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Mid-election afterthoughts.

Rushing to get my Trump reflections on the record before tonight’s U.S. election result made them redundant, I declined to pursue a number of digressions as they occurred to me. But I have nothing else going on today, so I guess I’ll work them up into their own post.


Not long ago I was reminiscing to a friend about the time Howard Stern ran for governor of New York. Stern promised to unsnarl New York City’s traffic jams by moving all road construction work to the middle of the night. That was it. Once he’d accomplished that, he said, he would resign.

My friend and I had been talking about how politics doesn’t really offer a mechanism for solving ubiquitous but small irritants. She mentioned crosswalk signals that count down the seconds until the light turns amber – you scurry to get across, the countdown reaches zero – and the light doesn’t turn amber! What is the purpose of those misleading timers? Or of those crosswalk signals that are activated by a button, but if the light is already green when you push it, you’re confronted with a steady red hand. You wait, thinking maybe the light is about to change…and wait…and wait…while there was plenty of time for you to have crossed safely, if the signal had been more intelligently designed. But how do you democratically register your vexation over poor crosswalk signals?

What would be my platform, my friend asked, if I ran a single-issue Stern-style campaign? I said it would probably have something to do with noise pollution. Banning leaf blowers, for instance, which aggravate whole city blocks while barely improving on the efficiency of rakes and brooms. Or getting rid of truck backup beepers, which avert a knowable number of deaths per year at the cost of an unknowable amount of life-shortening stress from the cumulative effect of urban noisiness.


Having confessed in the previous post to my deplorable lack of outrage over the offenses of Donald Trump, maybe I ought to spell out, for the benefit of bemused readers, what issues I am passionate about.

It’s a pretty short list. It looks something like this:

1) Free speech (pro).
2) Suburban sprawl, auto dependency (anti), public transit (pro).
3) Democracy (pro).

I’m not saying those are the most important issues. Clearly nuclear proliferation, environmental degradation, third world overpopulation – threats that, badly managed, could actually end all life on earth – are far more important. But I have no ready answer for those existential threats, let alone for more parochial questions like how integrated the United Kingdom should be with the European Union, or how the United States should tweak its health insurance system, or whether the Trans-Pacific Partnership trade deal is on balance good for Canada.

Whereas I am strongly, and probably unalterably, in favour of a more expansive definition of free speech. Not because speech is in itself wonderful – the freer it is, the more of it will consist of horrible hateful ranting, which is unfortunate given the ease with which horrible hateful rants can now reach an audience. But giving governments and institutions the power to suppress “wrong” speech presumes that “wrongness” can be definitively known, and that the powerful can be trusted not to skew the definition to cow their political enemies and perpetuate their own rule. Horrible hateful rants can be endured.

But no party is all that vocal about the free speech issue – besides the Libertarians, whose positions on almost everything else I find dubious. There just aren’t many voters who care.

My concerns about sprawl and auto dependency are generally shared by parties on the left – but those same parties are usually hostile to dense urban development, while being committed to ever-greater levels of immigration – making it impossible for them to devise policies that effectively contain exurban growth. So this issue, like free speech, tends not to drive my voting that much.

Democracy, as I define it, rarely comes up. I know the Democratic Party in the States thinks Republican “voter suppression” tactics are anti-small-“d”-democratic, but as I’ve argued before, there is no God-given system under which elections would be perfectly fair. The Democratic coalition takes in the young, the transient, the frequently-incarcerated – it makes sense for Democrats to oppose rules that create barriers to voting, such as having to show your ID, or not be a felon. The Republican coalition, meanwhile, is older, more suburban, more likely to be married and settled. Barriers are easier for them to overcome. The most Democrat-friendly rules would permit anyone to show up at any polling station and vote with no questions asked. Republican-friendly rules would demand that you bring along two pieces of photo ID, plus proof you’ve resided in the district for ten years, and also the poll supervisor recognizes you from his bowling league.

That reminds me of something I came across on Mark Steyn’s website today. (I love and revere Steyn, largely for his corny and erudite celebrations of old-fashioned American songcraft – but he is of course a highly partisan conservative, so skepticism must be calibrated accordingly.) In his election eve post he embeds a video of President Obama being interviewed by the website Mitú – the self-proclaimed “Voice of Young Latinos”. In response to a somewhat muddled question from Gina Rodriguez, the president – well, to quote the title of the video, he seemingly “encourages illegal aliens to vote.” As Steyn parses the exchange:

[T]he question is perfectly clear – the interviewer is brazenly advocating mass lawbreaking of the defining act of representative government – and the principal representative of that government is most certainly not clear in slapping such a provocation down.

Is the question really that clear? For a less adversarial take, Steyn sportingly links to the writer and legal expert Jonathan Turley, who says:

[T]he President clearly states that “when you vote, you are a citizen yourself.” The confusion is over the use [by Rodriguez] of “undocumented citizen” to refer to illegal immigrants.

