Eating Seed Corn

Eating Seed Corn

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

At the end of this shift, we’re going to space two of the crew. This will be our first “culling.” Everybody understands why this is necessary. It’s a matter of optimizing the chances of survival for the others. I just found out who we’re going to lose and I need to take a few minutes for myself before I make the announcement to the crew that is gathering in the Commons Hall.

I never imagined I might have to make decisions like this. I am Chairman of the “Deallocation Methodology Committee” that designed the selection algorithm. The calculation includes a dynamic model of functional and social interactions and involves factors such as individual resource loads and contributory potential.

The first thing I insisted on was that all members of the Committee sign “opt-in” papers that increase their selection weighting by four percent. I also insisted that there be no secondary review process where power plays could corrupt the impersonal fairness of the calculation. I insisted that the deallocated personnel not be present at the meeting where their selection was announced but that the announcement and a memory service be held after the fact. The rest of the algorithm is kept in confidence, but is approved by Council.

If It Ain’t Broke, Don’t Fix It

A liberal discovers the true meaning of conservative inertia

I ran errands today. Every step helped to clarify a distinction between conservative and liberal values that has been itching in the corners of my mind: Conservatives like to harvest what they can; they tend to avoid risk and evade personal responsibility for needed change. Liberals like to create and build; they tend to take personal and collective initiative when change is needed.

I live in a conservative rural area and do business in a nearby conservative town. Everywhere I stopped to take care of an errand, I met a situation that needed improvement and people who felt no responsibility for making things better.

My wife, Dianna, and I had decided to cancel our regional newspaper subscription. The circulation representative told her that it was easier if we just let funds, already in our account, run out and so we agreed to accept daily delivery of birdcage liner for another six weeks. Naturally, we were surprised to receive a renewal notice in the mail. I took the invoice into the circulation department. A slightly huffy lady told me not to worry, that I had a stop-date card in the drawer and that’s just the way their computer works. I was irritated but held my tongue. I’m a retired computer systems manager and have strong sensibilities about responsible data management.

The Special Pass

The “Special Pass” hung on a hook by the door of Mrs. Applegate’s fifth grade classroom. The policy was that anyone was allowed to use it, one person at a time, pretty-much as needed. Lord knows, everybody needs a mental-health moment from time to time. The expectation was that no one, except in exceptional circumstances known to the teacher, should need to use it more than several times a week. It was a great system — appreciated and respected by all.

The thing about the Special Pass was that it was, indeed, very, very special. You put it around your neck, stepped out the classroom door and into a very real place that was “somewhere else.” You took the time you needed and, when you were ready, you just walked back through the door, which waited for you, upright on the floor, or ground, or beach — wherever you had gone. And, the best part was that nobody had to wait for you to come back because, however long you spent in your somewhere else, it seemed to everyone back in the classroom as if you had just turned around and walked back in, except in a better mood.

Experience had demonstrated that the “somewhere else” was both flexible and invariably safe. You were always alone, you were anywhere you could imagine that would give a satisfactory time-out, and nothing bad ever happened there. Never. Ever.

A Criticism of Literary Criticism

While in college, I took an obligatory literature class. I’m sure the school believed that this would make me a better person. Well, actually, it probably did. I read some good stuff and then some other stuff and then I had to think about it. So far, so good.

However, you can’t escape a literature class without being exposed to the insanity of ‘literary criticism.’ At first, I tried to take it seriously. I tried to imitate my mentors and masters. But, the more I tried, the more I cried. No, no, no. This was not an occupation for reasonable people with something useful to occupy their time.

I threw a hissy-fit. I wrote and submitted the following:

Mister Perfect

A possible Fergus Johnson story of gender relations

Sandy (Sandra-Jane to her father when she was growing up and he was not pleased) was eating supper alone. She didn’t entirely mind being alone. Generally, men had been a disappointment in her life. Her mouth was full of the focaccia that had come with her salad course, but she smiled anyway as her active mind produced a triptych of association-memories. “A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.” [Irina Dunn/Gloria Steinem]; “Men are just carriers of bad jokes and flatulence.” [Scott Adams, Dilbert]; and “The odds are good, but the goods are odd.” [Robert Masello, Blood and Ice]. Yes, that was worth a grin. It was even worth the small snort that threatened to blow crumbs out her nose.

