Where There's Music and There's People, and They're Young and Alive

 

2024 is now more than a week old; the year got off to a great start, spending the first week (more or less) in Maui, our family's "happy place." We've been going out just about every year for the past 20, and have seen our son in a sense 'grow up' there. 

As a barely one-year-old, I can remember waking at four in the morning and carrying him around the beach walk in the darkness. Listening to the waves and waiting for the sun to rise. Then as a toddler, learning to swim in the pool and making sand castles. Now, he is on the edge of adulthood. 

Who knows how many more trips we have left?

One of my personal favourite things about being in the Islands is that Ka'anapali is west-facing, which means that on a clear day, we can watch the sun sink slowly into the distance over the Pacific.

It reminded me of a time, many years ago. 

Recently, I was asked a question - what is a favorite memory you hold onto of feeling alive? What made you feel that way? How long did the feeling last?

I could fall back on a number of quite significant things. All are terrific memories.

Being in Maui and seeing those golden sunsets brings me back to a far more prosaic time.

In the fall of 1995, I was living in Fremont, California, a suburban city about an hour south and east of San Francisco. I was 25 years old then, in my first job. No real responsibilities. Each weekend, I would go hiking in one of the many parks in the east bay. A favourite was a place called “Garin Ranch,” which is just above neighbouring Hayward. It’s a series of easy, relatively flat trails in the foothills.

I remember that it was getting later in the afternoon, and was cool. Maybe 50 degrees. It was getting towards sunset and dusk.

From the trail in Garin Ranch, you can see the San Francisco Bay below, and on the other side, the cities of the Peninsula and the Santa Cruz Mountains.

It was a crystal clear day, and the sun had just begun to set behind the mountains. I stopped to watch as the sun touched the mountains, and then gradually sank behind them. I had never really watched the sun go down, and I was amazed that you could actually see it sinking, slowly from view. Over about 45 seconds, it descended, and then was gone, leaving “golden hour” light.

For the first time in my life, I saw the sun set, and it was an awesome, magical feeling.

That feeling was a time I really, truly felt alive.

Now, it’s obviously not constant, because I have to think back to that day. But the feeling has now lasted nearly 30 years.

That Was a Great Day

I'm a baseball fan, and have been about as far back as I can remember. Growing up, I have many life memories that in one way or another attach to the game. Long, languid summers playing pickup ball in a furloughed school yard. Listening to the Blue Jay games on static from a radio station in Leamington, Ontario. Going to the games with friends.

The 2023 is winding down, and recently, I was asked a question that is variant of one I suppose every fan thinks of from time to time.

In your memories of baseball, what was a great day.

It's subtly different from "what was a great game." I of course can think of many great games - some wins, some losses.

But great "days?" That's something different.

Two great days come to mind when I think a bit. Bookends, of sorts.

They were not “great” in the sense that something huge happened on the field. No heroic performance by a player, no season-changing outcome. There was no perfect game, or four home run performance. The San Diego Chicken did not make its debut nor was anything of historical import done.

For me, they were “great,” though.

In mid July 1978, as a young kid, we were visiting my grandparents in Cleveland, Ohio. My parents took us downtown to see a game at the old Cleveland Municipal Stadium.

I had never been to a professional baseball game before, but having just the year before begun playing, I was really excited.

The old stadium was one of those huge, horse-shoe shaped fields with a giant main concourse underneath. I remember emerging from the tunnel to see the brilliant sky and green grass. The smell of vendors hawking popcorn and hot dogs.

I can clearly remember the loudspeakers playing a 1970s, easy listening song, “Summer Breeze” (no; really), by Seals and Crofts.

The opponent that day was the Kansas City Royals, in their powder blue road uniforms. As part of the festivities, children were allowed onto the field to have our photos taken with one of the Cleveland players (in those days, the Indians). Eight year old me chose Horace Speed, who was the starting centre fielder that year.

As a souvenir, I asked for a pennant and a plastic batting helmet. Being from Toronto, I was a Blue Jays fan (the Jays had just begun play a year before), so my parents got me a Blue Jay helmet. I remember going back to my grandparents’ house that day after the game was over, and pretending to be a big leaguer, racing around imaginary bases with my helmet on.

Over the subsequent years, I’ve been to many hundreds of games, but my first is probably my favourite.

