Back in 1795, British Prime Minister William Pitt instituted a powder tax in hopes of raising some dough for the Napoleonic Wars.

At the time, powdered hair was all the rage, worn primarily by the wealthy families of Great Britain to signal just how goddamn rich they really were.

Think of it like the 18th-century equivalent of a Rolex.

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Fabled Japanese novelist Haruki Murakami wrote his first novel at thirty years old while running a failing jazz bar in western Tokyo.

One afternoon, Murakami was out for a weekend stroll when, on a whim, he decided to catch a baseball game.

He was sipping an ice-cold beer in the stands and licking his wounds after a tough week of slinging drinks, when he heard the satisfying crack of a baseball bat ring out across the field. For whatever reason, it rattled his subconscious.

Suddenly, a thought entered Murakami’s mind...

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Joseph Duveen might be the greatest art dealer of all time. He was neither an artist nor an art historian. Duveen was just a hustler.

One day, he noticed that Europe had tons of art and America had tons of money. So, the seventeen-year-old Duveen stocked up on a boatload of art in London and boarded a ship to America.

The trip proved lucrative—so much so that Duveen would spend the rest of his life carting art back and forth across the Atlantic.

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On the morning of July 25th, 1965, Bob Dylan was the most beloved Folk artist on the planet. Twelve hours later, he was the most hated.

Ever since Dylan made his debut at the Newport Music Festival back in 1962, he was well on his way to becoming the next Woody Guthrie.

Except, there was a problem.

Bob Dylan didn’t want to be Woody Guthrie.

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If business is cutthroat, running an advertising agency is the equivalent to a 90s slasher film. Agencies get fired as quickly as they get hired. Having any chance at “making it” depends solely on whether you can keep your clients happy and coming back.

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Martin Scorsese has managed to protect his creative vision in an industry notorious for selling out. Early on in his career, he had a framework that allowed him to make it in Hollywood without losing his soul in the process.

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Today, we know Trent Reznor as the frontman and creative force behind Nine Inch Nails. He is also a prolific film composer, having cut scores for The Social Network, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, Gone Girl, Mank and Watchmen.

However, once upon a time, Reznor was just another musician trying to make it.

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When Kurt Vonnegut was fifteen, he spent a month working on an archaeological dig. One day over lunch, he had a conversation with an archaeologist that changed his life.

The archaeologist asked the young Vonnegut what sports he played. He told the archaeologist that he didn’t play any sports. But, he was in both the theater and the choir, and he played the violin, piano and took a few art classes.

The archaeologist was impressed, “Wow. That’s amazing!” Perplexed by the praise, Vonnegut backpedaled, “Oh no, but I’m not any good at ANY of them.”

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Stephen King wasn’t always Stephen King.

Before King “made it”, he worked a teaching job for pennies on the dollar. By day, he taught high school English. By night, he pursued his dreams of becoming a novelist.

To say his writing room was humble would be putting it lightly. He had fastened together a makeshift desk in a closet that housed his washer and dryer. When it was laundry day, he could barely hear himself type.

One evening King wrote three single-spaced pages in a flash.

After reading them, he was disgusted. He tossed them in the trash and didn’t give them a second thought.

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Back in 1965, a relentless reporter cornered a young Mick Jagger, bombarding him with an onslaught of pointed questions surrounding the competition between The Rolling Stones and The Beatles.

While the reporter didn’t get the juicy headline he so desperately wanted, artists everywhere got a 36-second masterclass in dodging competition from one of the greatest performers of all time.

Reporter:

How do you compare your group with The Beatles?

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they danced 
in a vacant hotel 
in the middle of 
what once was indianapolis 

its windows kicked out 
by falling fire 

in a matter of hours, 
the invading army
would swallow them whole, 
and the rest of the city 
like a tidal wave
 
and so they sought out 
one last moment of solace 
in this miracle still standing

they took refuge 
in an interior room 
on the highest floor

when they shouldered down the door, 
it was as if they were checking in 
for a long weekend stay

the bed was made, 
the bath towels: 
two swans kissing 
atop a pair of 
neatly folded bathrobes

there was a bottle of wine 
on the table, 
the mini fridge was stocked 
and the snacks untouched

they couldn’t believe their luck 
and for a moment they didn’t

she thought she was seeing
what was not there 
and left the room 
with her blackened hands 
clenching the sides of her face 

he followed her out 
and told her that 
if she had gone mad,
then he had gone mad too

and that they could be mad together
in their little room

he spun on the faucet 
and cold water ran out 

black and then brown 
and then clear 

they knew they could not drink it 
but they stopped up the drain 
and drew a bath 

