Debate Wrangling

 

Not sure how many of you imaginary readers tuned into the recent Presidential debate but, by all accounts, it was a farce. 

Lots of talking, very little information, no order. 

Many have suggested cutting the mic if a candidate disrupts the speaking format or agreed procedural flow, and that could restore some order, but wouldn't do much to elicit accurate or useful information from the debaters. 

If the Commission on Presidential Debates ever asks me to moderate, I've got my game plan ready to go. I'll open by asking each candidate to raise their right hand and swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. This is a fantastically powerful and well-constructed phrase that deserves a little reflection.

Swearing to tell "the truth", of course, means that the candidates will accurately relay the facts about their past records, their intended policies, and their feelings. "The whole truth" means that they won't cherry pick any misleading statistics from  arcane economic reports or social studies, and present them with an intentional lack of context. And finally, "nothing but the truth" will restrict them from appending their responses with slanderous exaggerations about what will happen if the the other side's policies are enacted.

As it stands now, debate preparation is an exercise in crafting less than truthful representations of how one side is right and the other is wrong. Success is based on how effectively the truth can be bent in two-minute segments of real time. Even worse, other than next day fact checks, that seem not to resonate with any public magnitude, there is no consequence for dishonesty during the debate.  

If a citizen lies to the federal government under oath, it is a felony.  It seems to me that a candidate for a federal position lying to the citizenry is no less egregious. A sworn oath of honesty seems to work in court; I'll give it a try if they ask me to moderate.

Self-Driving Cars

Self-driving cars, you say? Bring 'em on!

Let me list a few things that I hate:

• Bad drivers (even courteous ones)
• Inconsiderate drivers
• Distracted drivers
• Bad parkers
• Inconsiderate parkers
• Traffic congestion
• Traffic noise
• Traffic pollution
• Auto loan payments
• Auto Insurance payments
• Washing my car
• People telling me to wash my car
• Un-walkable downtowns

Let me list a few things I would love to do:

• Sell my cars
• Cancel my Auto Insurance
• Convert my garage to a golf-simulator
• Bike fearlessly through a city
• Cue a machine to fetch me and deliver me to the doorstep of my destination

All in all, I cannot wait for self-driving cars and I expect this to happen much sooner than most of the people I speak to about it. I believe in 10 years, a drivers license will be a rare privilege, extended only to those who demonstrate an ability to drive as safely as a machine. Then what will the world look like?

There will be an 80 - 90% reduction in the total number of vehicles on the road and an equal reduction in the amount of space allocated to parking. Fewer autos, all in communication with one another, will flow smoothly across city grids, reducing commute times and eliminating parking hassles. Congestion, noise, and air pollution, along with accidents and injuries, will all decline; health and productivity of commuters will improve.

And with the conversion of my garage into a golf simulator, my handicap will dip into the single digits.

Museum of Infamy

Jefferson Davis headed for storage.

As the arc of history lengthens, our expanding perspective on past values and behaviors reshapes current attitudes. This process of accumulating reference is continuous and slow, so slow as to be imperceptible. But social changes can happen quickly when building pressure reaches a threshold and opinions that were once widely held become untenable to a portion of the masses. 

This is happening now with the widespread toppling (or peaceful removal) of statues depicting protagonists in some of America's most obviously racist or oppressive chapters. Not everyone is happy about this and a common defense of the statues suggests they we need them to "teach history" so that it may not be repeated.

Imaginary reader Jordan Bell summarized the debate in an eloquent Facebook essay where he noted that statues may be used to "teach or educate," but their intent is to "celebrate." Given that we have many means of teaching, with statues falling low on the list of most effective methods, we should be mindful of this distinction. We need not celebrate symbols that seemed laudable at an earlier time in history, but with the benefit of reflection, we now know to be unworthy of public honor.

So like it or not, statues of historical figures who achieved popularity through acts of oppression, racism, or other unsavory deeds, are coming down. The question is, "what to do with them all?" Collectively, we are talking about thousands of works of art, all with historical significance, representing important aspects of our civil evolution, and fashioned with immense artistic skill. It is understandable why some do not wish to see these statues destroyed.

I suggest we display them in a thoughtfully curated "Museum of Infamy". 

Our state and local governments already have a great number of statues in storage (with a great number more slated for imminent arrival). They are stored and protected using tax-payer money, but are unlikely to ever again see the light of day. Collectively, they surely hold some educational value, especially if theme-based statues and artifacts could be viewed and studied with regard to a particular historical narrative. 

Perhaps such a museum could satisfy both sides of the current debate; the statues will not be glorified by public display, but will be available for viewing by those who wish to learn from them.

