Opportunity Cost

 Wish I didn’t know now what I didn’t know then.

—Bob Seeger

I remember going into my grandfather’s dim bedroom one afternoon late in his long life. He was sitting up in bed, in faded blue pajamas, his hair combed neatly, his catheter bag mostly hidden by a fold of sheet on the side of the bed. It was the walnut bed he had made for his wedding when he was 21. His wife of 67 years had been gone for ten years by then, even longer if you take into account the years she didn’t remember who he was, who anyone was, leaving him alone in their bed. His head was turned toward the window where sparrows were popping on and off a bird feeder that had a squirrel deterrent collar around it that the squirrels used to hang down and eat their fill. He looked over at me with a wistful expression, and I asked what he was up to, as if I had just been in the kitchen cleaning up and was checking on him, as if I were there all the time instead of once a week, maybe twice, to visit in the afternoons, sometimes with my children, his great-grandchildren.

“I’m just lying here thinking about every mean thing I ever did to my children,” he said.

His son, my uncle, tells the story of coming in one night late and drunk when he was a teenager and winding up on his back from a quick punch and looking down the hallway to see his father’s bathrobe flapping in retreat. My mother was anxious, and I wonder if she ever felt she fully lived up to her parent’s hopes for her, but she never let on that they said anything to make her feel she wasn’t good enough. My grandfather was a preacher’s son, a deacon in the church himself, a college president, a good man who followed the commandments of his faith to feed the poor and visit the sick. I’m pretty sure he didn’t do many mean things to his children.

And yet, now, as I move into the last decades of my own life, hoping to live to be 98, as he did, my children all grown and off on their own, I find myself occasionally wandering down my grandfather’s melancholy path. It’s easier for me to have those regrets, I think. I have done mean things to my children, no doubt more than he did. Sometimes I would get too mad when I scolded them; sometimes I even spanked them. I divorced the mother of my first three, and I understand now that although I had convinced myself they were old enough to understand, I was wrong.

It’s not the direct, obvious offenses that bother me at three in the morning, though. It’s something much vaguer, but perhaps because of its uncertainty even more troubling. Call it opportunity cost. We all know what that is: it’s when you let time go by without taking advantage of a fleeting opportunity, or when you put time and money into something only to realize later that they would have been better spent on something else. 

We think of opportunity cost as our own responsibility, or fault, something we did or didn’t do, a choice we made. But as a parent, I, and maybe others like my grandfather and me, blame ourselves for the opportunities our children missed. If I had just insisted that she stick with piano lessons… If I had taught him how to manage money better… If I had convinced him he should take chances in love…

Some parents live through their children. This is different than that, though. More painful, in a way. I’ve learned (the hard way) that my children don’t want me to tell them what to do. Mostly I resist. This isn’t about seeing them about to make a mistake and rushing in with a warning of good advice. I do that less and less. No, this is something more systemic, reaching back deeply into their childhoods, when they were mine to mold, or at least I thought they were, and I worry I didn’t do a good job shaping their raw clay. And because of that, because of my failures when they were young, their missed opportunities as adults are my fault. This is a particularly devastating revelation when it comes long past the time I can do anything about it. I have taught them to be independent, to make their own decisions, but may have left them ill-equipped for the task.

I know, I know, I’m beating myself up way too much. Maybe. I wasn’t an abusive or neglectful dad, I did most of the things good dads are supposed to do. It’s up to them now. And each of them is doing a great job stewarding their life. They are all happy and successful.

And yet late at night the dread creeps in that I didn’t do enough. Perhaps the real question is whether, no matter how much I did, I could ever feel it was enough. There is some piece missing in me, I fear, not them. Maybe it is the same piece my grandfather felt was missing in him. Something that denies contentment when looking back over the landscape of fatherhood. Maybe lots of dads feel this way, not just my grandfather and me. I hope not.

Not of This World

Hello from 37,000 feet. I’ve been up here many times over many years. It’s always the same. Ethereal, beautiful, empty. My home is down there somewhere, on the ground, with all the people who live there with me, but they are not up here (at least not out the window, thank goodness for them, since it is minus eighty degrees Fahrenheit out there).

When I fly alone, or remotely from my traveling companion, I stare out the window and let my mind drift to wherever it wants to go. I see mountains and deserts, wind farms just now, cities, evidence of our human presence on earth and of the vastness of the landscape where we make our homes, our businesses, our lives, and intermittently our wars.

