Tuesday, April 14, 2015

Things I Didn't Do For My Mother

I didn't fly back to be with her in her last days. I shipped her off to another state when she needed skilled nursing care. I didn't let her lend my sister twenty-five thousand dollars. I made her do what I thought was best for her. I was like my long-dead father in that way, minus the yelling. Okay, maybe I even yelled once.

It's complicated. 

Maybe it's not complicated. Maybe it's just me that's complicated. Fucked up also comes to mind.

When I was a boy, Mom was, how shall I say it, vaporous. My father was El Jefe. He brooked no dissent. My solution was to escape to California. Mom could not do that, so she escaped to within herself, an anxious place of fierce imaginings. She and Dad were fifty when he died. A psychiatrist treating her, with Thorazine, so that I hardly recognized her on the phone, said I just had to accept that she would never be normal.

So, one good thing about me, I'm not so good at accepting hopelessness. I flew back to Tennessee and got her a new shrink and she began her long road back, a road she walked alone. Her parents lived in town nearby, she had friends, but in a way that is hard for anyone who hasn't survived it to understand, including me, she was profoundly alone.

But she was strong. She did crummy jobs just to have something to do, and to make a little money, since my dad left her without much. She came out to see me once in a while. We had nice visits, but she always seemed emotionally shaky to me. I worried about her, but I didn't know what to do for her, so mostly I did nothing. I wouldn't say I avoided her. But that might well be the truth.

Then events took me back to my hometown, the one to which I had sworn never to return. Thus began my reintroduction to my mother. She was her old self by then. The person I remembered from my early childhood. She was still anxious, a condition I had only vaguely sensed as a young boy, but all the gentle wit and wisdom had come back to her, like a spring bloom. For eight years I breathed in the scent of her blooms, smiled at their beauty, wondered now and then how they had survived her long winter.

That was a lovely time. She got to know my wife and young children, and they her. They loved her gentle kindness. I got to know her too. You don't know your parents when you are a child. When I got to be with her day in and day out as an adult, I understood so many things so much better. Among those, frankly, was what a bastard the man I adored, my father, was. He was a revered doctor. Everyone loved him. He saved some dark side of himself for my mother.

When I moved to California, I sent Mom to a retirement home near my sister in Virginia. That didn't go well. For one thing, Mom said she never fit in with the other women at the lunch tables. They dressed up. They had to invite you to sit with them. It was like middle school. She and my sister had a few issues too, for which neither was really to blame. It was too much change for Mom. Within six months, she was heading back down the rabbit hole of xanax and klonopin. After a phone call that reminded me of Thorazine days, I moved her to California. In a matter of days. Like a rendition.

We had a good five years together out here. At least I want to think they were good. She said they were. We had some fun. I saw her often. She came for Sunday brunch most weeks. But she was lonely. I knew that, but I didn't know what to do about it. I told myself I was doing as much as I could. Thanks to a bequest from her parents, she had enough money to almost certainly live out her years comfortably, but I had heard the horror stories about huge medical bills in the last years of life and I was obsessed with not letting her run out of money.

So I didn't want her to lend money to my sister. She didn't really need it anyway, that's what I thought. But for many reasons, Mom wanted her to have it. It was just a financial decision for me, but I understand now, and maybe even did then, that for her it was like I was telling her she couldn't love her daughter. 

When the time came that assisted living couldn't meet her daily needs, when she needed skilled nursing care, the only places I could find nearby that were remotely affordable were ones where she would have had to have shared a room. A curtain might separate the beds. Bring three comfortable outfits, sweatpants kinds of things, from Target, one told me. That was all she would need. No more family portraits. No more antique furniture and silver. Just sweatpants.

In my brother's hometown, Louisville, KY, I found a wonderful place with reasonable prices and spacious private rooms. She'd love to have some time with my brother, Mom said. When I flew her there, even though I knew my brother would be good to her, I felt like I was abandoning her in the woods.

Over the course of the nine months she lived there, I went to see her a few times, the last a few weeks before she died. On that trip, I authorized hospice care for her. I feared it would be our last visit. The day the nursing home called to say she had died was a Sunday, the day we had shared so many brunches. In what struck me as a horrible, deliberate neglect, when the phone rang I was walking in the door from brunch with my wife's parents.

I'd like to think I was a good son. I'm certain I could have been better. Even as I was doing what I did for her, I wondered if I was doing all I could. Was I being selfish not to visit her more often? Should I lighten up on the financial frugality? Was I treating her like a child? The way my father had.

Scott Simon has a new book out now about the time he spent with his mother in her last days. He tweeted lovingly, achingly, from her bedside. I didn't do that. The last time I saw Mom I pushed her around outside in her wheelchair and talked about the birds that we saw. We listened to their songs, even sang ourselves. But I didn't sit by her bedside for weeks. I went home. 

And now, seven years later, not a day goes by that I don't wish I could hold her hand one more time.

Sunday, April 12, 2015

Working Capital

Everybody needs working capital. That's not something you build up on your resume, it's the term businesses use for cash on hand to pay bills. Many a business with a bright future has failed because it couldn't meet payroll or pay for its raw materials. The business world is pitiless.


In that way, in that vulnerability, everyone is a business. Working families have to have cash on hand to buy groceries or the kids go hungry. Up and coming young adults have to pay the rent or they end up on the street.

When businesses run low on working capital, they borrow from banks. For six years now, the Fed has helped them by cutting interest rates to zero. This has enabled many businesses to weather the tight times of the Great Recession. Not only did they survive, but they grew and added jobs and helped the economy get back on its feet. Had it not been for the Fed's making money easy to get, we might still be in recession. Certainly many small businesses, and some big ones, wouldn't have made it.

Families and individuals haven't been so blessed. The easy money for businesses did not trickle down to personal loans. Banks, still feeling the (somewhat self-inflicted) pain of sub-prime mortgage defaults, did not make credit broadly available to individuals. Bushinesses were put on Fed welfare, if you will, while individuals were forced into austerity. Like Greece. 

When they run out of money, many working people turn to payday lenders. These are the Shylocks of the lending industry. They'll give you what you need to carry you through until your next paycheck---$100, $500, $1,000--but they charge such high rates of interest that if you fall behind you might never catch up. A payday loan can sink you. And even if it doesn't, it takes an obscene cut out of your income.