The Holden Spangler Effect

No one has really ever figured out a formula for happiness, but it has certainly been one of the most researched subjects in the history of civilized man. The evidence suggests that, among happy people, kindness, empathy, and goodwill toward others are all prevalent traits. Incidentally, wealth and fame correlate poorly with happiness.

Despite this evidence, recent generations of American parents, who presumably want their children to be happy, seem to commonly emphasize other areas of focus in their children’s development. Achievement, be it through academics, athletics, or some other pursuit, is the goal that I see most prominently encouraged. It seems as though at times, we mistakenly steer toward “success” as a less direct, but more appealing path to happiness.

Last week, my son graduated from middle school and, due to social distancing guidelines, the graduation festivities were partially virtual. The electronic portion of the event included a slide show honoring top academic performers, which is perfectly appropriate and earns my full support and respect. After all, academic rigor includes commitment, discipline, and self-discovery of one’s individual learning approach. Reinforcing and rewarding scholarship is a good thing.

However, I was more pleased that the school also gave an award to the student who most demonstrated kindness, empathy, and goodwill toward others. It is a stand-alone award named for Holden Spangler, an exceptionally kind-hearted boy who passed away before graduating from the same middle school. The award recognizes aspects of individual character that are less commonly touted, but perhaps more important in the pursuit of a happy, fulfilling life.

I am grateful to the Marco Forster Middle School for reinforcing the importance of empathy, and I am grateful to Holden Spangler for living a beautiful life. May his legacy of kindness continue to inspire goodwill toward others.  

What Happened to All the Ugly Kids?

I've got three teenagers, and they each have plenty of friends that I see on a regular basis. I also attend a great many school and community events such as dance recitals, concerts, athletic competitions, and awards ceremonies. At these events I have the chance to mingle with plenty of youths, including a large percentage of the student body at each school.

Other than during a pandemic, this pattern of activity in my life has been true for more than a decade, spanning from grade school, through middle school and high school. What always strikes me, at nearly every event that I attend, is that every last one of the kids I see is good looking. They have nice skin, straight white teeth, and attractive features. Sometimes, they even have good manners.

When I was growing up, we had some good looking kids in my school and my neighborhood, but they were the lucky few. Most were more or less unremarkable in appearance. But make no mistake, as imaginary readers from my hometown can attest, we had a hearty portion of kids who were, in the juvenile parlance of our time, ugly.

Interestingly, when saddled with unappealing physical features, I think many kids instinctively compensated for their superficial disadvantages and learned to make solid first impressions based on attractive elements of their character. I suspect that such aspects of personality would have become more or less permanent and likely have continued to serve the "ugly kids" well into adulthood.

In the end, I think most of us would prefer to be good looking if such a bestowment was both objective and choosable. But for sure, developing attractive features of character when physical good looks are not genetically transmitted, is a pretty good, if not better compensatory prize.

So, what happened to all the ugly kids? I'm not sure, but I bet a good portion of them grew up and benefitted greatly from the enduring aspects of a laudable character. After all, a polished surface will undoubtedly weather with age, but a foundation of internal beauty can last a lifetime.

A Straight, White, Male…

When I was working on a graduate degree in Sociology, I joked with my cohort of fellow students, all members of marginalized groups, that I was probably the only straight, white, male to ever pursue an advanced degree in a field where “inequality” is a central theme. My participation in that program shone a sometimes-harsh light on my consistent membership in the most empowered groups, at every step of my very fortunate life.

I didn’t choose to be straight, or white, or male, but like a fish that is unaware that it lives in water, I grew up oblivious to many of the subtle advantages that membership in these groups had afforded me. I was always grateful for my good health, my loving relationships, and my opportunities for education, but I was blissfully unaware of the systematic advantages that sometimes favored me more than they favored members of other groups.

I first realized these circumstances during a summer when I was offered an internship at a fairly progressive company, along with about forty other students from around the country. We were all boarded in a modern apartment complex and each paired with a roommate. Mine was a polite and soft-spoken Political Science major from Northwestern University. He was also a 6’2”, Division I football player, and he was black.

Along with a group of the other interns, he and I would often go out after work for dinner or drinks. I was flabbergasted on many occasions to observe that, in public, a great many ignorant but otherwise well-meaning people, instinctively viewed him as a threat. One time, while waiting in the lobby of a Chicago high rise in our sharpest business suits, he asked me if white women nervously clutched their purses when I entered an elevator. For dramatic effect, he had posed this question just as our elevator arrived. As we stepped in, his impact on the other passengers was unmistakably clear; two middle-aged women noted his presence, drew their purses close, and stepped subtly away. I shook my head in silent wonder as I contemplated how a lifetime of subconscious "unwelcome" signs could affect a person's attitudes and opportunities. 