This flap seems pretty characteristic of the current U.S. political scene. Each side attributes the worst intentions to the other, leaping to the least forgiving reading of any ambiguous or unpolished comment. Republicans, fearful of cheating Democrats bussing in illegal ringers to tip the election, push for stricter voting requirements. Democrats, assuming Republican fears are a put-on, accuse Republicans of racistly disenfranchising minorities. Speaking as an outsider, it all just makes me sort of tired.


I put “democracy” on my issues list because it actually influenced my decision in the last Canadian federal election. My ideal outcome for that contest was a minority government for either the Conservatives or NDP, with the Liberals humiliatingly crushed and Justin Trudeau chased out of politics forever. Not because I have anything particularly against Trudeau, who seems like a nice enough guy, in that grating progressive confident-he’s-on-the-right-side-of-history way. But the monarchical principle should be resisted in democracy whenever it arises. (I excuse actual constitutional monarchs as harmless tourist attractions.) The point of democracy isn’t that it provides good government, but that it guarantees regular, non-violent opportunities for self-correction. Dashing looks and famous names throw off the electorate’s judgement and delay necessary electoral corrections – so that the reaction, when it finally comes, is more extreme than it need have been. Which is why Peripheral Bushes and Lesser Kennedys and, yes, Distaff Clintons should be held to a stricter standard, not a laxer one, than those who rose to prominence under unstoried names.

Not that anyone really cares what I think. Happy Election Night, America. Try to stay chill.


Last-minute Trump risk calculations.

To quote the scuttled first draft of what was meant to be my election-eve blog post:

While I’m generally pro-trade and pro-immigration, I’m in partial agreement with Donald Trump on this, at least: to tolerate uncontrolled low-skilled immigration into your country, while simultaneously signing trade deals with low-wage countries that will accelerate the departure of low-skilled jobs, is self-evidently self-sabotaging. One or the other, maybe. Not both.

This was to be the beginning of my argument that, in spite of all the sound and oft-aired reasons not to vote Trump, it was defensible for an American (which I’m not) concerned about the disappearance of well-paid manual-labour jobs (which I am) to consider voting Trump anyway. But I abandoned it because A) I was afraid it would make my progressive friends mad at me, and B) I discovered that Mickey Kaus had already said pretty much exactly what I wanted to say (but better) in his election-eve blog post:

Trump opens up a different path, where we are willing to give up a few points of GDP – slowing trade, controlling the influx of eager new workers – in order to have the kind of society we want, where communities are displaced more slowly and “we are equal in the eyes of each other.” We could still let in plenty of newcomers, of course. But we would democratically choose to do so.

Add to this Trump’s seeming intention to protect entitlements from Ryanesque plans that subject them to market-like uncertainty, and his resistance to regime-changing military adventures, and you’ve beneficially transformed the Republican party along four major axes.

Kaus is a Democrat, a centrist ex-Slate blogger, who in 2010 ran a no-hope primary campaign for California senator Barbara Boxer’s seat. (He got 5%.) His number one issue – the issue he’s been banging on about for a decade or more – is enforcement-first immigration reform. He argues that until the inflow of new illegal immigrants is stopped, granting amnesty to existing illegals is irresponsible, as it will only incentivize future millions to enter the U.S. in hopes of qualifying for the inevitable next amnesty, a couple decades down the road. (The previous amnesty, remember, was in 1986, ten or twelve million illegals ago.) Only once numbers are stabilized should Americans move on to deciding whether and how to grant permanent status to those already in the country.

It would be a stretch to try and smear Kaus as a racist or demagogue. Even if you disagree with him, you can’t say that his manner is aggressive or that his rhetoric is extreme. He builds his case around the traditional left-wing theme of egalitarianism – that while illegal immigration increases the supply and thus undercuts the price of unskilled labour, driving down wages for Americans who work with their hands, those who work with their brains are becoming ever richer, losing all connection and sense of social obligation to their unluckier fellow citizens.

One predictable outcome of this separation is that figures like Trump will arise to channel the inarticulate anger of the unlucky. Those who are comfortable under current arrangements dismiss the plebs’ champion as a crude buffoon – fairly enough, in this case – but their offered alternative, the globetrotting, Hollywood-hobnobbing, million-dollar-speechgiving wife of an ex-president, seems to have been consciously designed as a living totem of everything her foes are resentful about. Her only memorable comment of the entire campaign was to dismiss those foes – well, half of them – as a “basket of deplorables”.

Anyway, after a decade hammering away at his enforcement-first message – reasonably, sanely, non-scarily – Kaus has gotten nowhere. It’s forgivable for him to conclude that Trump, an ugly and overloaded vehicle, is the only ride into town.


I won’t try and predict which way the vote will go. Trump thinks he’s in good shape because polls don’t capture his true strength. A lot of his supporters, he claims, are “shy” – embarrassed to admit, even anonymously to pollsters, that they’re thinking of voting for him.