From up here the misery in Gaza and Ukraine is invisible. So many things on earth can’t be seen from high above the clouds that nurture us with their life-giving rain as their part in the atmosphere that permits us to live.

I have had these thoughts many times. They are not exactly thoughts of the futility of human existence, or more particularly mine, but they return me always to the question so many of us ask ourselves. What are we dong here? Or, better put, what should we be doing here?

I have acted my part in the play of family and commerce. I have children I’m proud of. I’ve done things in my work I’m proud of, as well as some things that were disappointing, but none I am ashamed of.

I am not, however, helping the children of Gaza or Israel or Ukraine who are ripped asunder by war, or the millions of others who are as surely brutalized by abject poverty and cruelty, cruelty in some cases from the very family members and countrymen from whom they rightly expect kindness. 

Over the years I’ve helped a few people who needed help, but not enough to feel I’ve made a difference in the overall balance of hope and despair. I vote for and support politicians who want to help others with medical care and unemployment benefits. I would likely vote for someone who said we should just give everyone enough money to get by, a guaranteed basic income, as it is referred to by some, or enervating socialism, as it called by others, often in the bloodthirsty tone we used to reserve for witches on their way to the bonfire.

I believe in democracy. I believe that government is the only viable vehicle to undertake the big projects of collecting taxes, building infrastructure and protecting its citizens, including by looking after the needs of the less fortunate among us. Government in America is not in a good place now to do it’s job. 

Government cannot act (for long) without consensus among the governed about what action should be taken. Consensus of any kind has become hard to reach these days. Consensus almost always requires compromise, and our political leaders, both the ones who would be just as happy to see government shrivel up and die and the ones who want to usher in a modern New Deal, are not in a compromising mood. Both sides are sure they are right, and to some extent they both are. They’re just not completely right. Hence the need for compromise. 

They have to see that for it to happen. Or things have to get so bad they are voted out. That’s usually the way it works, but gerrymandering and hard-ball election politics are likely thwarting the will of the majority, which means that “bad enough to get them voted” out probably has to be really terrible. And “really terrible” sometimes leads to worse, when people get so frustrated they start looking for a political messiah to lead them out of the wilderness.

Beyond giving to relief organizations, I can’t help the war-torn, poverty sickened children of the world. Beyond voting for and supporting political causes I believe in, and writing about them, I can’t aid our democracy.

As a practical matter, maybe what I’m doing is all I can do, but it does not feel like enough. I am not so vain as to believe that a heroic hurling of myself upon the barricades is going to make much of a difference.

That leaves me with two feelings. One, for reasons that are obvious to anyone who cares about people, is sadness. The other, for reasons that are equally obvious to anyone who has spent time tilting at windmills and come away with a broken lance and the windmill still spinning merrily, is detachment.

I admit, I like detachment, even though I know there is no real worth in it. I’m not doing any harm—indeed, I do a little good now and then—but I am not engaged in the way I would be if I were attacked in my home with my family, or if we were starving, or if we were reviled and bullied for our political or cultural views. In those personal circumstances, I would fight—to the death if necessary.

Indeed, some part of me wants to do that now, even though I know my death would be the certain and futile result. At least I would have gone down fighting. That I have not done so, in the face of all the misery around me, makes me feel like I have already died. Like I am not of this world.

If I had Been Kinder

When I was a boy, not yet even a teenager, I trapped squirrels and tried to keep them as pets. They didn’t like it. They rubbed their noses red trying to break out of my wire mesh walls. I’ve never thought I had a cruel streak—I didn’t vaporize ants with a magnifying glass—but I did trap those squirrels, so what was that?

In law school, I found another outlet for my instinct to dominate. Combat by verbosity. Early on, the stuff I did was boring. No chance for a well-placed dagger to the soft belly of opposing counsel. The only thing opposed to me were shelves of dusty law books.

Eventually, though, I broke out of that research cloister and began doing corporate acquisitions. Papering them, really, but I thought I was an indispensable warrior in my clients’ battles to take over companies that were underperforming and needed a shot in the arm…or a kick in the pants.

I had been ambling along in my law firm to that point, working hard but not zealously. Something changed in me when I suited up for combat, which was the way we viewed it. To the companies being pursued, or at least their managements, it was a life-or-death struggle. The lawyers on each side were the mercenary troops. I was one of them. Through field promotions, I became platoon leader, a persona I retained even when I became a white-collar general.