On many occasions that summer, when confronted with more overt racism, my roommate and his black friends would laugh incredulously at my obvious surprise. It was the first time that I realized the palpable and enduring reality of racism in the US. They couldn't believe I hadn't noticed it before.

In the time since, I’ve thought often about what I learned that summer. It was one of the reasons that I chose to further study Sociology. But, other than making an effort to sensitize my children to subtle forms of racism, I’ve really done nothing to help. I am a white guy, silently enjoying my station, going about my daily existence, perpetually comfortable with the status quo.  In the words of the movement, I am “part of the problem”.

I don’t know the solution, but behavioral science experts agree that the first step in resolving complex problems is to “recognize” the presence of the problem. Maybe the recent unrest triggered by the murder of George Floyd will move us collectively closer to the recognition that portions of our law enforcement and justice systems harbor some long lingering biases. 

But to be clear, George Floyd is not the story. He is just the current cover of an unfinished book that opened during the era of slavery and has added a page each day since. The book depicts an epic tragedy that, hopefully, will one day climax and resolve. My question is: are we moving closer to that day, or are too many of us like fish in water, oblivious to the only environment that our empowered majority groups have ever known?

A Bird in the Hand...

I think we all know the formula, "a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush." But what is the value of "two birds on your sofa"?

I did not intend to puzzle over this today, but as you know from my recent post on mixed emotions, I have a burgeoning relationship with many of the birds that live near me. Just now, from my work space at home, I heard the familiar sound of a small feathered head banging repeatedly into a glass pane. I walked into the family room to investigate and discovered two Nightingales, closely resembling the two in the photo above, perched on my sofa. Each bore the distinct expression of a bird trying to pretend it had not just been caught in the act of eyeing my fish tank.

As I approached to open a screen and clear their path to the wild, one flew back to the kitchen and made his way outside through the sliding doors. The other, crashed into the window a couple more times, briefly hid behind the curtain, then dropped to the floor and scuttled under the sofa to hide. 

My enterprising wife, once again demonstrating her skills as a "bird-whisperer", was able to pick him up and transport him gently to the backyard where she set him free. I was greatly impressed and wished that I too could have such a close and constructive encounter with a wild animal. This of course brought the old formula to mind; was her brief episode of intimate contact, of personal interaction with nature, really only as special as an episode involving two birds in a bush?

An economist might apply the rules of resource availability and suggest that the relative scarcity of birds in the hand make them worth well more than two, relatively abundant, birds in the bush. I would concur. But I will leave the actual analysis to imaginary readers (like JD) who majored in economics and, hopefully, can derive the value of birds that sit neither in your hand nor in the bush, but on your sofa.

The Art of Concision...

"I didn't have time to write a short letter, so I wrote a long one instead."  - Mark Twain

"Everything should be made as simple as possible, but no simpler."         - Albert Einstein 

I am stuck between Twain's "too long" and Einstein's "too simple".          - Too Much Den

Next month, I will begin my 19^th year as the President of a cognitive analytics company. It’s a job that has challenged the full extent of my creativity, my problem solving acumen, my sub-par diplomatic skills, and my general tendency to persevere through challenge. On the whole, I think I have earned passing grades, with one possible exception.

I am not exaggerating when I say that, on the majority of the nearly 7,000 days that I have held this job, I have devoted some portion of my day pondering how best to tell the story of what our company does. Now, I think I have at least average communication skills, and I have devoted immense effort to this problem, but somehow, I’ve not yet constructed a satisfying version of our story that is both lucid and concise.

The long version, that makes our commercial proposition clear and compelling, is too detailed and too boring for most audiences. The short version leaves most wondering what it is that we actually do. I’ve never found the middle ground that balances the two approaches.

Part of the problem is that our story is not simple. To appreciate it, one must have a smidge more than a cursory grasp of the US healthcare system, of inferential statistics, and of human cognition. However, squeezing together even a single sentence about each of these diverse and complicated topics makes for a necessarily complex plot.

I am writing this blog entry while preparing for an investor presentation and wrestling with this very problem. I am hopeful that a momentary diversion, a brief interlude with my imaginary readers, might finally shake into place the right series of thoughts, the precise words and statements that explain why our business is valuable and important.

Mark Twain implied that “time” was the key ingredient for brevity in composition, but after 18 years of trying, I’m not so sure.

