Sometimes leadership is as simple as doing the right things right. Everything else seems to fall in line. The difficulty comes in filtering out the noise and zeroing in on what the right thing is.

I had a coach once tell me that football is really simple. Design every play to achieve 3.4 yards, execute it every time and you will win the game. At first glance, it sounds almost too basic for such a complex, physical, and strategic sport. Yet the math is undeniable. In football, consistently gaining just 3.4 yards per play keeps the chains moving, sustains drives, and puts points on the board. You do not need spectacular 80-yard touchdowns on every possession. You need disciplined, well-executed plays that deliver steady progress. Over the course of a game and a season, that consistency compounds into victory.

​Leadership operates on the same principle.

Peter Drucker distinguished management as doing things right from leadership as doing the right things. Yet the most effective leaders combine both. They identify the priorities that truly matter and then execute those priorities with excellence. Peter Drucker made this point powerfully in his 1967 book The Effective Executive. He warned that there is nothing so useless as doing efficiently things that should not be done at all. In other words, perfect execution on the wrong goals is still failure.

The challenge is discernment. Crises demand attention, and voices clamor for immediate action. Short-term fires are difficult to control and often sacrifice long-term vision. In Wyoming, these pressures are magnified by vast distances between communities, tight resources, volatile commodity markets in energy and agriculture, and the deep interdependence between people, industries, and the land itself. It is easy to get pulled into reactive mode, chasing the loudest demand or the newest trend while the truly important work slips quietly into the background.

Real leaders pause, ask clarifying questions, and return to core purpose. What outcome serves our people, our mission, and our future most? What must we say no to so we can say yes to what matters most? Once clarity is achieved, the focus shifts to relentless execution, doing those chosen things with excellence, consistency, and attention to detail, play after play.

Do the Right Things Right requires a steady internal compass rooted in self-awareness, community understanding, and unwavering integrity. It demands courage when the right path feels lonely or unpopular. And it builds trust because teams align when they see consistent, principled action rather than reactive scrambling.

This approach calls for four key elements:

Clarity of purpose, knowing the non-negotiable principles or outcomes that actually matter, not just what is loudest or newest.

Judgment, the ability to weigh trade-offs without overcomplicating or second-guessing endlessly.

Courage, because the right thing often is not the popular, easy, or immediately rewarding one.

Discipline, to keep executing even when the noise tries to pull you off course.

When everything seems to be falling apart around them, strong leaders scrape away the noise and return to the simple questions: What is the right thing to do and what is the best way to do it?

In the end, leadership is not really about complexity or charisma. It is about the quiet power of identifying what matters most and pursuing it with skill and heart. Filter the noise. Focus sharply. Do the right things right. The rest truly does fall into place.

​In the arena of leadership (whether in politics, business, or community service), strong convictions often lead to fractured relationships. Passionate disagreements over policy, strategy, or vision can create lasting divides, turning allies into distant acquaintances. Many of us who lead in Wyoming have experienced this: a once-close colleague becomes "the other side" after a tough debate, and hallways feel longer because of unspoken gaps.
Robert Frost's poem "Mending Wall" offers a profound insight. 
 
The beauty lies not in removing the wall, but in the shared act of mending it. They walk the line together, lifting fallen stones back into place. Boundaries remain (differences honored), but the ritual fosters understanding and connection.
 
In my own life, a principled stand on an important issue created such a wall with a fellow leader and friend. I do not fully understand why the divide persists, yet I respect its importance to him. I plan to reach out: not to remove the walls, but to meet there, rebuild a few stones side by side, and still walk together.
 
True leadership requires the conviction to do what you feel is right and the courage to mend the fences afterward. Maybe, in quietly rebuilding it, the wall feels a little lower, and our shared Wyoming a little stronger.

Mending Wall
Robert Frost

The game is not the board.
A chess novice stares at 64 squares and thinks: This is it. This is the arena. They memorize knight forks, bishop pins, the two-square pawn push. They believe victory lives inside those eight ranks and files. But the master knows better. The board is just the stage. The game is everything that happens before the first piece is touched (and long after the king is toppled).

The game is the opening theory debated in cafés in 1972.