the bath was cold, 
but they pretend it was warm

as they slipped in, 
one and then the other

they took turns 
running the small bar of soap 
over each other's skin 
and they were surprised 
by how gentle they could be 
when they weren’t surviving 

he grabbed for one of 
the miniature bottles of shampoo 
and lathered her hair 
and massaged her scalp 
and he could not see it, 
as her back was turned to him, 
but her face was a beautiful mess 
falling apart at the seams 

they dried off with the towels 
and slipped on their robes, 
they turned on their flashlights 
and placed them around the room, 
standing them up on their butts, 
their gaze paintings halos on the ceiling

eventually they made their way 
to the coffee table
and took their seats

together they made a small meal 
of the snacks in the wicker basket
and uncorked the bottle of wine 

it was cheap and sweet 
and they wondered 
silently to themselves 
if they would be alive in the morning 
to suffer the hangover 

they drank generously, 
pushing away the thought 

once they had their fill, 
they scanned the corners 
of the room 
like restaurant goers 
who’ve finished their meals, 
and are left waiting on the check 
with nothing more to talk about 

the man could see 
the sadness creeping in 
and so he unearthed 
his sony walkman
from his backpack 

it was ancient looking, 
but it worked 

she smiled up at him 
as he pushed her damp hair 
behind her ears 
and placed the foam headphones 
over her head 
as if it were a crown 

he stood her up, 
he held the walkman 
behind the small of her back 
and took her left hand into his own, 

he then hit play 

she closed her eyes 
as chet baker whispered in her ears
 
he left his open, 
staring at her 

together, 
in their bathrobes, 
they danced 
for what seemed like hours 
in their little room

and when the heavy footfalls of boots 
could be heard climbing 
the many flights of stairs, 
he turned the music up higher,
so she could not hear.

P.S. This poem is part of an album I wrote and produced called Pink House. If you’d like to listen to the spoken word version, you can do so here.

Ideas exist on a different plane.

I’ve found it helpful to envision this plane as a physical place.

For me, it’s a swimming pool.

For you, it might be the treehouse your grandfather built you, the small-town carwash you frequented with your mother to bathe her Honda Odyssey or perhaps the lake outside your aunt’s cabin in Quebec, Canada.

But, for me, it’s a swimming pool.

From the outside looking in, it’s a very ordinary swimming pool. It’s one you might find in the backyard of any upper-middle-class suburban home.

Even when you climb down the stairs and feel the water envelop your feet, ankles, legs and waist, you think you’re entering an ordinary pool.

It’s not until you tuck your head beneath the surface that an entirely different world appears. Once under water, you can see the pool is not so much a pool but a sea.

Your feet can touch—as you are still inhabiting the shallow end of the pool—but you can see, nearby, there is a steep drop-off that opens up into a great expanse.

Far off in the distance, something is happening—there is movement.

You can’t quite make out what exactly it is. Yet, you instinctively swim towards it. Something deep within you craves a closer look.

If you’re out of practice—which is to say it has been some time since you last swam—you return to the surface, almost immediately, for air.

This frustrates you.

You recollect the days when you could stay under water for hours at a time, without interruption. But, these days, your attention isn’t what it once was. Your focus is out of shape. It’s atrophied. It’s lost its musculature.

As the outside world beckons you to the surface, you remember that wonderful line by David Lynch. What was it? Oh, yes. The one where he likens ideas to fish…

“If you want to catch little fish, you can stay in the shallow water. But if you want to catch the big fish, you’ve got to go deeper.”

You’ve got to go deeper. You must go deeper. You continue to swim, trying to stay under the water just for a little while longer—refusing to surrender to the shapes, sounds and lights beckoning you to the surface like Sirens.

At first, you poke your head out often to see what all the ruckus is about—like an otter bobbing in a river. However, with time, you find your rhythm. Your pace. Your perseverance. Before you know it, you’re swimming like you used to.

As you descend, you realize you haven’t been uninspired. You’ve just been distracted. It’s this distraction that has prevented you from entering into this alternate plane—where ideas are seemingly everywhere. This realization leaves your head buzzing with a slow-burning high.

You hold your breath longer, longer—longer still.

When you think you can hold your breath no longer, you see the first glimmer of scales. Suddenly, you’re like a child. You can’t contain your excitement.

You swim faster, faster—ever faster.

Then, suddenly, you’re upon the source of the shimmering. It’s blinding. It’s as if someone is shining a spotlight into a Victorian chandelier. It’s here you reach out and touch the source of the light. It’s warm. It’s radiant. It’s slippery—like greased lightning. You feel a jolt of energy wriggle through your fingers—up through your hands, arms and heart—finally settling somewhere between your chest and your throat.

