The twelve-hundred-word version follows, though, because the second-greatest love song of all time has been on my mind, and I want to talk about it (the song), and love (actually).

“Thank You” —

I am on the record having already identified and declared the best love song of all time. Happy to reiterate that it is “Thank You” by Led Zeppelin.

This essay is not about that song. But it is about the second-best love song of all time. One particular cover might be my favorite. It opens with Sir Elton John playing an iconic guitar riff. On the piano. Beautifully enough to tug at your feels. It goes on to feature a super rad Yo-Yo solo. That is — a shred piece on the cello by the incomparable Yo-Yo Ma. The song is written by neither Sir Elton (or his writing partner, Bernie Taupin) nor Mr. Ma. More on that in a minute. For now, this.

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Don’t answer that.

I guess you could call me a fanboy of anthropology. And a loser, an enormous, catastrophic loser.

But, at least I am learning myself. I mean, about myself. And trust me being a fanboy of anthropology is one thing. Coming out as a fanboy of anthropology to you (and the internet, gasp) is another altogether. I will trim up the intro here by saying, if you feel an urge to judge me, either for being this way or for admitting to being this way, GFY.

The cheeto stains have properly transferred on the most recent book I have read in this indulgence. In it, I learned,

Humans have been fucking with farming for 200,000 years.

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Thanks for listening, be good

- Scotty

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… Then post the recording I made for the ‘essay’ section of Substack to the ‘podcast’ section.

Thanks for listening, be good

Scotty

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Thanks for listening, be good

Scotty

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Thanks for listening, be good

Scotty

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Thanks for listening, be good

Scotty

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Thanks for listening, be good

Scotty

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Thanks for listening, be good

Scotty

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I love you.

Thanks for your extraordinary effort. Thanks for the excitement. Thanks for bringing us all together. And thanks for representing our already great nation with such aplomb and alacrity.

Signed,

Scotty G

—

To the loud, but surely minor, group of ‘sports commentators’ for whom this great team’s ultimate loss to Belgium is clearly a source of joy -

You have the right to be wrong.

Signed,

My Maternal Grandfather (probably)

—

To the loud, but surely minor, group of ‘sports commentators’ for whom this great team’s ultimate loss to Belgium is clearly a source of joy -

- sometimes two fingers are better than one.

Signed,

Scotty G

—

The World Cup, 2026

According to the internet, ~33 million American households watched the USMNT play Bosnia and Herzegovina in the round of 32. Further, another nearly 41 million watched the match against Belgium. These are staggering numbers.

Forget the pinnacle, the Super Bowl, my sleuthing puts that into 120+ million viewers. But these numbers, 33 and 41 million easily crack the top 10 sporting events (referencing 2025). We are in NFL Playoff game territory here. And the NFL is nothing if not a religion in the US of A.

What does that mean for this Team and this World Cup? It means that they got hold of us! They tapped into … something about America and Americans in the summer of 2026, and — if ever so briefly — brought us together. What a beautiful and brilliantly American thing to do.

Then they lost. Sucks. Also, so TF what.

I admire those brave enough to step into the arena. As such, I have endless patience, encouragement, and support for them.

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(quote source)1

Father’s Day is this week. Which means my Father has been on my mind. I should say that I have the urge to add, “like he is every day since he died.” Only that isn’t true.

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I have seen UPS trucks probably a hundred million times in my life. Certainly a million in my neighborhood alone over the years. This is the age of Amazon after all.

Many years ago I read an interesting article. It described how, in an effort to maximize efficiency, UPS trucks almost never turn left. I regret that I am not appropriately crediting the essay here, but I don’t recall the source, and the internet isn’t cooperating. The point, as I recall it anyway, is fairly simple.

You either drive, have driven, or have someone to drive you around, so this is intuitive. Making a left turn takes more time than making a right turn. That is the gist of it.

Well, many years ago plus a few days, I was sitting in my driveway with a friend and neighbor watching our young kids play. I recounted the story. “This is fascinating; UPS trucks map out their entire delivery runs making sure that they hardly ever turn left,” is likely how I would have started. I probably went on and on.

We were in portable outdoor chairs facing South, likely with cold beer in hand. I think I made the essay proud with my distillation of it, but I am not certain. I am certain, however, about what happened next.

We entered the refractory period after a stimulating discussion. That brief moment of silence in a two person conversation after one topic is well and dusted, and the two parties rush its digestion so as to begin wracking their brains for the next thing to talk about. We were two heartbeats into this phase when it happened.

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I am for disagreements.

I am for competition.

Let’s juggle these balls, shall we?