Elizabeth Warren made her bones railing against this practice and others like it. Nobody likes payday lenders, but like cockroaches they manage to survive extermination. Part of the reason is that they provide, even though at an exorbitant price, something people desperately need. Unless the Fed can figure out a way to make banks pass along to individuals with less than sterling credit histories the easy money it gives them, or government shuts them down, payday lenders will continue to be a last resort for struggling families and individuals.

Many of us give to charity; and there are many good causes deserving of generosity. I've begun to wonder whether increasing working capital for hardworking people living paycheck-to-paycheck might not be another good cause. I think of micro loans in Africa, where investors with a charitable bent go into a village and identity the woman (and it's usually a woman) who is something of the village matriarch and give her small amounts of money to start local enterprises: weaving; water purification; whatever the village needs that human capital can leverage if it has seed money.

Micro loans are meant to make money, but at their heart they are save-the world projects. Catalysts for entrepreneurship. Grease to lubricate the potential of people. 

How about grease for the working-capital needs of workers living on the edge? To keep them afloat. To keep them productive. Like African micro loans, that kind of investment would be meant to do good, in that it would help people, but it would also be economically farsighted, in that people would stay productive and benefit the economy in general.

Donors would identify a person in a struggling community--East LA, Southside Chicago, Ferguson, MO, plenty of towns in the South--and give him or her a small amount of money to lend to people in need for very short periods: a week or two, maybe as much as a month. No interest, the borrower would be told. Just pay it back. If times get better for you, maybe you'll put a few dollars in the pool so others can benefit as you have.

What do you think would happen? How many would pay back their loans? How long would the pool last?

Those are good questions. The pessimist in me thinks this is a really stupid idea that will result in free money to a few and a lending bank account that drains as fast a backyard wading pool with a hole in the side. Maybe. I'm not sure how much good a lot of my charitable contributions do in any event. To me, they are more like hopes. Hopes that my donation might help a little, even though the problems we try to address this way are vast and perhaps intractable. Still, we try.

But what if my pessimistic side is wrong? What if our local godfathers and godmothers have the moral suasion within, and practical knowledge of, their communities to keep the money going out and coming back in. Think of the good they could do. They would be the neighborhood Fed, increasing the money supply, but not just for businesses, not just for the well off. For regular folks working hard to make ends meet. For most Americans.

This isn't a money-maker, so private capital isn't going to be interested. Maybe there is a way for government to help, but I don't think so. Government, even at it's best, is inefficient; at it's worst, corrupt. There is so much room for corruption and abuse here, that I think government would almost certainly fail to pull this off. It would take people finding the people they trust, people they believe have the respect of their community. Those personal connections are what would make this work. Maybe that means it could never get to be very big. Or maybe it just means it would have to build slowly and carefully. Not a bad thing. Quick solutions are almost never durable

I have a friend who would be a great candidate to be one of the people to look after and dispense this kind of funding. She came to this country with little and is now a citizen who runs a licensed day-care business in her home and has raised three wonderful children, two of whom will be the first in their family to go to college. She and her husband work hard, not just two jobs, but many jobs. She says she doesn't know why everyone comes to her to resolve their problems. But I do. It's because she is, in Sonia Sotomayor's words, a wise Latina.

I asked her what she would think if I gave her $1,000 to lend to people in need, people she knew and trusted. She said people in her community do that. They always ask for a little interest, she said. "You borrow $100 for a month, you pay back $110."

That's 120% a year, I told her. She understood the number, but not the point. It's just the way they do things. And maybe that's best. Maybe you need the interest to keep people serious and responsible. Or maybe if you're lending out of your own pocket you just need to make it worthwhile. "Everyone's got to make money," she said.

I asked her if she thought she would get the money back if she lent it at no interest. I asked her if it would be too much trouble, too much pressure, to be the one to decide who would get money and who would not, and to make sure it came back. She was enthusiastic, if somewhat incredulous. I'm not sure she thought I was serious. Or that anyone would be serious about such a thing as free loans.

Little wonder. In the world of predatory payday lenders, when even your pals charge 120% annual interest, free money, on trust, just because you need it, would take some getting used to. Like clean water and electricity. Like so many of the things introduced in the last century that we now take for granted. The fact that we take them for granted, that one day we might take these kinds of community lending pools for granted, does not diminish their importance to making us a prosperous country where individual effort is rewarded, and where a helping hand is there when we need it. Not just when the Fed cuts rates for the financial industry. For everyone. For the people who do the work and pay the bills and buy the products that make our economy work for all of us.

Monday, April 6, 2015

Man Seeking Woman, Have Dishwasher

Like a frog in slowly heating water, I've just realized that I'm a fully cooked feminist. Thank you corporate America. Thank you Planned Parenthood haters. Thank you religion. Thank you ISIS. All of you had your hands on the heat controls of my simmering awakening. And thank you most of all to my lover, who was patient with me and didn't laugh at me as I groped my way.


Evolving
I've also realized that the other thing that has been warming in my slow pot is my interest in evolutionary psychology. I don't do field studies, only thought experiments and a lot of Googling, but for a while I've been fascinated by the possible evolutionary roots of our behaviors. Particularly the terrible way we treat women. 

In much of the world, women are still little more than property. Even in developed countries, they don't have the same opportunities as men. Here in Silicon Valley--even here, in the land of the bluest of the blue--women in tech can't get a break from the men who control the industry.

What I did not know until recently is that those two warming parts of me, feminism and evolutionary psychology, have at times enjoyed an uneasy co-existence. Some feminists don't like it when evolutionary psychologists trace the roots of bad behavior in men to evolution. Their complaint is that such explanations may be seen to let men off the hook: "Hey, baby, my genes made me cheat on you."

Not that men would take such a cheap way out. Would we? 

One article I read recently, "Evolutionary Psychology and Feminism" (Buss and Schmidt, 2011), answered the feminist concern this way: "Is" does not mean "ought." No matter the origin of bad behavior, the question must be, "What can we do to change it?"

One evolutionary theory of patriarchy--men's dominant control of resources--is that women preferred men who could take care of them. So an adaptive mating strategy for men became competing with other men for the resources that would make them attractive to women. This resulted in men duking it out and ultimately controlling virtually all resources. When they favored women with them, this made the mating relationship essentially transactional: resources (home and comfort) in exchange for sex. Little wonder that, in that environment, men began to think they owned women. And women began to feel like property.

So what do we do about that now? How can we use this understanding of how we evolved to help us go in a different direction. Evolution doesn't preordain an outcome (well, not a behavior), but it strongly favors it. Often without much conscious thought on our part. Once we realize what's going on, what can we do? Is there an antidote for evolved traits?