I’ve never been in actual combat, but I understand about motivating people to do a job. We were an elite squad, we told ourselves. Indispensable, ready to give our all to win our battles. (Our all in this case was largely sleep and time with our friends and families.)

Not everyone in a fighting platoon is the strongest member, but each is crucial to the success of the unit. If there is a slacker, he has to be convinced to dig in and work harder…or he has to go. 

Usually there was time between battles to adjust staffing so that every member was as dedicated to the mission as the others, but sometimes adjustments had to be made mid-battle. When a deal we thought was dead sprang back to life, one person on vacation refused to return. He was cut from the squad and his reputation sullied.

Even now, many years later, I feel badly about that. Wasn’t there a kinder, more humane way to make that transition? After all, we ended up getting along fine without him. Couldn’t I have just made a substitution on the fly and let him enjoy his vacation? I told myself at the time that a tight squad could only function on loyalty and commitment. If he didn’t want to make the sacrifice, he should just go work peacefully somewhere else and leave the fighting to the warriors.

Really, that’s the way we thought about it. War metaphors. It was only money and ego that were being fought over, but we worked ourselves up to the same fever pitch I imagine in real warriors.

Why did we do that? Why did I do that? Obviously, it was an effective way to get deals done, just like it’s an effective way to win battles, but was it worth it? And, as importantly, what atavistic urges underly bringing that level of life-or-death intensity to mere business transactions?

Maybe some of us just can’t help ourselves. We want to cage squirrels to see if we can domesticate them. We don’t outgrow those domineering impulses, we just re-direct them. We tell ourselves we are the masters of the universe, when the truth is we are on an ego trip. If you’re not in our platoon, you don’t matter. If you’re in the opposing squad, it's a fight to the death.

The Godfather famously said, “It’s not personal, it’s just business.” But there is nothing more personal than lives damaged in pursuit of a bigger fortune or another notch on a corporate gunslinger’s belt. 

Changing the World

    We thought we could change this world

    With words like love and freedom — Eagles, “The Sad Cafe”

So many of us did. All of us young. All of us idealistic. Our world was so small in our youth that it did seem manageable, and changeable. We grew up, saw how big it is, how diverse, how Darwinian, and soon enough we settled for trying to make it a better place. We marched and carried signs, we volunteered for causes. Some of it helped. I hope.

I do think the world is a better place for many than it was when I came of age. Less global poverty, more literacy. Nations have their ups and downs. Dictators rise and are overthrown. But rise again. Democracy is a messy, unorganized effort, and fragile, as we are sensing in the US today. Some days hope seems naive. Why do so many people still support Trump?

I know, they’re angry about being left out, or behind, or both. Angry about being dissed by the elites. We should strive to give everyone a good shot at making their way in the world, no doubt about that. We are having a tough time agreeing on the best way to do that. Kill off government and let everyone fend for themselves? Or give everyone a guaranteed basic income, regardless of whether they do anything to earn it? Or something in between those extremes?

And what is the best way to steer the policy ship? Top down? Bottom up? Ban what we think hurts us, or tax it so it is just too expensive to be practical for most of us?

I realize now that these debates have been going on for longer than I have been alive. They started before I was a gleam in my parents’ eyes. Long before that. All the way back to the beginning of time. They will never be settled. We can hope that the means by which we seek to resolve them trends away from violence toward reason. Even that hope is tested every day. Even in a country as thoughtful as ours. There was nothing thoughtful about the Capitol riot. There is nothing thoughtful about “If you go after me, I’m coming after you.”

So where is the hope?

It’s in our children.

I have five. All of them have good moral compasses. All of them are kind and thoughtful. All of them are generous and loving. None of them stormed the Capitol. None of them thinks Trump won the election. None of them thinks migrants should be left to drown in the Mediterranean or the Rio Grande. None of them thinks anyone in the US should have food or healthcare insecurity.

When I was born, the global population was 2.3 billion. Today it is 8.1 billion.

That’s a lot of new people. Who knows what their values are. It’s clear to me that not many of them are listening to anything I have to say. I’m not going to convince anyone that we should all be responsible for cleaning up our own negative externalities. Or for helping our neighbors who don’t look like us. The reason I know this is because I’ve tried and haven’t, as best as I can tell, made a dent in anyone’s opinion.

But their mothers and I did raise five excellent citizens of the world. I’m proud of that, and of them. They are my hope for changing the world. It’s just going to take a little longer than I originally thought.