On the other end of the spectrum, in 1994, now 24 years old and in my final year of grad school, I went back to Cleveland, where my parents had settled. This time, to see my father. It was June, a week after school ended.

I went this time with my father to the new Cleveland Stadium - called Jacobs Field at first. It had opened that same year, and was brand new. Just my father and I went, reliving an experience and memory nearly twenty years past.

It was not the same, of course. I was not a wild-eyed eight year old. We couldn’t go on the field, and everything was on a more human scale - the field was still as green and the sky as blue. The game and the dimensions had not changed, but I had.

I was in Cleveland because my father had been diagnosed with lung cancer.

Going to Jacobs Field in June 1994, the day before I came back to San Francisco to start my first job, was the last day I got to spend with my father when he was alive.

The games themselves were not great, and in fact, I don’t even remember who won.

There Is No Going Back

 

Yesterday, my family and I went to see what is likely to be the final Indiana Jones movie, Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny.

It's not a bad ending for the franchise - plenty of action. Some one-liners. Nice cameos for Jonathan Rhys-Davies (Salla) and Karen Allen (Marian). 

The vehicle, both literally and figuratively, is a device that actually does exist, the Antikythera mechanism, which was discovered for real in a shipwreck found in 1901. Now, the device is unlikely to have actually been constructed by Archimedes, but many consider it the first real computer. It could not do what the movie implied, but it was obviously way, way ahead of its time. 

I have written a fair amount about technology - how it changes life, what the pitfalls as well as benefits for humanity are. Mainly, I think what tech does is enhance what we are capable of rather than changing our nature. With the rise of so-called "AI," and most notably and recently, Chat GPT, I was thinking about how the current young people cannot imagine a world without some of the inventions that are now more prosaic. Mobile telephones. Tablets. The internet.

As Gen-Xer, I would start by pointing out that the AI and the internet are technologies, much like others. And they obviously have had and will have a profound impact on life.

But are these changes more significant than others. More than, say, the automobile? The telephone?

My wife, son, and I during COVID began watching the television show Downton Abbey, and in Season 1, the manor house gets its first telephone. Everyone is mesmerized by it, save for the dowager mother of Lord Grantham, who views it with cynicism and suspicion.

The younger servants in the house (e.g., Thomas) could be said to be the “last generation to experience what life was like before the telephone.”

Every invention that came before us, to our conscious minds has always been there. My grandfather was born in 1908, so for him, although the airplanes became a routine device, it had not always been around, and it surely was not ubiquitous.

I can remember when I was first exposed to a computer (in 1981, an Apple II+). I clearly remember my first modem (a Hayes 300 baud device that you put the telephone receiver to, circa 1983). I can clearly remember trying to send documents via email using uuencode and uudecode. Then Stuffit, then WinZIP that did everything automatically. Then you could just drag and drop files into an email.

The internet has, more than any other of these inventions, had a massive impact on culture. My son is 16, and he simply cannot imagine the world without it. The idea of going to a library, sorting through a card catalog, getting books, and doing research that way is as odd to him as would be using a telegraph to me. Hell, he has never seen a real encyclopaedia, or had the thrill of waiting for the “update” that came every year in an extra volume to augment the now out-of-date information.

Almost everything he needs or wants to know, he can get in minutes from a tiny device that’s the size of an old Texas Instruments led calculator that I used to use.

That puts information at his disposal that 16 year old me could not dream of.

On the other hand, it also means less human connection. “Relationships” are often virtual. Friends are icons on a screen. I got a glimpse of this in graduate school, where one night, two people waiting for their simulations to converge (I got my degree in mathematics) were using a live chat whilst sitting at their SUN work stations.

They were sitting in the same room.

I thought it odd, and dysfunctional at the time. I couldn’t imagine things like WeChat or twitter then.

So something gained, and something lost.

We gain information, we lose human connection.

In short, it’s a Faustian bargain. Like all technology is. It’s up to us to use it wisely.

And finally, I do not accept the premise that it will never be the same again. The Romans at one point had engineering and technology that along the way got lost. It took humanity in some case centuries to learn back what was known.

It would be incredibly hubristic to think that we cannot fall to the same situation as they did.