Salary caps came up briefly on my fantasy football chat recently. One of the dudes is for it. I love this dude, and value his opinion. Two things. First, like my grandfather always said, he has the right to be wrong. And second, I am not trying to disagree with him about this over the chat. Great chat, but it lacks subtlety. I look forward to the opportunity for a civilized conversation on the matter over ranch waters at the ranch. Where, um, I suppose they’re just called waters?

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That is because when I read the papers, I see a world where we have spun off into extremes. Here at home as well as abroad. It is Us versus Them. It is our like-minded “in” group, versus those people — on the other side of the wall — whose cardinal sin is not being us. Sure is simple to parse the world like this: Them & Us.1

Once we’re duly bifurcated, every group interaction seems to push us further from each other. This distance — at best — makes Us detest our own neighbors. Worse, it spins Us up into a murderous rage against a Them we don’t really know much about other than we hate Them.

Them & Us. At war here, there, and all over the globe. These are the workings of the Tyranny of Distance.

But what do I know? I just fly airplanes for a living. I don’t know international relations, political science, or the intricacies of diplomacy. I also don’t know policy, politics, nor do I purport to have any answers. Nevertheless, I continue apace, making the occasional observation, and then foolishly (and self-aggrandizingly) reporting it to the internet. So here is another.

The Tyranny of Distance begins its evil polarization of us right around the 12-foot mark.

“The Tyranny of Distance” is an older turn of phrase coined by an Australian historian called Geoffrey Blainey. When I first heard it, it resonated immediately with an observation of mine that I used to call the Traffic / Elevator phenomenon.

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Sure it was decidedly less convenient than today, when our unceasing connection to the world allows for detours without consequence, and even offers real-time rerouting for traffic or other inconveniences. But the PIME is also charming and nostalgic. Probably because it is an index fossil marking the infinite promise of a nascent internet.1

Before PIME

I have to be honest and confess that — even while squinting — I can hardly recall navigating the streets pre-PIME.

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An excellent song. That wonky “lovey-dovey” headspace. And the Rock Star stereotype.

“She’s a Rainbow,” by The Rolling Stones is an outstanding track from a legendary group. It is also — thematically, anyway — an outlier in a genre where the stereotype is bawdy and braggadocios. In “She’s a Rainbow” Mick Jagger and the lads strike me as proudly progressive partners for whom sex is the physical act of literal lovemaking.1 The intimate consummation of a rapturous emotional love between, well, lovers. Partners, or even better, equals for whom the ecstatic climax resultant from the act are due equally to both parties.

Do you know that “Gaga-honeymoon-brain”? That grotesque infection for the newly “in love”? You do. And, if you deny familiarity with this, you are currently suffering from it. No shade. At some point or another, this is a categorical embarrassment for us all. And, even if you can’t cop to being one of the majority who have gushed under the intoxicating smoke of this infection, you have definitely borne witness to it. It is your lovable loser friend who has finally landed their2 first significant other, and wants to scream it from the rooftops, unaware that they are high as a kite on the fumes of love. It is that individual and their unsolicited professions of love, public displays of affection, and — when not together with their partner in offensive crime — their dopey love sick woes.

The best (and most unintentional) display of this in the popular culture is the cliché tone set by Hallmark. We feel it watching Hallmark — the pangs of “Michael-Scott-from-The-Office-embarrassment-that-we-feel-because-he-does-not” — but a thousand times more when the exaltations come from our lovable loser friend

Wtih one minor exception.

When an elite few, world-class artists to be precise, succumb to these feelings, the output is inspired, and inspiring. We should all revere when the creatives among us are in this emotional space, because the art they emerge with will almost certainly be incredible.3 Especially in this genre, because this “lovey-dovey” headspace is a stark juxtaposition to the stereotypical Rock Star.

I say again, the stereotypical Rock Star

If you have ever heard of Cameron Crowe, Rolling Stone (the magazine), or “The Dirt …” the book about Mötley Crüe, I don’t think I need to describe the stereotype. But, I’ll do so anyway just to help me argue that “She’s a Rainbow“ flies in its face.4

One hardly has to squint to evoke this archetype. You know, the one where the sex has nothing to do with intimacy. They treat it more like a competition. Objective stakes — like ski racing — involving numbers and stats. The world where two beats one, but loses to three. But also, subjective stakes — like figure skating — where style, flair, and panache matter. A depravity Olympics of sorts. Where the mythology is rife with sordid stories starring Rock Stars, involving groupies, even featuring sharks among myriad other depraved characters and acts.5 The polar opposite of a physical act of lovemaking, more like a conquest for the boys to brag about.6

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As such, I am posting my annual holiday letter from 2024 here, and renaming it ‘hope for 2026.’ I reread it and found it to be thematically similar to 2025’s version, if a bit more creative and elegant. Similar, but different. It was nice to see a maturation in my view even if, as previously discussed, 2025 went a bit hard for me. The below, 2024’s letter, did, in fact, make it out of the editor’s room.