Speaking of men, there was an odd one right now, sitting in profile in her field of view. He was also having his salad. He was certainly taking his time. He would pick up his knife to slice things just so. Next, with a small frown of intense concentration, he would dip his fork into a side of dressing and impale first one item and then another in some kind of deliberate construction until it was just right. Finally, lifting his salad-kabob carefully past his lips he chewed in quiet contentment and distracted contemplation before resuming the ceremony.

Sandy experienced an old and not-unwelcome warming as she imagined him nibbling on her ear lobe and kissing the back of her neck with the same kind of intensity he was committing to his food.

Is Big Data Dangerous?

I have been giving away personal data all my life. In 1959, when I first filled out a coupon in the back of a comic book, I started getting related offers in the mail. It is no surprise that computers make keeping these lists easier and that social networks collect the life details we share. “Big data” computer algorithms now connect the mass of breadcrumbs we leave behind, making assumptions about our habits and preferences.

For many years, marketers and advertisers have been collecting and using information about us and we have been cheerfully cooperating. Subscribe to Bride magazine and wedding service companies will know your intentions before your boyfriend does. Today, free apps on our cell phones offer us remarkable services and we eagerly install and use them. However, do not be surprised that, “If the app is free, you are the product.”

Icky Old Men

We are about to meet Judy and Ruth Ann — two hawt gurlz who work the same shift serving drive-through ice cream. They are not sexay chix, but are both perky and kind of pretty. This may have been an unspoken qualification for their being hired. They neither knew nor cared.

They have never given any deliberate thought to the perks of being pretty. The blessed ease of acquitting their lives comes with the same presumption of privilege as being free, white and 21, which they will be in a few years, as well. On the other hand, they are well-acquainted with the burdens of their pulchritude.

People look at pretty girls. People stare at pretty girls — especially boys do. It’s usually kind of nice to be looked at by boys — especially the kind of young men who exude virility and strut their masculinity like a mating Greater Sage-grouse. The attention feels nice enough to move you to join into this self-reinforcing behavior by wearing pretty-damn-attractive outfits, holding and moving yourself with more than a hint of competitive pride, and, you know, being preternaturally perky.

Computers: Servants or Masters?

Computers help us to be (or appear to be) smarter. Of course, they (1) help us to count and calculate faster. They also (2) expand our capacity to remember. Even when they seem to make us lazy about having to memorize facts, there is no denying they give us rapid access to what we, and the rest of humanity, have recorded. Further, digital technology helps us to rapidly (3) find, connect to and communicate with distant people. The equivalent of Dick Tracy’s wrist communicator is now widely available. My goodness.

All three of the above are examples of “external human augmentation.” My former career was heavily involved with all manner of computers, from micro-controllers in instruments to IBM mainframes. Now, in an era of “big data,” computers are combing through unimaginably large pools of information to predict business opportunities, invent undiscovered chemical reactions and recognize patterns of weather, disease, and crime. Computers predict the kinds of advertisements that will make us pause and look. They can build custom products to our specifications and translate any web page into dozens of languages.

In 1986, I discovered the article, “Computing as a Tool for Human Augmentation” by W. J. Doherty and W. G. Pope in the IBM Systems Journal. They pointed out that,

Hypertension

A Fergus Johnson story of gender relations

Fergus and his wife, Doris, were driving to town. He had a doctor’s appointment to follow-up on his new prescription for high blood pressure. They had both begun watching their salt intake and enjoyed seeing themselves lose a few pounds of water weight.

Fergus had done some additional research and decided to also reduce the sources of stress in his life. He began by declining to accept a new project at work until he was closer to finishing the ones he was already committed to. Doris, knew how worked-up he could get in city traffic, and volunteered to drive.

Seeing a group of girls, standing together in front of a store, Fergus turned his gaze to look at them. There were four, dressed in casual summer clothes — unusually bright colors — two were wearing shorts. One of the girls in shorts had particularly well-shaped legs — not those little toothpick legs so common on high school kids.

Doris saw him look. It didn’t usually bother her. Fergus tended to have high situational awareness. Doris reminded herself that he was a “keen observer of life." He frequently pointed out interesting details to her. Doris smiled as she recalled the time that she had made the humorous observation that Fergus was also “a keen observer of women.”