Americlecticintellectica
In the latter part of this year I ramped down my posting on Facebook (as I had previously done on Twitter) in favor of BlueSky. Time to get serious about resisting the oligarchs. [Previously.]
We all miss you Dad.
I relinquished the Wine-Dark Shark to my son for use at college and beyond. After all, I was working from home, and for our now-modest transportation needs, my wife and I were easily able to share her Volkswagen. What did I need with a car of my own?
Plenty, it turns out. Just maybe replace “need” with “want.” Presenting the Roads Scholar, a 2025 Honda Accord EX-L hybrid in Canyon River Blue Metallic.
[cross-posted at Medium]
Early in the 1997 film The Fifth Element, the Earth is menaced by a flaming ball of space-evil. The space navy fires its biggest missiles at it, but those only make the flaming evil ball bigger and stronger.
This is an allegory for Donald Trump’s political career. The man is plainly incompetent, illiterate, dishonest, disloyal, pervy, cowardly, and cruel, not to mention increasingly deranged. But no amount of loading these irrefutable accusations into our missile tubes and firing them at him or his supporters has diminished the Trump menace. If anything it has made it worse. Why?
Paradoxically, the answer is: meritocracy.
What could be more just than a society where success is based on merit? Maybe nothing, and that’s a tragedy.
We’ve tried the system where what you deserve depends on who your parents are. (By “we,” I mean humans.) That’s not very fair.
We’ve tried the one where what you deserve depends on the whims of a strongman. That’s not very fair either.
Neither are the ones where success comes from how many enemies you can defeat in battle, or how many serfs or slaves you can subjugate, or how closely you can hew to what this era’s priests say are the divine rules of the universe.
In America we are rightly proud of overthrowing those earlier systems and organizing ourselves as a meritocracy.
But here’s the thing: all of those systems pick winners and losers. (We’ve also tried doing away with winners and losers, but that never seems to work out.) Meritocracy is no different in that way. But it is different in one important respect: if you’re a loser in a dictatorship or a monarchy, you know whom to blame, but if you’re a loser in a meritocracy, there’s no one to blame but yourself.
Now, that’s not really true. “No one to blame but yourself” is just marketing. It’s meritocracy’s brand. The fact is, if you’re a meritocracy loser, there are a lot of things you could blame. Merit can be measured along multiple different dimensions, and in our society some count and some don’t. You could be the best, hardest-working grade-school teacher in the country, but that is never going to make you rich, or even save you from having to buy your own classroom supplies. On the other hand, you could be only a mediocre CEO and have no personal problems worse than where to park your yacht.
Who decides which kinds of merit count, and for how much? Unfortunately the answer is hazy. It’s a diffuse agglomeration of historical attitudes, public policies, and profit motives. It’s hard to point your finger at any one villain, so “no one to blame but yourself” wins out.
With the disintegration of the middle class, we have a lot of losers in America, and that adds up to a lot of people sitting with this toxic idea… and being driven insane by it.
Imagine you’re one of those folks. (Or maybe you don’t have to imagine.) You know what success looks like, especially now that the Internet makes it so easy to compare your life to those of others far away. There is no path to that kind of success for yourself.
Now along comes Donald Trump. He’s flabbier than you. His marriage is in worse shape than yours. He can barely form a coherent sentence. You sometimes leave an ungenerous tip? He skips out on the whole bill. Your work colleagues don’t respect you? His hate and undermine him. You have impure thoughts? He brags about grabbing women by the pussy. Your business is failing? He bankrupted six.
Whatever it is that disappoints you about yourself, whatever you think is holding you back, he’s worse — and somehow he makes that shit work. The more others point out his flaws, the more it endears him to you. At first you are ashamed of this and keep it to yourself, but thanks again to the Internet you get connected to others of like mind, and you are all emboldened.
He is your champion, because a world in which even he can succeed is surely one in which you can, too.
[cross-posted at Medium]
Inside you
There’s an inner me
Who talks to you
Independently
He says things
I’ve never said
But might if I
Were in your head
How faithful
This facsimile
To the outer me
That others see?
How much like me,
This me in you?
How much does he
Combine we two?
He started off
As my design
So is he yours
Or is he mine?
Would I endorse
His words to you?
Approve of what
He helps you do?
Or would I say
“No, that’s not me”
If ever I could
Your me see?
You may ask
The same things too
’Cause in my head’s
An inner you
I’d like to
Introduce those two:
Your inner me,
My inner you
Would others
Seeing them discuss
Believe that
They were watching us?
Would inner we ask
In our steads
Of inner inners
In their heads?
Someday I’ll
No longer be
But you may go on
Separately
The me in you
May outlive me
Is this
Immortality?
The era of social media is on the wane, and here’s the proof: I wrote far fewer Facebook (and other) posts and comments than in years past, and instead of spending the last few days of 2023 recapping them like I usually do, I felt no urgency to, and did other stuff instead.
Scientists, last month: harvest freshwater at sea. Researchers Want to Try Harvesting Fresh Water From Ocean Vapor
Me, 2007: harvest freshwater at sea. Save the World With Admiral Bob
In the mid 1990’s I had recently moved from Pittsburgh to California, and my dad, a lifelong New Yorker, was nearing his sixtieth birthday. More distance separated us now than ever before. He frequently exhorted me to visit, morbidly emphasizing that he didn’t know how many more times we’d get to see each other.
