GarthBox

“Hey, I’ll give you ten minutes back.”

I’ve said it. You’ve heard it. It gets delivered in the tone of a man handing over a wrapped present, and for a second the room actually warms up, because ending early is the closest thing corporate life has to snow day.

But look at the grammar. Give it back. To give something back, it had to be yours. The hour was never mine. I borrowed it, from you, from everyone on the invite, and now I’m returning a fraction of the loan and waiting for applause. No bank teller has ever handed you part of your own deposit and called it a gift.

And even calling it a return is generous, because of what the minutes come back as. Ten minutes in the middle of a stacked afternoon is change in pennies. Technically money. Try buying anything with it.

You know this because you’ve watched what happens next. The meeting ends twelve minutes early. Nobody stands up. The little squares hang there for a beat, then go black one by one, and every single person slides the same six inches to the left, into Slack. The inbox eats the gift whole. Nobody stretches. Nobody steps outside. Nobody walks the dog. The dog, who heard the blip sound of a meeting ending and had opinions about it, goes back to sleep.

I spent years behind a bar, and here’s what the bar taught me about gifts: a comped beer costs the house something. That’s the whole reason it means something. Generosity has a receipt. When I end your meeting early, I spend nothing. My calendar didn’t get lighter, yours didn’t get freer, and the phrase cost me four words. Any gift that costs the giver nothing is not a gift. It’s positioning.

Companies run this same play on customers all day. “We’re giving back to you” usually means points, and points usually mean handcuffs with a bow on them. Customers can smell generosity that doesn’t cost anything, the same way your team can. The smell is identical.

There is a version of this I’d respect. It’s heavier. End the meeting early and then ask, out loud, “What will you do with your twelve minutes?” Make everyone say it. Watch how fast the room gets uncomfortable, because the honest answer is Slack, and now everyone has to hear themselves say Slack.

I haven’t done it yet. I’m not sure I want to be asked, either. Customers probably don’t either. Probably time to rewrite our value statements.

Stay Positive & Let’s Walk The Dog Next Time, Shall We?

I built a robot whose only job is to reject my writing.

Not edit it. Reject it. It reads my drafts and answers one question: could anyone have written this? It knows my tics. It keeps a list of phrases I’m no longer allowed to use. When a draft fails, it doesn’t cushion the news. It says no, and it says why.

The test at the center of it is simple. Strip the byline off any piece of content and ask: if you swapped in another name, would anybody blink? If the answer is no, it isn’t writing. It’s inventory.

You can run that test on anything now. One prompt. Every founder letter, every brand manifesto, every post in your feed: remove the name, ask if any other name would fit. Most of it fails instantly. That should bother more people than it does.

What surprised me was what the robot caught in mine. Not weak sentences. Structure. I had a skeleton I’d been walking for years without seeing it: odd image up top, dramatic one-liner, three quick business examples, punchline in italics. The rhythm I thought was most mine turned out to be the thing that made posts smell generated. The machine found the machine in me.

Which is the actual point?

Everyone is building AI skills right now, and most of them are automation. Onboard the new keg, chase the invoice, close the month. Good. Those buy back hours, and hours matter. But the skills I love are the other kind. The ones that don’t do your thinking so much as raise the price of it.

A skill that asks what you believe that your smartest peers would argue with. A skill that fails your draft if it contains zero evidence from your actual life. A skill that forces you to think out-of-the-box.

I spent years behind a bar, and you cannot hand a customer a palate. You can pour a flight that reveals the one they already have. Taste has never once arrived on command. It arrives when the scenario corners it.

You can’t manufacture taste. I think we all get this. It’s what makes us feel like we’re still needed.

But…

But you can manufacture the scenario that drags your taste out of you, blinking, and puts it to work.

That’s what a good editor always was. That’s what a deadline was. That’s what the friend who reads your draft and says “you’re better than this” was.

The scenario was always the machine. Now the machine can be the scenario.

The same tool that writes ten thousand interchangeable posts for one person becomes the strictest editor another person has ever had. Same tool. Same price. The difference is whether you wanted to be pushed in the first place.

Stay Positive & What You Build Is Up To You

I was on a call with my new team this week and someone joked that the reason our work gets taken seriously is that we don’t take ourselves seriously. Everyone laughed. Nobody disagreed. It was the truest thing said on the call, and it was delivered as a throwaway.

That joke has been rattling around in my head ever since, because it explains something companies keep saying without knowing what they mean. ClickUp says it. Half the job descriptions I read say it. We hire for how people think. It sounds like a nice sentiment about potential over pedigree. It’s actually a confession: the playbook is not the asset. It never was.

Consider Dick Fosbury. In the 1960s, every high jumper on earth cleared the bar the same way, rolling over it face-down in a technique called the straddle. It was the playbook. Coaches taught it, judges expected it, and the record books were full of it. Fosbury, a mediocre straddler, started throwing himself over the bar backwards. His own coaches tried to talk him out of it. Sportswriters compared him to a fish flopping in a boat, and they did not mean it kindly. Then he won gold in Mexico City in 1968, and within a decade the laughingstock technique was the only technique. Today nobody jumps any other way. The heresy became the playbook, which means the playbook you’re studying right now is just the last heresy that happened to win.