    

A Brief Lesson in Grace

It was about 10pm and I was the only customer filling my tank at the station. He approached from behind the building; an older gentleman, unkempt, perhaps drunk.

Despite the potentially dangerous circumstances, he radiated a gentle vibe of harmlessness and I looked him in the eye as he neared me. I offered a smile and he predictably but politely asked me for spare change. His demeanor was proud at the core, but draped in a cloak of humility, like a capable man reluctantly seeking help with a tenuous problem. His warm expression and optimistic tone could not completely mask the undertone of desperation in his voice. Mostly, he struck me as a man genuinely in need of a break.

I handed him a twenty-dollar bill, which he beheld with what seemed like profound gratefulness, and stared back at me for a brief moment with misted eyes. He spoke no words of thanks, but I felt his deep sense of appreciation. Not appreciation for the small monetary gift, but rather, for seeing him, for trusting him, and for not deeming him worthless. He had taken my gesture as reinforcement for what he already believed about himself, and stood before me, magnificently vulnerable yet seemingly focused on a better tomorrow.

Before shuffling into the darkness, he surprised me with a hug, a heartfelt receipt for my offering. I had no doubt that, wherever he was going, he would get there eventually. Perhaps he would need some help along the way, but he was clearly intent on helping himself; a man down but not defeated, behind in the game but sure of his imminent comeback. 

As I drove home and reflected on the contrast between the current circumstances of our very different lives, I felt a pang of guilt for the near spotless record of good fortune in mine. And I realized that this chance encounter, an unexpected exchange on a random Tuesday night, was just another good break for me. I had gone out to fill my tank, and ended up as the lucky recipient of a brief lesson in grace.

Mixed Emotions...

So I washed the windows last weekend. Upstairs and downstairs, inside and out. Took out all the screens and washed them too. Both sides. When I got everything back in place, there was a new vibrancy to every room, clean light splashed into every corner and the windows gleamed like diamonds.

As a day of physical work often does, completing the task gave me a great sense of accomplishment. Not the inspired type accomplishment where your skills or intellect were challenged and the final achievement was in doubt, but a more subdued form of accomplishment where all that was needed was commitment and perseverance. These are the more common types of achievements in life and I don't mean to belittle them; consistently "putting in the work" is a suitable foundation for an honorable life.

Since I am working from home, I've had several sunny days to enjoy the airy brightness of a home with clean windows. This has produced a steady undercurrent of joy each day. However, my positive vibe has been interrupted four times this week by the jarring confrontation between a clean window and a speeding bird.

Each of these startling occurrences left me feeling a bit guilty for my unintentional role in the collision. Though I was relieved when three of the birds got up and flew away, I have found myself thinking wistfully now and again about the one that did not.

I guess I'll just chalk this up to unintended consequences and the laws of nature. I know that dam-building beavers wreck the habitats of many lives on the nearby riverbanks and nesting squirrels chew through wires, spark fires, and burn a great many buildings to the ground each year. I cleaned my windows and felt good about it, but a few birds have paid the price for my happiness.

Corporate Greed

Corporate greed is a phrase we all know, hear, and possibly even use. It seems as though, at every opportunity to choose between the public good and obscene profitability, corporations choose the latter.

But don’t blame the corporations, or their management teams; it really couldn’t be any other way. Let’s review history to clarify.

There was a time when our American forefathers in Europe had only two choices in life, they could either be born to a rich landowner, or they could spend their lives in utter poverty. The landowners held the majority of the wealth and there was really no legal manner for obtaining upward economic mobility. This began to change with the industrial revolution, but not in a major way. After all, building a factory required lots of upfront capital and only the landowners could really pursue such endeavors.

Enter the corporation. A new idea whereby a great many people could pool their paltry resources into a sizable lump sum and “incorporate”. In this way, they could jointly own a well-capitalized legal entity, share the risks and benefits of commercial enterprise, and compete with wealthy individuals to exploit new economic opportunities. Upward mobility at last!

A whole set of laws were written to describe how corporations are formed and managed. Those laws were (and still are) very clear about the purpose of a corporation. It is to maximize economic return to the shareholders who pooled their resources to create and own it. Remember, the concept of a corporation materialized solely for wealth generation.

Now, to be clear, there are times when bypassing some profit in order to benefit the public, will also increase the value of a corporation. Managers realize that a reputation as a socially responsible entity can help attract top talent while endearing a corporation to its customers. Corporate management teams constantly consider such cost-benefit trade-offs. However, in most cases, the argument for immediate, attainable profit is stronger than the argument for potential goodwill down the road. 