Yes, but it's not fast acting. The antidote is awareness and commitment to change. In this sense, the evolutionary psychologists have to pass the baton to activists. Both groups can see the problem, the bad behavior. One group has come up with theories about how we came to behave like that, but it falls to the other, and to all of us of like mind, to call out the misconduct and insist it not be tolerated. To say, "Genes be damned, this is wrong."

The evolutionary psychologists also hope that in tracing behaviors back to their roots, clues can be found about how to change them. I'm a little less certain about that when it comes to mistreatment of women. Could women just say, "Baby, I don't want your money, I just want you to do the dishes."? 

That works with me, even though soapy hands and dripping plates aren't fantasies of mine. But my lover and I live in a resource rich environment of equal opportunity. I don't know how much of a dent that approach would put in the way ISIS and other crazy fundamentalists (including some none of us like to mention: you know who you are) treat women. We'll have to go deeper for that. And there is a chance, one that should not be completely dismissed, that armed with an understanding of how we how we picked up our worst habits, we can devise new ways to break them.

Saturday, April 4, 2015

Aphasia

He came into the school, and he could not understand anything they were saying. They weren't speaking a foreign language. He recognized the words, but he couldn't make sense of them. They came to him and left as quickly, without making an imprint on his consciousness. He had had a cold and he thought maybe his ears were stopped up and that was upsetting his equilibrium. He went into the bathroom and blew his nose and splashed water on his face. He could hear the splash of it on his hands and in the sink, a sound as recognizable and familiar as ever. He went back out into the hallway.

The kids were going into classrooms amid a clatter of squeaks of rubber soles on waxed tile and banging door bars. He heard and understood those sounds, and he heard the words they were saying to one another, and the tone of them, light and joking, too loud in that high-school way, but he did not know what they were saying. 

He sat on a bench and watched the hallway clear. In the classrooms, behind the closed doors, he could hear teachers and students speaking. The sound was muffled and far away so that he wouldn't be expected to understand what was being said. It was comforting to hear and not understand when he was not meant to understand. He thought that when the doors opened and the kids came back out, as they got closer, he would be able to understand them again, as anyone would in such circumstances.

He heard the sharp footsteps and looked down the hall and saw the woman approaching. He just watched her. She came to where he sat and stood looking down at him, as if deciding whether to offer him a dollar or two, the way you would a homeless person.

"Are you hear about the janitorial job?" she said.

He was so surprised to know what she said that he did not answer. He might as well not have understood. Perhaps he didn't. He decided to wait to see if she would speak again.

"The job?" she said, quite clearly. 

"Yes, ma'am. That's right." 

He tried not to let the relief show on his face. She would ask him what had been the matter. If he told her, he surely wouldn't get the job. She would think there was something wrong with him. Or maybe that he was crazy.

She showed him the janitor's closet and told him that the principal would tell him more about the job later but for now could he clean up around the picnic tables in the courtyard. The kids had left it a mess after lunch. She'd told them and told them to pick up after themselves, but they were a bunch of spoiled rich kids and thought they didn't have to do anything they didn't want to. He got the broom and mop and she took him outside and left him.

It wasn't too bad. There were a few sandwich wrappers and napkins up against the fence and some soda cans on the tables. Someone had left an apple. He put it in his pocket for later. In a spreading oak tree a gang of blackbirds was making a racket. They sounded just like the kids. He recognized their sounds but could not understand their meaning.

He got the area cleaned up and sat at one of the tables. The woman had not told him what else he was to do. The class bell rang and he could hear the kids inside the hallway. The door to the patio banged open and a half dozen came out and sat at the tables nearby. He did not get up. He felt invisible.

"Can you believe it?" one boy said to another.

Oh, thank god! He could understand him. Whatever it was had passed. He watched the boy gratefully.

"That old fool assigned a term paper the same day we have our AP mid-term. He acts like his is our only class. They all do."

He felt uncomfortable listening to them complain, even though his presence did not seem to bother them. They didn't even seem to notice him. He thought he'd better find the woman and find out what was expected of him. It wouldn't do to be sitting down on the job on his first day. He went back inside and found the principal's office.

"I've come to see what I should do next," he told the woman behind the desk. She had a heavy face a red eyeglasses. She said something he did not catch.

"Pardon?"

She spoke again. He thought he heard the word “work.” The others words were there and then they weren't, as if blown away by a wind as they came to him. He couldn't very well say he didn't understand her. She would think he was stupid.

"Can you tell me where I can use the bathroom?” he said. 

He knew where it was, but he thought if he paid close attention to how she told him he could learn to decode her speech. She said something he did not understand and pointed back out into the hallway. He nodded as if he had understood and bowed his head and said he would be right back. The way she watched him as he left made him uncomfortable, but he could hardly blame her.

There were two boys in the bathroom. One said something to the other. He could not make it out. He pretended to use the urinal and waited for them to leave. He looked the same in the mirror. His eyes did not look cloudy. There was no swelling in his face. His ears were not filled with wax. There was nothing to say he could hear but not understand. He returned to the principal's office.

"The principal will see you now," the woman with the heavy face and red eyeglasses said.

This time it did not shock him that he could understand her. He went into the principal's office. She was talking to a man dressed in blue jeans and a flannel shirt. He wasn't even dressed well enough to be a janitor. He must be a teacher, the janitor thought, surprising himself. Only a teacher could get away with looking like that. Teachers couldn't be fired. He'd heard that and he believed it, especially looking at this one.

"We can't be expected to do this," the badly dressed man said to the principal. “That goddamned website is a nightmare. The extra work isn't in our contract."

"It's for the kids," the principal said. "Give it a try, please."

"No promises," the man said.

He walked past the janitor as if he weren't there.

When they were alone, the principal sat behind her desk. She did not say anything.

"I'm here to see about what you want me to do," the janitor said.

She just looked at him. Maybe she couldn't understand him. Maybe his words were coming out like gibberish.

"Ma'am?"

"There's a teachers’ union meeting down the hall. I want you to go run them out of here?"

Well, he heard that. 

"I could sweep them up," he said. 

He thought it was nice little joke. She smiled.

“You ever know someone who won’t listen?" she said. "No matter what you say, no matter how reasonable you are?”

“I had a dog like that once.”

She smiled again.

“What did you do with him?”

“I just left him alone. He was no good, but he didn’t hurt anything.”

“What if he’d been pretty good, but every once in a while he bit you? What if he was a little lazy and when you tried to get him to do what he should do he sometimes growled at you and you thought he might bite you again.”