You unclasp your hands. There, writhing in your palms, is an idea.

I blame my mother for my art addiction.

As a child, she would talk about Michelangelo, Raphael and Klimt as if they were gods. I think I’ve subconsciously spent much of my life attempting to create something worthy of her appreciation.

I achieved this for the first time two, maybe three, years back. I typed out a poem for her on my Remington Quiet-Riter—which ironically is louder than a cattle gun—about one of the many moments she saved me.

If you were to look over my shoulder and watch me write—which I can assure you would be as boring as watching a pair of snails mate—you would see I approach the craft of writing like a painter.

I think very little about the actual words I use and almost exclusively about the way in which the words appear on the page—and how they look alongside one another.

Artists call this composition.

Admittedly, this drives copywriters at Honey a bit mad. With time, they realize there is a method to the madness.

When writing, I think often about my grandfather’s garage that housed his workshop. Every wrench, hammer and screwdriver had a place—and no space was wasted.

Despite the many decades of use, he kept his tools so clean, you could use them as eating utensils. When my grandmother assigned him a task, he never wasted any time searching for the appropriate tool. He could have found them blindfolded.

I see composition as a form of artistic organization.

But, back to my mother.

Once I had completed the poem, I carefully tore it from the textured paper I had typed it on. From there, I unearthed a blank canvas from the closet in my office.

I laid down a vandalized bed sheet I use for such purposes. I mixed the paint until it was this beautiful beige a few shades darker than the walls of my parents’ home—and I got to work. I used the paint to glue the poem to the canvas and then massaged what was left into the canvas surrounding it—allowing the paint to bleed onto the textured paper in the places where there were no words.

After receiving it, she wrote me that it made her cry.

I nearly cried when I walked into my parent’s home, months later, and saw it hanging on their wall. As silly as it sounds, I felt the pride of a child, seeing something he brought home from school magnetized to the refrigerator.

It wasn’t until earlier this year that I began collecting art seriously.

One day, I was walking the aisles of a thrift store in East Nashville when I happened upon a framed piece of paper depicting a drawing of a red woman that appeared to be dancing. It was love at first sight. I saw the price tag: $2,000. I negotiated the vendor down to $1,200 and took her home with me.

Upon further investigation, I discovered it was a working print by Nancy Spero, a major postwar artist. Her works appear in the MoMA, the Met, Tate, Centre Pompidou and the Whitney. She was famous for painting powerful female figures in motion, all while using remarkably economical lines.

This particular print was a small portion of one of her many masterpieces, To the Revolution. It was inscribed, in the bottom left-hand corner, to the esteemed art critic, Donald Kuspit.

While it certainly wasn’t a lottery ticket, I had gotten incredibly lucky—the proof is worth several times more than I paid for it. But, I have no plans to ever sell it. She has become something of a muse and now sits directly in front of my desk in my office.

We live in an age of fake art.

This is why we must educate ourselves on real art. More than this, we must challenge ourselves to create real art of our own—be it commercial art in our professions or art of passion in our hobbies.

Fake art isn’t unlike a fake orgasm. It might stroke the ego of the individual “creating” it, but everyone else is in on the joke.

I’ve been spending a great deal of time on X (formerly Twitter) as of late. Not unlike this working print by Nancy Spero, there is a tremendous amount of undervalued art created by undiscovered talent on that platform.

When I find a particularly talented designer or copywriter, I jot down their name for the day I have the funds to hire them.

However, along with this art and the talent producing it, there is an enormous amount of fake art making the rounds. I have nothing against AI. For better or worse, it’s inevitable. But, at the end of the day, AI is a tool. It’s not unlike the many wrenches, hammers and screwdrivers my grandfather kept in his workshop.

Many of the people creating with this powerful tool lack taste. Because of this lack of taste, they create work that feels like fake art. To the unassuming, the art passes. But, with time, humanity will catch on.

It’s my belief that skill follows taste.

You must develop your taste before you can develop your skill. I don’t care if you’re an aspiring chef, writer, entrepreneur or designer—you must develop your taste.

Take a good, hard look at anyone creating meaningful work. You will see that it wasn’t their skill that came first but their taste. With time, they became so inspired by their taste that they attempted to create something worthy of it.

You shouldn’t be a snob about many things in life. Your taste, however, is an exception. Watch great films. Read gorgeous books. Spin brilliant records. Eat delicious food. Study extraordinary people. Consume. Consume. Consume. Develop your taste. Refine your palate. Your skill will follow.

There is a story I am quite fond of about the French painter, Georges Braque.

He would drive through Italy with his wife, Marcelle. In each town and city, he would seek out the museums.