This is all very clear if you think about it from the perspective of the shareholders. At some point, shareholders have made a decision about what portion (if any) of their discretionary income they want to use supporting social causes, and what portion they want to invest for economic gain. For those who favor social good, a large portion may go to charities, but any funds ultimately invested in a for-profit corporation were clearly intended to realize an economic return, not to underwrite social programs. 

At the end of every day, maximizing economic returns is what shareholders (who own the entity) demand of management teams, and the managers hold a fiduciary duty to comply with ownership's wishes.

Of course corporations are greedy; accumulating wealth is why they exist.

Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad

This post is heavily influenced by my daughter, who shall be nameless, and who is deeply principled in certain ways. As you will see.

I’m working from home and I get hungry, so I mosey to the kitchen to make a sandwich. The family diet, and therefore the family grocery list, has been slowly but forcefully shaped in recent years by my daughter’s veganism, so I know there will be no sandwich meat. 

I am thinking that peanut butter will work and I know we will have that. Obviously, if you don’t eat meat, you need to get protein in other ways. Nuts are a good source; for sure there will be peanut butter.

I search but, surprisingly, no peanut butter. I do find some eggs, some wacky bread with lots of seeds, and some avocados. Guess that’ll do.

I approach the sink to prep the avocado and I find an empty peanut butter jar. Mystery solved! It has been placed there for thorough cleaning, in strict accordance with recommended recycling guidelines.  My daughter intends to save the planet so we have all learned to follow these recycling guidelines meticulously. That’s fine.

Also near the sink, probably attracted by the scent of peanut butter, is a fairly large fly. It is buzzing around and generally annoying me, but I cannot kill it because, over the course of her childhood, my daughter has deeply sensitized me to the value of all life. I get it.

I resign myself to the much more difficult task of capturing the fly and relocating it to a more suitable habitat in the backyard. I unscrew the lid of the peanut butter jar to begin cleaning it while contemplating capture plans. Miraculously, the fly is attracted to the open container and I easily trap it inside with a quick recapping maneuver. I release him in the yard and watch helplessly as he flies back toward the house. When I return, I find him on the sink. Sigh.

I pop a cup of water into the microwave so that I can rinse the peanut butter jar with scalding liquid prior to recycling. When the water is ready, I move to pour it into the jar but, at the same instant, the ever-annoying fly buzzes into the action, gets caught in the liquid downspout, and dies an unfortunate death in the frothy peanut butter soup.

So I tried to eat a vegan sandwich in accordance with my daughter’s dietary recommendations, but lack of supplies forced me to go with an egg. I tried to relocate the fly in accordance with my daughter’s doctrine of respect for all life, but I accidentally killed it.

At least I was able to support my daughter’s efforts to save the planet by recycling a pristine peanut butter jar. Question for Meatloaf: What is one out of three...?

Just Whine Baby!

Contributed by Auggie

Sometimes karma takes its sweet old time, but when it comes it’s like a cool stream on bruised and weary feet. Depending of course on which end you sit.

The NFL network has a mini-documentary series call “The Timeline” where they chronicle significant events in NFL history. This weekend I happened to catch the episode called “The Tuck Rule” which first aired in 2017. If you are a football fan you probably know what it’s about. On a snowy January night in 2002 in Foxboro, MA, Tom Brady apparently fumbled away the Patriots’ chances to continue its Cinderella season. When the Raiders recovered the ball, victory was imminent barring a miracle. The miracle came in the form of the little-know “Tuck” rule. After reviewing the play, the officials ruled the play an incomplete pass and the Patriots maintained possession. (Even Patriots fans can admit it was a stupid rule; but it was absolutely the correct call of that stupid rule). The Patriots eventually scored on that possession and went on to win that game in overtime. The rest as they say, is history.

The Raiders have a rich history and proud tradition symbolized by the motto “Just Win Baby”, a doctrine attributed to long-time owner Al Davis. They might as well have titled the show “Just Whine Baby” as suggested by the title of this blog, because a significant portion of the program was devoted to just that. Raiders team officials, former players and fans all got in on the act. They went so far as to suggest Tom Brady would never have become the Tom Brady we know, and the Patriots dynasty would not have happened without that egregious call. Ha! I must say, I couldn’t have enjoyed the episode more. For an old-time Patriots fan like yours truly, another fitting title would have been “The Poetic Justice” game. Allow me to explain.

The year was 1976. The nation had celebrated its bicentennial, Apple Computer and Microsoft were incorporated, Jimmy Carter defeated Gerald Ford in the Presidential election and one week before Christmas the New England Patriots were robbed in broad daylight.