Beer did the same thing. When hazy IPAs first came out of Vermont, competition judges marked them down as flawed. Murky, unfiltered, wrong. The style guidelines literally had no box for them. Brewers who followed the guidelines made clear, correct, forgettable beer. Brewers who trusted their own palate over the rubric made the style that ended up carrying the entire category. I’ve poured a lot of both from behind a bar, and I can tell you which one people drive across town for.

So when I say how you think matters more than your resume, your age, or your passport stamps, I don’t mean it as encouragement. I mean it as a warning, specifically to the person who believes a proven framework will carry them. It won’t, and the reason is structural. By the time something becomes a playbook, its edge is gone. Everyone has it. A playbook is a record of how one person thought about one problem at one moment, and the moment is over. Running it faithfully doesn’t make you strategic. It makes you the fourth-best straddler in a world that’s about to jump backwards.

Which brings me back to the joke on that call. Not taking yourself seriously is not a personality quirk. It’s an operating condition. The team that can laugh at itself is the team where someone can say the fish-flopping idea out loud without calculating the reputational cost first. Seriousness is expensive. It makes every meeting a performance, and nobody proposes a backwards jump in the middle of a performance.

The uncomfortable part is that this never ends… Fosbury’s flop is now the orthodoxy, taught by the same kind of coaches who once mocked it. Hazy IPAs have style guidelines now. Whatever you figure out will calcify too, and someday a kid who doesn’t respect your playbook will clear a bar you didn’t think was clearable, backwards, while everyone winces.

Stay Positive & Say The Fish-Flopping Idea Out Loud

In Thornton Wilder’s The Matchmaker, a rich grump named Horace Vandergelder hires Dolly Levi to find him a wife. Dolly, who wants the job of wife for herself, does not compete for it. Competing is for amateurs. Instead she invents Ernestina Simple: a heiress of great beauty, impeccable manners, and zero existence.

Ernestina’s job is not to be chosen. Ernestina’s job is to stand next to Dolly and lose.

Economists eventually caught up to this trick and named it the decoy effect. It’s why the menu carries a lobster nobody orders. The lobster isn’t food. The lobster is a spotlight operator, and it points its beam at the steak.

Here’s the uncomfortable part. Nothing in your life gets chosen on its own merits. Not products, not job candidates, not you. Everything gets chosen against a lineup, and whoever builds the lineup wins before the judging starts. Dolly understood that the question is never “am I good?” The question is “what am I standing next to?” Or, as we more regularly say in our day-to-day… “Compared to what?”

Marketers who get this stop polishing the product and start composing the shelf. Good, better, best. The oversized option that makes the middle one feel wise. The premium tier that exists so the standard tier can look like a steal wearing a tuxedo.

And people who get this stop letting strangers cast their comparisons. Scroll long enough and you’ll find yourself standing in a lineup you never agreed to, somewhere between a guy with a boat and a woman whose kitchen has never known crumbs. That lineup was composed too. Just not by you, and not in your favor.

You can’t opt out of comparison. Nobody can; it’s how choosing works. But you can notice who arranged the shelf. You can ask what the lobster is selling. You can decline to be somebody else’s Ernestina.

…

Dolly gets her man, by the way. The fictional heiress retires undefeated, having lost exactly as planned.

Stay Positive & Shelves Are Ready For (Your?) Stocking

People keep asking me what my novel is “about,” and the honest answer is too long. So instead, here are six specific things that are in the book. If even one of these makes you tilt your head, you are probably the reader I wrote this for.

1. A chocolate milk bottle full of magical spice.

I will not explain how it got there. I will not explain what it does. I will say that it has more agency than most of the side characters, and that it is responsible for at least two of the book’s three major betrayals. The bottle is the closest thing this novel has to a meaningful love interest.

2. A Cambodian spy whose cover story is probably that she is a sommelier, maybe.

She is probably good at the sommelier part. Let’s assume that. She is excellent at the spy part. Mostly. She is unprepared for the part where she falls in love with the wrong restaurant owner, which is, in fairness, a difficult section to study for.

3. A restaurant that serves insects.

Crickets, mealworms, scorpion when it is in season. The chef refers to insect cookery as “menu honesty.” The diners refer to it as “the bug place.” Both are correct.

4. A business rivalry that escalates like a raccoon with venture funding.

Two seafood restaurant owners, one block apart, both convinced the other is the reason they have not yet become great. They are both correct, and both wrong, and both about to discover what either of those things actually costs.

5. A woman with freckles.

Who is described, in the book, as “either holy or extremely well-funded.” I will not say which. I will say that you will know by chapter seventeen, and you will not be ready.

