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Still Eating Your Patients

Seventeen years ago I asked whether every veterinarian should be required to be a vegetarian. The question has sharpened since then. The right word now is vegan, because the line between dairy cow and veal calf is no longer plausibly deniable, and because the climate science on animal agriculture has overrun the old fence between eggs and the slaughterhouse. The provocation in 2009 was short, almost a snapshot of a paradox. A profession that swears to relieve animal suffering, going home from the clinic and ordering bacon. The post received twelve comments, a few sympathetic, a few cautious, and then it slept on the page while the world kept slaughtering animals at industrial scale. The question never left me.

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The Box You Cannot Check

The clinic intake form on the clipboard at the front desk has two boxes next to the word “sex.” A patient who is neither of the two options has been given three choices: pick one box and lie, write something in the margin, or refuse the form. The receptionist will not read the margin. Data entry clerks will not transcribe it. EHR systems will not store anything outside the two values the form lists. The patient walks out of the clinic with a treatment plan based on a box that does not correspond to their body, their history, or their current endocrine state. The form has done its job, which is not the job it claimed to do.

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The Conditional Button

The mid-block crosswalk at a flashing-yellow pedestrian signal does work. A pedestrian presses the button, the overhead lights flash yellow, drivers slow or stop, and the pedestrian crosses. The system responds visibly, with no covert work happening underneath. The button does what it claims. But the same system also fails, often, in ways that have nothing to do with the button itself and everything to do with what is wired several layers behind it. A reader pointed out that drivers in his city tend to keep rolling through the flashing yellow if the pedestrian is still on the curb, and only stop once the pedestrian commits to the street. The same reader noted that drivers in his town do not give flashing yellow signals the obedience they give to red lights. Here in Jersey City the same mid-block button gets a more reliable yield because the lights are tied to traffic enforcement cameras, and drivers know that yield failures can become citations they actually have to pay. The button works because what is wired behind it works.

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The Dishonest Button

The mute button on the top of an Amazon Echo of a certain vintage is supposed to disconnect the microphone. A small icon of a crossed-out microphone sits next to the button, and pressing it turns on a red LED that confirms the disconnection. Software controls this button, which means the microphone remains electronically capable of capturing audio after the LED turns red, and the only thing preventing that capture is a line of code in the firmware. Security researchers have documented the capability and the manufacturers have acknowledged it. Whether the capability was ever exercised in practice is a separate question that the user pressing the button cannot answer from the front of the device. Bloomberg reported in April 2019 that Amazon employed thousands of workers worldwide whose job was to listen to Alexa recordings, and similar contractor review programs were acknowledged by Apple and Google for Siri and Assistant later that year. Subsequent Echo models added a hardware microphone disconnect that physically interrupts the microphone circuit when the mute button is pressed. Press the mute button on a smart speaker without that hardware disconnect and you are pressing the third kind of button in this series.

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The Honest Button

The crosswalk button at the corner of my downtown intersection has an LED above it that lights up red and says “Wait!” when you press it. The traffic signal does not change any faster. No wire runs from the button to the signal timer. The LED is connected only to the button itself, and it does the single job of telling the pedestrian to wait. A reader who pressed one of these recently described pushing it three or four times rapidly anyway, because it’s fun. They are correct on both counts. The button is fun. The button is also a different kind of object than the placebo buttons it replaced.

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The Placebo Button

The elevator in my building has a door-close button that does nothing. I learned this the way everyone learns it, which is to say I pressed it for years under the impression that it was speeding up my departure. The button lights up. It makes a small click when pressed. It provides every sensory signal of function. What it does not do is close the door any faster than the door was going to close on its own. The elevators in most American buildings installed since 1990 have door-close buttons wired to nothing, because the Americans with Disabilities Act requires the door to stay open long enough for a person using a wheelchair or walker to enter, and the button that overrides that requirement is accessible only to the fire department with a key.

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Reading the Lattice Without the Legend: Grinberg, Syntergy, and the Argument for Real Entry

A scientist walks out of his office in Mexico City on December 8, 1994, and never walks back in. The man is Jacobo Grinberg-Zylberbaum, forty-eight years old, a UNAM-trained neurophysiologist with a doctorate from New York Medical College, the author of a stack of monographs on consciousness, and the last serious researcher to claim that the human brain could be wired into a holographic substrate of reality he called the Lattice. He had spent years measuring electroencephalographic correlations between separated human subjects. Two months before he vanished, he published a paper in Physics Essays arguing that pairs of subjects, separated inside semisilent Faraday chambers fourteen and a half meters apart, showed brain activity that mirrored stimulation given to only one of them. Then he was gone. The laboratory was found. Several notes were missing. His wife, who had cause to suspect him of an affair and a documented history of violence, became a person of interest and was never charged. Mexican press cycled through the story for years. Mystics and conspiracy theorists folded the disappearance into the theory, as if the man had stepped sideways into his own hypothesis.

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Hands as the Language of Thought: Correcting a Kant Attribution

There is a line about hands that travels well. It reads cleanly, carries an air of philosophical dignity, and arrives in print wearing the name of Immanuel Kant. “The hand is the visible part of the brain,” runs the most common English form, or, in an older rendering, “the hand is the outer brain of man.” The phrase appears in publishing copy, in teaching materials, on Goodreads quotation pages, in popular psychology, in surgical textbooks, in neurology lectures, and in essays on sign language and gesture. It has the shape of something Kant should have said. The difficulty is that no reliable evidence supports treating it as a verified Kant statement.

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Ischia is Burning: The Novel I Have Been Writing for Thirty-Six Years

Most books are written. A few are excavated. Ischia is Burning is a book I excavated from a steel filing cabinet in a Manhattan apartment, where it had been sitting for more than three decades inside a folder marked Ischia, in the form of a screenplay I wrote at twenty-five years old in the second year of an MFA program at Columbia. The novel that has just been published is what happened when I sat down with that folder in May, found the staples rusted and half the dialogue wincing, and wrote what the twenty-five-year-old version could not yet write. The novel is now available as a paperback and a Kindle edition, and a complete free web reading edition lives at BolesBooks.com.

Ischia is Burning book cover, topographic map design with crimson title and CLASSIFIED stamp

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Where Are the Deaf Children at Aladdin?

Yesterday I sat in the New Amsterdam Theatre for the interpreted performance of Disney’s Aladdin. The show was fine. The interpreting was fine. Neither held my attention the way the audience did. It was Scouts Day. The hearing children came dressed as princes and princesses, sashes weighed down with badges, parents fussing over phones and snacks. The aisles filled with the small chaos that always attends a children’s matinee. Within all of that, in a designated seating block to the side, sat the Deaf audience. I counted, roughly, sixty of us. The youngest among us looked sixty herself. Most of those sixty people were between sixty and eighty-five years old. A handful of hearing family members translated stage business in side conversations. Deaf children were absent from the section. Deaf teenagers, if any were present, were too few for me to identify in a careful sweep.

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