Braque would pull up to the front of each museum and ask his wife to venture inside and report back on whether there was anything worth seeing.

He would say to his wife...

"Marcelle, you go in and look around and then tell me what's good in there."

I love this story for two reasons.

For one, Braque had complete and total trust in his partner's artistic taste. So much so, he made Marcelle his curator. For two, Braque was terrified of spoiling his eyes.

We live in a time where there is more “art” than there has ever been before. Furthermore, the ability to create this art is easier than it has ever been. The writers and artists who will endure are those who have the ability to distinguish between what is good and what isn’t.

You might argue that “what is good” is subjective.

But, I disagree entirely.

Beauty isn’t up for debate. It’s obvious. It’s clear. It’s unanimous. It’s unmistakable. If you see The Kiss by Klimt and you aren’t moved, you’ve built a life on fake art.

I recommend you board a flight to New York and take a stroll through the Met.

While you won’t find The Kiss there—it is located at the Upper Belvedere Museum in Vienna, Austria—you will stumble upon something that turns your skin to braille.

But, as always, I digress.

all we can really do 
is make the reaper’s job hell, 
you know? 

that’s what i wish 
for you, 
for me, 
for anyone

to make the sonofabitch 
curse your name 
as he drags you to hell

to make him swing a few times, 
to whiff a few more

to throw out his shoulder, 
to throw out his back,
to get his neck out of whack

to piss blood,
swallow blood, 
vomit blood 

to call in the heavies, 
to let loose the hellhounds, 
to swap out his scythe for a colt 45 

i want you to be so hard to kill, 
that you get the mother fucker 
in serious trouble with his employer 

i want the thought of you,
the thought of you, 
to make him lose his erection 

that’s it kid, 
that’s it 

i want him to walk 
into the bedroom 
with his mistress, 
his cloak tattered, 
his spirit tattered, 
his day tattered, 

and i want him to go limp 
at the thought of you still living, 
still breathing, 
still carrying on 

what a glorious, 
thunderous way to live 

to single-handedly ruin 
the reaper’s sex life 
at your outright refusal 

to die.

P.S. This poem is part of an album I wrote and produced called Love is a hot air balloon burning to the ground. If you’d like to listen to the spoken word version, you can do so here.

I consider myself an artist.

No, I’m not delusional. I’m not so pretentious as to believe that I’ve been plucked from the same plane as artists the likes of Salvador Dalí, Pablo Picasso or Claude Monet. I’m aware that I don’t share the same DNA as the greats.

But, I’ve always attempted to approach my career like an artist.

David Bowie has forever been my north star.

I could write a 10,000-word essay on Bowie. Perhaps one day I might. Bowie’s body of work is extraordinary, truly. He acted. He painted. He performed. All while creating a catalog of over 400 songs in genres like folk, glam rock, soul, funk, jazz and pop.

Bowie’s superpower—in addition to his surprising business acumen—was his ability to turn on his heel at a moment’s notice. As soon as he reached artistic maturity in a given genre, he abandoned it.

While most artists spend their entire careers developing a recognizable identity, Bowie spent his escaping one. He refused to be defined. As soon as he felt like the world was placing him in a box, he doused it in kerosene, lit a match and then burned the identity he had worked so hard to create.

To a far lesser extent, I’ve attempted to model this behavior in my own career. I’ve written three books of poetry. I’ve released three spoken-word records. I’ve written hundreds—if not thousands—of essays and newsletters. I’ve built an advertising agency in Honey. I’m in the process of building a second.

Due to some rather bizarre life circumstances, I’ve found myself in the same rooms as some of the greatest writers, artists and entrepreneurs in the world.

Many of them seem to have one thing in common: a willingness to reinvent themselves, over and over again.

And so this is the purpose of the essay you’re reading now—this is the topic I’m circling like a hungry vulture—reinvention.

More so, abandonment.

For over a decade, Hulk Hogan was a hero.

He would wave the American flag. He would walk out to Real American by Rick Derringer. He would tell kids to train, say their prayers and eat their vitamins.

This persona carried Hogan from a regional sideshow to mainstream entertainment. He appeared in Rocky III. He hosted Saturday Night Live. He even graced the cover of Sports Illustrated.

He became the face of the WWF.

But, by the mid-1990s, Hulkamania was waning. America was changing. Grit had replaced glam. Antiheroes had replaced superheroes. Black had replaced red, white and blue.

Hogan’s persona had begun to feel corny, if not cringeworthy.

Suddenly, he was being booed.

Hogan seemed to be at the end of his career. He had left the WWF to join WCW, its lesser-known rival. For all intents and purposes, he was washed up.

