Fernwood Street, Hollywood, 1970: My old ex-roommate John Hill, the Rock and Roll bass player, and I decided that we’d move out of the house at Third and Western. As I remember, we decided this right after Lamont and Carolyn decided that everybody else should move out.

We found an inexpensive place with one bedroom in the back. John took that. I took the living room up front for my room. There was a kitchen and a bath in the middle. Perfect!

I had only two pieces of furniture: a thin mat on which I slept, and a wooden desk from the second-hand store. But when we moved in, I went to the rent-a-couch store, and there I rented a television.

That’s how the trouble started.

John, of course, asked me if he could watch it. I said that when I was watching it, of course he could, or if I wasn’t home of course he could. So he did.

One evening I came home from somewhere, and John and a couple of our friends were there, sitting on the floor, watching the television. I was walking across the room to fetch something from my desk, but the program looked interesting, so I flopped down on the floor. This program might have been a Jim Croce special, or the Sonny and Cher show, I don’t recall.

I do remember that, after that show, something else came on. You may have noticed how the television does that.

As it was, it was three hours when I got up, fetched whatever I’d wanted, and left. But as I left, I came to a realization:

I hadn’t really decided to spend that time. I’d been caught like a fish. Actually the way it struck me was that an alien force had somehow pinned me to the floor for three hours.

That was it. The next morning I returned the television to the rent-a-couch people. John sulked for a while; then he got over it. I was 26 at the time.

I then lived without television for many, many years. Didn’t miss it, either. Saved a lot of time.

I say the hell with it.

This is a simple law of nature, but one which is very handy:

A Human feels Satisfied in proportion to What Was Received, divided by What Was Expected.

That’s it.

In other words, if you order a tall latte drink expecting a certain taste, and you get a tall latte drink that tastes as expected, generally you’ll feel satisfied.

But what if the latte drink is larger or better-tasting than you expected? Since you got more than expected, you’ll be greatly satisfied.

But what if the latte drink is perhaps OK, but it’s smaller or less tasty than you expected? Now the satisfaction is divided by your expectation level, and you’ll likely feel disatisfied.

But what if the lattes are generally small and poor in this particular place, and that’s what you expect?

In this case, since your expectation is met, you’ll still generally feel satisfied.

So whether or not a human feels satisfied in a given transaction depends not only upon what is received, but in comparison to what was expected.

Now, if you react this way, wouldn’t your customer also generally feel that way? For example, suppose you sell apples and you walk through the park calling out, “Apples! Guaranteed to be the most mouth-watering and unbelievably delicious fruit you have ever experienced! Fifty cents each!”

So some guy buys an apple, and feeling curious he bites it. Now he complains that it tastes the same as the apples from Safeway, right?

But suppose that you’d walked along calling out, “Apples! Pretty good for this time of year! Tasty apples! Only fifty cents!” And now a similar guy buys and bites a similar apple. The difference here is: he’s satisfied.

Because you gave him an expectation that could be satisfied by the apple he received. By managing his expectation, you arranged to provide him with satisfaction. Good idea. And of course, it’s not just for your customers. What about your professor, your boss, your girlfriend?

Knowing this important secret of the universe, go forth and prosper.

Clement Street, San Francisco, 1973: After living on Ulloa street, and before the North Beach Apartment from Hell, I lived on Tenth Avenue at Clement Street, with a roommate named Pat Q. At that time he was a photographer with a darkroom behind our kitchen, and was maniacal taking and developing pictures of the San Francisco Ballet. (Later he became a contractor.)

I was attending San Francisco State, in the Creative Writing department, or that is, I was for a while. I discovered that the classes interfered with my writing about as much as they helped. And at about that time, my mother, from whom I sponged funds for this education, lost most of her money in the stock market, so I had to stop the school, which was fine with me.

Every morning, I had a routine.

Every morning, before writing on my novel for 2-3 hours, I went to the doughnut shop across the street. There I consumed coffee, doughnuts, and the newspaper.

I’d never been really interested in the newspaper, but I figured that since it was full of news stories, maybe there would be some stories that I could turn into short stories and novel material.

I read the newspaper every morning for one year, pretty much from front page to back page. I skipped the international news, and skimmed lots of things. What I learned was that there is precious little of dramatic interest in the news.

Oh, sure, there was lots of stuff that happened: This guy shot, that building burned, that automobile wrecked. But generally, though the stories were of tragic happenings, and written so as to be upsetting, so what?

In the year, I found one story about an old man who became confused by some hooligans, and shot a teenager with a 22 rifle by accident. This was an interesting story; nothing else was interesting during the year of stories.

Finally, one day as I loooked at the newspaper in the vending machine, the penny dropped. I realized that the folks who operate newspapers intentionally make the visible front page as alarming as possible.

In other words, these are people who are willing to upset the hell out of you for twenty-five cents.

When I was a kid, and later, I saw movies, I saw television dramas about the noble profession of journalism. It seemed important, and good. Now I’d ask: why?

What’s noble about it? How does the (upsetting) news help you? How is your day enriched by knowing that The Mauler has struck again on 23rd Street? Are these people telling the actual news, or are they just upsetting you for twenty-five cents?

I say the hell with it.

Lyon Street, San Francisco, 1990: I liked the picture of a camel-colored cashmere sweater. It seemed reasonably-priced in the Lands End catalog, and cashmere does feel so wonderful, so I sent off, and eagerly awaited the mail.

Soon the package arrived. It looked as pictured, and felt soft as expected. But there was a surprise.

Near the bottom hem, on the inside, they’d affixed a couple of replacement buttons, in case I ever pulled one off. And there was a tiny cardboard with a bit of the camel-colored thread wound around it, to fasten that button with matching thread.

I suppose the value of those buttons and thread was perhaps three cents to the Lands End company. But I’d got something more than expected.

I thought, Those Lands End people are great!

Oh happy day. I had a new sweater. It was beautiful. It was cashmere, fancy. It felt soft.

And besides, I’d got free thread. I was lucky!