The game is the psychological scar left by a crushing loss after the first check.

The game is the meta that shifts when a 14-year-old prodigy unveils a novelty in the regional.

The board is temporary.

The game is eternal.

Business leaders fall into the same trap. They obsess over the visible battlefield: market share, revenue, headcount, burn rate. They treat the company like a closed position, squeeze efficiency, cut costs, optimize the org chart. They believe if they control the 64 squares of their board, they've won.

But the game is not the board. And the board is not the game.

The game is the actions you take to modify customer's unspoken expectation, shaped years before they discover your product (think Henry Ford and faster horses). The game is the Cypherpunk movement that led to BitCoin. The game is the regulatory moat you influenced through quiet lobbying in 2015. The game is the cultural meme, "Google it," "Uber there," "Photoshop that," that turns your brand into a verb.

Apple didn't win on the board of 2007 smartphones. They won in 2001, when they opened retail stores that felt like galleries. They won in 2003, when iTunes made digital music legal and easy. They won in 2008, when the App Store turned every iPhone into a platform.

By the time Android arrived, the board was already tilted. The game had been played in the shadows for a decade.

Amazon didn't dominate cloud computing by outspending Microsoft in 2006. They won in 1998, when they built a logistics engine that could ship anything. They won in 2000, when they let third-party sellers onto their marketplace. They won in 2006, when they turned internal tools into AWS because they'd already solved scalability for themselves.

The board was servers and APIs. The game was infrastructure as inevitability.

The game is not the electric vehicles built by Tesla. The game is the rockets, robots and tunneling devices that will be used on Mars.

And the game is not the legal clarity built by the Wyoming legislature for digital assets. The game (part 1) is the outsized power that the State of Wyoming will have after the Stable Token is fully functional.

The novice plays the position. The master plays the preconditions.

Your product is the board. Your vision is the game.

Your pricing, your UX, your data strategy, these aren't moves. They're rule changes.

Every decision you make today writes the opening theory your competitors will study tomorrow. Every standard you set becomes the board they're forced to play on. Every behavior you normalize becomes the muscle memory they can't unlearn.
So stop playing the board in front of you. Start playing the game that creates the board.
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The game is not the board. The game is the gravity that pulls every future board toward you.