It was right around this time that two former WWF stars, Kevin Nash and Scott Hall, invaded WCW. The Outsiders—as they’d come to be known—were the ultimate bad boys. And, with America’s changing sentiment, their act was hotter than a tamale in hell.

As Hogan watched hysteria ensue over this duo, something clicked.

On July 7, 1996, Nash and Hall challenged three WCW wrestlers to face them at Bash at the Beach. During the bout, Hogan appeared without warning.

As he entered the ring, Hall and Nash scattered like roaches at the sound of a footfall. One of the “good guys” lay wounded on the mat, gasping for air. Hogan looked around. Every person in the crowd thought he was going to come to the fallen comrade’s rescue—chasing down Hall and Nash like an exterminator.

Instead, he executed his signature leg drop across the wrestler’s throat.

Hogan had turned heel.

The entire arena erupted in a mix of horror and hatred. Fans threw garbage into the ring. One spectator was so disgusted, he attempted to climb over the barricade and take on Hogan himself.

Surrounded by garbage, Hogan introduced a movement that changed the trajectory of professional wrestling forever: The New World Order.

Hulk Hogan was dead. Long live Hollywood Hogan.

Hogan traded his red and yellow garb for black. He darkened his beard and slipped on a pair of shades. He cheated his ass off and treated the audience like shit. He vandalized opponents, hijacked broadcasts, raised hell and behaved like an outlaw.

It worked.

Hogan’s heel turn breathed new life into his career.

For 83 consecutive weeks, WCW’s Monday Nitro beat the brakes off WWF’s Monday Night Raw. Hogan had single-handedly ignited the most commercially explosive period in professional wrestling history.

Overnight, he became the most notorious villain on television.

To save his career, Hogan had to kill the character that had made him so monumentally famous and successful.

He had to reinvent himself.

17 of the most surprising pivots in business history.

Business has its own vernacular for what artists call reinvention and wrestlers call a heel turn. In Silicon Valley, it’s referred to as a pivot.

Some of the planet’s greatest companies began by doing something entirely different from what they’re known for today.

Nokia made paper.

Samsung sold fish.

Lamborghini produced tractors.

1. Lamborghini: Tractors → Supercars

Ferruccio Lamborghini was in the tractor business.

After World War II, he built tractors from surplus military machinery. He was making a pretty penny—enough to purchase one of the hottest products in Italy at the time.

Lamborghini owned a Ferrari. But, he wasn’t happy with the car’s clutch. He complained to Enzo Ferrari, who dismissed him as a tractor manufacturer. So, Lamborghini decided to build his own car.

Moral of the story?

Be nice to your customers.

2. Play-Doh: Wallpaper cleaner → Children’s toy

Play-Doh was never meant to be a toy.

It was originally designed to remove soot from wallpaper. As coal heating was replaced with electricity, the business caved in on itself.

Fortunately, a little birdie told the company that teachers were using the material for student crafts. Play-Doh removed the cleaning agents. It added color and fragrance.

Then, it repositioned the product as a toy.

3. Hasbro: Textile remnants → Mr. Potato Head

Hasbro sold fabric remnants and later pencil boxes and school supplies, before stealing a page out of Play-Doh’s playbook.

It got into toys.

Mr. Potato Head became the company’s major breakthrough. It was the first toy advertised directly to children on television.

The toy generated over $4 million in sales within the first few months of its launch.

4. Nokia: Paper mill → Mobile phones

Nokia has been around since 1865.

It began in Finland as a pulp mill. Later, it produced boots, cables and TVs.

In the 1960s, it acquired a company called Finnish Cable Works. It spun up a special division that began producing radio telephones for the Finnish military.

By the late 1990s, it became one of the world’s largest mobile phone manufacturers.

5. Nintendo: Playing cards → Video games

Nintendo was founded in 1889.

Like Nokia, it has manufactured just about everything.

It started out making hand-painted playing cards. Then, it experimented with taxis, love hotels, instant rice and toys.

Eventually, it entered electronic entertainment, creating arcade games and home consoles before releasing the NES.

6. Wrigley: Soap → Gum

William Wrigley Jr. originally sold soap.

He would often include baking powder as a promotional gift. Customers liked the baking powder more than the soap. So he started selling baking powder and giving away chewing gum.

Lo and behold, customers preferred the gum over the baking powder and the cycle repeated itself.

Ironically, the giveaway became the business.

7. A&F: Fishing equipment → Fashion

Abercrombie & Fitch was an outdoor outfitter.

It was widely respected, too. Theodore Roosevelt, Ernest Hemingway and Amelia Earhart all bought their gear from A&F.

The good times didn’t last, though.

