#2569 - Bill Thompson

I’m skeptical of that flying-supercar timetable after Roadster buyers waited years for a different machine. Still, the tiny electric fan car sticking upside down to a track is nuts. Sub-one-second launches and 300-plus mph are fucking insane, but I care whether a car feels alive.

I nearly bought a Cybertruck because it made me smile. My wife asked what the hell I was doing; I said, “I want one.” Then I heard about the bugs and backed out. Coward move, maybe, but first-generation anything has kinks.

The original Roadster looked cooler; the new one is a nineties Lamborghini bred with a Cybertruck. Old Mustangs matter for the same reason: noise, steering, engine—the mechanical connection. You’re not riding in an appliance.

In military high-risk driving, rally instructors taught us the opposite of movie driving: keep tires planted, brake to load the front, draw cleaner lines. Like golf, the forceful-looking move usually isn’t what works.

Archery and long-range shooting are the same. I want to punch the trigger; accuracy comes from a release that surprises you. Pressure makes you flinch. You improve by accumulating moments where the stakes feel real.

A Spartan Forge engineer once beat Levi Morgan in an archery final. Nine more rounds, Levi probably wins them, but that moment belonged to him. I shoot does before chasing a buck because adrenaline still gets me.

Hunting and fishing wake deep survival circuitry. A kid catches a fish and goes wild. Elk hunting with a bow turns that feeling up to an absurd level.

I killed a public-land Pennsylvania buck called the Monarch after years of knowing he existed. Thermals changed my plan; I shot him cleanly at 35 yards and couldn’t call my buddy for 25 minutes. My cue: steady position, gradual squeeze, aim, breathe.

That’s closed-loop thinking. Talk through the parts and the shot stays under control instead of becoming a runaway swing. You need to notice the spiral while it starts and bring yourself back.

My mother took me to AA meetings as a kid, and the serenity prayer stayed with me. If I can’t change something, I don’t burn energy on it. If I can act, I focus on the next real move.

Most people don’t get enough situations that reveal them. Martial arts, hunting, difficult pursuits—they humble you, show weakness, and prove capability can grow. High-pressure moments aren’t curses; they show what you are.

My friends and I have done fasted hunts: food locked in a cooler until somebody kills a deer. By day three it gets real, and “doe down” feels enormous. We’re missing finished, embodied work; software never really ends.

People love trappers, ranchers, and subsistence stories because that’s built into us. Scrolling gives a brief hit, not a whole-body reward earned through hard work. Go do something difficult; you’ll probably be fine.

My hunting app should help people scout at home, then put the phone away in the woods. Thermal mapping lets hunters study terrain, sun, wind, and canopy. An old buck knows that mountain better than you do.

People who think hunting is easy have never stood in that country. Terrain, wind, animal senses, fitness, planning, pressure—there are layers. I’m competent, but lifelong hunters know things I haven’t touched.

I’m analytical about deer; Johnny walks in and says, “This feels deer-y.” He’s drawing from reps he can’t explain. Great coaches can teach first principles, but instructions don’t replace thousands of hours.

Kaizen is endless refinement. Combat sports have accelerated through better talent, coaching, and competition. For regular people, learning matters: you start clueless, suck, improve, then discover a giant universe you still don’t understand.

I’ve got an addictive streak that sometimes lands in productive loops. I got good at golf after somebody called me a gorilla who couldn’t play. Addiction hurt my family, so I’m careful around drugs.

Gambling taught me that up close. Pool had guys chasing action until they destroyed themselves, though betting helped create the game’s culture. The question is whether you control it before it controls you.

After a stressful legal development, I dreamed I was trapped on a train, fighting myself, needing help from a woman who understood the place. I took it as a warning: learn the system, not just keep swinging.

Dreaming is weird as hell, and I don’t dismiss it. I’m wary of anyone claiming they’ve diagrammed the territory. Altered states may hold insight, but there’s danger too, especially if you’re wired toward obsession.

Stories, dreams, and art seem to pull lessons from deeper than the conscious mind. The hero enters chaos, gets broken down, brings something back. I don’t need to settle the name; those patterns keep proving useful.

Long-form conversations matter. Let political figures sit for hours and you learn more than from a polished 15-minute hit. Interviewing someone isn’t endorsing them; candidates for power should speak freely about their principles.

Bots and algorithms can feed you only what confirms you. I’ve watched manipulation work on me, so I’m not immune. Attention is finite: an hour on a bet or manufactured outrage is gone for good.

AI may erase many jobs, but people will still want live sports, music, comedy, and rooms full of strangers. I lock phones away at my club. The danger is technology consuming all our attention.

My hopeful AI version handles life’s boring machinery and makes small human businesses easier to start. Maybe we value craft, local theater, and real gatherings more. That’s why I make hunting films and a book: food, family, shared work, and what we’re made for.