You cannot change someone’s heart and you cannot change someone’s mind unless you actually talk to them. 
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​Fast forward to autumn of 1983, as the leaves turned gold against the Rocky Mountains, I found myself at the University of Colorado in Boulder. I was a young Regan Revolutionary amid a sea of liberals. I was there to see Berke Breathed, the brilliant mind behind Bloom County. His satirical jabs at everyone from politicians to pop culture, had captured my imagination. When I heard he was lecturing on campus, I had to go.
Boulder was, and remains, well, liberal—a place where tie-dye and tofu reigned supreme. I, however, was not. I believed in the promise of smaller government, economic resurgence, and a defiant stance against the socialism. The early 1980s were a time of transformation. Ronald Reagan had swept into office in 1980, ending the malaise of the Carter years with his "Morning in America" optimism. Inflation was taming, the economy boomed with tax cuts and deregulation, and the Cold War simmered with Reagan's bold rhetoric—calling the USSR an "evil empire". Yet, beneath the surface, divisions festered: debates over nuclear arms, environmental policies, and social issues like abortion and civil rights polarized the nation. Satire thrived, with cartoonists like Garry Trudeau and Berkeley Breathed. Breathed’s Bloom County was an equal-opportunity offender, going after liberals and conservatives alike, reminding us that humor could bridge divides.
During the lecture, Breathed talked about a cartoon that playfully mocked Reagan and how the next morning, his phone rang. "Hold for the President," the voice said. Berke’s audience erupted in boos. But Breathed raised a hand. "Hold on," he said, pausing for effect. "You know what I did?" The room fell silent. "I held for the President. Because that's what you do when the President calls." He went on to recount how the conversation unfolded warmly; Reagan, ever the charmer, engaged with genuine interest. In the end, Breathed sent a signed original of the comic to the White House—a gesture of goodwill.
This moment crystallized something profound: respect for the office, regardless of who was there. Breathed, likely leaning left himself, didn't let ideology eclipse decorum. In the early '80s, such civility wasn't rare. Reagan and Tip O'Neill, the Democratic House Speaker, sparred fiercely over budgets but shared Irish jokes and bourbon after hours. The era's political battles were intense—think Iran-Contra or the air traffic controllers' strike—but they often ended with handshakes, not fisticuffs. Media was slower, less fragmented; The evening news fostered a shared reality, unlike today's echo chambers.
As a conservative Republican, I've carried this lesson forward. I've disagreed vehemently with liberal presidents from Clinton to Biden. Yet, if given the opportunity, I would answer their call. Politics should not be a litmus test for friendship; my circle spans the spectrum, bound by shared humanity rather than party lines. In our hyper-polarized present—marked by social media vitriol, and endless culture wars—we've lost this ability. Tribalism turns neighbors into enemies, institutions into battlegrounds. Young generations, bombarded by algorithms that amplify outrage, might learn from Breathed's anecdote: Satire can critique without canceling; disagreement needn't destroy dialogue.
As I grow old, I sometimes grow weary of trying to make a difference. I have searched throughout my life for ways to change hearts and minds. Sometimes I have been successful, but most times not. People are entrenched. But when I am successful, it is pure joy seeing the light come on in the other’s eyes. I have found one thing to be universally true, though: You will never change a persons heart or mind unless you actually talk to them. And usually only if you have built trust, friendship and mutual respect. You cannot build any of those by belittling, berating or bludgeoning.
Imagine if today's leaders and citizens emulated that 1984 spirit. A cartoonist ribs a president, who responds with grace and mutual respect is created, with the institution in mind. It's a reminder that America's strength lies in its institutions—free speech, the presidency, free press, civil discourse—and in respecting them, we preserve what unites us. In 2025, as we navigate AI ethics, climate crises, and global tensions, let's hold for each other. Civility isn't weakness; it's the glue holding us together. Breathed's story, born in Reagan's America, offers wisdom: Laugh, listen, and lead with respect. Who knows? It might just spark our own "morning in America”.
 

​Beware. This is an imperfect blog, full of errors.

I was thinking the other day about my taste in decorating. It occurred to me that I really enjoy walking into a room that is rather plain and earth-toned and carries a splash of color somewhere off-center. This would probably bother some people and be viewed as an imperfection. But to me it draws my eye around the room in order to appreciate other areas. We also have several pieces of furniture and accessories that have deep scratches, chew marks and cracks. Maybe those would effect the value in some eyes, but to me they represent the pets that have passed, the son that grew up to start his own family and the granddaughters that fill our lives with beauty and joy.

 In a world obsessed with perfection—flawless skin, symmetric features, picture-perfect lives, and curated feeds—it’s easy to believe that perfection is the ultimate goal. We chase the ideal, striving for seamless execution in our work, relationships, and personal endeavors. But what if the pursuit of perfection is misguided? What if the imperfect, the messy, the flawed, is where true beauty and meaning reside? The perfect is often uninteresting, a sterile ideal that lacks depth. The imperfect, on the other hand, is often where perfection lies—rich with character, authenticity, and humanity.

Consider art, where imperfection often steals the show. A perfectly symmetrical painting can feel cold, predictable, even forgettable. But a canvas with bold, uneven brushstrokes or a slightly off-kilter composition? It draws you in. It tells a story. The Japanese philosophy of wabi-sabi celebrates this very idea: finding beauty in the transient, the weathered, the incomplete. A cracked teacup, a gnarled tree branch, or a faded photograph carries a soul that a flawless replica never could. These imperfections invite us to pause, reflect, and connect with something deeper than surface-level polish.

