment and in his context, but then suddenly, this neglected ritual that he takes for granted becomes vital and urgent, and enforced, and more important than what he previously thought so urgent. Suddenly, that man goes from being enlightened and free to the violator of vital health rules designed to save the lives of the most vulnerable.
Just like that, the normal situation of dropping bombs on people is stalled by a natural response to too much alcohol. Without warning, the plight of a man fighting for the right to enslave others is unexpectedly faced with the horrors of his own disregard for human rights, seen in the context of another situation. Against what is expected and accepted as generally true, a group of entrepreneurs is faced with the reality that the normal process of raising capital has been violated by the bizarre hobby of a deranged billionaire.
Past is prologue
My first successful article was about the absurdity of abortion laws in the United States. Afterward, I continued with satire until my exposure to and interaction with other writers inspired me to take things a bit more seriously. I tried to share ideas on politics and economy, and very few people cared, so one day I instead wrote about my personal experiences of leaving my native USA to “return” to the European continent that all of my ancestors, and some living relatives, had hailed from.
Those articles did well, so I continued.
At the same time, I was teaching Finance, and so I turned to writing about the absurdity of the state of global business. The business articles did very well, for a time, so I started a blog on Substack, focused on Financial Education.
That blog, Finance Fools, has not done well. Not at all.
I don’t know exactly why, perhaps because Finance just feels heavy, or perhaps because the articles simply aren’t interesting enough… But I wonder if perhaps it is because I write it for myself.
Perhaps the problem is that I believe it is important, just like that cat staring out the window, or that guy at the airport.
This is why I will stop writing Finance Fools.
In honor of the cat who takes time to clean itself, according to nature and how God intended it, I am going to change.
Instead of continuing to try and work on something that is not working, I am changing Finance Fools to a general blog for my writing. I will write about a variety of topics, and while I will not commit to writing in one focused area, I will commit to writing only articles that are worth reading.
I will continue to write as my most avid followers and several other writers (whom I respect greatly) have encouraged me to do.
All of you who are reading this have encouraged me, in your own way, and for that, I thank you and am very very very grateful.
I now write to you and for you.
Perhaps this is the natural state of a writer. Perhaps we writers exist to aid in the cleansing of the collective human mind. Perhaps we are the coarse cleansing tongue scraping across the great feline arse that contains all of the digested human logic and generally accepted sentiments of popularity, personality, and purpose.
Perhaps our simple role is to scrape away the sentiments of old so that humanity can smoothly excrete new modes of thinking.
Perhaps that’s progress.
“"The optimist proclaims that we live in the best of all possible worlds; and the pessimist fears this is true.”
- James Branch Cabell
Finance Fools will now be converted to Utter Rubbish, a blog about stuff. Thank you for reading, and thank you for your support.
Josh, nothing wrong with pivoting, but have you read the information Substack puts out about growing your audience? One of the main suggestions is to post regularly once a week. Another is to keep articles under 1,000 words. I think another hard reality of the format is that if you don't have a social media following or a career in legacy media, it's slow-going.