By 1976, the company went belly-up. The Limited acquired the name a decade later and transformed it into a youth-focused lifestyle brand.

8. American Express: Freight delivery → Financial services

American Express started as an express-mail company. Eventually, demand for its financial services dwarfed moving packages.

It pivoted from a logistics business into one of the world’s most recognizable financial brands. Today, an Amex card isn’t just a credit card.

It’s a signal to society that you’ve ‘made it.’

9. 3M: Mining company → Innovation conglomerate

3M originally stood for Minnesota Mining and Manufacturing.

Its founders planned to mine corundum for grinding wheels, but the mineral they found proved unsuitable.

Rather than shutter the doors, the company pivoted to abrasives—and later adhesives like masking tape, Scotch tape and Post-it Notes.

10. Samsung: Groceries → Electronics

Samsung began in 1938. But, not in electronics. It was a Korean trading company selling dried fish, flour and noodles.

Samsung later expanded into sugar refining, textiles, insurance and construction.

It’s mind-boggling to think that one of the world’s largest manufacturers of semiconductors and smartphones began by trading fish and flour.

11. Peugeot: Pepper mills → Automobiles

Peugeot started out as a family business.

It manufactured steel products like saw blades, springs, coffee grinders and pepper mills (these are the devices used to grind peppercorns over your fettuccine).

From there, it expanded into bicycles and, eventually, automobiles. Today, it’s one of the largest automobile manufacturers in the world.

Oh, and they still sell pepper mills.

12. Yamaha: Organs → Motorcycles

Back in 1887, Torakusu Yamaha repaired a broken organ.

It must have gone well. Before long, he started manufacturing musical instruments.

During World War II, the company made military equipment like propellers, fuel tanks and wing parts.

It later applied that experience with precision machinery to motorcycles.

13. Avon: Books → Cosmetics

David H. McConnell, the founder of Avon, originally sold books door-to-door.

To get women to listen to his sales pitch, he gave away small perfume samples. Like Wrigley, he found the giveaway was more popular than the product.

He ditched the book business and began selling perfumes and cosmetics.

14. Marriott: Root beer stand → Hotel empire

Back in 1927, J. Willard and Alice Marriott opened a small A&W root beer stand in Washington, D.C. They expanded from there.

First, it was restaurants.

Next, it was airline catering.

Finally, it was hotels.

Today, Marriott is one of the world’s largest hospitality companies, with more than 9,300 properties in 148 countries.

15. Sealed Air: Wallpaper → Bubble Wrap

Bubble Wrap was first created to be three-dimensional plastic wallpaper.

Yes, the idea was as bad as it sounds.

The inventors then tried to market it as greenhouse insulation.

Once again, it flopped.

Finally, they discovered its true purpose: protective packaging. IBM became one of their most important early customers.

16. Raytheon: Refrigeration technology → Missiles

This is insane.

Raytheon began as the American Appliance Company, initially pursuing technology that could make household refrigeration more practical.

That effort failed miserably, but its next invention didn’t. The company developed a gaseous rectifier tube that made radios far more useful.

From there, it moved into radar, microwave technology and, eventually, missiles.

17. Rovio: Fifty flops → One viral game

Rovio was born out of Finland’s mobile-game ecosystem.

It created roughly 50 games.

None of them stuck.

As the company was nearing bankruptcy, someone had an idea for a game in which players fired angry birds at green pigs.

Angry Birds became one of the most successful mobile-game franchises in history.

Reinvention requires sacrifice.

Every successful artist, professional wrestler and enterprise risks becoming a caricature of itself.

Artists play the same hits.

Professional wrestlers perform the same moves.

Enterprises roll out the same products.

With time, the very identity that once made them a sensation ends up being the dead weight that drags them down.

After the hysteria surrounding The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars, David Bowie sacrificed Ziggy Stardust. He could have spent the rest of his career squeezing every dollar out of Moonage Daydream and Starman. By abandoning the character, he made room for albums like Station to Station, Low, Heroes, Scary Monsters and Blackstar.

After nearly a decade of Hulkamania, Hulk Hogan joined the dark side. He sacrificed the character that made him famous for one that made him dangerous. Hollywood Hogan gave him something Hulk Hogan no longer could: a future.

Bubble Wrap abandoned wallpaper. Marriott abandoned root beer. Samsung abandoned groceries. Abercrombie & Fitch abandoned fishing rods. Wrigley abandoned soap. Avon abandoned books.

What got you to today, won’t get you to tomorrow.

Oftentimes, the most difficult thing to abandon isn’t a failure. One of the beauties of failure is that it gives you permission to walk away. Success is much harder to walk away from.