Live Fast

At a recent awards show, former pop idol Madonna drew some fairly unkind comments about her battle with aging - a fight we all face in one way or another - and how badly her obvious plastic surgery had turned out. 

People often think of celebrities, and often, it appears as thinly-veiled jealousy. They're rich. They have lifestyles that appear glamourous and easy. Few people say "no." My own life is comfortable if not glamourous. I have complaints of course, but in the grand scheme of things, there are few things that I really want that are out of reach. Most of those are not really worth having, to be honest. 

So I am not envious of celebrities. 

But the comments about Madonna and subsequent arguments in social media made me think. One in particular popped up - "What celebrity, in your opinion, has aged the worst?" Almost all the responses focused on people who either got fat, lost their hair, had bad plastic surgery, or some combination of the lot.

I do not have the money and apparent carefree lifestyle of a Hollywood star. On the other hand, as I get older, and look older, no-one cares. I am not going to wind up on the cover of a tabloid being photographed in sweat pants walking out of an AM/PM.

And thus, my answer is likely different compared to others. And it is this.

Rather than engage in a discussion of people who once looked great but now as they have gotten older do not look so good anymore, or posting “shocking” pictures of a 55 year old woman without makeup, I would say that when it comes to aging “poorly,” nothing can top not aging at all.

The celebrity who aged “the worst” in my opinion is River Phoenix, who if he were alive, would be the same age as I am. We were both born in 1970.

Phoenix ran out of tomorrows in 1993. He was 23 years old.

I have no idea how River Phoenix would look today if he were alive. But ultimately, Madonna is alive and River Phoenix isn't. And that counts for something.

We should feel grateful that we are given today and not regret that we looked better at some point in the past.

People, if they are lucky, age. None of us - not you, not me - look better at 50 than we did at 25. It’s just that simple.

88 MPH at 45 RPM

I am a kid of the 1980s, though in truth, I am no more a "kid," as birthday 53 is looming just over the horizon. I still remember when, in the words of kitsch pop group "Bowling for Soup," MTV still played music.

Since Bruce Springsteen, Madonna
Way before Nirvana
There was U2 and Blondie
And music still on MTV
Her two kids in high school
They tell her that she's uncool
'Cause she's still preoccupied
With 19, 19

1985

At that time, there was a throw-away line from an old Van Halen song that said something to the effect that, every day, your life is growing shorter while your memories are growing longer. Of course, it's undeniably true. Time is relentless. It is unforgiving.

Read last night as I was heading off to sleep that another former high school mate has left us behind. Death comes for us all. It just comes for some too soon.

One thing that today offers that yesterday did not was the ability to summon music on command. Spotify, YouTube, and even (a bit earlier), Napster allows us to curate playlists that, 40 years ago, we had to patiently create by placing cassette tapes into clunky tape decks, await our favourite songs to be selected, and then wait for the deejay to end his "talk up" to press, simultaneously, the PLAY and red RECORD buttons.

Going back generations, writers of science fiction have talked of time machines. HG Wells. Stephen Spielberg made a time machine, famously, out of a DeLorean car in 1985.

Time machines, of a sort, in essence already exist. They exist in sound. 

Maybe I am alone in thinking this, but I find that certain songs, more than any other medium, have the ability to take us, instantly, to a specific moment in time. On New Year's Eve, we were counting down with ABC, and Duran Duran were one of the guests. Hearing Simon Le Bon sing "Hungry Like the Wolf" immediately took me back to walking home from seventh grade, stack of books under my hand, with my Sony Walkman and foam headphones. As a young adult, "Bittersweet Symphony" or Marcy Playground conjure up an image of the day I moved into my first house. Even weirdly enough, the Seals and Croft song "Summer Breeze," which was on the recorded track at Cleveland Municipal Stadium for between innings, reminds me of the first time I ever saw a professional baseball game in the cavernous, and now gone, stadium. I can smell the fresh grass and hot dogs when it appears.

Now that I have Spotify, I can put on a playlist from 1982, 1995, or even 2005 (when my son was born), and I do not need 1.21 gigawatts. 

No plutonium needed.

Eventually, We Are All Microserfs

 

In exactly two weeks, we in the USA will go to the polls for the "mid-term elections." Which is to say, an election held in between presidential tilts - the middle of the current incumbent's term. There has always been something of a generational split in US politics, but (with the exception of the 1960s), never has one been so noisome is the current millennial versus baby boomer ruction.

