Erik Pukinskis, Snowed In

A lot of people talk about how startups often begin with dumb ideas and smart founders change course to hit marketable ones.  See Paul Graham of Y-Combinator or Evan Williams of Blogger and Twitter.

And I agree, as long as you’re changing course because the idea is actually bad.  Like, it’s impossible to implement or there’s no market, or it’s not as exciting as you think.

But what about really good ideas that just happen to be hard to implement, or resistant to monetizing?  Should we just give up on them?

I’ve been working on my startup, SproutRobot, for about a year now.  I’m so close to launching I can taste it.  I’ve drastically shifted direction once because of realizations made during user testing, after having made a significant investment in engineering. I’ve built many parts of the back-end at least three times, throwing it away each time because of technical limitations.

A long time ago I could’ve launched with a different angle.  Instead of using artificial intelligence to give people advice I could’ve just build a commons for people to give each other advice.  Instead of trying to build a flexible model of garden growth, I could’ve just typed in thousands of bits of advice collected from various sources by hand.  There are lots of things I could’ve done that would’ve been easier.

And really, I could’ve scrapped the idea entirely and instead focused on easier problems that we’ve come across during the design process.

But I didn’t.  And I don’t know if this is a mistake or a well-placed risk, but it’s where I’m at.  Because the truth is, I really believe in the idea.  I think it’s hard, but I think it’s important.  And I think it’s something that I can succeed at if I really put my mind to it.  And I think it’s something that will be incredibly valuable if it works.

So, I’m trying.  And I might fail, and I may have already missed out on my great opportunity for a successful startup.  But honestly, success at any old thing is not my goal.  A year ago I imagined something great–something specific–and I want to see it.  I want it to be real.  That’s what motivates me.

If I get a successful startup out of the deal, then great.  But if I don’t, I’ll still be happy.  Because I did my darndest to bring something cool into the world.

I just got back from my first dentist visit in at least 6 years.  Embarrassing but true.  Given the circumstances, it went pretty well.  I don’t have any cavities or anything.  No periodontitis or other bugaboos.  That said, I learned some things that, had I known them, would’ve probably incited me to get regular cleanings over those six years.

So, there are pockets between our teeth and the top part of our gums, where the gums aren’t actually attached to the teeth.  Beneath these pockets the gums are attached to the teeth with small fibers.  If your teeth and gums are healthy, these pockets are anywhere from 1 to 3mm deep.  Mine are generally between 3 and 5mm deep.

What happens is that if, like me, you don’t get regular cleanings, plaque builds up in these pockets.  Plaque is basically colonies of bacteria and their detritus.  In the 1 to 3mm range, this plaque is relatively manageable kind with bacteria that need air to survive.  But if you don’t get regular cleanings, the plaque builds up and causes those fibers in your gums to detach from the teeth.  This is how I got my deep pockets.

And in those deep pockets, below that 3mm line, a different kind of bacteria can thrive. A more heinous kind, that doesn’t need air to survive.  And this bacteria will start to actually break down the bones in your teeth.  Not a good scene.

Now the upshot is that I can get what is called a “deep cleaning.” This involves anesthetizing my gums and getting down in those pockets and cleaning out all the plaque so that the teeth are nice and smooth so my gums will recognize them as teeth and reattach those little fibers.  Over time, with this deep cleaning, and subsequent regular cleanings, those pockets should get shallower, and I will get back to a healthier place.

My dentist wants to charge me $900 for this deep cleaning.  It would’ve been cheaper just to have regular cleanings for those six years.  And better for my teeth.

For what it’s worth.

One night pretty soon after I got to San Diego, Alex, Kensy and I rode our bikes downtown to The Casbah to see The National. We rode all the way in a little pack, chatting and pedaling, excited about the show. It was probably the longest city ride I had done up to that point… before that I wasn’t even sure you COULD realistically bike downtown. We ordered San Diego microbrews and shot the shit for at least an hour before the show, my introduction to The National, which was also pretty great. The fact that most of my good friends are women made it all the more valuable me to have such a great “Boys Night Out.”

For a little while during my first Spring in San Diego, Camille, Grant and I were the three amigas. We made a habit of going to NuNu’s, drinking a little too much, staying out a little too late, and generally were in love with each other. The Jukebox seemed psychic. The bouncer seemed like our best friend. It was amazing. I remember one night in particular, we must have been hitting the drink pretty hard because we all ended up sleeping over at Camille’s house. Grant and I shared the pullout couch and he gave me a ride home in the morning. I remember zipping through hillcrest with my arms wrapped around his leather jacket, holding on for dear life, sleep being blown from my eyes, feeling simply content with my new city.

I had countless, countless wonderful memories with Lauren over the year we dated, but one really stands out to me. She had been going to the beach several times a week it seemed like, and I was coming along with her sometimes. I remember lying on our little blanket in the Sun, staring up at her in a halo of beach sun, overcome by how beautiful she looked. I think that was the day that the last bit of pain from all those years of unrequited crushes was washed away. It’s hard to explain, but I don’t think I had felt that peaceful since puberty. It was a nice feeling.