In our personal lives, the chase for perfection can be equally stifling. We script our conversations, filter our photos, and rehearse our pitches to present a version of ourselves that’s “just right.” But it’s often the unscripted moments—the awkward laugh, the clumsy gesture, the vulnerable confession—that forge real connections. Think about the people you love most. Chances are, it’s their quirks, their little flaws, that make them unforgettable. The friend who always spills their coffee mid-story, the friend that always laughs at truly inappropriate times, the spouse that trusts you enough to be themselves (whatever that entails)—these imperfections are the threads that weave them into the fabric of your life. They’re not perfect, but they’re imperfectly, perfectly them.
​
This paradox extends to our work and creative pursuits. The pressure to produce flawless output can paralyze us, trapping us in a cycle of overthinking and procrastination. Yet, some of the most groundbreaking ideas in history were born from mistakes. Penicillin was discovered when Alexander Fleming noticed mold contaminating a petri dish. Post-it Notes came from a failed attempt at creating a strong adhesive. These “imperfections” weren’t obstacles; they were gateways to innovation. When we embrace the messy process of trial and error, we open ourselves to unexpected possibilities. A rough draft, a half-baked idea, or a prototype full of bugs might not be perfect, but it’s often the starting point for something extraordinary.

Even in nature, imperfection reigns supreme. A forest isn’t a tidy row of identical trees; it’s a chaotic tangle of roots, uneven branches, and diverse species coexisting in glorious disarray. That messiness is what makes it resilient, adaptable, and alive. Similarly, our own imperfections—our doubts, our scars, our missteps—are what make us human. They shape our stories, teach us resilience, and remind us that growth is never a straight line. To be imperfect is to be dynamic, evolving, and open to change.

So why do we fear imperfection? Perhaps it’s because we’ve been conditioned to see flaws as failures rather than opportunities. Society rewards the polished, the predictable, the “safe.” But safe is often uninteresting. Safe doesn’t challenge, inspire, or linger in our minds. Imperfection, by contrast, is bold. It’s raw. It’s real. It’s the crack in the sidewalk where a flower dares to bloom, the rough, graveled voice in a song that makes the song (and you) feel alive.

Embracing imperfection doesn’t mean settling for less; it means redefining what “more” looks like. It’s about valuing authenticity over appearances, progress over paralysis, and meaning over monotony. The perfect is often uninteresting because it leaves no room for surprise or soul. The imperfect, with all its cracks and quirks, is where perfection lies—because it’s where life happens.

Stop chasing the flawless and start celebrating the flawed. Find joy in the uneven edges, the unexpected detours, and the beautifully human moments that make us who we are. In a world that demands perfection, the most radical act is to love the imperfect—and to see it, always, as perfectly enough.

The last full week in July brings a harvest of visitors to the city we call home. It is a celebration of our western heritage that is full of pomp, circumstance and pageantry. And soooo, this is a perfect time to talk about what happens if you rent your house or another property to folks that wander into town once a year or so. 

During Cheyenne Frontier Days, many of my friends rent their houses and townhomes to visitors. And they always have questions. It can be confusing to figure out where short-term rental income from platforms like Airbnb or VRBO belongs on your return. And what about the Augusta Rule? Many folks assume it's all passive income on Schedule E, but the IRS has specific guidelines that often push these activities toward Schedule C instead. And there was that guy on social media (hint - don't listen to him or her without talking to your own CPA) that said it didn't have to be reported at all. So lets hop on the bull and take a ride.
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First, lets get the Augusta rule out of the way. The Augusta Rule (IRC Section 280A(g)) can be a powerful way to generate a some tax-free income every year. This is because it allows you to rent your home for up to 14 days annually without reporting the income, provided it's used as a residence. No rental expense deductions are allowed, but personal expenses like mortgage interest and property taxes may be deductible on Schedule A. If the property is owned by a company (e.g., an LLC or corporation), the rule does not apply, as it is not an individual's residence. Instead, rental income would generally be reported by the company, and deductions would depend on the entity's tax structure (e.g., Schedule C for a sole proprietorship or Form 1120 for a corporation). 

Next, if you don't qualify for the Augusta rule, lets talk about the basics: The IRS distinguishes between passive rental activities and those that rise to the level of a trade or business. Passive rentals—think longer-term rentals leases where you're mostly hands-off—go on Schedule E (Supplemental Income and Loss). Here, income is not subject to self-employment tax (that 15.3% hit for Social Security and Medicare), but losses are limited by passive activity rules under IRC Section 469. You can't use those losses to offset wages or other active income unless you meet certain income requirements, qualify as a real estate professional or have passive income to match.

