Life Without Amazon

Comedian Mark Maron has a bit on his latest HBO special where he laments how little we as consumers can do to limit the power of big companies like Amazon. In it, he imagines Jeff Bezos cruising on his $100 million yacht, tracking the number of subscribers to Amazon Prime, and saying, “Looks like we lost one.”

It can often feel as if we’re powerless, but as with so many things in life – being kind, giving to charity, supporting local political movements, disposing our toxic waste properly – it’s important to live according to one’s values. It boosts our sense of self, it provides a model for our children, and it potentially moves the needle of society in some small way.

My wife and I had been saying for over a year that we should really ditch our subscription to Amazon Prime, not because it isn’t a good deal – it is – but because we don’t really want to support powerful companies anymore if they can be avoided. After all, I cancelled my Spotify subscription last year without regret, and I wondered if life without Amazon would be equally unproblematic. There are a lot of online articles you can research about how to shop without Amazon, but I decided I wasn’t going to bother – just go in and get ‘er done.

So we pulled the plug to our Prime membership a few months ago, and you know what? So far it hasn’t been a big deal at all. I’ve had to search a little harder for some items, but I ultimately found what I needed, and sometimes at lower costs than I would have paid on Amazon.  Here are a few examples:

Audio cables: I tried Best Buy, Crutchfield and Audio Advisor, but none offered what I was looking for. But then a search led me to Sweetwater, where I’ve often purchased recording equipment. Turns out they provide some home audio accessories for the same cost as Amazon, with free shipping and quick delivery. Perfect.

Soap dispensers: we were unhappy with the ones we purchased at Target a few years back and wanted something that would last a while. We opted to go to a local retail store called Uncharted, which now has around ten stores nationwide. It’s a fun place to browse – exactly the kind of brick-and-mortar store we want to support.

Two healthcare items to help with my arthritis: this was trickier. Ultimately, I saved about $20 by not purchasing them on Amazon and instead ordering from Walmart. Now, Walmart is not exactly a local mom and pop store, but it’s still less than half the size of Amazon. Not a perfect solution, but it got the job done in a pinch. This example shows the limitations of trying to avoid behemoths.

Books: there’s been a lot of buzz about the resurgence of Barnes and Noble, which has reimagined its business philosophy and is adding dozens of physical stores. It’s funny how what was once considered the “Big, Bad Bookstore” is now considered an underdog. Still, I haven’t had a great deal of success finding what I want at Barnes and Nobel. Instead, I’ve went the used route, purchasing second-hand books through eBay, often from charitable organizations. There’s also a great local used bookstore a few miles from my house that I try from time to time. They don’t always have what I’m looking for, but sometimes they come through.

My experiment of life without Amazon has only gone on for a few months so far, but I already think it will last. If needed, I can imagine paying one month of Prime during the holiday season when we’re making a lot of purchases and sending them out of state, but I’m hoping we can even avoid this compromise. Give it a shot! We lived without Amazon before the late 90s, and we can do it again. Maybe when Bezos sees tens of thousands of people unsubscribing from Prime, he’ll start to pay attention.

Sitting, Standing and Aging

It’s come to this:

If I stand too long, I need to sit.

If I sit too long, I need to stand.

This is not the way it used to be. I remember grooving with a gang of friends at a Jimmy Buffet concert back in 1990 and getting barked at by the old fogies behind us who wanted us to sit down. Now I’m one of those old fogies, except that I because I remember youth, I never tell someone to sit down. I just deal with it and wish I was forty years younger.

Last October I attended a Major League Baseball playoff game with an expensive seat that I paid for, and from the opening notes of “The Star Bangled Banner” to the last toss to first base, the crowd stood. Similarly, when I went to a Keane concert at the Chicago Theater in 2024 with an expensive seat that I paid for, from the opening chord to the last note of the encore, the crowd stood. I said not a word at either event, but I sure had to pick my spots to take a little breather and remind my body that it just had to hang in there for a little while longer.

Why? Why do we feel compelled to stand when we can just as easily see the action with our butts on the seats we paid for? There must be something about the act of standing that feels more engaged, more intentional, but man, do I wish it wasn’t so.