Shortly after I met Kaya, we both met Lauren Berliner and thought she was really cool. We invited her to hang out, and I think I expected her to say no… just because people often want to space out those first few hang-out sessions… probably we just don’t want to overwhelm each other. But Lauren was totally excited about hanging out, and so we did. Kaya’s landlord/neighbor was having a Halloween party, and so we spend a couple hours digging around in Kaya’s clothing/crafts/junk box to cobble together weird costumes (garbage girl/frog with exposed muff/sleep-interrupted cross-dressing grandma). We went to the party and had a blast, dancing up a storm. I felt so excited about being friends with Kaya and Lauren, and so secure in our coolness and creativeness and right to party. We danced like we owned the place. Skeptical stares were evidence of our creative awesomeness.

I started writing songs for the guitar a year or two ago, but things really started coming into their own when I got my Ukulele. After a few months of intensive songwriting, I had plenty for a show, so I organized a performance after one of our potlucks. There were maybe 20 or 30 people packed into our living room. Often during shows, people lose attention, go get a drink, chat with their friends… but for the entirety of this show, people just listened. Everyone where was either someone who really loved me, or was excited to hear the music. I felt like I really got to share my music, and the love I got back was just wonderful. I will always remember Phoebe and Uve’s jokes, and everyone’s gentle encouragement. I’ll be lucky to have even one more show like that before I die. It doesn’t really get any better.

When I had just moved to San Diego, I didn’t have many friends, and I was trying hard to meet people. One day in particular is lodged firmly in my mind. I rode the bus to school in the morning, and sat in my favorite seat. Next to me was this gorgeous woman with a super cute outfit, a killer bob, and red and black checkered slip-ons. I was far, far too intimidated to strike up a conversation, though I’m sure I wanted to. I also probably chastised myself for chickening out. I went off to school and forgot all about her. I went about my day, got back on the bus to go home that evening and sat down in the same seat. The bus started moving, I looked down and low and behold, a pair of red checkered slip-ons is staring me in the face! We both turn and stare at each other and stumble through a mutual “weren’t you sitting there this morning?” Within a week, Camille and I were best friends.

The summer after my first year in San Diego was pretty epic. I had a solid friend group, and we were all pretty stoked to be exploring a new city. We were going dancing all the time, to Lady Dottie and the Diamonds at Tower Bar, or to whatever Indie Rock/DJ double bill was playing at Beauty Bar. I was in peak form, wearing booty shorts out to the dancefloor and shaking it epicly, judging-hipsters-be-damned. One night in particular, Kaya and I and some others were at Beauty Bar and we were dancing up a storm. I couldn’t help but notice this incredible woman in Adidas high tops with a truly killer east coast style, and some truly killer east coast dance moves. And she couldn’t help but notice me. We never exactly danced together, but at one point towards the end of the night we made eye contact and confessed how much we enjoyed each others’ dancing. We left it at that, not even getting each others’ numbers. Fast forward a week or so and I’m walking in to Cream, one of my favorite coffee shops for getting work done, and who is behind the counter, but the rad lady with the Adidas! We immediately light up like Mardi Gras. It turns out she had just started working there as a barista. She took a break and we talked and talked about the east coast and feminism and dancing and everything under the sun. It was a beatiful start to a beautiful yearlong romance.

That first spring I was in San Diego my friends and I started a “dinner coop”, which we held every Tuesday and Thursday. It was a great way to solidify our social network. We’d meet people on the shuttle from campus back home to Hillcrest, invite them to dinner, and they’d get to mingle with the whole group. It grew our friend circle, and helped us all keep tabs on each other so we were constantly making weekend plans and generally becoming better and better friends. One night early on there was a good turnout and somehow we drank quite a bit of booze to the point where a game of Spin The Bottle sounded like a good idea to pretty much everyone. It was ridiculous and high-schooly, but it was also sexy and fun and silly, and an overall wonderful experience. Boundaries were pushed, sexualities were expanded, and precedents for sexual tension were set.

One of my favorite summer memories was our big trip down to Mexico. A pretty big group of us piled into two cars and drove down, with some extremely vague notion that we would find somewhere near the beach to camp. To this day I don’t really understand how we found the place we did. I’m certain we didn’t find the place we were looking for, a barren campsite on some cliffs somewhere. But what we did find was absolutely perfect: a semi-constructed ghost town of a hotel with a seafood restaurant with a dusty half-dug impression for a pool out front, and a sort of industrial beach access road cut into the sandy cliffs. Kind of a cross between Unforgiven and Weekend at Bernie’s. Anyway, we spent the days driving around looking for tacos and seafood stew, and spent the nights getting utterly sauced at the hotel. For the climax, we bought a case of Caguama’s (32oz Tecate’s) and duct taped them to our hands in a bastardized version of Edward 40-Hands. We called it Eduardo Caguama-Manos. Needless to say, we ended up stripping completely naked and running down to jump into the ocean. A number of people had gone to bed, but I’m pretty sure Grant and Alex and Camille stuck it out for the long haul. It was one of those nights where we were drunk enough that putting our clothes back on seemed superfluous, so we continued to drink and joke and be absurd, totally naked on the deck in front of the hotel. It was truly, truly epic.