I think this is a real phenomenon. Why? Well, look at me: I’m reluctant even to publish this non-pro but not-exactly-anti-Trump post. I find myself compelled to throw in phrases like “crude buffoon” and to include the caveat that I expect Trump, as president, would be a disaster. Which is truthful, but when I say “disaster” I’m thinking in recent-historical terms: he could be a George W. Bush-scale disaster, a Lyndon Johnson-scale disaster, maybe even a Richard Nixon-scale disaster. But a lot of people – serious, intelligent, non-crazy people, including some who are good friends of mine – believe Trump will destroy one or both of A) American democracy, and B) the world.

Normally I’d write that off as election-season hyperbole, but I think they’re sincere. Which might explain why so many middle-of-the-road voters – non-pro-but-not-exactly-antis like me – proved immune to the yearlong eruption of scandal that inescapably infected our Facebook feeds with the tangerine hue of Trumpish scowls. Because, look: if you believed it was the only thing preventing The Next Hitler from coming to power, you’d go on TV and say The Next Hitler had grabbed your pussy. Wouldn’t you? If you believed this wasn’t just a race between two deeply flawed but basically well-meaning candidates, but in fact a struggle for the survival of liberty, of the United States of America, of humanity itself – what skulduggery would you refuse to stoop to?

Can you blame pro-Trumpers, then, for suspecting that anti-Trumpers would do anything to take him down? When you hear liberals’ dark prophecies of vengeful white mobs descending on innocent Mexicans, of Commandante Trump teaming up with Vladimir Putin to drop atom bombs on Aleppo, of David Duke and Pepe the Frog roaming the West Wing arm-in-arm – if they sincerely fear these things, all preventative measures must be on the table. Mustn’t they?

Paranoia is infectious.


This seems like the place to mention Scott Alexander’s anti-Trump piece, by far the most clear-eyed I’ve come across. His argument is that Trump is the high-variance candidate. We know what to expect from Hillary Clinton: roughly the same stuff we’ve gotten from Obama – the measured expansion of the nanny state – with an uptick in petty corruption of the email-deletion variety, maybe a sex scandal or two courtesy of the First Gentleman. Nothing to get excited for, but nothing to be terribly scared of either.

Whereas with Trump, the likeliest outcome is four years of incompetent flailing enlivened by the occasional entertaining temper tantrum – but, there’s a non-negligible risk of him doing something really stupid and destroying, if not the world, then at least the American economy.

Is he that reckless? Who knows. He seems to have been a quite successful real estate developer, which I assume requires a great deal of skill – but he’s had an entire lifetime to learn that skill. Whereas he would have to pick up the knack of being president in just a couple months. Judging by his rambling stump speeches and debate appearances, he doesn’t appear to have much – or really any discernible – grasp of policy. But then, he’s not concentrating on being the president right now, he’s concentrating on running for president. And he’s doing pretty well at it, despite having had his chances written off over and over by the know-it-alls in the media. So it’s possible to hope that, safely elected, he might buckle down and figure out how to be successful at the presidency the same way he’s been successful in business – presumably, by setting broad policy goals and delegating the details to capable minions.

I’m not expecting this to happen. However if, per Scott Alexander, Trump is the high-variance candidate, his range of potential presidential outcomes would encompass not just world-destruction but also the possibility of surprising competence. Or, to put it another way, if it’s not crazy for his opponents to fear that Trump will destroy the world, neither is it crazy for his supporters to hope he’ll do a decent job.

Just a few more hours for pro-Trumpers and anti-Trumpers to indulge their hopes and fears. Tonight, very probably, Hillary Clinton will eke out her long-predicted victory and restore us to boring, comfortable stasis.


Later in his election-eve post, Kaus tries to calculate whether, given his plentiful reservations, it’s still justifiable to vote Trump. He concludes that since he lives in California – whose 55 electoral votes are guaranteed to go to Clinton regardless – he can risk a Trump vote to send a message to future, less-hysteria-inducing candidates that a firmer stance on illegal immigration can find support even in an immigrant-heavy state.

Of course – and Kaus doesn’t mention this – if Trump wins, he could misinterpret the message as “I’m 100% behind you, Donald! Follow your most reckless instincts!” That’s the problem with trying to send a message via ballot. The nuances tend to get lost.

I don’t think I could vote Trump, even as a throwaway protest in a safe state. My preference is for the narrowest possible Clinton victory both in the popular vote and the electoral college, with the Senate and House staying in Republican hands to constrain her. Right now this seems like the likeliest outcome anyway, so rather than dirty my hands with a Trump vote that I’d probably regret if he actually won, I’d vote Libertarian, or spoil my ballot. If I lived in a competitive state the calculation would be different. But luckily I’m Canadian, so it doesn’t really matter. Don’t worry, Democrats, there’s little chance of me moving to the States anytime soon.


Andrew Coyne and the lump of labour.

