Posted on

Haven’t We Always Been Friends?

Aristotle drew a ladder. I drew a circle. A scheming actor asked to climb, and I answered with a question built to end the conversation. Years ago, in a rehearsal room that smelled of coffee and radiator dust, an actor I will call Curtis said six words I have retold wrong for decades: “I want to be your friend.” We had known each other three years by then. We had built shows together, struck sets at midnight, shared the particular intimacy of people who fail in front of each other at ten in the morning and repair it by eight that night. His sentence cornered me. I laughed a little, the way you laugh when you need two seconds to find a door, and I said, “Curtis, haven’t we always been friends?”

Continue reading → Haven’t We Always Been Friends?

Posted on

Figure Eights

The internet has decided that modern humans are developing zoochosis, the madness of caged animals. The claim is older than TikTok, and the truth underneath it is more uncomfortable than either the believers or the scoffers want it to be. For most of the 1990s, the most famous resident of the Central Park Zoo was a 700-pound polar bear named Gus who spent up to twelve hours a day swimming the same figure eight through the same small pool. Back and forth. The same loop, traced into the water until it wore a groove in the day. Reporters called him neurotic, depressed, flaky, and bipolar, and New Yorkers half-adopted him as a mascot for their own condition. In 1994 the zoo paid an animal behaviorist twenty-five thousand dollars to find out what was wrong, and the verdict passed into legend. Gus, the behaviorist said, was bored and mildly crazy in the way that a lot of people in New York are. The zoo redesigned his habitat, hid his food inside blocks of ice, gave him toys, and made him the first zoo animal in recorded history to be put on Prozac. The swimming eased. It never fully stopped. Until the day he died in 2013, there were afternoons when Gus would throw himself back into the water and trace the loop again, and again, and again.

Continue reading → Figure Eights

Posted on

The Subtraction Economy

How they take more, give you less, and train you not to notice. Pour two fingers of the vodka you trusted ten years ago and you taste grain, cold, and a clean burn that meant something had been distilled with care. Pour the same brand today and you get water and a faint chemical ghost of that promise. The bottle looks identical and the price has climbed, while the liquid inside has been quietly reformulated down toward rotgut. A label held constant over a swapped recipe is the entire con, and the house is betting you will never run a blind taste test against a memory, because memory fades while the bottle on the shelf looks just like the one you loved.

Continue reading → The Subtraction Economy

Posted on

From the Barn to the Litter-Robot: Seven Things Nobody Tells You About Cats Anymore

When I was a boy in Lincoln, the contract with a cat was short enough to fit on a matchbook. You fed it in the morning and again at dusk, you cracked the back door, and you let the animal go be an animal. If it came back for breakfast, you had a cat. If it did not, you had a story about a cat. Nobody took its temperature. Nobody weighed it. The idea that a cat would sit on a stainless table once a year while a doctor charted its molars would have gotten you laughed out of the feed store. A cat was livestock with opinions, and Nebraska treated it accordingly.

Continue reading → From the Barn to the Litter-Robot: Seven Things Nobody Tells You About Cats Anymore

Posted on

The Ball of Violence: Joe Kenda and the Killer Inside All of Us

Joe Kenda says extreme violence lives in everyone’s DNA, waiting for emotion to overrule judgment. My friend is a great detective and a shaky geneticist, and the difference matters. Janna and I have known Lt. Joe Kenda the way friendships form now, across screens and wires, built from years of mutual attention. It began when he found this blog more than a decade ago and, in the phrase that gave an old post its title, stayed followed. He has sent us gifts. He is, in the way that counts, a generous man, courteous to strangers who admire his work and himself in a business that rewards performance. So when he stood at CrimeCon and told a room full of true-crime devotees that every person in it carried a ball of violence encoded in their genes, I listened closely. Then I did the thing you owe a friend whose mind you respect. I checked whether it was true.

Continue reading → The Ball of Violence: Joe Kenda and the Killer Inside All of Us

Posted on

The Unstealable Education: Why the University Will Bury Its Undertakers

The undertakers are circulating again, and this time they have given the university five years to live. The argument runs like this: when a machine can answer any question in any field at any hour, why would anyone pay tuition, or sit four years for a credential a chatbot renders quaint? Close the campuses, the prophets say. Sell the quads for condominiums. The library is now a login. I have been hearing this prophecy, in one costume or another, for my entire working life, and the prophecy is older than the university itself. In the Phaedrus, written around 370 BC, Socrates warns that the new technology of writing will plant forgetfulness in the soul, because men who trust marks on papyrus will stop exercising memory and will carry the appearance of wisdom rather than the thing itself. He was describing the alphabet. He might as well have been describing a data center.

Continue reading → The Unstealable Education: Why the University Will Bury Its Undertakers

Posted on

Begging for My Mother: Find A Grave and the Strangers Who Collect Our Dead

This morning I signed into Find A Grave to update my mother’s memorial and discovered that I no longer manage her page. No email warned me. Nothing in my account records the change. Six family memorials, five of them sponsored with my own money in the weeks after my mother died, and my name has been stripped from every one. The site that once made me beg for custody of my own dead has taken that custody back, in silence, and left me to discover the loss the way you discover a missing wallet: by reaching for something that should be there.

Continue reading → Begging for My Mother: Find A Grave and the Strangers Who Collect Our Dead