Many, as it turned out; about twice a year for the next quarter century, sometimes here and sometimes there (and occasionally elsewhere) — long enough to welcome two grandchildren, and frequently enough to be very present and beloved in their childhoods. He watched with pleasure and pride as they grew into accomplished young men.
Those same young men were with me in New York today, along with my sister — our dad’s complete genetic legacy — as he drew his final breaths after a long decline.
His body may have died today, but much of him lives on in me. Every time I take pleasure in a job well done, that’s my dad. Every time I keep my word, that’s him too. When I muster my self-confidence, when I deliver a firm handshake, when I plan ahead or stand up for myself and others, that’s him. The joy I derive from my loving family — that is one hundred percent my dad.
He equipped me with the tools I needed for building a good life, and for enjoying it. Thank you Dad, and goodbye.
With both boys now away at college the time finally came to purge two decades’ worth of clutter that accumulated while childraising left us no bandwidth to spare.
We’ve been making all sorts of discoveries among our long-forgotten belongings, including this: an outline that I wrote in early 2006 for a story about presidential politics.
It’s a measure of how far the Trump presidency moved the Overton Window on constitutional abuses that this now reads as quaint satire. At the time I wrote it this would have been an all-too-plausible pulse-quickening nightmare.
In 2016 I took a memorable trip to New York City with my colleagues from Chain. Nasdaq and Chain cohosted a conference to educate finance nerds about blockchain technology.
We spent the weekend before the conference doing fun New York things, together and separately. On Saturday morning we got a wonderful docent-led tour of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. A highlight of that tour was the Temple of Dendur, a three-thousand-year-old Egyptian structure donated to the U.S. in the 1960’s. It is exhibited in a special gallery at the north end of the museum, whose north face is a canted glass wall. Our tour guide asked if any of us could guess why. I speculated that a wealthy patron wanted to be able to see it from their nearby Fifth Avenue penthouse. I was exactly right, and got a high-five from the guide. Jacqueline Kennedy was instrumental in securing the temple for the Met, beating out the Smithsonian and other sites, and got to gaze down at it for years afterward. (Her passion for it derived from the efforts she and JFK made during his presidency to rescue Egyptian antiquities from destruction due to the Aswan Dam. The gift of the temple from Egypt was in gratitude for that.)
Later in the day we were talking about the musical Hamilton, which was then a brand-new and unprecedented sensation. Only our CEO Adam had seen it, on a New York trip a few months before, but it captivated him and he brought it up often. A line from one of its songs — “In the face of ignorance and resistance I wrote financial systems into existence” — appeared at the bottom of our company stationery, since it is what we imagined we ourselves were doing. I mentioned that I’d pieced together some things I’d read about the show’s creator and star, Lin-Manuel Miranda, to conclude not only that he’d attended my old high school, but that he’d developed his performing and playwriting skills as part of The Brick Prison Playhouse, the repertory group that my friends and I created there in the early 80’s. (I had only recently become aware that The Brick Prison Playhouse still exists.) My colleague Boyma gave me a high-five on hearing that news.
At dinner the topic of childraising came up. Almost all of my colleagues were young and childless; I was the old man of the group. Thanks to nieces and nephews, godsons and -daughters, babysitting gigs and the like, everyone had some child-caregiving experience to share. Uncommonly kind and positive as this group was, their stories nevertheless tended toward the kids-are-frustrating-and-exhausting end of the spectrum. So I chimed in: everything worthwhile takes energy and effort; the rewards vastly outweigh the challenges; and as my mom told me when I first became a parent, it just keeps getting better. My colleague Oleg — the one other parent of the group — loved this sentiment so much he high-fived me.
To be clear, my usual number of unsolicited high-fives in a day is zero. April 9th, 2016 was a significant outlier.
Postscript. At the successful conclusion of the conference at Nasdaq’s headquarters, Adam marched us three blocks uptown to the Richard Rodgers theater for a group viewing of Hamilton. It blew our minds — the show itself, of course, but also that Adam was even able to do this for all of us. Those were the hottest tickets in town, and the scarcest, and the priciest. To this day I have no idea how he did it.
Not bad, 2022, not bad. Military aggressors and self-important blowhards pwning themselves; wrongdoers held to account; monopolies declining; voting rights, climate solutions, and labor on the rise. 2023 are you paying attention? (Previously.)
[Friend comments, “Fuck this shit” when Betty White dies right at the end of 2021.]
I like how another FB friend put it: “History will align the end of this dark period with the passing of Betty White. She sacrificed herself to usher in a new era of health, joy, and kindness.”
A beloved (possibly only by me) tradition continues! (Previously.)
Earlier this year I completed the Duolingo course in Italian. Let’s see how well I can translate “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town” into Italian! Herewith, the translation back into English by Google Translate of my attempt.
Better look around
Better not cry
Better not be sad
I’m telling you why
Santa Claus is coming to the village
He’s making a list
And looking at it twice
He will know who is bad and who is good
Santa Claus is coming to the village
He sees you when you are sleeping
He knows when you’re awake
He knows if you’ve been bad or good
Then be good for being good
Better look around
Better not cry
Better not be sad
I’m telling you why
Santa Claus is coming to the village