THE BUZZ MILLER METHOD
The difference between fraud and innovation is whether people keep paying for it.
THE MOM
“I want to enroll in Tai-Chi Walking,” my mother said.
I blinked. “Sorry... what?”
“Tai-Chi Walking.”
I tried to explain. Patiently. The way you explain to a child why they can’t have ice cream for breakfast.
“Mom. The whole purpose of Tai Chi is standing. It’s rooted. It’s like a slowed-down Kung Fu for people who can’t practice Kung Fu anymore. You can’t... walk it.”
“It’s not just walking,” she said, with the serene confidence of a woman who’d been told something by a lady named Linda at the rec center. “It’s intentional walking.”
“Mom. All walking is intentional. Otherwise, it’s called falling.”
“No, you push the Qi with your feet.”
“You’re pushing the pavement with your sneakers. That’s called commuting.”
She looked at me the way you look at someone who just doesn’t get it.
“You should try it,” she said. “It’s very grounding.”
Six months earlier, I would have kept arguing.
SIX MONTHS AGO
Coach Buzz Miller looked around the “Zen Zone” of the local rec center. It was humiliating.
To his left, a twenty-two-year-old named “Blaze” with zero percent body fat was teaching a class called Primal Scream Spin. To his right, a woman in linen pajamas was charging forty dollars a head to let people lay on mats and listen to a recording of a rainforest.
Buzz had a whistle, a stopwatch, and thirty years of experience yelling at teenagers to climb a rope.
He had zero clients.
“Nobody wants ‘Calisthenics’ anymore, Buzz,” the rec center manager had told him. “They want concepts. They want fusion.”
Buzz looked at the empty basketball court. He looked at a group of seniors walking slowly toward the exit. He looked at a poster for a Kung Fu movie on the community board.
Desperation is the mother of invention.
Or, in this case, the mother of despair.
“Hey!” Buzz barked at a passing woman in Lululemon gear. “You look like you have blocked Qi. You here for the sign-up?”
“The sign-up for what?” she asked.
Buzz’s brain scrambled. He needed something spiritual, but active. Something mysterious, but easy enough that he wouldn’t pull a hamstring demonstrating it.
“Tai-Chi Walking,” Buzz said.
The woman stopped. “Sorry... what?”
“Tai-Chi Walking,” Buzz repeated, gaining confidence now. “It’s big in... the Orient. Very exclusive.”
I’d been watching Buzz try to hustle clients all morning. I couldn’t help myself.
“Coach,” I said, crossing my arms. “The whole purpose of Tai Chi is standing. It’s rooted. It’s like slowed-down Kung Fu for people who can’t practice Kung Fu anymore. You can’t walk and do it.”
Buzz narrowed his eyes at me. Then he turned back to the woman.
“That’s Static Tai Chi,” he said smoothly. “This is Kinetic Tai Chi. It’s about taking the stillness... and taking it for a walk.”
“That makes no sense,” I argued. “That’s just walking slowly while waving your arms around. You might as well teach Ironing Running.”
Buzz froze.
The gears in his head—rusty from years of breathing dodgeball rubber—suddenly clicked into place.
He didn’t hear a joke.
He heard a syllabus.
“Ironing... Running,” Buzz whispered, staring into the middle distance.
“I was joking,” I said.
“High-intensity domestic cardio,” Buzz mumbled, pulling a crumpled notepad out of his windbreaker. “Precision pressing at a cardiovascular pace. The drag of the iron increases the burn...”
“Coach, no.”
“Do you have a Black & Decker and an extension cord?” Buzz asked, his eyes wild with the manic energy of a man who just realized he could charge people to do his laundry. “I need to print flyers. We’re going to need a longer extension cord.”
The Lululemon woman was already filling out a registration form.
THE PARKING LOT CONFRONTATION
Three weeks later, I cornered Buzz in the parking lot after his third sold-out “Tai-Chi Walking” session. He was loading a duffel bag full of cash—actual cash—into his ‘07 Honda Civic.