A while back I went to a movie on a weekday afternoon. As usual I bought my ticket at the automatic kiosk. As I crossed the lobby I noticed that there was nobody else around, neither patron nor employee. Even the snack counter was unattended. Ordinarily there’s an usher waiting to tear your ticket at the far end of the lobby, but this checkpoint was also unmanned, so I shrugged and made my way down the hall to my theatre, where I took my place among the half-dozen other lonely mid-afternoon moviegoers. After a few minutes the lights dimmed, the doors automatically swung closed, and the ads started. “Holy crap,” I realized. “We’re in a giant robot.”

Presumably there were two or three people working at the theatre that afternoon, and I happened not to run into any of them. But it’s easy to imagine how the handful of remaining jobs for humans could be turned over to machines. The ticket-tearer could be replaced with a barcode scanner and a swinging door. The snack counter could be replaced with a bank of vending machines. The only person that’s probably non-replaceable, in the near term, is the poor schlub who cleans the bathrooms. But we’ll figure out how to put him out of a job eventually.

Andrew Coyne, writing in the National Post, isn’t worried for that out-of-work toilet scrubber:

Artificial intelligence, we are told, if it does not altogether enslave us, will at the very least make us economically obsolete. Already it has started to replicate tasks previously thought the preserve of the human mind, from legal drafting to investment advice. Call it the Robots Will Take Our Jobs theory.

Where the RWTOJ thesis falls down is not in the idea that there will be jobs lost, but in its unstated corollary, that there will be no jobs created in their place.

Coyne calls this the “lump of labour” fallacy, as in, there’s a lump of jobs that needs a-doin’, and if part of that lump is handed over to machines, the workers presently doin’ those jobs will be left with nothing to do. Here’s why it’s a fallacy:

[I]n fact there is no fixed amount of work to be done. There is no permanent list somewhere of all the goods and services consumers might want or the jobs that might be filled providing them. Consumers’ wants are limitless, as is human ingenuity: not only do we generally prefer more of what we already want, but entrepreneurs are constantly thinking up new wants we didn’t know we had. Much of today’s workforce is engaged in making goods and services that not only did not exist a century ago, but had not been imagined.

Likewise, Coyne tells us, future displaced workers will find new jobs providing goods and services we can’t even imagine yet. Maybe not the exact same workers – he acknowledges that the individuals thrown out of their jobs might be irreparably hurt. But overall, the number of new jobs created will more than compensate for those lost. It’s happened before and we can count on it happening again.

He might be right. By definition we can’t imagine the things we can’t yet imagine. But I don’t find Coyne’s reassurances all that convincing, probably because I don’t think the “lump of labour” fallacy accurately describes the pessimists’ main concern about the prospective obsolescence of human labour. Because, you see, it’s not labour that we think of as an inflexible lump. No, we’re much, much more pessimistic than that! Our fear is that we humans are the inflexible lump.

It probably helps to put this argument in the form of a diagram. Here we have a visual representation of every thing a human can do:

human capabilities

The diagram, obviously, is incomplete. The list of unique things contained within this circle is infinite – we could, for instance, say a human is capable of writing a novel, or we could get more specific and say a human is capable of writing Lucky Jim, or we could get more specific still and say a human is capable of pecking out Lucky Jim one-handed on a typewriter while simultaneously sipping whiskey and smoking a cigarette.

Some of those refinements add value – if you can write Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire instead of Lucky Jim, you can earn a half-billion dollars instead of a few paltry million. Most of the refinements, like typing one-handed, or in your underwear, or in a pressurized dome at the bottom of the sea, add no value at all. While one can imagine an endless number of refinements to any conceivable human activity, nearly all of them are economically worthless.

Furthermore, while the number of unique things in the circle is infinite, the circle is not all-encompassing. Undoubtedly in the future people will be employed doing things we don’t currently have words to describe – amphibiating the sensoid bits on tri-dimensional metadroms, maybe. But whatever as-yet-inconceivable things we may someday do, they all lie within the set of things humans are capable of doing. That set is limited not by the human imagination, but by human biology. Our lifting capacity is constrained by having only two arms which can exert only a certain amount of force. Our ability to do mental calculations is limited by the number of figures we can retain in our short-term memories. As for amphibiating those sensoid bits, whatever the job entails we can be pretty sure of certain things it won’t entail, like breathing sulfur dioxide, or seeing frequencies outside the visible spectrum.

I foresee your objection. With the assistance of machines, you say, we can augment our lifting, calculating, breathing, and seeing capacities. That’s why we invented machines in the first place, starting with the simplest tools – like the sharp-edged stones our proto-human ancestors used to tear the flesh of animals. I suppose an apeman who subscribed to the “lump of labour” fallacy would have complained that sharp-edged stones were putting able-bodied apemen out of work – where once three or four workers would have used their nails and teeth to dismember a hartebeest, now the job could be done by one hairy fellow with a stone. Brighten up, Andrew Coyne would have told those unemployed apemen, now you can spend more time hunting and gathering. And he would have been right!