I was recently on an airplane flying for business, and had a couple of hours to kill, so, flipping through the movies selection, I happened across a now nearly 30-year old film called Reality Bites. 

This movie, starring a young Ethan Hawke, Winona Rider, and Ben Stiller (who actually, it turns out, also directed) depicts the lives of a group of recent college graduates in Houston, Texas. The lot (Stiller aside) struggles with the move into "real" adulthood.

The release date was early in 1994, which makes the characters just about my age at the time. 

I thought of Reality Bites as I was reading the back and forth between millennials (themselves now moving into middle age) and their nemesis generation - which of course, are the baby boomers.

The whole fight skipped my generation, the Generation Xers.

One particular commenter snidely asked if baby boomers get "upset" because the national focus has moved from them onto millennials (again, hello from my cohort).  

I got to thinking - is this true? Is it actually the case that “boomers” (baby boomers) get upset when someone (presumably, not a baby boomer) when it’s pointed out that advertisers prefer the 25–54 demographic? 

My parents are baby boomers, as are their friends. More than one of my colleagues is as well.

I’ve not seen this happen, even once.

I am a sample size of one, and of course, it is not really anything more than the observations of one person.

I was born in 1970, which makes me solidly part of Generation X.

I watch the “OK boomer” versus the “snowflake millennial” civil war with a certain amount of bemusement.

I was 21 years old in 1991 when the writer Douglas Coupland published his book Generation X, which is where the name of my cohort comes from. A year later, he published a companion called Microserfs.

I am a mathematician; I was at graduate school when my sister, an English major in college at the time, and now an English teacher, sent copies to me to read. This was before Kindle or other e-readers, so we read actual, physical books in those days.

When Reality Bites was released, my cohort was the target of advertisers. Movies -  like Reality Bites - that played heavily on stereotypes were targeted at us. We were the new workers whom our elders were struggling to understand. We lived in our parents’ basements and were refusing to grow up. We had economic and social challenges, but the things that we decided were “cool” defined the culture.

You know what? I went to bed one night, and the next day, I was the focus of an article in the Wall Street Journal about what older workers were needing.

Here is the ugly truth: the world moves on. Your time is temporary. At some point, there will be a younger generation that is going to be the apple of Madison Avenue’s eye; it will also be the target of scorn for sociologists and writers at the Wall Street Journal.

I think that as much as baby boomers do get “upset,” and I think this is seriously overstated, it’s more to the reality that nobody likes to face the truth that your time on earth is going to end, and that life is going to go on even after you don’t.

Advertisers are just hip to this before the Angel of Death is.

Downfall of the Once Great

A couple of weeks ago, I had the chance to stop over and visit my mother and family back east as I returned home from a business trip. Got me to thinking about a question I was asked a few years ago -

"What was the downfall of the 'popular' kid in your high school?"

I've now been out of high school for 34 years; my own son will be graduating in June next year. So this was -and remains - an interesting question

My own honest, lived experience is this: for almost all of us, life is not like it is portrayed in television or movies. There is no tragic downfall. The cool, arrogant jock almost never gets any sort of cosmic retribution. The neglected, quiet kid does not triumph. My life was not screen-written by John Hughes, as I suspect yours wasn't.

For the most part, life just….goes on.

I went to a pretty run-of-the-mill high school. It was good, but not outstanding academically. A kid two years ahead of me - Class of 1986 - was the first from my school to be accepted into Harvard in 16 years. The only student as far as I know ever accepted into Princeton was a Westinghouse Science winner. By comparison, my son's high school, a public school here in San Francisco, had three graduates last year accepted to Harvard, and two to Princeton.

Athletically, it was a suburban school of less than 1000 students, so most of the sports teams were mediocre to poor. We weren’t a wealthy community, and we were not one destined to be showcased in a “feel good” movie starring some pretty young white woman and edgy, urban black guy.

I am guessing that most of you could probably relate to this. 

Because of this, our “popular” kids were probably pretty unremarkable.

The most popular kid in my class was, unsurprisingly, a football player. Probably the best in our school, and so he was good. But he wasn’t good enough to get any sort of college scholarship.