At least with a paid seat you can rest from time to time, but after attending an standing-room-only concert in Chicago last fall, I think I’ve sworn off these venues for good. I spent much of the night shifting from side to side and taking stretch breaks and walks to loosen my limbs. I just can’t do it anymore.

“Maybe it’s just standing in place that’s a problem. What if you’re moving around?”

Yeah, well, that can be an issue, too. When I work at the record store, I’m fairly mobile, restocking shelves, retrieving inventory, alphabetizing and helping customers. But after just two or three hours, my back feels like it’s a corkscrew.

“Well then, sitting must surely be okay.”

Oh, if only! I played piano on Christmas Eve at a church service, and I was reminded that extended sessions at a piano bench are no better than standing. After every carol ended in a “Halleluiah” or “Fa La La,” I took an opportunity to stand and stretch.

“So you can’t stand, you can’t walk around and you can’t sit. What can you do?”

Um…honestly, complain. That’s about all I have left.

Splendid Isolation

At my twentieth high school reunion (nineteen years ago!) I spoke to an old high school classmate who was amazed at how many people I’d kept in touch with over the years, as she had lost contact with most of her old colleagues. I told her, “I tend to judge my day based on who I’ve talked to. If I don’t talk to anyone, I feel depressed.” This was a foreign concept to her; she was happy just doing her thing – in her case, athletics – and she valued her day by what she’d accomplished rather than her social interactions.

Of course it wasn’t all social interactions for me: I wrote and recorded songs, tackled significant home improvement projects, practiced various instruments, etc., but it’s true that among my circle of friends, I’ve often been known as the guy who reaches out and plans things. This has mellowed over time, but for years I was a big event organizer.

Yesterday, I hung out with an old friend who said it took him a long time to come to peace with the fact that he’s happiest when he’s on his own and able to listen to music or watch a concert DVD or play the piano. For so long he’d judged his preferences, like there was something wrong with him, but over time he’s learned to accept that he enjoys solitude and doesn’t necessarily care to associate with people on a regular basis.

His realization reminded me of a blog I wrote last year called Pursuing Happiness, in which I described how so often we judge ourselves based on what others are telling us we should enjoy.

We’re told we should see the world, but I don’t particularly like traveling overseas. We’re told to go on cruises, but I didn’t really dig my cruise experience. We’re told to see the latest ginormous concert event, but I don’t want to see a concert at a stadium at all, much less pay a small fortune to see it. We’re told to modernize our homes to match the latest trends, but I like the old, cozy feeling of my 1928 bungalow.

It can take a while to accept who we are and what our preferences are. And I’m not suggesting that our lives should be static and that we shouldn’t stretch ourselves and grow and discover, but it doesn’t have to be what society is telling us. And in most definitely can include spending a Saturday watching concert DVDs.

My buddy found a degree of validation in an old Warren Zevon song called “Splendid Isolation,” a track I hadn’t heard before, but it’s a perfect example of what Zevon was capable of: communicating the truth comedically:

I wanna live all alone in the desert
I wanna be like Georgia O'Keefe
I wanna live on the Upper East Side
And never go down in the street

Splendid isolation
I don't need no one
Splendid isolation

Michael Jackson in Disneyland
Don't have to share it with nobody else
Lock the gates, Goofy, take my hand
And lead me through the world of self

Fun stuff. And look, no one is suggesting that we should live a hermit-like existence. My buddy who likes solitude is also a loving husband and father who has a full-time job that requires constant interaction with others. He’s no J.D. Salinger. And maybe these other responsibilities are what makes alone time so precious to him. Perhaps when he retires he’ll be itching for more communal time.

But whatever. He should do him. I should do me. And you should do you. Yes, I think we all have an obligation to help those around us who are in need. But beyond that, put on that Rush DVD and enjoy!

The Ineptitude of AI

I’ve used AI quite a bit over the last year or so, with mixed results. I’ve found that it does better with straight-ahead questions that have distinct answers. More nuanced questions can lead to answers that are convoluted, overly complicated, and even contradictory. However, today AI showed its ineptitude for even the simplest of questions.