“Coach,” I said. “It’s fucking bullshit. We both know it.”
Buzz didn’t even look up. He zipped the bag slowly, deliberately. When he finally turned to face me, he had the calm expression of a man who’d just discovered God was fake but the collection plate was still full.
“You know what else is bullshit?” Buzz said. “Padel.”
“What?”
“Padel tennis. It’s just tennis for people who can’t handle a real court. Smaller space. Easier serves. Walls that do half the work for you.” He leaned against his car. “Everyone said it was bullshit. ‘That’s not a real sport,’ they said. ‘It’s tennis for the lazy.’”
“Okay, but—”
“Now it’s global,” Buzz interrupted. “Multi-billion dollar industry. Professional leagues. Sponsorships. You got guys making more money hitting a ball against a wall than I made in thirty years teaching actual athletics.”
I stared at him.
Buzz smiled. Not a nice smile. The smile of a man who just learned the rules and realized they were written in crayon.
“The difference between fraud and innovation,” Buzz said, “is whether people keep paying for it.”
He got in his car.
“Same time next week?” he called through the window. “I’m launching Resistance Sitting. It’s chairs... but mindful.”
THE 405
I sat in my car on the 405. Hadn’t moved in eleven minutes.
I was driving to the gym.
To get on a bike.
A bike that goes nowhere.
In a room with no windows.
While a man named Kyle yells at me about my “journey.”
I looked at the gas gauge. Burned a quarter of a tank to get here. Fucking great.
I looked at my gym membership on my phone: $89/month for the privilege of pedaling in place while staring at a wall that said “FIND YOUR FIRE” in motivational helvetica.
Buzz’s voice echoed in my head:
“The difference between fraud and innovation is whether people keep paying for it.”
I tried to remember the last time I’d just... walked. For free. Outside. Like a fucking human.
I couldn’t.
My phone buzzed. A notification from the gym app: “Don’t forget! Soundbath Spin starts in 20 minutes!”
What. The. Fuck.
THREE MONTHS IN
Buzz wasn’t stopping at Tai-Chi Walking.
Week 4: Contemplative Jogging – “It’s running, but we think about our fathers.”
Week 6: Breath Work – Literally just breathing. $25 per session.
Week 8: The Standing Experience – People paid to stand in a room for an hour. “Feel the floor. Be the floor.”
Week 10: Extreme Napping – He got a grant from the city for this one. Called it “REM Cycle Optimization.”
I watched his Instagram follower count climb past 50K.
Someone called him a “visionary.”
The LA Times did a profile: “From PE Teacher to Wellness Pioneer: The Buzz Miller Story.”
Blaze—the Primal Scream Spin guy—was now working at a Jamba Juice.
SIX MONTHS LATER
I walked by the rec center.
The sign out front had changed. It no longer said “Gym.”
It said: THE BUZZ MILLER INSTITUTE OF KINETIC STILLNESS
Through the window, I saw my mother.
She was wearing a gi made of sweatpants material, sitting in a metal folding chair, staring intensely at a wall.
She looked peaceful.
Buzz was walking through the rows of sitters, whispering corrections.
“Don’t just sit, Linda,” he whispered. Like a guru. “Sit at the chair. Dominate the upholstery.”
He caught my eye through the glass.
He didn’t wave.
He just tapped his wrist—where a Rolex now sat—and pointed to an empty chair next to my mom.
My knees hurt. My back ached from actual running. I looked at the comfortable chair. I looked at the smiling, paying customers.
“Do you take Venmo?” I asked as soon as I walked inside.
“For you?” Buzz said, handing me a clipboard.
“First sit is free.”
Community college near by has an on-line class. PE class. Called ... yes, I have to slow roll this punchline.... "Walking for beginners."
I'm pretty sure they don't even accept toddlers.
Wow! What a post! Phew! Felt like a big workout. 🫣