The ‘cool group’ were largely made up of athletes who stood out among their peers but again, if the teams won as many games as they lost, it was a ‘good year.’

I graduated first in my class, so I guess I was in the ‘bookworm’ group. I had a small group of friends. Most of us looked at the in-group with some admixture of envy, jealousy, and if I am being perfectly, absolutely honest, a whiff of self-righteous disdain.

For those who ruled the roost, there was no “downfall” to speak of. 

They ran the school until June 1988. Some went off to college. Some went straight to work. The ‘cool guy jock’ joined the Navy. I went away to school back east (Dartmouth), and aside from visiting my parents and family for Christmas, went back only once - to attend a friend’s wedding. My father died 25 years ago; my mother sold our family home 10 years ago and moved back home to Canada. I doubt that I’ll ever return.

There was a television show on, maybe 25 years ago, called “The Wonder Years.” It focused on the adolescent life of a kid named Kevin Arnold, set on a street that looked for all intents and purposes exactly like the one I lived on as a little kid in Garden Grove, California. Garden Grove is a relentlessly middle-class suburb in Orange County, about an hour south of Los Angeles.

Kevin’s life was not terribly unfamiliar to me. Few remarkable things ever happened. In one of the episodes, the narrator (played, I think, by Daniel Stern) observed that, in junior high, who you are is dictated by who sits next to you at lunch.

(As an odd aside, when I was a grad student, I had Fred Savage (who played Kevin Arnold) as an undergrad in one of my sections at Stanford.)

In one episode, an odd girl with three pigtails befriends Kevin. Kevin was desperate always to move up to the cool lunch table, and was off-put by the oddball’s attempts to be friends. He shuns her, and by the end of the episode, she moves away. At the close of the show, in his epilogue Kevin remarks that "no-one remembers much about the kids you were so desperate to impress as a kid.”

The reality is that almost none of us is destined for any sort of conventional “greatness.” We are destined to live the more or less “average” life. There are some triumphs. There are some failures. I personally do not consider it a ‘downfall’ that the BMOC ended up in a typical, middle-class job.

Thanks to Facebook, I found out that the jock who sat at the top of the cool table, after a stint in the Navy, turned out as an adult to be a pretty solid, nice, and empathetic guy who spends his time when not working helping needy people. It’s not what I would have imagined from a guy who I thought I had pegged as a 16 year old with a cocky attitude and a big mouth.

What he does now impresses me a lot more than his exploits on the football field or in the halls of my high school.

John Lennon once said that life is what happens when you’re making plans. Jobs. Families. Bills. Kids. Weddings. Funerals.

You Were Made as Well as We Could Make You

 

My sister last night (my time - she is three time zones ahead) posted an image in social media. One I haven't seen in quite a while. It's an analog photo that had been scanned in, a bit yellowing now with age. It's a photo of my father, in his Navy uniform, holding my baby brother James, outside our then home in suburban Los Angeles. Garden Grove, California to be more precise.

I don't know if the photo was taken the day that my mother and father brought my sister and brother home from the hospital, but it's plainly in the very early days of their lives. (My brother and sister are twins).

Today is my father's birthday. He would have been 80 years old this year. But of course, dad lost his battle to cancer many years ago. This summer, it will be 27 years in fact.

Looking at that photo, I see a baby whose entire life remains, and I see my father, who was then a young man. Much younger than I am now. At the time, nobody knew, nobody could know, what life had in store for my brother, my sister, or my dad. That's the bargain. 

One of my very earliest memories was the day that my parents returned from hospital with my brother and sister. I can recall pretty clearly them being absent in the final days before the twins were born, and the excitement of the day that all came home. I remember the anticipation and happiness of getting the chance to hold them - sitting in a chair; I was three and a half then. I have an older brother, 11 months my senior, so until that day, I was the youngest. Charles and I each got a chance to hold our new siblings. To meet them and welcome them to the house. 

Now, from time to time, I think of that day. The memory seems pretty clear, perhaps too clear in my mind. So at this point, I cannot say how much of the image I can recall is real, and how much of it has been constructed over time. A shadow, re-enforced by suggestion and by my own imagination. In the film Blade Runner, the replicants (artificial humans) are given "memories" of events that did not happen. But to the replicants, they are as real as they could be, and I guess, help define their humanity for them.