“I might take a dog like that for a long ride and let him out to sniff new territory. If he didn’t get back in the car right away, well…”

She had closed her eyes and was either about to go to sleep or cry. He felt sorry for her, although he wasn’t quite sure why. He didn’t know her. Maybe she was the problem. Maybe those teachers were meeting down the hall about her. Maybe she was the dog who bites you once in a while.

She opened her eyes and said something, but she did not get up.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, although he had not understood what she’d said. Not a word.

Some of the kids were in the hallway again. In front of a row of lockers, one girl was getting out her books. Her pale cheeks were splotchy and the skin around eyes was red. A friend had hold of her arm, as if to help her stay on her feet. 

“It’s okay,” the friend said. “We’ll talk to Mr. Travis.”

The girl just shook her head. “I can’t do both. I’ll do bad on one of them.”

“No you won’t.”

The janitor was feeling self-conscious standing there eavesdropping. He went to the janitor’s closet and got the mop and brought it back to close to where the girls were standing and made out like he was mopping up a spill.

The girl who had been crying was leaning back against the lockers now. She looked like she was about to slide down to the ground. The janitor had half a Snickers bar in his pocket. He wondered if she would like it. Everything looked better after a Snicker’s bar.

“Wasn’t it on the assignment website?” the friend said. “Didn’t he see it. He knows you can’t do both.”

“He told us he doesn’t have time for that. He says our schedules are our own problems.”

The janitor heard himself speaking before he even realized he was formulating the thought. “You can’t work for two bosses,” he said.

The friend looked at him. She seemed a little annoyed.

“When that happens,” he said, “it ain’t your problem, it’s theirs. You got to tell them to make up their minds what they want you to do. Then you’ll do it. But nobody can do two things at once.”

The friend took the crying girl’s arm and led her away, as if to get her out of danger. The girl who was so upset looked back over her shoulder at him and he nodded to her and she held his gaze as her friend led her away.

He’d been on the basketball team in high-school. The teachers hadn’t cut the team much slack, and neither had the coach. You couldn’t study for a test while you were playing a game in another county and didn’t get back on the bus until after midnight. He did the best he could, which wasn’t good enough. When he left school without graduating, he didn’t have any way to get by that was legal and he ended up in jail. When he got out, he had a rough time, some dark thoughts, but he wasn’t drinking as much now. And he had this job.

He went down the hall to where he thought the teachers the principal had been talking about might be meeting. He didn’t knock. He just opened the door to the classroom where he heard the sounds of their voices. It was the same again. he saw their mouths moving, heard their words, but couldn’t understand them.

“I’ve got something to say,” he said.

They stopped talking and looked at him.

“Ya’ll need to take care of these kids. They’re depending on you. You can’t give them more than they can do. That won’t help nobody learn anything but how to be angry and sad.”

They were staring at him. They were not speaking.

“You understand me?”

A couple of them looked down into their laps, as if they were ashamed to be lectured by a janitor.

“You pay attention to what I’m saying,” he said. “You’ve got those children’s lives in your hands.”

One of the teachers put a cell phone up to his ear.

“You need to send someone over to the high school,” he said in  a low voice, almost a whisper. “There’s a man here talking nonsense.”

He paused, looking up at the janitor, then spoke into the phone again.

“No, literally nonsense. We can’t understand a word he’s saying. The sounds make no sense. He’s upset, though. Agitated. I’m worried he might be a danger to the kids.”



Monday, March 30, 2015

Suicide Prevention: The EQ Phone

I have an idea for a phone app to help reduce the incidence of teen suicide. I don’t need to tell anyone in Palo Alto, California what a blessing that would be.


The idea is based on three premises:

1. Changes in behavior that indicate deteriorating emotional health are known.

2. They are measurable with a phone’s hardware and software.

3. Kids love their phones, and an app of this kind would be welcomed by teens as long as privacy is assured.

Apple recently introduced ResearchKit and apps to monitor diabetes, Parkinson’s and other diseases. The Parkinson's app, for instance, detects tremors, gait irregularities and changes in voice. For emotional health, couldn’t we make an app that tracked indicators of deterriorating mental health? 

Signs of emotional trouble would be things like: little physical activity (accelerometer); staying home all the time (geo location); social media posts that have words and phrases correlated with despondency; social isolation, as evidenced by a marked reduction in texts and emails. No doubt there are many more that creative programming could capture.

Of course, this would require kids to put the app on their phone, but my impression is that most kids want help, they just don't know how to ask for it. They like their phones. They trust them like friends. The app could give feedback like, "Are you okay?” There are many behavior changes that indicate problems, and I'll bet a phone could monitor many of them. Using the cloud for analytical power, of course.

Privacy would be an issue. To get kids to trust the app, and maybe take its advice, the app couldn’t be ratting them out. Maybe some pre-agreed to 911 type message could work in dire circumstance, though.

I'm posting this because it's beyond my technical skills. Perhaps someone like Google or Apple or Facebook will take it on. Or just some gang of bright young programmers looking to make a difference. One precious life at a time.

Friday, March 27, 2015

Selfish

I think I'm selfish. I've raised five kids. So that wasn't selfish. I'm not selfish with my partner. (What is the right term, anyway: lover; friend; inspiration; safety net; all of the above? Nothing with the cultural baggage of wife or even spouse. We need a new term. Partner makes it sound like it's not personal, just business. Although I'd gladly kiss her ring.)


So if I'm a decent father and whatever that other role should be called, if I make sacrifices for those I love, why do I think I'm selfish? Because, if I'm honest with myself, that's as far as it goes. At least as to anything like a formal commitment to someone or something else. I give money to charity, to homeless people. I ask strangers how they're doing, and I'm actually interested. But I don't have to. I can skip a charity appeal, a homeless person's plea. I can walk by a stranger and look the other way. No one judges me for any of that. Or I don't know they do. I haven't promised them anything.

I could change that. I could throw myself into a cause--lord knows there are plenty of worthy ones--but I don't want the obligation. I don't want others to depend on me. Like I said: selfish.

I've been a volunteer. I've served on non-profit boards. I didn't mind. Sometimes I even enjoyed it. But I rarely felt like I was adding much. Human effort is like an ant colony. That's the way it has to be to get anything done. I just don't want to be one of the ants. There are plenty of others, I tell myself. They don't need me.