That year the Patriots had emerged from years of mediocrity to become a sudden, and surprising NFL powerhouse. It was the team’s first winning season after the NFL-AFL merger and came on the strength of some recent spectacular drafts. In fact, one could argue that the ‘76 team had more talent than any of its 6 Super Bowl winning teams. The Raiders meanwhile dominated the regular season with only one loss. The one loss? It was to the New England Patriots who trampled them 48-17. Let that sink in for a moment! In the divisional round of the playoffs, the Patriots once again had the Raiders beaten despite many controversial calls and non-calls all the favor of the Raiders. When Ken Stabler threw an incomplete pass on 3 and 18 with about 90 seconds left, the game appeared over. But wait! The official decided to call roughing the passer on Ray “Sugar Bear” Hamilton. An entire blog could be written on the ridiculousness of that call, but I leave it to the imaginary readers to do the research if interested. Many an objective witness would call it one of the worst calls ever! In any case, they tacked on an unsportsmanlike penalty on Hamilton for protesting the scandalous call and voila, the Raiders had a first down near the goal line. Shortly after, Stabler ran one in with less than 10 seconds in the game and that was the end.

 
That game always bothered me, right up until the Tuck Rule game that is. (And yes, I’m cognizant of the fact that my personal whining lasted 8 years longer than the Raider nation’s current streak). This is where it gets interesting. In the 1976-77 season, to fully benefit from their undeserved fortunes the Raiders still had to beat the Pittsburg Steelers on the road the following week and then go on to win the Super Bowl, which they did. In the 2001-02 season, after the tuck-rule game the Patriots still had to beat the Pittsburg Steelers on the road the following week, and then go on to win the Super Bowl, which they did. Justice? Check. Poetic? Check!

Black and Blue

If you go to a deserted beach at 10pm and stare out into the water, you mostly see black. Of course, if there is a clear sky and a bright moon, you might catch some pale light reflecting off of breaking waves. That would be expected.

What would not be expected is the sudden eruption of a bright, blue, self-illuminating wave like the one pictured above (photo credit: Elisabetta Mariotti). My family and I stood in awe and watched this phenomenon repeat itself over and over last night on the shoreline in San Clemente. Here's a short video that shows the effect more vividly.

The phenomenon, which has been in the news a fair amount lately, is bioluminescence. It is caused by the same algae that look red in the daytime and cause what is colloquially know as the "red tide". However, when these algae are jostled about, they emit chemiluminescent light.

Whole new meaning to the phrase "black and blue"...

What Are the Odds?

So I'm walking past Romeo's room (my son) with a cup of water in my hand. He's in there with a nerf basketball taking half court shots from the far corner when a rebound kicks out to me. I toss it back to him and call for an alley-oop.

For any imaginary readers who are not familiar with the term, an "alley oop" is a pass over the rim where your teammate (me in this example) catches the pass and dunks the ball in one fluid motion. I think the rule is, if you can do this in High School, you get to take a cheerleader to the prom.

Anyway, I'm standing near the basket, cup of water in my left hand and my right hand raised up near the rim, ready for the slam (and the cheering imaginary crowds). To execute this play, Romeo would need to slightly overshoot the hoop, ensuring that the ball would reach me on the far side of rim. However, he uncorked a floating shot, with perfect arch and backspin, that swished through the hoop while barely touching the flimsy net. I never touched it.

Thereafter, the ball dropped directly down and lodged into my cup of water. Long odds, for sure.

Landing in my cup was highly unlikely given that the diameter of the spongy ball was greater than the diameter of my cup and anything but the perfect shot would have bounced out. But there is more to this story...

Naturally, I was not about to walk away following a failed alley-oop, so I kicked the ball back out to half court and called the play again. However, this time, I reached my left hand out into the hallway, around the corner, to prevent any accidental water spilling if a similar result were to occur.  I also initiated a vocal countdown of the play-clock "3...2...1..." to add some drama to the situation and give the imaginary crowd more joy when we undoubtedly triumphed.

Romeo, ever tuned in to the play clock, gathered my pass and hastily jacked up an off-balance attempt. It was offline and I had to reach to the right to get a hand on it. Alas, it was a little out of my range and the most I could do was deflect it. Which I did. Right into the hallway. Around the corner. Into my cup.

Two for two. And I never spilled a drop...

First World Problems

We all know this term..."first world problems". It is commonly bandied about by high-minded people who think we should all be a little more grateful for our circumstances and little less likely to complain about tiny fissures in our luxurious surroundings.