Let’s put, right next to a circle representing proto-human capabilities, a second circle representing all the things technology could do, circa 1 million BC. We’ll have to zoom in to see it:


I’ve made the little circle overlap the big circle, because right from the start, technology is impinging on the previously exclusive domain of proto-humans – the sharp-edged stones are displacing manual labour. But that’s all right, because there’s literally an infinite number of other things the displacees can do with the time freed up by the invention of the sharp-edged stone. Learn to make fire, for instance.

You can probably see where I’m going with this, so let’s fast forward:

machines versus humans

You’ll notice that the circle of human capabilities hasn’t expanded since the arrival of Homo sapiens. Better nutrition and education may have made us a little stronger or smarter, but the child of one of our Neolithic forebears, transplanted to modern times and raised as one of us, would be well within current mental and physical norms – perfectly capable of manning the snack counter at the local multiplex.

It’s not greater innate intelligence that has enabled us to make machines of a sophistication that our ancestors couldn’t have dreamed of. It’s the fact that new technologies are built on top of existing technologies. You can’t invent a self-driving car unless you’ve already invented a car, which depends on the earlier invention of the internal combusion engine, and so on back to the discovery of fire.

Human capabilities, unfortunately, don’t accumulate in the same way.

So, with every passing year, the expanding circle of technological capabilities takes a bigger bite out of the static circle of human capabilities. Every year the number of jobs for which humans and only humans are qualified diminishes. There are still, to be sure, an infinite number of options within the narrowing crescent of skills exclusive to humans, but among those infinite options it becomes harder and harder to conceive of an as-yet-untapped skill that can be turned into an economically viable career. And the crescent keeps shrinking.

And since it takes a fairly high degree of imagination and inventiveness to think up an entirely new career that won’t immediately be at risk of being taken over by machines, the many, many humans who aren’t particularly imaginative or inventive – I count myself among that number – are left to compete with robots in the penumbra of activities where our capabilities overlap. How do humans compete? Since we can’t work more quickly, or more reliably, or put in longer hours than machines, we have to work more cheaply.

This is a great outcome for employers. You don’t have to actually bring in machines to replace your workforce of fragile, clumsy, illness-prone, emotionally unpredictable humans. The mere hint that they’re replaceable should be enough to subdue their uppitiness. And every year the machinery gets faster, cheaper, more reliable…

I imagine to a guy like Andrew Coyne, who probably hangs out with other high-IQ types capable of dreaming up new goods and services and turning them into profitable businesses, the limitations of the human lump are less apparent than they are to us middling-IQ proles out here in lumpenland. “Don’t worry,” he tells us, “I read in Fast Company that the tri-dimensional metadrom industry is going to need tens of thousands of trained amphibiators.”

“But what kind of education will that require?”

“Just a two-year diploma.”

“But I’m a thirty-nine year old long-haul trucker.”

“No problem, the government will help pay for your retraining.”

“But how long before they develop robot amphibiators?”

“A decade and a half, at least.”

“And what do I do then?”

“By then tetra-dimensional metadrom technology should be in full swing.”

“And they’ll still need experienced amphibiators?”

“Well, you might have to go back to school again…”

“You realize I became a long-haul trucker in the first place because I didn’t do well in school, right?”

“Or maybe you lost interest in school because you thought you could have a decent-paying career without a post-secondary diploma.”

“Yes, yes, that’s exactly the point I’ve been trying to make!”

“I literally can’t understand what you’re complaining about.”

“I can see that. Well, thanks for your pep talk anyway, Andrew Coyne.”


Equality and homogeneity.

I picked up a used copy of G.K. Chesterton’s 1906 biography-cum-critical-appreciation Charles Dickens on a visit to the UK five years ago, but to avoid spoilers I held off tackling it until I’d read all of Dickens’s novels at least once. I finally polished off The Mystery of Edwin Drood last month, freeing me to read the Chesterton book.

One of its major themes is Dickens’s egalitarianism, his “democratic optimism”:

We shall consider Dickens in many other capacities, but let us put this one first. He was the voice in England of this humane intoxication and expansion, this encouraging of anybody to be anything.

Which strikes very comfortingly on the modern ear – but it quickly becomes apparent that Chesterton’s notion of equality is very different from the version now championed. At one point he offers this telling digression:

In one sense things can only be equal if they are entirely different. Thus, for instance, people talk with a quite astonishing gravity about the inequality or equality of the sexes; as if there could possibly be any inequality between a lock and a key. Wherever there is no element of variety, wherever all the items literally have an identical aim, there is at once and of necessity inequality. A woman is only inferior to man in the matter of being not so manly; she is inferior in nothing else. Man is inferior to woman in so far as he is not a woman; there is no other reason. … If everything is trying to be green, some things will be greener than others; but there is an immortal and indestructible equality between green and red.

