Last weekend I got a text from B____, inviting me to his bachelor party at next year’s Coachella.
“Oh God… what if I become a viral trend amongst the influencers? That’s either the Worst Idea Ever, or the Greatest Idea Ever”
“You could be mayor of Coachella”
On Friday I RSVP’ed “Yes”. After all, B____ is my Pop Culture Shaman. The few times we’ve hung out in the last 3 years it has been incredibly transformative.
Coachella, the epi-center of cool. Into the heart of the beast.
I was hesitant at first… I can see the end of my current financial runway and I am reluctant to take out yet another part of my 401k, so I did a coin-flipping divination. I got 011011, which translates to 27, as in the famous “27 Club” (RIP Kurt). Don’t be afraid of dying young. The 27th Gene Key where Selfishness becomes Altruism becomes Selflessness. I can do all sorts of moral gymnastics to make going to a music festival an altruistic endeavor. As long as I prepare.
I sit at the table and eat breakfast next to dad. I dare to break from the small talk and ask him about his work, knowing he will reciprocate. “What are you writing about? What’s the end goal? Who will you pitch? What age of students is the math targeted at? Is it for students who are good at math or bad at math?“ What he sees as genuine curiosity, I feel as sharp painful stings from a gap of language, a gap of generational understanding. I stumble to find the right words to explain what exactly I’m doing. The school system, it’s fucking bleak out there, man. Times have changed.
I just want to make math cool.
This post was written at Collective Journaling, hosted at