Now, I know what you imaginary readers are thinking; You're thinking "that's exactly how Den acts". Case in point, my last post had a particularly snooty take on the world's "unequal distribution of wealth".

Well, truth is, I can be quite petty when I want to be. I'm versatile that way...

In fact, to demonstrate the point, I'd like to share with you my current, most nagging, first world problem. It's the ubiquitous unevenly cut bagel. It drives me crazy. I mean, if your job is to cut bagels in half, how little effort must you expend to just slow down and get the two sides approximately equal in size?

I'm telling you, the first world will be a much happier place to live once we eradicate the unnecessary evil of the uneven bagel slice. (And make charging cords longer so we can watch iPad movies in bed when our batteries are dead).

A Sad Comment on Humanity

You can probably guess from the title what this post is about. That's right... Home Owners Associations.

I know this topic may not resonate with all imaginary readers, especially those in rural areas where the specter of these repulsive Associations is less pronounced. But this blog is for me to spew my opinions, and I happen to have one about the human shortcomings that lead to the existence of HOA's.

I find it odd that the human species evolved to thrive using social strategies, such as community agriculture, healthcare and education, yet individuals cannot live near one another without paying a full-time board of referees to resolve their disputes. And I use the term "dispute" lightly because, in this case, it includes grave matters like agreeing on what types of plants each neighbor can have in their yards, what color they can paint their front doors, and whether or not they can build a deck in their back yard. Thorny topics indeed.

There's an economic principle at the heart of the matter; the idea is that your home is more of an investment than it is a place to live, and you cannot risk the value of said investment without having some reassuring authority regulate the appearance of the neighborhood. Clearly, if Clarence down the street does not cut his grass on a regular basis, his unkempt yard could negatively affect the curb appeal of every nearby home. Possibly true, definitely absurd.

I did a quick search and learned (see for yourself: HOA statistics) that about a quarter of all Americans (including me) now live under the iron fist of an HOA. Sadly, we collectively pay nearly $100 billion per year in dues for this oversight. The average family among us pays between $200 and $300/month for the privilege of an Association that writes down how all disputes should get resolved and then steps in when anyone questions the rules.

Now, I'm no math major but I know this. The UN estimates that we could end world hunger with $116 billion (makes me wonder why we haven't done that yet, but I'll save the topic for a blog on another day). According to my calculations, we could take HOA fees for less than 14 months and completely cover the world hunger bill. Sure, if we stopped funding the HOA's, someone in your neighborhood might paint their front door a "property-value-reducing" shade of purple, but that seems like a reasonable trade-off for ending world hunger.

The unequal distribution of wealth in the world is a major problem, probably humanity's biggest current challenge. However, as I suggested in my post about relative wealth, we don't really seem very focused on reversing it. In fact, we seem much more focused on accelerating the disparity. HOA's are a visible symbol of people with a fair degree of wealth, going to great lengths, to ensure that no other person negatively affects their ongoing accumulation of even greater wealth.

The whole concept is a sad comment on humanity.

Relative Wealth: The Key to Happiness?

You know what they say... "Money can't buy happiness". Well, it turns out, like many things they say, that's only sort of true. Money does appear to buy happiness, regardless of how much you have, as long as you have relatively more of it than the people in your immediate proximity.

Don't believe me? Well, this has been very well studied and thoroughly documented in sociological study after sociological study (Robert Frank's book "Luxury Fever" for reference).  The guy with the biggest shack in the poor part of town is almost always happier than the guy with the crappiest mansion in the uppity neighborhood. Humans tend to compare themselves to their neighbors and then decide if they should feel happy about their privileged circumstances, or sad about their comparative shortcomings.

This concept has been further validated by the popularity of literature that resonates with the masses. In "King Rat", a novel by James Clavell, the author built a story around the lives of dirty, starving war prisoners, living among rats in a mud pit. The King Rat was the guy who lived in the dry corner of the pit and somehow got cigarettes from the guards. Despite his bleak existence, he was well off compared to the other prisoners in the pit and, therefore, about as happy as any free man living in comfort with relatively more wealth than his neighbors.

Unfortunately, relative wealth leads to an infinite number of "arms races" that we commonly call "keeping up with the Joneses". You cannot reach a level of income, choose to live within those means, and coast along through a happy existence if your neighbors keep aspiring to a grander lifestyle. You must keep up; otherwise, you will become relatively less wealthy and subject to the daily comparisons that defeat happiness. No one can stop climbing unless everyone stops climbing, and those near the bottom have no incentive to stop. Their very happiness depends on gaining a little relative wealth. This produces a perpetual cycle of struggle to gain wealth.