Businesses United for Stability

Businesses like stability. You generally can’t trust them to look after anyone but themselves, but they and the general public share a lot of common ground. Businesses make things we need. They innovate. They strive for efficiency. They do all that in the name of profit, but we all benefit from those efforts. Historically they haven’t been great stewards of the environment, and they are slow to fess up to other harms they cause, but we have laws and regulations to keep them more or less in check in those areas.

Businesses have to plan ahead, sometimes far ahead, so they don’t like unexpected changes in the rules of the game. They don’t like trade wars. They don’t like economic conflict. Businesses who need lots of workers like sensible immigration policies.

Not surprisingly, businesses want to have a say in government to assure their needs are considered. So, they liked the Supreme Court’s Citizens United decision, which gave them broad rights to contribute to politicians. 

Many of us, including me, thought that decision was a bad one. We thought businesses didn’t need more political clout. 

I think I may have have changed my mind. Why? Because I like stability too.

Trump gave us the opposite of stability. The rest of the GOP is not much better. These days, businesses are looking like my friends. They are like a gyroscope on our national clown car to keep it from careening out of control.

Businesses got us where we are economically. So, if they want to make big donations to politicians who share their interests, fine. At least I know that most of their interests align with mine. I can’t say that about the MAGA wing of the Republican party, which seems to hold sway over most of the GOP these days.

This Land is Our Land

This is going to sound unpatriotic, but I've gone off the Fourth of July.

When I was a kid we went to Fourth of July fireworks. When I had kids, I took them to Fourth of July fireworks. I love fireworks. I love John Philip Sousa’s Stars and Stripes Forever. Like almost everyone, I like both America the Beautiful and This Land is Your Land (although the latter was written as an angry retort to the former). 

Do you remember that childhood game of capture the flag? It seems to me that our flag has been captured. I’m not sure I recognize what it stands for when I see it flying like a warning in the backs of pickup trucks or stretched across freeway overpasses. Displayed that way it seems to be itching for a fight that is not only stupid and unnecessary, but unwanted. It reminds me of what I used to hear sometimes when I would walk into a redneck diner and glance around and somebody in one of the booths would scowl and say, “What are you looking at.“ When I see the flag in the hands of Proud Boys, all I want to do is run from it.

I’ve lived during one of the longest periods of peace and prosperity in American history. I recognize the protection my country has given me all these years. I am grateful for it. And I am grateful for all those who served in uniform for our country, even if some of the wars we fought, like Vietnam and Iraq, do not in retrospect seem just. So I don’t mean to demean the flag. It is important to me. It is important to all of us. 

But we must remember that it stands for liberty and justice for all. It has no place being waved in support of bigoted, provincial and hateful invective shouted in vulgar displays of pseudo patriotism. It is a dishonor to all who have struggled to defend the citizens of this country to use it that way.

Family Ties

What happens when siblings remember their parents differently? Dad was abusive. No, he was charismatic.

The truth is, he was both. What’s different is not so much our memories, as our willingness to accept the effect he had on us.

Many of us worshiped our fathers. All the more so if they were out of the house a lot and when they were home swung between playing with us and lecturing us, sometimes with a red face and a wagging finger.

B.F. Skinner first demonstrated that inconsistent rewards produce the strongest reinforcement of behavior. If you’re never quite sure whether you will win a parent’s approval, you try all the harder for it.

That explains a lot about how young children and adolescents relate to mercurial parents. As we age, we become able to see a parent’s erratic behavior for what it is, and stop seeing it as a reflection on our own worth. We learn that parents who periodically rage at children are the ones with the problem, not the children.

But what happens if you are a child of such a parent and he dies before you have come to that mature understanding of his behavior? Your emotional response to it is frozen in the time of your adolescence. 

When your siblings say, “You know, Dad was a little crazy,” you might offer that being a little crazy is the flip side of brilliance. The adult in you cannot hide from the fact of his inappropriate behavior, but the child in you still sees it as part of his bright sun, the one you longed to be in the warmth of.

The trouble comes when a sibling tells you that he hurt him. Emotionally and physically. Or your mother tells you he hurt her, emotionally and physically.

What do you do with that information?

Impugn the source, likely as not. He was weak. She was unstable. Secretly you might even tell yourself they deserved it. They weren’t as strong as you. He didn’t love them as much as he did you. It’s wrong for them to attack his memory. He can’t fight back, so you do it for him.