Maybe they do, maybe they don't. Maybe I'm just rationalizing. Like those (not including me) who don't vote because they are certain that statistically their vote doesn't matter. They are right, of course, as to their individual votes; and completely wrong as to the aggregate effect of all votes. Democracy is the product of the voting ant colony.

If we all stopped voting and volunteering, we'd have tyranny and and an uncompassionate society. But if one of us drops out, no worries, right? It's a form of freeloading. As I said: selfish.

I worked as a lawyer and a businessman for decades. I got stuff done, but I was mainly a cog. If I hadn't done it, others would have. For the money, if not the humanity. There was one business I ran that I tried to remake into a better thing. I got the employees all excited and then couldn't fix the business fast enough to pay for all the debt I took on to try to remake it. Even that was something of a selfish endeavor. I was in it for the thrill of doing something fun and exciting. I was a pretty good huckster, but I couldn't deliver. What is that? Pioneering? Delusional? Generous? Selfish?

I've read The Selfish Gene. I understand what you're thinking about now.

For years now, I've sat on the sidelines of the fray. Kids grown. Partner needing only flowers and champagne. I've been writing because I've convinced myself that if I have something to say I can reach people through novels and essays. More people than I could reach any other way. For longer. Books live on. 

I suppose I've just traded one ant colony for another. There are thousands--millions?--of writer ants out there. We're not working together, so maybe that's why many of us accomplish so little. But we're dreaming together, in that separate kind of way of writers: I know you're out there, and I'm sending out good wishes through writer-ant telepathy. I feel your angst. I'm running around in circles too. You know like those individual ants when you disturb a line of them and the ones who are cut off from the others stagger around like they're drunk. When you see them, you think: they're going to be no good if they don't reconnect with their buddies. 

The difference is they have to be ants, but I don't. Or maybe I do. Maybe I'm just staggering around looking for a line to fall into.

Sunday, March 22, 2015

Submission

I've been trolling the darkest corners of the internet--where our most secret fantasies live--and still I haven't decided the best way to proceed with submission. I always open an incognito tab for this kind of research, as would any person who wants to be taken seriously after their online searches are hacked and revealed to a public with an insatiable appetite for the eccentric habits of celebrities. Also to prevent spam.


Should I reveal my fantasies? Or has that been overdone? Become a cliche. No longer a turn-on. Simply boring. Apparently the only cardinal sin is being boring.

Should I beg? That works for some, apparently. Although maybe not the ones I want to attract.

How about being mysterious? Keep them guessing. That could work. Unless they aren't that curious. What if I totally expose myself and they just yawn and walk out of the room.

In an effort to answer these frightening yet scintillating questions, I have scoured websites that offer advice to novices. Here is a sampling:

"Make me unable to put it down." Good. Unless it got tiring. 

"Keep it short." A bit counterintuitive.

"Be original." Really? After all this time, if I've thought of it it's a sure thing hundreds--millions?--of others have already done it. And moved on tho the next new thing. Even though, by this hypothesis, there is no new thing to move on to. Perhaps it's just a matter of offering personal discovery to someone coming of age, someone younger. But not too young, obviously. They have to be consenting adults.

"Set the hook." Apart from sounding painful--which is kind of the point, if we are honest with each other--this is perhaps the most intriguing advice. It implies dangling like a marlin, all sharp spear and glistening body. I'm not sure I'd be into dangling, though. I'm looking to close the deal. 

As you must have inferred by now, I haven't settled on a strategy. Perhaps I am too timid for the game. Perhaps I'll just set my novel aside and not submit it to agents after all.

Monday, March 16, 2015

For Crying Out Loud

It's almost a cliche now: homophobic one moment; son or daughter comes out and suddenly you understand. That's happened to so many people that gay marriage is legal now thirty-seven states. All in the last ten years. You have to call that a tribute to the power of empathy.


It happens anecdotally, on a less pervasive scale, in many areas. Someone you love suffers in the life-saving heroics of dying, and you become an advocate for hospice care. You are close to a woman working three jobs to send her daughter to college, and you become a supporter of education loan reform and free community college. Someone where you work gets pregnant with a child she doesn't want in a state with only one remaining abortion clinic and you write a check to Planned Parenthood.

What's the matter with the religious conservatives who want to defund Planned Parenthood? you might think. Don't they live in the real world? What's the matter with the so called fiscal conservatives who won't expand Medicaid in their states to relieve the suffering of their poorest citizens? Can't they see that people don't heal when their only medicine is a stern lecture about personal responsibility?

The answer is: No, they don't live in the real world. They don't see the suffering every day. They know about it, but they don't experience it. Just like we used to know about gay love when most of us didn't know (or know we knew) anyone experiencing it. Exposure--up close and personal--induces empathy. It's the way we're wired. But if it's not up close and personal, it's just background. Like graffiti. Someone ought to clean that up.

Which got me thinking this: what if the suffering of others was up close and personal for most of us? Would we be a better society? Would we care more? Would we do more to help one another? I think so. But how could we do that, expose more of us in our daily lives to the sufferings of others?

I don't think empathy retreats for government workers are what's called for. Or focus groups. Or sensitivity seminars for politicians. I think what we need to do is emote. Each of us. All of us. Show our feelings. Show when we're sad. Angry. Hurt. Desperate. Take our feelings to work and share them. Make show and tell day every day.

I know what you're thinking: that would be chaos. Maybe. But maybe not. There might be a break-in period, but after a while I think we might get good at sharing our problems. Many hands make light work, the saying goes. Just knowing someone knows your predicament, and cares about it, is almost like having a helping hand. And that person, the one who never dreamed you were having such a hard time, might be in a position to do something about it. Maybe she's your boss. Maybe she knows a social worker. Maybe she knows a state legislator. We like to help each other. It makes us feel good about ourselves.

We're the descendants of Puritans. We're capable of great humanity, but we're a little emotionally repressed. We have in our DNA that strict Puritan code of self-reliance, austerity and sacrifice. We expect it of ourselves. We expect it of others. But the reason so many of us are here today is that the Plymouth colonists clung to one another throughout those first winters of suffering and starvation. They got through them together. If they had said to each other, "Good luck, everyman for himself," the Native Americans would have been spared the Puritan Plague but the rest of us might be an asterisk in a history book written by another people.

In Plymouth, Massachusetts, in the winters of 1620 and 1621, the suffering of each was painfully obvious to all. In that environment, moral choices that benefited all were made. Now, when the suffering of many is remote to many, different moral choices are being made. We do not think our morals have changed--and indeed, perhaps they have not--but the way we apply them has. Too often now we apply them to principles, rather than to people. Need we be reminded that it's not principles who birth and suckle us? Nor principles who will hold our hand as we die.