That is to say, when everyone’s worth is measured by a single criterion – by IQ, by wealth, by physical strength – then equality is an impossible goal. It’s only when people are liberated to pursue their manifold, unpredictable, and often hilarious excellences that true equality – the equality of the human spirit – becomes visible.


In 2013 my father died. As his only child and heir I received a sizeable life insurance payout, the sum of various small amounts scattered among his various bank accounts, and a modest monthly pension which will carry on through 2020. This hardly added up to what a middle-class Canadian would describe as a fortune, but it was sufficient to free me, a single person with inexpensive tastes, from the necessity of paid employment for a while.

I used my freedom to write a novel.

…Or that’s the self-glamorizing way to put it. It would be as accurate to say I pissed away my dad’s life savings for three years, during which time I incidentally happened to produce a novel – which, even if I somehow get it published, is highly unlikely to earn back even a tiny fraction of what I pissed away, let alone the money I failed to earn by not working.

I didn’t get here through stupidity. I knew full well that a multi-year gap in the middle of my prime wage-earning years would blow my chances of ever owning a home, or raising a family, or being treated by anyone as a person of importance. It’s not that I don’t value any of those things, but you can see by my choices that I don’t value them that highly.

Meanwhile, given my level of laziness, I knew I was unlikely ever to write a novel while simultaneously working a full-time job. And writing this novel was important to me.

So I’m okay with my decision – for now. Check back with me when I’m a pensionless sixty-five year old starving in a ditch.


Assuming I’ve correctly estimated my expenditures, it appears that last year I scraped by at roughly the Low-Income Cut-Off, or LICO – the closest thing Canada has to an “official” poverty line – for a single person.

I don’t think of myself as living in near-poverty. My apartment is mostly bug-free. My budget allows me two bottles of liquor a month, sufficient for my current level of incipient alcoholism. A couple times a year I fly out to see relatives in Toronto, where I make a show of spending liberally so they don’t worry about me.

Of course it would be a very different thing if I’d been grinding out forty hours a week at Tim Hortons to bring home an equivalent income. A LICO-level standard of living is quite comfortable when combined with the freedom to sleep in as late as you like.

Comfortable for me, I mean. Your results may vary.


I have this thought experiment that strikes me as so obvious it’s probably not even worth writing down. And yet I haven’t seen it expressed this way anywhere, so maybe it’s not that obvious, who knows.

Suppose all the wealth in a country is redistributed equally among all its citizens. All debts are cancelled, all money and goods are apportioned equally, all the land is divided in such a way that everyone’s share is equally productive.

It’s a wealthy country. There’s more than enough for everyone to live comfortably. No-one has to work at Tim Hortons any more – though they’re welcome to, if they like.

If you leave this egalitarian paradise alone for a while, then check in at the end of, say, ten years to see how things are progressing, will everyone still be equally wealthy?

Perhaps you’ll find that a few wily and unscrupulous operators have fleeced their more trusting fellow citizens of all or most of their wealth. But that wasn’t really a fair test. Those who had been well-educated, well-connected, and well-off prior to the redistribution had an advantage over the previously disadvantaged and downtrodden.

So let’s run the experiment again, only this time we’ll kidnap the young children of our failed socialist state and resettle them in a brand new, unspoiled country, where they’ll all be dressed identically, housed identically, fed identically, and educated to a common standard. When the kids reach eighteen the wealth of their new land will be shared out again, and this time, none of them will have any advantage over the others. Surely when we check back in at the end of ten years…

Huh, there’s still widespread inequality. It turns out the kids have different tastes, different interests. Some enjoy the simple life while others like to decorate their homes with fancy and expensive things. Some are content to hew wood and draw water while others prefer to sleep in late and write unsellable novels. Others enjoy manufacturing things that are useful and necessary, which they can exchange with their neighbours for a small share of their neighbours’ wealth. Still others have discovered that having extra wealth is in itself rather enjoyable, and they’re okay with spending their spare time doing not-very-enjoyable things – even working at Tim Hortons – for the chance of making a little more.

What can you do? Kidnap another generation of imperfectly equal babies, I guess. You’ll just have to brainwash the little suckers.


One of the implications of my thought experiment is that the more identical the citizens are in their tastes, interests, and priorities, the more enduring the equal distribution of wealth is likely to be. Which raises the question – did those countries that are celebrated for their egalitarianism get that way because they pursued egalitarian policies? Or are they naturally egalitarian because their citizens exhibit a high degree of homogeneity?

And what happens when homogeneous cultures attempt to assimilate large minorities with very different sets of tastes, interests, and priorities?

…But now we’re getting into the touchy subject of group differences, where you can easily get yourself blacklisted for saying the wrong thing. Better to stay away from specifics.

I’ll only suggest – delicately and humbly – that if you and I can have different preferences about how to spend our time and money, leading to differences in life outcomes, isn’t it probable that different groups, with different histories, different backgrounds, will tend to have different preferences that lead to different outcomes?