The solution? There may not be one. However, if we could all try to compare our means to our needs rather than comparing our means to our neighbor's means, that would be a step in the right direction. Simply ask yourself, are your basic needs met? If so, can you stop longing for more and start appreciating what you already have. 

It sounds simple, but we all know it is not.

Most Important Day of My Life

The most important day of my life unfolded exactly 27 years ago today.

The night before, I had driven from my apartment in Milan to Venice for an ophthalmic industry conference. As several hundred attendees wandered into the venue, I caught my first glimpse of my future wife. She was some distance away and surrounded by a pack of young Italian studs, all vying for her attention. She had a warm smile and a general air of confidence that suggested a strong character. I remember the moment well, even if I didn’t fully understand it at the time.

During a conference break, she strolled through the Exhibit Hall wearing blue-tinted contact lenses; no doubt gifted to her from some enterprising conference exhibiter who was eager to advertise his wears. In a land of near-universal brown eyes, a blue-eyed fashion statement attracts attention and she quickly garnered an audience of romantic suitors, each topping the next with lavish praise about the beauty of her blue eyes.

I found myself in this group of admirers, although I was clearly in no position to compete. I had the least swarthy complexion, no three-day stubble, and a complete lack of hip fashion. Worst of all, my limited Italian skills left me with no “game” when it came to flirtatious banter.

Unexpectedly, amid the raucous cacophony of complements, a brief instance of calm settled on the group as she glanced in my direction. It was an unexpected opportunity to engage with her directly, a stroke of good fortune that was nearly wasted on a guy with such poor command of the local language. On the spur of the moment, I conjured a simple truth from my stunted vocabulary: "Non mi piace. Sembra non posso vedere le tue occhi". Literally, “I don’t like. Seems like I can’t see your eyes.”

Luckily for me, she was (and still is) a person who deeply appreciates honesty. My brusque comment had struck the mark and left my rivals muttering under their collective breath. She and I found ourselves seated next to each other at a group dinner that evening, and then joined a spontaneous gaggle of revelers that strolled the city after dining. As the night wound down, I asked her to join me for a walk on the beach (according to lore, the literal translation of my request sounded something like: “You walk... me go... beach... now together... yes?”). She politely declined my eloquent inquiry.

She returned to Rome where I sent her some grammatically ambiguous letters and we began to get to know one another through the geographic and language barriers that separated us. Eventually, I visited her in Rome and, as we grew closer, we would sometimes take weekend trains to meet in Florence, the halfway point between Rome and Milan. Alas, I was highly focused on my career and was not willing to elevate a romantic relationship to the top rung of my life ladder. She appreciated my brutal honesty about my life priorities, but dumped me just the same.

We both moved on to other relationships over the next couple of years but would see each other platonically whenever I was in Rome. Once, during a platonic walk following a platonic dinner, I naturally reached out and took her hand. It wasn’t a premeditated gesture; it just felt right at the time. She reciprocated naturally; holding my hand warmly in hers and suddenly, it wasn’t platonic anymore.

Over the next year, our relationship got more serious and she sought a transfer to Milan so we could be together more frequently. Although I still had strong career aspirations, I knew she was special and I was eager for a more serious commitment. As luck would have it, during that same time period, I was offered a substantial promotion for an assignment in Hong Kong; it was a professional “dream come true” and I enthusiastically accepted it. The assignment would involve heavy travel that we both understood would not be conducive to relationship building. We spent the weekend together in Rome before our second amicable split and then went fondly on our separate ways.

From Hong Kong, I sent her a letter with some photos of our final time together, along with my new contact information, but I never heard back. I knew that splitting had been difficult for both of us and I interpreted her silence to mean that she would find it easier if we just broke off the relationship cleanly. It turns out that she never received my letter and interpreted my silence as a signal that I was the one seeking a clean break. A full year passed without any communication between us.

At one point, in the course of preparing for a business trip to Italy, I decided to call her. The only phone number that I had for her was at her office; I dialed it and reached her immediately. This was perhaps the second most important day of my life as, when my call arrived, she was packing her desk on her final day of work. Had I waited another hour to call, I may never have spoken to her again.

Fast forward: we met up in Rome and rekindled our relationship. In 1998, I transferred from Hong Kong back to the USA, stopping in Rome to pick her up. We landed in Maine, bought a car, and drove it to California in accordance with the old adage that “if you can survive driving across the country together, then you can survive being married to one another”. We got married the next spring and promptly pro-created three times.

So that's how it all played out after April 24^th, 1993, the day I first laid eyes on Elisabetta, the most important day of my life.