Families are a separate thing from the people who make them up. They don’t exist except in relation to one another. The good memories may be there, but the bad ones always come up. As William Faulkner said, “The past is never dead. It isn’t even past.”

When these dynamics are at play, it may be too hard to keep going back over the past. Nothing is solved. Old wounds are ripped open and bleed as freshly as when first inflicted.

We’ve been taught that nothing is more important than family. Maybe that’s so. But it may also be true that sometimes family is not as important as the individuals in it.

How Much Am I Worth?

I recently wrote about medical treatments I would be receiving. I said I was grateful to live near a first-class medical center and to have medicare to pay for it all. I lamented that so many others do not.

I finished those treatments and got the bill. Or, actually, I did not get a bill. Instead, I got statements from medicare and my medigap insurer about how much was charged by the hospital and doctors and how much they were paid. My share of the payments was zero.

So, that’s great, right? Well, I suppose. For me.

As I write this, the nation has once again reached its debt ceiling. Now Congress will fight over raising it. Fiscal conservatives will demand spending cuts, targeting programs like medicare. I don’t agree with their tactics—and certainly not their rhetoric and factual distortions—but we need more rational discussion about how we raise money (taxes) and how we spend it.

My treatments were billed by the hospital and doctors at over $500,000. Under medicare, the providers got paid about five percent of what they charged. (My private medigap insurance paid another one percent.) They accepted that. As I said, I owe nothing.

Great program, right? A ninety-five percent discount. Let’s do that for everyone. By that reckoning Medicare For All would be dirt cheap.

Of course, it wouldn’t be. Our national system of healthcare providers may be charging too much, but they could not take a ninety-five percent haircut and stay in business. In a health system that covered everyone, reimbursements would have to be greater, which would raise the cost to government, which would have to raise taxes to pay for the added cost, or cut services.

You can’t get anything repaired today for less than market rates, not well anyway, and not for long. Plumbing, electricity, roofs, kidneys, lungs, hearts. When it comes time for a new water heater, we have to make choices. If our budget is tight, something less important might have to wait.

The same is true of healthcare. We see that reality in every country that has free healthcare for its citizens. As The Rolling Stones said, “You can’t always get what you want...”

As our population ages, we are spending more and more of our healthcare dollars on old folks like me. The question is obvious: are we worth it?

Even in a country as prosperous as ours, we don’t have boundless resources. We have to make choices about where to invest. In a child of five with many years ahead of her, or in a man of seventy five, who is coming to the end of the line?

Every human life is worth something. None is worthless. But is each one worth the same investment from the public treasury?

When put in those terms, the question answers itself.

Goodbye to All That

This was the year:

Putin showed his true colors…and Ukrainians theirs.

So, so many died, not just of covid but of drug overdoses, gunshots, long undiagnosed maladies, storms…and yet we carry on.

Crypto lived up to its name, crypt being a burial site.

The stock market reminded us that trees don’t grow to the sky.

Elon Musk reminded us that he really is a jerk, and that being smart is no excuse for stupid behavior.

China pivoted from zero covid to a full-blown health emergency, because “it’s the economy, stupid.”

U.S. tech decided it’s time to come home, because it’s a long way from China when you need your chips in a hurry.

Joe Biden settled us down and got a few important things done, so that Republicans would continue to have something to complain about.

AI showed promise on so many fronts…and lord knows we can use any added intelligence we can get, artificial or otherwise.

It’s been a rough patch, but we always do better when pulling together to deal with adversity. Let’s hope we’re smart enough to remember that in the coming year.

Thirty Days of Biking

I’m getting some medical treatments at Stanford. I have to go in every day during the week for seven weeks. As of today, I’m halfway through. For me, that mid-point benchmark is like the winter solstice: psychologically, my days will get brighter from here on.

I’m in no danger of dying. Indeed, the point of the treatments is to assure that, at least with respect to the current bête noire. One never knows when another might pop out of the shadows of my inner workings, but I don’t worry about that, I just deal with the ones I can see.

It’s true, I have to admit, that I’m not as young as I think I am, as I feel. But both my grandfathers lived to be almost a hundred, so I think I have some miles left, with, as Bruce Springsteen says, “a little touch-up and a little paint.”

Meg and I live in Carmel now, too far for a daily commute to Palo Alto, so some very kind and generous friends loaned us their guest house for the two months. We brought our bikes, and I bike every day to and from the hospital. I wear a garish orange jacket that cars can easily see, and that I feel the need to explain to the wonderful hospital staff is not a fashion choice.