The modern version of egalitarianism proclaims that women and men, gays and straights, Jews and gentiles, all must be distributed in every profession, in every sphere of activity, at every level of prosperity, in proportion to their overall numbers. Only then will we all be equal.

But the price of that equality may be that women and men, gays and straights, Jews and gentiles – you and I – lose our distinctive identities.

My own old-fashioned view is that we’re equal already, in the Chestertonian sense – “the immortal and indestructible equality between green and red”. But to the modern progressive mind, that sounds like complacency. Greenness may be just one of many possible yardsticks for comparing people and groups, but it’s the one the modern world is built around. To tell the ungreen to be satisfied in their redness, or yellowness, or blueness, while we continue to adulate green above all, is bound to lead to resentment.

I’m not sure there’s a solution to this problem, or anyway one that doesn’t involve illiberal attempts to re-engineer human nature – precisely what I’m opposed to. So long as people have the freedom to pursue different paths we’ll tend to group ourselves around common values and interests. And so long as different groups exist, jealousy, suspicion, and hostility will arise between them. The best we can do is try and keep these feelings from breaking out into violence and persecution.

In any case, my complacent prediction is that human variety, and human conflict, will outlive all the clumsy attempts by the modern egalitarians to stamp them out.


True and original…or, why we write (or don’t).

For the last few years most of my intellectual fuel has been burned up in writing my first novel. But since I finished the novel this spring (apart from a few minor tweaks and rearrangements, still ongoing) I’ve had a hard time motivating myself to resume my old habit of blogging. Laziness is clearly a factor, but I don’t think I’m any lazier than I used to be – only more realistic about what I expect my writing to achieve.

Suppose we evaluate every piece of writing, existing or potential, on the following dimensions:

1) Truthfulness.
2) Originality.
3) Effort.

By “truthfulness” I mean, okay, yes, empirical truth: Did this happen in the real world? Can it be relied on, to a reasonable degree of statistical certainty, to happen again? But fiction can also be truthful, if its artifice reveals deep-down truths about humanity, social forces, whatever. When a character in a story does something no human would actually do, “It’s fiction!” isn’t a defense – unless the character is a robot or an alien – in which case “It’s science-fiction!” is a defense, provided that the robot’s or alien’s behaviour points to something true about our own reality. I guess what I’m saying is that truthfulness is a slippery and debatable concept – but that doesn’t free us to knowingly write lies.

“Originality” seems pretty straightforward. The older you get, the more you read, the more you start seeing the same old ideas, the same old arguments, coming around again and again. This doesn’t mean the old ideas or arguments are untrue. Sometimes people need to be reminded of things they already know, or used to know, or would have known if they hadn’t been misled by false-but-original intellectual fashions into believing daft things. Sometimes the old, commonplace ideas are so thoroughly forgotten that they become original again. Which is to say that originality is almost as slippery and debatable as truthfulness.

By “effort” I mean how much effort goes into writing. It’s easy to write something true if you’re not concerned about originality: Japan is a mountainous and densely-populated archipelago off the eastern coast of mainland Asia. It’s easy to write something original if you’re not concerned about truth: Japan was founded in 1949 by lobster people displaced by atomic testing in the Bikini Atoll. Writing something both true and original is exceptionally difficult. So difficult that very few writers ever manage it. To judge by results, most don’t even try.

Suppose you have an idea that’s true, but not very original. Should you go to the effort of writing it down? If you have a fair degree of certainty about its truthfulness, it’s probably worth sharing, if only to help increase the amount of truth in the world.

Alternatively, suppose you have an idea that may or may not be true, but you’re pretty sure no-one’s ever had before. In that case, again, it’s probably worth sharing, albeit at the risk of misleading people with what could be an untruth.

But if you’re only, say, fifty percent sure your idea is true, and fifty percent sure it’s original, is it really worth the effort to write down? Probably not.

One of the nice things about having a novel in progress is you can use it as an outlet for all the ideas you have that might not meet your standards for truthfulness and originality: Okay, I don’t believe this all that strongly, but it’s the kind of thing Katie (or Roland, or Helmut) might believe, so I’ll just rephrase it into that character’s voice and…and you look up from your computer screen and it’s 3 AM and, marvel of marvels, you’ve actually met your day’s quota. You can go to bed without hating yourself.

But a novel can’t be merely a repository for every half-baked idea you’re embarrassed to take responsibility for. Unless those ideas add up to a true and original whole, you’re better off saving yourself the effort.

Does my novel meet that standard? Probably not. But then, very few do.


The medical men of Middlemarch.

There must be two dozen books on my shelves that I’ve never read, but recently, after coming across a couple references to how dauntingly unreadable Middlemarch is, I decided to verify my hazy impression that I’d found it absorbing from the start.