Friday, February 20, 2015

Self-Driving-Ambulance Chasers

Two robots walk into a bar...

It won't be long. Or maybe the bartender is a robot. With a breathalyzer built into his nose, which is cute but not so human that he triggers your uncanny valley aversion response. He'll call the self-driving Uber for you if he sniffs more than .08.


Meg and I want to buy a new electric car. She wants to wait to get one that's self-driving. Me too, but I think that's going to have to be in the next round, maybe five to ten years down the road (so to speak), perhaps much longer. I think the technology will get there before the legal liability questions are sorted out. Nothing like the uncertainty raised by a few big class action suits to slow you down if you're a pioneer. 

I'm a lawyer by training, but living in Silicon Valley and having a son who is a programmer have rubbed off on me. I'm much more interested in the technology than the legal questions. The technology is futuristic and fun, and evolving quickly, whereas the law is (sometimes rightly) stuck in the past and evolves at about the rate fish sprouted legs. Still, we need to know who is on the hook when that self driving car runs over someone. We need some new rules of the road. 

I was invited to a lecture at Stanford on this very subject, so I went. It was interesting. It also reminded me why so many of us are not partial to lawyers. Most of us just want to plunge ahead. Lawyers are cautious. Their favorite question is "what if." They can scare you out of doing almost anything. "What if the personal robot that you just sent out for coffee sees what it mistakenly thinks is a robbery in progress and grabs someone and wont let him go? Is the robot your agent, and are you guilty of kidnapping?" That was a question the professor asked me yesterday. Seriously.

He had just finished a thoughtful lecture that applied traditional legal theories to the autonomous activities of robots. He called them APs, for Autonomous Persons. In the law, apparently everyone, even corporations and robots, have to be persons. This is of course because the law was developed for persons and, as to court-developed law, which is much of it, is bound by precedent. Not too many robot precedents yet, so we look to how the law treats people who misbehave and try to apply those rules to robots.

Was the robot a mere tool (think a simple algorithm that performs one function), or did it have enough capacity and independence to be classified as an agent? And when it did the deed that brought it to court, was it acting on behalf of its principal (owner), or had it wandered off the reservation of its job description? What did it intend? What did it's owner intend?

It doesn't take much imagination to see that you can wade pretty deep into the metaphorical weeds chasing these kinds of questions. Right on up to "I'm sorry, Dave, I'm afraid I can't do that."

I asked the professor why not, at least in the initial stages of big autonomous applications, like self-driving cars, which will certainly result in accidents and damage, apply strict liability. This would mean that if you manufacture an autonomous car and it runs over somebody, you are on the hook. No ifs ands or buts. No questions about who sold you the software you used in the car, no questions about whether you were careful enough when you decided to use it, no questions about what you could reasonably have foreseen (all of which come into play in garden-variety product liability cases), just pay up. You would of course buy insurance to cover this risk. The insurance company would cover you as long as your safety record was acceptable, but if you got careless, it would drop you and you'd convert your assembly lines to making toasters.

The professor said this would change the questions raised from ones of law to ones of economics. Good, I thought. But I don't think he thought that would be good. In his defense, he's a computer scientist, not an economist, and he was lecturing on legal theories at the law school.

I'm not an economist either, but it seems to me this would be a sensible way to allocate the risks of exploring this brave new world. It was pooling of risk, which is the essence of insurance, that made the Dutch East India Company a success. Ships were getting lost on the long journey to trade with Asia. If your ship made it, great. If not, you were wiped out. So the shipping companies banded together. After that, each shipper bore only its share of the risk of one of the fleet going down. They and their British counterparts prospered and opened up not only trade but the world. (Also, abhorrent monopoly abuses and, in the case of the English, slave trade, but that's for another essay.)

The law is elegant and sometimes almost magical. It strives gallantly to equitably allocate responsibility for the way we conduct ourselves. But it is slow, slow slow. Cases take years to come to fruition, and even then they may decide only a small part of the legal question. One piece of the puzzle. It can take decades for the picture in the mosaic to come into focus.

The law, by its nature, follows. Technology, by its nature, leads. I suggest we let the risk-pooling model of the East India Company set the sails of technology explorers. The law will catch up eventually. That will be a good thing. But it doesn't seem to me to be a good idea to put lawyers at the helm of the ship that sets out to discover the new world.

Wednesday, February 18, 2015

Fight or Flight

Well, I won't back down. 
No, I won't back down.
You can stand me up at the gates of hell.
But I won't back down.

---Tom Petty

Stand up for yourself. Don't let them roll over you. Don't back down. 


That fierce self-reliance, that determination not to be bullied, is deep inside us. Deep in our culture, our mythology, our DNA. In the Darwinian past, it was almost certainly an adaptive trait. Who knows today. Does it make us more likely to survive or to be the victim of road rage? Like the woman in Las Vegas the other day who, when harassed by another driver, took her daughter home, got her son (and his gun), and went looking for the bastard. She found him. He killed her.

The desire for revenge is the first cousin to the instinct to stand your ground. Instead of washing over you in a rush of adrenalin, it smolders inside you. Sometimes for a very long time. Years. Why is that? What good does it do? What good did it ever do? Maybe if, when we all lived in caves, you lay in wait for and disposed of the thug who beat you up some time ago, you saved yourself another beating. Nowadays circumstances are almost never like that. There is rarely someone lying in wait for us with murderous intent. We're just mad about some wrong--perhaps just a verbal slight--and we want to get even.

A lot has been written about how our base brains are the ones at the steering wheel, while our frontal lobes watch out the window and try to make sense of the scenery. We know this. We know that many of our atavistic instincts are maladapted to modern life. Yet we seem unable to kick that primitive, instinctive reactionary out of the driver's seat.

There is something inside us, some aspect of our self-image, that has been riding shotgun with that ancient driver so long we can't imagine anyone else at the wheel. If not him, who? And who would I be then? Caspar milquetoast. The skinny boy at the beach getting sand kicked in his face by the muscled hulk with a gorgeous woman on each arm?

The problem--the conscious problem, anyway, the one of which we are daily and painfully aware--isn't just our base-brain instincts, it's our self image. Every time we look in the emotional mirror, we see our weaknesses. We're certain others can sniff them out if we're not careful. We're certain we'll be abused if we don't stand our ground. Doormats, that's what well be. Who wants to be a doormat?