Oh, and I am excited to see what AI does when I ask for a comic book version of the chat I imagined between Sir Isaac Newton, and Enrico Fermi.

And one house cleaning item. A dear friend, subscriber, and reader of TOLwSG informs that he occasionally listens to these posts.2 That revelation smashed headlong into another thing I have heard in the form of positive feedback to my writing projects — it is that some of the people in my life say that they can ‘hear me’ speaking when they read my stuff.

As such, I will be recording my essays and posting them as, well, however Substack people publish audio posts … not sure if that is ‘stapled’ on to the original, or its own thing. I even have all the equipment to do this. Two obfuscations to the effort. One, not certain how I want to handle parenthetical thoughts, and footnotes. Do I interrupt my own thing and drop them in? Ad lib to keep it conversational? Post them all at the end? TBD on that. And, two - I currently lack the moxie to record my own voice and post it on the internet. You all understand how your own voice sounds on tape compared to in your own head. I reckon that will be easy(ish) to get over … but my goodness, when I got my setup to record, I sat down and all of a sudden felt mildly douchey.3 That led to a search for problems to avoid the work. And I found them in the parenthetical thought / footnote thing. More to follow.

The first, and last (until the next) repurposed essay follows.

Until next time, thank you for reading, and be good

- Scotty

On with last year’s holiday letter … or this my hope for goodness in 2026

We are Doomed (and other happy musings on 2024)

But first, this

A read ahead if you don’t want to bog down in my rants and raves this year.

I have basically one contrived thought. It is that, as a species, we humans just might wipe ourselves off the face of the planet. To make my case I evoke some history of planet earth, some history of humanity, a tenuous grasp of philosophy and science, and cherry picked observations from my day to day.

If you’re clamoring through this waiting for something significant or important, you won’t find it. It is just an ocean of words upon which you may enjoy setting sail. I thought of you as I wrote. The result is me. We hardly spend time together, so thinking of you as I wrote was joyous. If you choose to set sail, perhaps you’ll enjoy your time with me as well.

If you don’t, also totally cool. Christin, Mason, and I are doing well. We had an awesome year. And we wish you much love, joy, and prosperity in 20254 and beyond.

We wish for glad tidings, peace on earth, and good will towards (hu)man.

Better said, Happy everything.5

We’re Doomed. Or, moving heaven and earth in the spaces where personal responsibility used to be.

Look no further than the moving walkway. These are featured prominently in airports and shark viewing aquariums where the walkway goes through the tank. As awesome as these are in service of the latter, in the former, they are Exhibit A in the case of our impending doom. Look, I have all the compassion in the world for the less mobile among us. Whether a permanent disability, or something temporary, like a new hip or knee, people may yet still have the need (and the right!) to travel. Seems to me like making them more mobile for the journey -- wheel chair, say, or crutches -- makes a ton more sense than MAKING THE EARTH MOVE beneath them!6 7We are not saving time, so do the rest of us need relief? … from walking? When Mason was littler I spent some parenting capital telling him the moving walkway wasn’t something to be played with. But that was a lie. At its best, the moving walkway is something to be played with. An impractical, not very fun, and expensive one, but a plaything nonetheless. I am left to assume that the moving walkway is a vestige of coddling us from the (GASP) horror of having to walk. Unburdening us of our, ahem, personal responsibility for locomotion; in the aquarium (majestically) and in the airport (abhorrently). The moving walkway, welcome to America in 2024.

‘It’s America, Baby! Never look in the mirror when you (err).’8 My friend Mike said this, this year.9 In my edit, the tone remains true, only I have taken discretion to accommodate the family friendly nature of this tome.

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As far as deliverable, in the mail, Christmas letters go, this entire document hit the cutting room floor. I said ‘shit’ a few times, and ‘douche bag,’ for one. Yes, I could have easily edited those to something softer, but that just reflects on me thinking about the various people on the mailing list. Ultimately it felt like too much for the majority of them. And / or I lack the courage to own the contents in the first place.

It did feel good to write this. Perhaps that is enough.

I feel fortunate to have the option to share it here with you.

I mean, this is Thinking Out Loud with Scotty G … the whole idea is to post what’s on my mind.

You should skip to the letter if that’s your desire. If — shocker — you want some more front matter, it follows immediately.

Front Matter

I used to love reading holiday letters. I don’t know if these are universal or unique to my family, upbringing, or both. But, as a kid, I could count on 12-18 letters each December — addressed to the family — that were annual updates of sorts. Even from people with whom I had no relationship, I loved these letters.