As time is passing, the distance between when dad was alive and here and today grows longer. 27 years is not so long ago for me now. Time has a way of shaping our view of the past, and I suspect, softens the hard light that shines around the things we would rather not see. God has given us in the way we remember the past a precious gift that is more powerful than an airbrush. More of what constitutes our brief time on earth becomes photographs and memories all the time.

I think about my father a bit every day. A bit more so on his birthday. A bit more on the anniversary of the day he left us behind here. I thought he was an old man, as I suspect, every kid thinks about their parents. I am now about two years on the south side of the age he was when he died. I don't feel like an old man, although I sometimes do not recognize the face that now looks back at me in the mirror. 

I've said it before, but human beings are not machine-made. Real things risk imperfections. We are made as well as we could be, but we break. We age. Ultimately, we leave behind photographs and memories and stories.

All too often, we measure our lives by what we've done. My father was a surgeon. Part of his job was fixing imperfections of people when they fell and were broken. A part of it was assuring that my brothers, sister, mother, and me had lives that were made as well as they could be. His life wasn't one that politicians talk about, or that get profiled in the newspaper. His alma mater will never name a building after him. 

Dad wasn't a 'great' man. But he was a good one. 

A critical lesson that I did not know then, but I think I grasp now, that I have my own son who is just a couple of years removed from becoming an adult, is that what is truly valuable in living is not the toys you accumulate or the pictures of vacations that you take. It's not the house you live in or cars you drive. 

I've reached some level of success in life. I've had the chance to see the world, made a good career. People offer congratulations.

But the truth is this:

Much of what I have been able to do is because of the things my parents couldn't. Their sacrifices were my opportunities. The things I got to see were the places they missed. 

Now that I am decidedly on the back nine, that's how I hope my life measures when I am a photograph in a book. My own son will have his own life. He'll make his own choices, and ultimately, measure out his happiness and success by the yardsticks he decides. My hope is that when he is my age, he will look at how I spent my life and my time the way that I look at my old man, who didn't get the chance to get "old." 

If I can measure to half of that tally, that's a life that I can defend as great in a meaningful and not platitudinous way. 

80 years old. 

Happy birthday, dad. Thanks for how you invested your life in your family. In me.

I miss you a lot.

In Case of Fire, Break Glass

We are now more or less into our sixth month of the SARS-CoV-2 epidemic (the novel coronavirus that is at the heart of COVID-19). As of today, the estimated number of infected Americans is just over six million, and between 175,000 (official state departments of health) and 185,000 (Johns Hopkins University) have lost their lives.

Unfortunately, this outbreak early on itself became infected with politics, and sides quickly were chosen and battle lines drawn.

It's an election year, so some of this is to be expected.

Fights about shelter in place orders, mask wearing, possible therapies, vaccine developments, how to measure the impact economically and medically, and myriad other battles were launched.

Recently a thread has appeared, quietly at first, but over the past few days, it has gathered momentum.

According to a weekly report issued by the US Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), somewhere on the order of 94 per cent of people who died with COVID-19 had one or more underlying conditions.

Many seized on this to claim that the epidemic is grossly overblown, and that "only" six per cent of those who died with confirmed SARS-CoV-2 infection died "from COVID-19." Something of a semantic debate has been going on for months about the differences between dying from COVID-19 (i.e., that the virus itself caused death) and dying with COVID-19 (you died from something else, and COVID-19 was just on board). The recent publication has caused the debate to reignite, and with more heat.

I am not a virologist or infectious disease doctor. I don't see or treat patients. I'm not a coroner or a medical examiner. It's not my job to assign cause of death.

I'm also not a politician who is looking at a tough re-election, or a challenger looking to parlay the pandemic into a means of election. Nor am I a political operative or pundit who gets paid to sway public opinion one way or the other.

I am an epidemiologist.

It's (part) of my job to look at health data from a public or population health perspective. Moreover, I spent several years working on research in both hepatitis-C (Hep-C) and HIV disease. I've seen and participated in all sorts of analyses - disease transmission models, outcomes research, interventional impact analyses. 

Mortality modelling.

No-one knows for certain how many people at this point have actually been exposed, how many have been infected, or how many have actually died. With or due to COVID. We have estimates, and we have models on top of data. 

I do know this, however.