Short-term rentals, however, often don't qualify as "rental activities" per Treasury Regulation §1.469-1T(e)(3)(ii). If the average customer stay is 7 days or less, it's automatically treated as a non-rental activity and reported on Schedule C (Profit or Loss from Business). The same applies if the average stay is 30 days or less and you provide "significant personal services"—things like daily cleaning, linen changes, or concierge-like amenities that go beyond basic maintenance. To calculate the average stay, divide total rented days by the number of customers. For example, 200 days rented to 50 guests equals a 4-day average, landing you on Schedule C.

On Schedule C, it's a business: You pay self-employment tax on net profits, but if you materially participate (spending at least 500 hours a year or meeting other tests), losses can offset other income without passive limitations. Deductions are broader too, including home office setups or marketing costs.
Now, about those trade-offs—it's like a cowboy at Cheyenne Frontier Days wondering which bull he will draw. In professional bull riding, you earn points based on a couple of things - some are based on how you do and some are based on how mean the bull. Simplified, the riders often face consequences based on the bull they ride: Draw a "rank" bull—one that's mean, nasty, and known for wild spins and kicks, like the spinners that can rack up high bull scores and put you in the money if you last the 8 seconds. But the risk is huge; fall off early, and you score zero, plus you might get trampled. With the milder bull, you will probably stay on, but score fewer points.
 
This mirrors Schedule C versus Schedule E. Going the Schedule C route has its benefits—full loss offsets against your salary if you're active, accelerating tax savings in a bad year. But the downside is that at some point you have to prove you are in it to make a profit. Which mostly means (you guessed it), making a profit. Then you have to pay self-employment tax and suffer additional audit risks if the IRS questions your business status or deductions. Schedule E (the safer bull) offers a smoother ride: No SE tax, simpler reporting, and losses that carry forward if not deductible in the current year. Yet, you might score fewer overall tax benefits, as those losses sit unused if you lack other passive income.

In practice, your operations dictate the schedule. To aim for Schedule E, extend average stays beyond 7 days and skip hotel-like services. But if you're in the short-term game, embracing Schedule C might be inevitable—and, with smart planning, worthwhile.
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Ultimately, these rules aren't one-size-fits-all. Factors like mixed personal use or multiple properties complicate things—check IRS Publication 527 for details. As always, chat with your CPA to tailor this to your situation. Just remember, whichever bull you ride, make sure you know the prize.

So here is the conundrum we find ourselves in. I am willing to listen to anybody that disagrees and I am not advocating any particular action, nor am I advocating that anybody be put in any undue danger or cause anyone else to be in danger. I am asking a question that needs to be asked.

How do we balance the need to slow/stop the virus against the need for our vital supply chains to remain operating?

The known values in the equation:
- Amazon, Walmart and all of the grocery chains are crucial. That is how people get their food.
-If the food supply is disrupted, lots of people go hungry.
-If people are hungry, social unrest becomes a very real possibility.
-No amount of cleaning can keep people safe. A casual hello to a co-worker appears to be enough to transfer the virus.
-On the flip side, shutting warehouses down would slow the spread of the virus and save people’s lives.
-Our supply chains are in the middle of a re-alignment, thus already vulnerable. We used to eat at restaurants and go to the bathroom at the restroom where we worked. Now we are doing all of that at home. This shift has caused delays already in getting our necessities (I can’t buy bread flour anywhere - didn’t know y’all were bakers).
-The realignment of our supply chain will happen - but it will take time.
-Also adding pressure to our supply chain is a reliance on a Just In Time inventory system that was promoted heavily by graduates of Ivy-league schools and gained popularity in the eighties and nineties. This eliminated much of the depth in our supplies and contributed to the difficulties we are experiencing now.

Variables in the equation:
-Time. How long before the infection rate peaks?
-Technology. How fast can we find a cure?

Unknowns - these are the riddles we are solving:
-Do we keep the warehouses and transportation systems open, even though they create an enhanced risk of transference of the virus? Or do we shut them down for 14 days? 21 days?

So, if you are the CEO of Amazon, what do you do? Remember, you will be judged forever by the decision you make.