Rick Rubin has low heart rate variability. So he looked up everything that raises it, picked one technique, and started doing it every day. It worked. The technique: coherence breathing. 10 to 20 minutes a day, at least once, sometimes twice. Now he and @hubermanlab do it together on camera so you can follow along:

Objective Fact: so far the USA soccer team has played the best of any team, not even close.

Franz Kafka 1912 protocol:

Top 10 insights from @AndrewYang on phone addiction: 1. Smartphones meet the clinical definition of addiction, not just a bad habit 2. Willpower fails because you cannot quit phones, you need them daily 3. The urge to check = discomfort avoidance, not importance 4. You check your phone ~200 times a day, about every 6 minutes 5. Social media is engineered to trigger you, not inform you 6. AI and phones are quietly degrading memory, focus, and problem solving 7. Even having a phone visible reduces trust in conversations 8. “Productivity” scrolling is just socially acceptable distraction 9. Social norms beat self-control, groups change behavior faster than individuals 10. The simplest fix: do not sleep with your phone in the same room If you can reclaim even a fraction of your focus right now, you are ahead of most people

Remember when all the podcasters were telling us to put butter in our coffee? Man, those were the days… #bulletproof

“But I did have breakfast today”

The most frustrating thing about stupid people is that you can't explain to them why they're wrong. Not only can they not understand you–because they're stupid–but they think *you're* stupid one... Because they can't understand you. This is why we can't have nice things AND we're gonna lose the ones we have.

You need to be home grown blueberry maxxing

The psyop men fall for is, “You can have kids anytime.” While true, the other side of this coin is, “Every day you delay kids is a day you don’t get with your grandkids.”

Otter.ai is an infectious disease, 🦠 f’em and their bullshit

Hot take: Buying things is actually than buying experiences (in this case)

Last night, I read the entirety of C.S. Lewis' The Screwtape Letters. It's a novel told in the form of letters written by a demon to another demon instructing him on ways to manipulate his "patient" to do evil. This one quote sounded familiar.

TOTAL SHOCK 😲 Qatar spent almost a billion dollars convincing me Jews control my life... And I fell for it!

Trump gonna let Iran simmer and keep status quo and bomb them after midterms

USA. Summer. It is 95 degrees outside, and I am shivering inside a sandwich shop. I have discovered how Americans forge strong souls. Outside, the sun is trying to kill everyone. Inside this small restaurant, it is winter. My breath does not fog, but it is thinking about it. A man near me is eating a cold sandwich while wearing a jacket. In summer. Indoors. In Japan we would simply turn it down. Americans do not turn it down. And now I understand them better than they understand themselves. This cold is not an accident. This cold is a gift. The owner has built, inside his shop, a second season. He invites you in from the brutal heat and hands you the one thing the sun has denied you all day: a reason to be cold. To endure it is to be tempered. You walk in soft and sweating. You walk out sharp and clear, a slightly stronger person than you were. So I did not complain. I removed my outer layer and offered it to the woman at the next table, who was hugging herself. She said, "Oh, no, I'm fine, thank you." She was not fine. Her lips were blue. But she, too, understood the training. She would not break first. I respected her deeply. The owner asked if everything was okay. "It is perfect," I said, through my teeth, which were chattering. "Thank you for the winter." He said, "...I can turn the AC down if you want?" I told him no. A man does not ask the mountain to be shorter. I stayed two hours. I ordered a hot coffee to survive. Then a second one, to hold. By the end I could no longer feel my hands, but my spirit had never been clearer. So now, on the hottest days, I seek out the coldest rooms. I sit. I shiver. I sharpen. And when I finally step back out into the summer heat, and it wraps around me like a warm bath, I feel it. Reborn. A man who has survived the winter, in August, indoors, for the price of a sandwich.

USA. A backyard. One man guarding a grill for four hours. He never left it once. Everyone else drifted and drank and laughed. But one man stood alone before the flames, turning meat with a long fork, immovable. I knew him at once. The keeper of the sacred fire. I took my place beside him and said nothing. After a while, he spoke. "Low and slow," he said, eyes on the coals. "You can't rush it. Rush it, you ruin it." I bowed my head. A blade, a tea, a life. None can be rushed. I had crossed four thousand miles to hear my grandfather's words from a man in a "KISS THE COOK" apron. "Everything worth doing is slow," I agreed. He glanced at me. Something passed between us. "My wife says just use the oven." He shook his head at the fire. "She doesn't get it." "They never do," I said. And this is where it turned. For the first time in years, this man had been understood. And he rose to meet it. His back straightened. His voice dropped low. A teenager reached for the grill and the man lifted one hand without even looking. "Not yet." The boy retreated. He was becoming what I already believed him to be. A woman asked when the food would be done. "It's ready when it's ready," he told the flames. Three people approached. Three were turned away with a single word. By the fourth hour, no one questioned him. The whole party had arranged itself around the man and his fire, the way a village arranges itself around a shrine. Then he handed me the fork. "Watch it a sec. I gotta pee." I have been trusted with castles. I have never been more honored. He served everyone before himself, and ate last, standing, still watching the coals. We never traded names. We did not need to. He believed he had finally met a man who took his cooking seriously. I believed I had finally met America's last samurai. Neither of us will ever correct the other. So tell me, America. Who is the man at your gathering who will not leave the grill? Have you ever once asked him why? I think he is still standing there. Guarding the fire. Waiting for one person to understand.

Karl Popper, this one is absolute gold