Whether the 94% statistic is accurate, and whether people with comorbidity (what in my world is the term used to describe "underlying conditions"), you need to take the estimates of death seriously. You need to look at claims that, because "only six per cent of people who died had no underlying conditions" the problem is being made larger than it is, or that you can ignore the threat.

The truth is that a huge number of Americans over the age of 18 has underlying conditions. It is possible - even likely if you are over 40 - that you have at least one. 

I know that I do.

Here is a paper published last month from the CDC on the prevalence of various chronic conditions in the US (https://www.cdc.gov/mmwr/volumes/69/wr/mm6929a1.htm#contribAff). The authors looked at a selected set of conditions believed to be associated with COVID mortality, including diabetes, obesity, heart disease, kidney disease, and chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD). Data in various states, in cities and rural areas, were examined for people over the age of 18.

The research indicated that forty percent of the adult population had one or more of these conditions.

Two out of four.

The numbers turned out to be higher - close to 50% - in rural counties than in large, urban centres (39%).

Worse, prevalence rises with age. Far fewer people in their 20s had comorbidity than those over 50.

The arguments you are hearing that COVID-19 is not a serious problem because it, alone, has killed only six per cent of the 175-185,000 people are at best mistaken and at worst deliberately dishonest.

Please take the threat of COVID-19 seriously. Because the threat is serious. It is real.

Luckily, you are not helpless. As I said months ago at the outset, we are not helpless victims of fate. The final trajectory of SARS-CoV-2, its impact on you and people you care about is something you can affect. Your choices still matter. You can still have an impact.

Be smart.

Stay home unless you have to go out.

If you're going to be out, distance from other people if you can.

And if you can't, wear a mask.

A Simple Plan

I've (intentionally) kept quiet about the unfolding story that has been able to move COVID-19 off the front pages. Off the back page, and all the pages in the middle, to be honest.

On it's face, it's a really simple story. An old one.

About a week ago, the police in Minneapolis, Minnesota were called in to deal with what has been alleged as an incident where a middle-aged man - one not far away from my own age in fact - tried to buy some cigarettes with a counterfeit $20 bill. What happened in the time between the call and the terrible outcome is at this point, lost. But we all know how the encounter ended.

The video of Minneapolis police officer Derek Chauvin sitting with his knee on the back of a prone George Floyd in the last minutes are difficult to watch. Floyd can be heard gasping and begging for his life, at one point calling out to his mother. The officer's expressionless face stares ahead. His eyes - dead eyes - glare at the camera.

Officer Chauvin killed George Floyd with what can, at best, be described as a casual indifference.

Over the past week, protests have erupted across the country, many of them violent. Stores have been destroyed. People hurt - some killed - in spasms of violence.

I haven't had too much to say because, quite frankly, what is there to say?

The bottom line is that Chauvin killed Floyd. Floyd did not lose his life; it was taken from him.

I *really* have zero interest in debating the propriety of the destruction, and less interest in arguing about the looting. Whether it is local people, or left-wing "antifascist" (sic) actvitsts or "white nationalists," it's all the same to me.

I do not condone violence and crime. I live in central San Francisco, which has seen significant violence over the past couple of days. Helicopters buzzed overhead last night, and businesses on my street were boarded up. So I really am in absolutely no mood to be lectured by people living in suburban sinecures about "understanding" crime. I am just interested that my home and family remain safe. I do not have the luxury of social media preening the way many do.

With respect to politics, I will make a simple plea - I think politicians want to try to smear their political opponents rather than own up to their own guilt. That's what they do. Sorry. So I'm not here to argue whether the president is a fascist or the governor of Minnesota is weak. Pretty much everyone is going to retreat to their own priors on this one, as they always do.

What I want to say is this very simple thing.

I don't like a lot of rules; I never had. As a kid, I got into a lot of trouble because it was not in my nature to do something because "I told you so." I spent a fair amount of time in the principal's office because of it.

But I have most of my life been a supporter of law and order. The laws should be few; they should be clear. And they should be enforced fairly.

This goes especially for the police, and what happened in Minnesota was not just. It was not fair. And the cops who participated need to be held to account.

I think that there is simply no way one can watch what happened and not come away with the conclusion that the killing of George Floyd by four police officers (and they are all guilty in my book) was a crime. And our law officers if nothing else must uphold the law. There are just no two ways about it.