I wonder if this is the same emotional thread that makes bios interesting. I mean, people are largely interesting. When they decide to write about their lives, it is largely interesting. But also, perhaps a little … curated.

As you know, social media absolutely nuked this reality.

Your Facebook “friends” are not your friends. And the lives presented to you by people you follow on Instagram aren’t even close to the lives that they actually lead.

The Christmas letter in 1992 had this DNA, too, but only marginally. It does make sense that you wouldn’t write an annual missive to describe how awful things are. Sure, accentuate the positive, obfuscate the negative. That makes a little more sense than social media today, where the operative words are similar, only they obfuscate everything, to manufacture a distorted representation of what is real.

The hard copy letters did occasionally include the “sad but true,” too.

In fact, I recall reading in a Christmas letter, many many years ago, that my neighborhood friend, Danny Beers, had died the year prior. We were probably friends when we were eight-ish years old. I probably read that news when I was 16-ish years old. It shocked me then. I feel pangs of shock recalling it now.

My annual letter

Anyway, the Christmas letter I write annually is perennially an attempt to hit three marks. First, honesty about my family and our life. Then, a lampoon of the ‘curated lives’ that we present for ourselves (including in the sacrosanct ‘holiday letter’) + an observation about ‘this day in age’ in general.1 And finally, something sweet and meaningful about the time of year, and the fact that we are corresponding with each other via these means. I truly love the Christmas / Holiday card tradition.

2025

Maybe I feel like I was too ‘radically’ honest about myself in the below. It is true. I have had a bit of a rough patch. Is that appropriate for the holiday missive? Am I reluctant to expose myself accordingly to my own mother? To my sisters-in-law, and a friend from the squadron ten years ago?

Maybe I am afraid that I didn’t hit the marks the way I aimed to. Am I honest about my family and life? Or are they drowned out by the noise of the rest of the tome’s bloviation?

Maybe it is too mean. The idea was to let it rip, and then edit it back to be ‘appropriate.’ Only, I cannot find that happy balance.

I can’t place the culprit, but also cannot find the courage to just send it.

What is real is that I have decided to leave it all on the cutting room floor, in favor of a one pager. 319 words via USPS. 6800 words via Substack.

You’re almost certainly on the list for the one pager and an associated photo. Lucky you.

Whatever is happening with this decision, I am grateful for the opportunity to post the original here. I can at least assuage my reluctance to own this essay in front of all of the people, and expose myself to you. That’s not nothing.

My trepidations …

Is this appropriate and I lack confidence in my writing?

Or is this inappropriate and I am making a wise and mature decision?

Of course, it could also be both shit and inappropriate …

The decision to read is yours!2

And whether you read this post or don’t, I thank you for joining me on this venture.

I wish you an excellent holiday season, and all the best for the new year!

Be Good,

- Scotty

Hello. I hope 2025 was good to you. Happy everything.

I am taking back Sunday. Well, I would like to. There’s just no time to talk about how ridiculous the weekly calendar is. Whose week starts on Sunday and ends on Saturday? Except for the dumb convention where the standard weekly calendar parses it accordingly, no one splits the weekend up like that. Realistically, the week ends on Sunday. The weekly calendar should start on Monday. Whatever. On with it, I have some explaining to do.

This is hard to say — I am less calcitrant than re — which is what makes it so worth saying.

Somewhere around 2022, I lost my way a bit.

For the majority of my life prior to 2022, I had a North Star that burned with the brightness of, well, 2,000 suns.3 When that burned out, it left a void in my soul that I took to filling by observing and judging people. Good people, like you. Worse, I sanctimoniously sullied the good pages of my annual holiday tidings with these vapid observations and judgments.

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If you don’t understand how people have pets who are like members of the family, this essay is not for you.

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The possibility of “alignment” remains, that humans may subjugate AI to our whim. The consequences if the opposite is true, however, are catastrophic, and the dichotomy in the potential futures is stark. In one future, AI could help humans, and rid our species of cancer, as one example. In the other future, AI could view us as the world’s cancer, and rid the planet of us.

My good friend Touchdown Tommy mentioned that last week’s missive was fairly soft. I thought I was flame-throwing a fire-and-brimstone essay about robots enslaving us to do their bidding. The figurative example was making paper clips. But — shocker — I must have equivocated a bit.

The truth is, I am too chicken shit to put it in words — and actually mean it — that the machines are gonna kill us all. Not to mention, the ultimate direction that this burgeoning explosion of life takes is truly a crap shoot.1 My ego is too healthy2 to just declare something and believe that screaming it loudly enough will suffice for nuanced argument. Arrogant bloviation like that is the realm of the sportsbologosphere … and the pulpit.

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