There’s something about biking that makes my soul take flight. The effortless freedom of gliding along in the sunshine and fresh air. It’s my decompressor, both going and coming. I’m so grateful for it.

Which, since it’s almost Thanksgiving, brings me to the many other things for which I am profoundly grateful. For Meg, most of all, my lover and my guide through good times and bad. For my children, who are as attentive and loving as any parent could hope, in good times and bad. For our friends, like the ones in whose house I am writing this.

Last, but certainly not least, I am grateful for the chance to keep living with vigor and purpose. Both Stanford hospital and I have deep wells of support buoying us. A first-class medical center has first-class doctors and equipment. I’m getting the best of that. I have Medicare. Based on past experience, I don’t think this amazing treatment is going to cost me anything.

I feel a little guilty about that. So many people in our country don’t have that advantage. Medicare is only for old folks. Medicaid, which is for poor folks, isn’t available to everyone. And in the middle, private insurance can be hit and miss. If a first-rate medical center isn’t in you health insurance network, you’re going to have to accept second best…or third, or worse.

The way we handle health care in our country is inequitable and dumb. Many states have refused to expand Medicaid to cover more of their poorer citizens, even though the federal government pays over ninety percent of the cost. It’s hard to conclude they are acting out of any motive other than ill will toward the people who are on the lowest rung of the socioeconomic ladder. And it’s stupid, from a purely fiscal standpoint, because we have shown over and over that prevention is much cheaper than treatment after health problems become chronic or acute.

So, not only do I get first-class medical care for free, just because I’m old, but I get to ride my bike to it in my ugly orange jacket, and feel the sun on my face, and the freedom of gliding effortlessly along the road of life that has been smoothed out for me by the lawmakers of decades ago who gave us Medicare. Forward thinking men and women who, sadly, did not fully succeed in passing along to their successors their common sense and compassion.

We can do better. We need to keep trying.

Mob Psychology

Crowd psychology refers to altering one’s views to go along with those of others. We may do this to win friends, fit in, or not look stupid. 

There is another term for this phenomenon: mob psychology. This conjures up angry townspeople outside the jail tossing a rope over a nearby oak limb as they demand retribution. If there’s a sheriff in the way who tries to reason with them, he might fare no better.

Or angry and frightened villagers storming Dracula’s castle with torches, crosses and holly stakes.

These are more than just crowds. They are mobs. There are fewer old west lynchings now, and vampires are confined to movies, so if you’re looking for a good old fashioned mob frenzy today, you have to go to a Trump rally.

There you will be able to cheer loudly with all the others around you at a fairgrounds in Robstown, Texas, when your hero suggests that journalists withholding the names of leakers should be sent to jail where they will be other prisoner’s brides; raped, in case that wasn’t clear.

Why do they cheer? Well, it’s simple really: they’re a mob whipped up by a master manipulator. Like Hitler. Like Mussolini. 

I don’t like Trump, but he’s just one man. Without his rabid crowds, he would be no more a threat to us than the odd eccentric on a soapbox in a public park telling everyone that the world is coming to an end.

Why do we listen to Trump when we don’t listen to the nuts on soapboxes?

That’s the million dollar question.

Social scientists and politicians theorize that he is speaking to the grievances of his followers, making them feel included and hopeful when they have fallen on tough times, or at least giving them someone to look down on and hate.

In other words, he is inciting them to hatred, often to violence.

He’s not going to help them. Those of us not in his thrall know that. He’s just using them for his own pleasure and aggrandizement. And they love him for it, for giving them purpose—hatred.

What is there to do about it? Many of us have thought his crowds would wake up and see what a fraud he is, what a false prophet. So far, they have not.

They are the problem—their weakness and susceptibility to being misled and abused—but getting rid of him is the only practical way we can deal with them. Without him, his mobs will still be discouraged and angry, even hateful, but there will be no one to gather them together in the torchlight and direct them to storm the castle (or the Capitol).

The unfortunate truth is that we are a danger to ourselves. For reasons I’m not sure we fully understand, there is a little bit of the mob in all of us. Lying dormant, waiting for the stimulus that awakens some atavistic urge that no doubt helped us survive in grittier times but which now stands in the way of the cooperation we are going to need from now on to thrive on our increasingly hot and dry planet.