I've heard more than one argument about how many white men are killed by police, how many black men are killed by other black men. I am a mathematician; I know what an odds ratio is. It's beside the point. I have very, very little doubt that in this case, if George Floyd were white, he would likely be alive. This needs to be acknowledged. Our police are just not doing a good job enforcing the laws fairly. I know it. You know it. Yes, you do.

Let me tell you a little story. Many, many years ago, I got caught by the CHP speeding on the 280 freeway (a highway that runs south from San Francisco to San Jose, California). I was at the time living in Cupertino, so I must have been 25 or 26 years old at the time. I was late coming home to meet a friend for dinner, so my eye was not really on the speedometer so much as it was on the clock. A motorcycle cop hiding under the CA-87 flyover appeared and pulled me over. In those days, the speed limit in California was still 55, and I was easily going about 80. He wrote me the ticket, and I had a date with the dreaded "traffic offender school." Yes; it's a real thing in California.

So I got up at 6.30 in the morning one Saturday and headed off to 8 hours at Mission College in Santa Clara to make amends. One of the things we all were forced to do at the outset was stand and confess our crimes. I was guilty as hell, which I think everyone else in the room was. Most were for speeding (and if memory serves, the average infraction was at least 20 miles over the limit). We had a few red light violations. One kid who looked and sounded like Jeff Spicoli confessed not only to being caught speeding, but to not quite remembering just how fast he was going because he was "sort of, you know, stoned at the time."

We all laughed, including the "teacher."

But one of the guilty that day was a middle-aged black man; from his accent, a Nigerian I would guess. When it was his turn, his crime was driving 40 in a 35 mph zone on Alma Street in Palo Alto. Now, at the time, I worked in downtown Palo Alto, an upscale town filled to the brim with limousine liberals, so I drove on that stretch of road virtually every day on my way to and from work. If I did 40 on the road, I would be passed by just about everyone, police cruisers included.

All of us in the room looked at each other sheepishly, because we instinctively knew that he had gotten a black guy driving in Palo Alto ticket.

The bottom line is this - the term "law enforcement" has always struck me as a bit of a misnomer. There is no amount of policing that can "enforce" law upon a society that is unwilling to accept the law. Period. Paragraph. The police are not an occupying force. They should not be seen as one, and they ought not to see themselves in that way.

In order for people to respect the laws, those enforcing the laws must be respectable.

I know people who are cops. I have friends who are in law enforcement. It's an incredibly difficult job. If I am being totally honest, it's a line of work that I lack the physical courage from engaging in because I know that it's dangerous and largely thankless. I live in San Francisco, and I see, everyday, police officers dealing with shit that I - and I suspect that if you're reading this - you would never accept to have to put up with. Police are, as the saying goes, a thin blue line behind which those of us who obey the laws reside behind and rely upon.

And I understand that a lot of the problems cops are forced to deal with is due to the reality that our "leaders" - either because of incompetence, venality, or just a denial of reality - have allowed social problems to fester because it's easier to pander and to mug for the cameras than it is to address real problems. So the cops get to pick up the broken pieces of a broken society that our leaders, and we, have broken.

But that's the job. The job of an officer is to serve and protect. And when one of the officers colours outside the lines, he needs to be held to account. For too long, that's not happened. Derek Chauvin had been reported 18 times in the past 20 years for abuse of power. The leadership in his city did literally nothing about it. The mayor of Minneapolis. The DA. The governor of Minnesota. Nobody acted.

And so here we are, with another man killed by police, and still others killed by violence in our streets.

Qui custodiet ipsos custodes - who will guard the guards?

Again, I have long harboured libertarian tendencies; I despise state-sanctioned abuse of power. I have no interest in preening for social media, to get "likes" from "woke" friends and acquaintances. Long ago, I stopped caring much about what people think, and ceased seeking approval. I simply think that the state has awesome powers, and that it is all too easy to go beyond what is 'just.' I think that it is important to say that the power to enforce the law is too frequently confused with the power to abuse it.

I hate to say it, but it's down to the officers themselves to hold one another to a higher standard of professionalism. I *get* that maybe it's one bad apple in the barrel, but this particular barrel cannot afford to have any bad apples in it.