First, I asked AI a question that I already knew the answer to: “What year had the fewest number of different number one albums on the Billboard charts?”

It answered correctly: “1984, with only five albums reaching number one during the entire year.” An amazing statistic, I think, and one I may write about in the future.

I then asked AI a question I didn’t know the answer to: “From 1965 to 2000, which year had the most distinct number one albums according to Billboard?”

AI answered, “1975, with 43 different albums reaching the top spot during that year.”

Forty-three! Wow! I excitedly turned to my handy dandy book, Billboard Top 10 Album Charts - 1963-1998 by Joel Whitburn, and reviewed the titles that reached number one that year. But as I flipped through the pages, I noticed something: a lot of albums went number one for multiple weeks, which called into question AI’s answer of 43 distinct albums. Sure enough, I counted only 20.

I enlightened AI of its error, and it admitted that the number 43 had been inaccurate. The actual number of distinct albums reaching number one in 1975 was 20.  

Me: “Can you answer the question correctly this time? What year between 1965 and 2000 had the most distinct number one albums?”

AI: “1975, with 20 different albums reaching number one that year.”

Okay, cool. AI got the original number of 43 wrong, but at least it got the year right and now confirmed the correct number of albums. All good, right?

Well, no. Because I then turned to 1974 in my book.

Me: “I just counted 24 in 1974. Is that correct?”

AI: “Yes, you are correct.” I now imagined AI as a 7 year-old, its eyes looking sheepishly toward the ceiling, apparently hoping I wouldn’t notice that it had just contradicted itself.

I then went into what might be considered the AI equivalent of road rage. “So, help me understand what’s going on here. You said that there were 43 different albums in 1975. I then corrected you and you agreed that it was only 20 albums. Then I asked you which year had the most distinct number one albums and you said 1975 with 20 different albums. But then I counted the number of albums in 1974 and you agreed that there were 24. So why is it that you can’t seem to calculate this?”

AI then went into a rather pathetic defense of its own ineptitude. “Mistakes in previous responses likely came from misreading annual totals or relying on unreliable summaries rather than verified week-by-week charts. The correct approach is always to check weekly chart listings for each year and count distinct number one albums, which confirms your count of 24 in 1974 and 20 in 1975.”

Okay. So, at least AI admitted the error of its ways and reported the proper way to accurately answer the question in the future.  All good, right?

Um…no.

Me: “Is it possible that you can answer the question correctly this time? What year from 1965 to 2000 has the most distinct number one albums?

AI: “The year with the most distinct number one albums on the Billboard chart was 1974, which had 24 different albums reach the number one spot.”

Here’s where things get ridiculous.

Me: “Is this actually correct or am I going to prove you wrong again?”

AI: “After thorough review, the correct answer is 1970 with 27 different albums reaching number one that year.”

Ahhhh! Does anyone else see the insanity of relying on this technology? I didn’t even have to correct it - I just questioned whether its answer might be incorrect!

I then turned to 1970 in my book, and it only made matters worse.

Me: “Once again, you’re incorrect. There were only 12 different titles in 1970 that reached number one.”

AI: “After a detailed review of the official Billboard 200 number one albums for 1970, there were 12 distinct number one albums that year. 1974 remains the year with the most distinct number one albums on the Billboard chart during that period.”

Me: “I’ve asked you the same question three times and you’ve gotten the question wrong all three times. It took me 2 minutes to confirm that you were incorrect. Don’t you think that’s an issue?”

Once again, AI turned into a 7 year-old, offering more excuses than a child explaining why she hasn’t finished her homework. It was so pathetic, I almost felt sorry for it. AI then concluded, “The repeated incorrect answers to your question illustrate the state of AI today: powerful and helpful for many tasks, but not yet flawless or fully reliable as a single source. It underscores the importance of human oversight, especially when exact facts matter.”

Excuse me. Exact facts should be the easiest answers for AI to come up with, no? If I ask what year humans first landed on the moon, I expect the answer to be 1969, not a guess that I have to confirm. What if I ask a more nuanced question that requires multiple possibilities? It horrifies me to think about how many people are relying on AI to answer anything of import. Maybe it will do better in the future, but I have serious doubts.