I’m probably starting to sound like an alcoholic here, but another of my fond memories was a notable night at Atiya’s house. I think I was crashing at her house at that point, but I can’t exactly remember. What I do remember is getting a bunch of Tecates and hanging around in her kitchen shotgunning can after can. I’m pretty sure that night devolved into some kind of amazing fun, but as you’d expect, I don’t remember any of it.

Then there was the time Camille, Alex, Kaya and I drank 40’s and made charts and graphs of the different variables of our drinking and drunkenness at Camille’s. The list goes on and on.

Here’s one that didn’t involve drinking: That first year here, Kensy, Kaya and I signed up for a Community Supported Agriculture food box. We were supposed to trade off pick-up duties, but somehow Kensy and I were always the ones who would ride our bikes to the farmer’s market and pick up the food. We’d bike the big box of fruit and veg to Kaya’s little apartment, and divide it up amongst the three of us, savoring the ripest fruits that demanded to be eaten right away. One day I remember clear as rain, we had spread the food out on the outdoor Kaya’s door. I think Kensy realized that there was a Loquat tree hanging over into the yard. He pulled down a few fruits, and honestly, we were like babies who had discovered eating for the first time. We were in heaven. Kensy and I progressively climbed up on the fence, searching out the tastiest, ripest loquats from the tree, passing them periodically down to Kaya, juices running down our chins, the sun shining on our gleeful faces in San Diego’s perpetual summer.

There was the screening of Planet Earth in the CogSci classroom, the annual birthday trips to Pizza Port, the homebrew adventures, the gardening. The trip Kaya and I made up north to get a car full of manure for the garden and two baby chicks, Oscar and Owl, who would become our first house pets, and our first foray into livestock.

I’m sure there are lots of great times that are slipping my mind, people I’ve missed and things to add, but I wanted to get these out on paper. To everyone who participated in these memories, THANK YOU.

We walk around, penised with good credit, unconcerned about a job.  We don’t need a job, we need a career.  We need validation.  We feel the weight of expectation, but we don’t feel the weight of our stomachs.  We are easily suckered into thinking we have it as rough as you.  We sleep in and we spend without thinking.

We suffer only in that we don’t really know what life is.  Or maybe that’s just romance.  Ignorant pedestalizing of people who’ve been told NO.  Either way it is sad to be out of touch.  Sad and comfortable, like the cryptlike homes old people with pensions die in.

All some people need is some space to think.  A moment to gather, to refocus, to aim their formidable courage–courage built up by years and decades of NO–at a worthy target.  And yet given too much space to think children inevitably think themselves into a drug habit.  This drug or that drug.  One would die FOR a hamburger while the other dies BY one.

And so all that matters is your nest.  Is there enough?  Is there too much?  If out of balance, prune or hoard until you hum with life.  All depends on it.

I’ve been seeing this around lately, most recently from MissDivaKitty.  Author unknown.  Please repost/reblog.  Warning: possible sexual assault trigger.

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A lot has been said about how to prevent rape.

Women should learn self-defense. Women should lock themselves in their houses after dark. Women shouldn’t have long hair and women shouldn’t wear short skirts. Women shouldn’t leave drinks unattended. Fuck, they shouldn’t dare to get drunk at all.

instead of that bullshit, how about:

if a woman is drunk, don’t rape her.
if a woman is walking alone at night, don’t rape her.
if a woman is drugged and unconscious, don’t rape her.
if a woman is wearing a short skirt, don’t rape her.
if a woman is jogging in a park at 5 am, don’t rape her.
if a woman looks like your ex-girlfriend you’re still hung up on, don’t rape her.
if a woman is asleep in her bed, don’t rape her.
if a woman is asleep in your bed, don’t rape her.
if a woman is doing her laundry, don’t rape her.
if a woman is in a coma, don’t rape her.
if a woman changes her mind in the middle of or about a particular activity, don’t rape her.
if a woman has repeatedly refused a certain activity, don’t rape her.

if a woman is not yet a woman, but a child, don’t rape her.
if your girlfriend or wife is not in the mood, don’t rape her.
if your step-daughter is watching tv, don’t rape her.
if you break into a house and find a woman there, don’t rape her.
if your friend thinks it’s okay to rape someone, tell him it’s not, and that he’s not your friend.

if your “friend” tells you he raped someone, report him to the police.
if your frat-brother or another guy at the party tells you there’s an unconscious woman upstairs and it’s your turn, don’t rape her, call the police and tell the guy he’s a rapist.

tell your sons, god-sons, nephews, grandsons, sons of friends it’s not okay to rape someone.

don’t tell your women friends how to be safe and avoid rape.
don’t imply that she could have avoided it if she’d only done/not done x.
don’t imply that it’s in any way her fault.
don’t let silence imply agreement when someone tells you he “got some” with the drunk girl.
don’t perpetuate a culture that tells you that you have no control over or responsibility for your actions. You can, too, help yourself.