6. The repeated question: how do you keep moving forward?

This is the only part of the book that is not a joke. It is the spine. It is the thing every other strange object is hanging off of. If the book works, you will laugh for a good 300 pages and then close the book and sit very quietly for a minute, because the question will have caught up with you.

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If you have already read it, please consider leaving a short Amazon review. One sentence is plenty. Reviews are how weird books find their next strange reader.

A creative companion piece to Herough Herough, set in the same universe. Not part of the novel — but it would feel right at home on the shelf above the bar.

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General Provisions

All employees shall be informed, in writing, that the restaurant serves insects. Employees who believe they were misled about this during the hiring process are entitled to one (1) free meal and one (1) opportunity to leave.

The phrase “the bug is the meal” must appear in the employee handbook, on the back of every uniform, and on a small placard above each kitchen station. It does not need to appear on the menu.

Section 1: Insect Storage

Insects shall be stored at temperatures appropriate to their species. Mealworms refrigerated. Crickets ambient. Scorpions, when in season, in a separate walk-in clearly labeled NOT THE WALK-IN YOU WANT.

No insect shall be stored adjacent to dairy. The reasons are aesthetic.

A locked drawer shall be maintained for any insect a regulatory inspector has specifically asked you to stop serving. The key shall be held by a person who is not currently on the premises.

Section 2: Handling

Employees shall wash hands before handling insects. Employees shall wash hands after handling insects. Employees shall wash hands during handling, if anyone is watching.

If an insect escapes during preparation, the employee shall calmly inform the chef, then attempt to recapture the insect using the designated insect recapture tongs. The tongs are in the drawer above the dishwasher. There is only one pair.

If a customer notices the escaped insect, the employee shall immediately offer that customer a complimentary pint of beer. If the customer notices a second escaped insect, the customer is to be informed that the restaurant has a small thematic infestation as part of its concept and is encouraged to leave a review.

Section 3: Service

Insects shall be served on plates of contrasting color. Black plates for crickets. White plates for mealworms. A plate that matches the insect violates the spirit of presentation and undermines customer trust.

Servers shall not, under any circumstances, refer to insects as “little snacks,” “crunchy friends,” or “the small ones.” Insects shall be referred to by their species name or, if the customer appears squeamish, by their dish name only.

If a customer asks “is this a bug?”, the correct response is, “yes, and it pairs beautifully with the Dopplebock.”

If a customer asks “is this a real bug?”, the correct response is, “would you like me to bring out the beer list?”

Section 4: Emergency Procedures

In the event of an inspection, the locked drawer (Section 1) shall not be opened.

In the event of a fire, prioritize the escape of customers, then employees, then the scorpion walk-in (Section 1).

In the event a competing seafood restaurant opens nearby, refer to the General Manager. Do not engage. Do not respond to flyers. Do not, under any circumstances, accept gifts of chocolate milk delivered by a person you do not recognize.

Section 5: Acknowledgment

By signing below, the employee acknowledges that they have read and understood these guidelines, that they are aware the restaurant serves insects, and that they understand the bug is the meal.

Employee signature: _______________

Date: _______________

Did you actually read this: _______________

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The novel where the chocolate milk references make a lot more sense.

I wrote most of Herough Herough in the corner booth of my own beer bar, which is a sentence that sounds like a brag and is actually a confession.

Here is what nobody tells you about writing a novel while running another business: the bar will always ask for one more hour. Not because the bar is needy. Because the bar is alive. A new keg arrives. The card reader stops talking to the printer. Someone you have never met walks in and asks if you serve the kind of lager they had in Germany in 1994, and you do not, but you spend the next twenty minutes talking to them about the beer they think they remember. By the time you sit down with the manuscript, the manuscript has gone cold and the corner booth has filled up with people who want to talk about anything except sentences.

So here is what I learned, in the order I learned it, mostly the hard way.

1. The bar does not care if the book gets written.

This was the most useful insight I had in four years. The bar will keep running whether you write the book or not. The book will not exist if you do not write it. One of these things is generous and one is jealous. Make peace with the jealous one.

2. Pick a worse time to write.

I tried to write on Thursdays – our delivery day. Did not work. I tried to write at 10 pm after closing. Did not work. I tried writing on Mondays when we were closed. Did not work.

What worked was writing at 5:30 a.m. each day, getting it in before the bar – or anyone engaged with it beyond me – was influencing it.

3. Use the bar as a research lab.

The book is about competing seafood restaurant owners. I do not own a seafood restaurant. I do, however, own a place where people gather, complain, compete, gossip, and reveal themselves through what they order. Everything I needed to know about the rivalry in Herough Herough I learned by watching people argue over an IPA they pretended not to care about.

4. The bar is also the readership.

When the book was done, the first people who bought it were people who had watched me write it. Not because they cared about the book. Because they cared about the booth.

I would not recommend writing a novel inside a business you also run. But I would not recommend doing it any other way, either. The bar made the book stranger, slower, and more crowded with real human voices than it would have been if I had written it alone in a quiet room.

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Stay Positive & Happy To Let You Into The Bar At 5 a.m. If You Need A Place To Write