Is that what would happen? We're not fighting for food and mates the way we used to. Life (and gene propagation) is much less a zero sum game than it used to be. We don't have to take from one another. For most of us, there's plenty to go around. And yet we act like every slight must be redressed or we will perish.

What happens when a driver cuts you off and gives you the finger and you do nothing, you just slow down and let him go on his psychotic way? Your heart-rate spikes. You feel a little lightheaded. All that lasts about a minute, and then you start thinking again about what's for dinner. Versus maybe never making it home for dinner again.

Road rage is an easy illustration. It's quick and dramatic. Easy to get caught up in. Also pretty easy to pass up if you try. But what about the thousand cuts of daily life from people you can't avoid, people who won't drive on and be forgotten, people whose very presence daily remind you of the indignity, real or imagined, you have suffered at their hands? Must not they be dealt with?

Yes. But it is not they who must be confronted. It's that little fanatic in the driver's seat beside you. That primitive version of you. We are cruel to one another. Casually. Constantly. If you rise to the bait every time, if you let your un-evolved self pick your route, you'll spend most of your life going in the wrong direction.

Thursday, February 5, 2015

Ghosts

When I sit down to write, I am Scrooge haunted by Marley. The sins of my past rattle like a long chain. Sins of both commission and omission. I have left loved-ones behind. I have abandoned them, and they haunt me.


The loved ones in this case are my unpublished novels. I worked hard on them and sent them out to agents and once, through a fine agent, to publishers. I waited with boyish hopefulness that was gradually deflated by damnation with great praise. The writing was wonderful, the story was intriguing, but...

If they had just said, "Are you kidding me, this is crap," it would be easy not to think about the stories that now languish in my metaphorical desk drawer. But they made it sound like the stories were so close that it's hard to not go back and try to make them better, to give them each another shot. Of course, making your work better is what good writers do. Then there is clinging obsessively to a pitiful excuse for a novel. Which is which? How do you know?

Eventually I move on. After a point, I just don't have anything more to give a story. I've said what I wanted to say. Even if no one else will ever see it. It does not make me feel good to keep saying it. I feel like my father giving me lectures. He used to say the same thing a million different ways. It was boring to listen to.

I write to tell some story that's in me and wants to come out. The first draft is the most fun for me. The story exposes itself. I'm like a medium in a seance. I close my eyes at the keyboard and something speaks for me. 

Maybe that's the problem. Maybe I've tapped into the wrong netherworld.

I want to have others read my stories. I want them to be published. But I don't that to be why I write. For one thing, that would make for a lot of frustration. Who wants to do something that just produces frustration? 

When I'm writing, I'm happy in some way I don't even understand myself. I think about those old novels, those ghosts. I've read how others worked on a project for a decade before they finally got it published. I don't think I can do that. A couple of years is enough. Then it's time to move on. To try to capture lightening in some other bottle. To lay down the chain of my past and pick up the story of my future.

Friday, January 30, 2015

Man on the Run

Is something wrong with me? I adore Sarah Bunting, the Downton Abbey class warrior who is a pal of Tom, also a class warrior and the widowed husband of Sybil Grantham, a class-warrior-lite herself.

I have no idea--as many have wondered online--why the Grantham's keep inviting Ms. Bunting to dinner so she can abuse them. She’s relentless in her challenges of their class assumptions and behaviors. And she's not very tactful. Perhaps that's her sin. One should not be rude to one's host. At the dinner table she's like the family teenager who has had her eyes opened to the sins of her parents and feels obliged to let them know how wrong they are, how unfair, how callous.

So why, if she's so boorish, do I like her so much? Well, she's right, of course. About the unfairness of the caste system epitomized by the English aristocracy. If she were alive today (not to mention real), she would be camped out at an Occupy Wall Street demonstration. The target of her scorn, Lord Grantham, like all men in positions they inherited from their fathers, doesn't like being called out. He gets huffy and rude himself, the ultimate sin for a well-bred Englishman. It's fun to watch.

But more than that, I like Sarah Bunting because she's a strong woman. She has the same spirit as the Dowager Countess (played by Maggie Smith), Lady Mary, Rose, Anna, Daisy, Mrs. Patmore, so many of them on the show. I can see Sarah marching with the suffragettes, burning her bra (though that didn't actually happen much), speaking at pro-choice rallies, demanding to know why rape kits go untested. 

Let's face it: we establishment men are slow to change. You have to get in our faces and make us uncomfortable or else we think everything is fine. "They're happy downstairs," Lord Grantham might say, as the men in the American South said about their slaves. We treat them well. They'd be lost without us.

The gutsy, audacious women who have insisted that women be treated fairly--the Susan Caddy Stantons, the Gloria Steinems, the Malala Yousafzais--are all celebrated. Eventually. After time has cooled the passions they inflamed, or when, as with Malala, the flames are not too close to home. It's not always pretty to watch the sausage of social change being made, but what Sarah Bunting is doing on Downton Abbey is mild compared to what so many have done to help remake the roles of women in Western culture. 

Besides, we know how this story ends. Lord Grantham gets to keep his head and his title. He even gets to keep his monarch. But gradually Sarah Bunting and her sisters and like-minded brothers knock him off his pedestal of hereditary privilege. I suppose I like watching the toppling of pedestals of pomp and vanity.

Push, Sarah! Get Tom to help. And maybe Mary's new beau, Charles Blake. He's been suggesting for a while that the manor is unsustainable. Lord Grantham didn't throw him out of the house. Perhaps that was because he was a man.

Sunday, January 25, 2015

Good Enough

“Good God, the things you put us through. It's AP classes, it's SAT prep from day 1, it's punishment for less than a 4.0 GPA, and it fuels the tears that put us to sleep at night while you rest soundly.”

    —A Palo Alto High student after the death of another yesterday by suicide.

“A wealthy hedge-fund chief was gunned down by his adult son after he threatened to cut his allowance by a $100 a week and stop paying his steep rent, cops said Monday.”

    —Recent news item, dateline Manhattan.


As a father, I hardly know what to say about the two situations described above. The unspeakable tragedy of life wasted. Was it mental illness that led to suicide and murder? Was it drugs? Was it, in some tormented way, environment?

I can’t imagine how I would feel if one of my children killed himself or herself. Devastated, of course. And I’m sure I would think it was my fault. Or at least that there was something I could have done to have prevented it. Some sign I missed. Some harsh word spoken carelessly.

Nature versus nurture is a big debate. We don’t know the answer. But we do know one thing: after that moment of climax, when sperm meets egg, our part in the nature side is over. From then on, all we’ve got to work with is nurture.