But, this is why it’s called a sacrifice.

i was born in fire,
so burn me to my core,
cover me in kerosene,
cause baby i want more

kick my teeth, 
as i crawl to your feet,
cause pain is all i know

kick my teeth, 
as i crawl to your feet,
cause pain is all i know

i’ll be your bitch,
i'll be your beast of burden,
so drag me straight through hell

love is a dog like me—it’s a wolf,
it’s a bad, bad man

baby i’m a bad—bad man,
baby i’m a bad—bad man,
baby i’m a bad—bad man,
baby i’m a bad—bad man,

so put me down.

P.S. This poem is part of an album I wrote and produced called Pink House. If you’d like to listen to the spoken word version, you can do so here.

Everyone has found themselves in a toxic relationship at least once in their life.

While these hot and heavy romances certainly aren’t sustainable, they teach us an extraordinary amount about how not to love.

In this regard, they can be a blessing.

When we eventually do find the person we’re meant to live out our days with, the earned perspective prevents us from shitting the bed.

But, in some cases, we remain in the toxic relationship far too long. Thus was the case with Napoleon Bonaparte and Joséphine de Beauharnais.

They are a reminder that not all love is like the love John Steinbeck described in the letter he wrote to his son, Thom.

13 slightly hot, surely toxic lines from Napoleon’s letters to Joséphine.

During the fifteen years they spent together, their relationship was terribly tumultuous—rife with infidelity, maddening jealousy and enough emotional warfare to force a shrink into retirement.

Fortunately, for nosy writers like myself, he left behind a series of sultry sexts.

1. Napoleon on the morning after…

“I awake filled with thoughts of you. Your portrait and the memory of last night’s intoxicating evening have given my senses no rest.”

2. Napoleon on going down…

“A kiss upon your heart, and one much lower down. Much lower…”

3. Napoleon on long-distance relationships…

“I hope before long to clasp you in my arms and cover you with a million kisses burning as though beneath the equator.”

4. Napoleon on sending mixed signals…

“I don’t love you at all anymore; on the contrary, I detest you. You are horrid, terribly awkward, terribly foolish—a real Cinderella.”

5. Napoleon on being left on read…

“I write you, my beloved one, very often, and you write very little. You are wicked and naughty, very naughty, as much as you are fickle. It is treacherous to deceive a poor husband and tender lover this way!”

6. Napoleon on caressing a breast…

“How happy I would be if I could assist you at your undressing, the little firm white breast, the adorable face, the hair tied up in a scarf à la créole.”

7. Napoleon on longing for a nooner…

“You start at midday: in three hours I shall see you again. Till then, a thousand kisses… but give me none back for they set my blood on fire.”

8. Napoleon on being a stage-five clinger…

“Ever since I left you, I have been sad. I am only happy when by your side. Ceaselessly I recall your kisses, your tears, your tender concern; and the charms of the incomparable Joséphine keep constantly alight a bright and burning flame in my heart and senses. When, free from every worry, from all business, I shall spend all my moments by your side, to have nothing to do but to love you.”

9. Napoleon on Joséphine’s black forest…

“You know very well that I have not forgotten the little visits—you know, the little black forest. I kiss it a thousand times and await impatiently the moment when I shall be inside it.”

10. Napoleon on making Joséphine his entire personality…

“Without his Joséphine, without the assurance of her love, what is left him upon earth? What can he do?”

11. Napoleon on wanting to live inside Joséphine…

““To live within Joséphine is to live in the Elysian Fields. Kisses on your mouth, your eyes, your shoulder, your breast—everywhere, everywhere!”

12. Napoleon on burning desire…

“I breathe upon your lips, upon your heart, a flame that consumes me.”

13. Napoleon on being freaky…

“Home in three days. Don’t wash.”

It’s important to note this last line is mostly hearsay. While it’s endlessly attributed to Bonaparte, there is no sound documentary evidence that it was actually written by France’s horny emperor.

Alright, let’s shut the diary.

In addition to conquering most of mainland Europe and pursuing Joséphine with reckless abandon, Bonaparte also tried his hand at a romance novel.

One does not have to squint to find the inspiration for the novel.

Clisson et Eugénie follows the life of an exhausted revolutionary French soldier named Clisson. He meets a woman named Eugénie at a public bath. They fall in love, get married and have children. War beckons Clisson back. Eugénie is seduced by one of Clisson’s comrades. She stops writing him back.

Heartbroken, Clisson seeks his death on the battlefield.

This essay is about love, of course.

But, it’s also about something else. It’s about alignment in both life and work. I will end this essay with the latter. However, to properly introduce this gorgeous letter John Steinbeck wrote to his son, I will begin with the former.