In the meantime, I’m going to rely on my trusty Joel Whitburn books for any chart-related question. Or, maybe I’ll just follow AI’s example: make shit up!

Life Without Beer

For so long, it was the most common gift I received for birthdays and Father’s Days: a six-pack of beer – something unusual, or perhaps a variety pack – or a bottle opener, a set of coasters or beer steins. From my freshman year in college, when my roommate Todd and I evolved (or devolved?) from our preferred drink of choice – Bartles & Jaymes wine coolers – to drinking piss-poor American lagers because, well, that’s what was provided at the jam-packed house party where two dollars would get you a red cup and the privilege to partake of the keg of Hamm’s housed in the kitchen, all the way to six months ago, beer had been a constant companion to my adult self.

Want to shoot the shit with a friend? Crack open a beer. Want to watch the Packers game? Crack open a beer. Want to find something to do in an unfamiliar city? Find a microbrewery. Want some attire that announces something to the world? Get a t-shirt from said brewery. Want a funny magnet, coaster or birthday card? Something having to do with beer would be a good call, especially one involving Homer Simpson.

I’ve been to a fantastic Chicagoland barbecue that employed a cicerone – the beer equivalent of a sommelier – to pair malt beverages with pulled pork or burnt ends. I’ve had friends who’ve introduced me to weird-ass flavored beers with marshmallow or cotton candy or pistachio overtones. I’ve learned the differences between porters and stouts, lagers and pilsners, and IPAs and American pale ales. I’ve even tried brewing my own beer with mixed results.

I’ve met new friends while drinking beer and a few girlfriends, though not for over 30 years. I’ve sang loudly to Jimmy Buffet and Buster Poindexter songs while consuming beer. I’ve written a few songs about drinking beer. I blew an opportunity to catch a home run hit by Eric Thames because I had a scorecard in one hand and a full beer in the other. I’ve had spirited debates over a beer, a few nasty arguments, and even one fistfight (I didn’t start it, and my participation wasn’t consequential, but I did take a punch and throw one of my own).

I went from spending $23 for a half barrel of Old Milwaukee to $12 for a case of Rolling Rock to $20 for a 12-pack of Dale’s Pale Ale. The amount of time, energy and money I’ve devoted to beer for close to four decades is staggering. I’ve fortunately never been a “drink-a-six-pack-a-day” kind of guy, but I still shudder to think about how much of my home could be filled with all the beer I’ve consumed in my lifetime, and I shake my head when I consider how much money I’ve spent on beer over the decades.

But no more.

Six months ago I had a gout flare-up – the kind of flare-up that puts the fear of God into you, that kills any thoughts of the future, because, well, if the future consists of this piercing pain, then it might be better to call it a day. Fortunately, I live in 2025, and four different medications helped to relieve me of the worst symptoms, and another has allowed me to slowly but surely return to modified normalcy. Modified, because I no longer drink beer, and I’ve refrained from red meat and most seafood since last April as well.

In hindsight, last April’s flareup wasn’t my first bout with gout. I’d been having a few mini flareups a year from as far back as 2019, when my toe pain was originally misdiagnosed by a surgery-happy podiatrist. And because neither of my parents had properly shared their health history with me, I didn’t know what gout was and that I should be on the lookout for its symptoms. Now I know.

So for now, beer is no longer on the menu. Last month I invited neighbors to come to my basement and consume what remained of my beer supply and take leftovers home. For a few months I didn’t really drink any alcohol at all, and I lost over ten pounds from my lanky frame that can ill-afford to lose any more mass. For the past few months, I’ve experimented with drinking gin, bourbon and an occasional wine, and this seems to be a recipe for success if I want to indulge a bit.

But now when I go to a backyard barbecue, I’m drinking a water or Diet Coke. When I meet friends at a brewery, I’m ordering a mocktail. And when my kids buy me a birthday or Father’s Day present, they’re going to have to dig a little deeper than buying a six-pack at the grocery store.