There are a lot of parenting metaphors. Tiger mom. Helicopter parent. Trump Tower developer (my term for the parent who leaves most of the actual work to nannies and boarding schools). But the one that has always resonated with me is “coach.”

Maybe I like it because coaches can make a big difference in a young person’s life without taking full responsibility for the complete life. A parent’s job is much more hands-on, and much more time-intensive, but in terms of overall influence probably not that much more impactful than a great teacher or coach. Sometimes less so.

Bobby Knight, the mercurial Indiana basketball coach, famously threw chairs at referees and players. John Wooden, the greatest college basketball coach of all time, never raised his voice. Some of his players said he didn’t even talk about winning.

I never threw a chair at any of my children. (I was usually too poor to waste good furniture). I did spank them once in a while until my last child (too bad he wasn’t my first) shamed me out of it. I coddled them sometimes and ignored them others. I told them I wanted them to be the best they could be, but I rarely did more than wring my hands and deliver pithy aphorisms when I saw them slipping off course. I even signed a stack of blank permission slips to miss class for one son in high school. I said it was his choice not to go to class but I didn’t want him to lie about it. (He missed a few more classes that year, but he graduated summa cum laude from college.)

Honestly, to this day, I’m not sure what I did right and what I did wrong. Or at least what I could have done better. I have a mental notebook of well-honed rationalizations for all my parenting decisions. For the ones I can’t rationalize, I try not to think about them; and when I do I sometimes get a little weepy.

Mainly, I think kids need to know that we accept them for who they are: the messy package of conflicting dreams and moods and behaviors that makes them unique. Acceptance which they understand may not reach into every corner of what they are doing at a particular moment, but which they know without knowing is a warm cloak they may put on when they come home from the cold. 

I told my oldest sons not to go to a party once when they were in high school. They went anyway. I slipped over there just in time to drive the getaway car as they came barreling down the street after making some mischief. We laughed. But they were caught. And they knew it. That’s another thing a parent has to do. Be like a motorcycle cop with a radar gun behind a billboard. They never know when you might catch them. It’s easier just not to go too fast.

The world as it opens up to children, especially teenagers, can be scary. And stressful. Home should be a sanctuary. Not another place where they are judged. Not another place filled with people about whom they feel, in the words of Bruce Springsteen, “For you my best was never good enough.”

Wednesday, January 21, 2015

Metamorphosis

I'm having a political mid-life crisis. It's like waking up and finding that I'm a bug. Well, maybe not that dramatic. But unsettling.


First, as Paul Krugman would say, some background. I was raised by a Goldwater conservative. For those of you who don't remember Barry, let's just say my father was a compassionate conservative with a big libertarian streak. We argued all the time. In fairness, I would have argued with him no matter what his politics; and he with me. We liked the duel. Then I got married and had children and my political evolution was put on hold while I learned to be a father and a lawyer. I did like Constitutional law, so there was that, but the issues we studied in law school were old and well-settled.

Before I knew it Reagan was president and I was making enough money to think tax cuts were a great idea. My clients were investment bankers and big companies that needed money to buy other big companies. I didn't so much stop thinking about anything else as enter a long period during which I hardly even realized there was anything else to think about. 

One thing led to another and, as if waking from a dream, I found myself sitting on a farm in Baltimore, watching the snow pile up in deadening drifts as I thought about what to do with my life. I started writing then. Kids stories. Short stories. Finally novels. An occasional essay. And a few years ago, this blog, the Dad App, about being a dad and the kind of world I want for my children.

The thing about writing is it makes you think. Sometimes I'm not sure what I think about something until I write about it. Mostly I'm predictable, but sometimes I surprise myself. I'm a big Obama fan, for instance, but I wrote a little allegory the other day in which I almost involuntarily castigated him for turning over the ACA to the insurance industry. Maybe politically he had no choice. Still, we're in the clutches of pirates now, and they're holding our health care for ransom.

But (also as Krugman says) I digress. 

These last twenty years I've become more and more concerned about the poor. Especially the lack of opportunity that is as much a part of their lives as freedom from want is of mine. I have come to see the government as the only institution with the commitment and resources to help the poor. So I have become an apologist for it.

I say apologist, because it seems that is what I am always doing--apologizing, rationalizing, on its behalf. "Yes, the government is inefficient, even a little corrupt, but it's all we have to weave the social safety net." A lot of otherwise charming dinner-table conversations with friends have slipped down that slope.

You know how they say it's hard to hate someone you know. Take gays, for instance. We all have gay friends (or friends we have learned are gay now that they feel safe coming out). They've changed us. They've made us more understanding. Even hard-core anti-gay men like Senator Rob Portman, who did a 180 after his son came out. And good for him.

Recently I've had a couple of experience with local government that have made me see my libertarian, small-government friends in a new light. Like so many of us with gays, I just didn't really appreciate what my Ayn-Rand-groupie friends had been through. I have a better idea now.

For instance:

Not long ago, I was notified of a zoning violation by a local zoning department. I wrote to seek guidance. Twice. No answer. Bureaucratic rope-a-dope. At some (fairly high) cost, I stopped doing what was bothering them, but I still haven't heard from them. I guess they just don't feel they need to explain themselves.

More recently, I gave some thought to adding a second story to a house. I interviewed architects and they all said that getting the plans approved would take six to nine months and would depend on the eccentricities of the particular reviewer. What? It takes as long to approve remodel plan as to have a baby? And it depends on the proclivities of the government employee you draw? The very idea of putting myself in that kind of situation, of giving someone that kind of power over me for what should be an easy process (I mean, the building codes are pretty clear), gives me shivers. The same kind I used to get as a boy when I spotted a police car on the side of the road, even if I wasn't driving too fast.

The truth, I guess, is that I want to be let alone. Let alone to work and live my life. I've been lucky enough, and well-off enough, to mostly pull that off. But then I'm not a small businessman who has to deal with the government at every turn.

I like the idea of government. I like having a coordinated approach to planning and executing infrastructure upgrades. I like having someone look after the underprivileged. I like fiscal stimulus in downturns (although my economist son warns me to be cautious about that). But I don't like being mindlessly told what to do by a bureaucrat who doesn't seem to have a firm grasp on what his job is or how to do it. I want him to keep order, to keep me safe, to keep the trains running, but I don't want him pushing me around in ways that seem irrational and capricious, or worse.

So now I'm a bug. Looking for fellow bugs. It's a strange world out there.