Once, maybe twice, in a lifetime, you experience a Christ-like heartbreak.

It’s an ending so soul-crushing, it divides time itself. In the same way that historians measure the passing of centuries in BC and AD, you will measure the passing of years in Before Her and After Her.

Eventually, you will accept the loss of this person fully, completely—and in doing so, your suffering will be lifted and replaced with only a subtle, lingering sadness.

One day, when you least expect it, you will stumble into a beautiful stranger. And just like that—as sudden and dramatic as the passing of a storm—this stranger will become your new marker of time.

It will be different, though.

For you will have known what it means to have lost and you will not allow yourself to treat love so carelessly again.

You will take the lessons you learned from your previous heartbreak and apply them to being a better lover, partner and friend to this wonderful soul who is both deserving and encouraging of the very best of you.

There will be an overwhelming sense of anxiety in the early seasons of this new romantic connection—when the landscape is still humming with an incredible amount of uncertainty and possibility.

To cool this anxiety, I can think of no better salve than the words once written by Steinbeck in a letter to his son.

*John Steinbeck is typing now*

“Dear Thom:

We had your letter this morning. I will answer it from my point of view and of course Elaine will from hers.

First—if you are in love—that’s a good thing—that’s about the best thing that can happen to anyone. Don’t let anyone make it small or light to you. Second—There are several kinds of love. One is a selfish, mean, grasping, egotistical thing which uses love for self-importance. This is the ugly and crippling kind.

The other is an outpouring of everything good in you—of kindness and consideration and respect—not only the social respect of manners but the greater respect which is recognition of another person as unique and valuable. The first kind can make you sick and small and weak but the second can release in you strength, and courage and goodness and even wisdom you didn’t know you had.

You say this is not puppy love. If you feel so deeply—of course it isn’t puppy love. But I don’t think you were asking me what you feel. You know better than anyone. What you wanted me to help you with is what to do about it—and that I can tell you.

Glory in it for one thing and be very glad and grateful for it. The object of love is the best and most beautiful. Try to live up to it. If you love someone—there is no possible harm in saying so—only you must remember that some people are very shy and sometimes the saying must take that shyness into consideration.

Girls have a way of knowing or feeling what you feel, but they usually like to hear it also. It sometimes happens that what you feel is not returned for one reason or another—but that does not make your feeling less valuable and good.

Lastly, I know your feeling because I have it and I’m glad you have it.

We will be glad to meet Susan. She will be very welcome. But Elaine will make all such arrangements because that is her province and she will be very glad to. She knows about love too and maybe she can give you more help than I can.

And don’t worry about losing. If it is right, it happens—The main thing is not to hurry. Nothing good gets away.

Love,

Fa.”

That last line is everything.

As promised, I will close out this essay on the topic of alignment.

Steinbeck ends the above letter to his son with a line that doesn’t just apply to love, but to both life and work…

“Nothing good gets away.”

Over the past week, I noticed myself attempting to convince two people to remain in my life. Two people who were very much ready to go.

In trying to convince them, I caused myself a great deal of suffering. I share the Buddhist perspective that suffering is born from unmet desire. So, whenever I notice myself suffering, I ask: What am I wanting that reality is refusing?

Once you can name the desire, you can accept it. And once you’ve accepted it, you can release it.

Today, I was finally ready to let them go. Not out of spite. Not out of resentment. Not out of anger. But, instead, in pursuit of alignment.

I believe this is what Steinbeck was explaining to his son. When he writes that nothing good gets away, he isn’t saying, “If she leaves, you’re better off without her.” Instead, he is saying that love cannot be hurried nor persuaded.

In other words, what is right for you cannot be forced.

You want people to remain in your life of their own accord—not because you convinced, persuaded or begged them to stay. But, because they chose to stay.

Over the past few years, as I’ve attempted to find greater alignment in my life, work and relationships, I’ve repeated the following mantra to myself…

What is meant for me will stay. What isn’t will leave.

This applies not only to lovers, friends and colleagues, but also to opportunities.

When you notice yourself white-knuckling a person, an opportunity or a desired future, it’s an indicator that it’s time to let go.

For nothing good gets away.

Kurt Vonnegut is best known for his novels.

But, his literary prowess shone brightest in his short stories. Harrison Bergeron is one of the greatest pieces of science fiction I've ever read.

I experienced it for the first time in the seventh grade.

Harrison is a fourteen-year-old boy living in an alternate future where everyone is equal—because they’re hindered to be equal.

If you were good-looking, you wore a mask. If you were strong, you wore scrap metal and bags filled with birdshot. If you were intelligent, you wore a mental handicap radio that let out a deafening squelch everytime your thoughts reached above a certain frequency.

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