Maybe “absorbing” is the wrong word. Victorian novels demand sifting, extracting, unpacking. Many sentences need to be double-read: once through to sort out how the clauses relate to each other and again to determine how they relate to the story. You’d think I’d find it tedious. I’m not enchanted with complexity for its own sake. My eyelids tend to droop when I read poetry, for instance, even stuff I know I should admire, like Shakespeare. George Eliot begins each chapter with an epigraph, usually poetical; I skim them. But the story is interesting enough that I don’t mind unravelling the prose when it gets knotty. Clive James once disparaged another literary pretzel-twister, Edward Gibbon, for “the kind of stylistic difficulty which leads its admirers to admire themselves, for submitting to the punishment.” Perhaps liking Middlemarch is a kind of masochism.

The other day, awaiting the inevitable callback from my garage to upsell me from a routine oil-and-lube to major repairs, I found myself wondering why mechanics can’t operate the way Mr. Lydgate does in Middlemarch. I know that sounds unbearably pretentious but it’s what I was thinking.

Most readers remember Middlemarch for the thwarted romance of widowed Dorothea Casaubon and the passionate but aimless Will Ladislaw. Mr. Lydgate is the hero of what a screenwriter would call the “B-plot”; to quote the rear cover copy on my Signet Classic paperback, Lydgate is “an ambitious young doctor who is betrayed by his wife’s egoism and his own inner weakness.” The rather haughty surgeon-apothecary, newly arrived in Middlemarch, offends local custom by acting on the principle that a doctor should “simply prescribe, without dispensing drugs or taking percentage from druggists.” He explains that,

it must lower the character of practitioners and be a constant injury to the public if their only mode of getting paid for their work was by their making out long bills for drafts, boluses, and mixtures.

This explanation gets rather muddled in third-hand transmission to a competitor:

The next day Mr. Gambit was told that Lydgate went about saying physic was of no use.

“Indeed!” said he, lifting his eyebrows with cautious surprise. (He was a stout, husky man with a large ring on his fourth finger.) “How will he cure his patients, then?”

“That is what I say,” returned Mrs. Mawmsey, who habitually gave weight to her speech by loading her pronouns. “Does he suppose that people will pay him only to come and sit with them and go away again?”

This business about Lydgate and his rivalry with the town’s other “practitioners” is one of those subtle questions of class and custom that gets lost on the modern reader. On first reading Middlemarch I failed to notice that Lydgate is referred to as “Mr.”, never as “Dr.” The latter honorific is reserved to those, like the town physicians, Dr. Minchin and Dr. Sprague, who have “been to either of the English universities and enjoyed the absence of anatomical and bedside study there”. In other words they have been more expensively though not more comprehensively educated. Mr. Lydgate, by contrast, after his apprenticeship to a country apothecary, has studied at Edinburgh, Paris, and London, there picking up numerous progressive and unsettling ideas.

Middlemarch is set just before and after the accession of William IV in 1830, a time of much reformist ferment. A decade and a half earlier, Parliament had made a stab at straightening out the chaotic system of medical accreditation which then prevailed in the United Kingdom. As S.W.F. Holloway explained in the July 1966 issue of the journal Medical History (“The Apothecaries’ Act, 1815: A Reinterpretation: Part II“) , the new system effectively defined nearly all medical practitioners as apothecaries, and regulated them as such. Traditionally apothecaries had filled a role roughly analogous to pharmacists today, but the lines between the different classes of medical practitioners had become blurred. As Holloway quotes a contemporary source:

In London, and some of our other great towns, there are physicians and surgeons who do not compound or vend medicines; but in the country this distinction of the three branches of the profession does not exist. Except in a few of our largest towns, every man who practises medicine at all, likewise deals in drugs, and must do so … If he were not to supply [patients] with medicines, there is nobody else from whom they could procure them. The consequence is … that over all England the medical practitioners are also apothecaries, within the meaning of this act.

Physicians were an exalted class who could afford to forgo the unseemly necessity of seeking licensure as apothecaries, which required a five-year apprenticeship as an apothecary. Men of substance who could afford a degree from Oxford or Cambridge, physicians attended the sickbeds of the titled and propertied; the customary fee for a consultation was one guinea. All other medical men, known inclusively as general practitioners, were traditionally forbidden to charge an attendance fee. Their sole source of income was the “drafts, boluses, and mixtures” they peddled. As Holloway explains:

This system led not only to [the general practitioner] being considered a tradesman in an age when trade was regarded as a debased occupation: it also exposed him to the accusation of over-charging and over-prescribing. The apothecary, it was said in 1703, “makes the deluded Patient pay very extravagant Fees by the intolerable Prices he puts on all the cheap Medicines, and by passing upon him very many more Doses than the Disease requires or the Constitution can bear”.

(You can see why my mind ran to Lydgate as I sat awaiting the call from my mechanic, to pass upon me a Dose my Constitution could not bear.)

By charging for doctoring and not for drugs, Lydgate is offensive not only to the physicians on whose exclusive prerogative he is trespassing, but to his fellow general practitioners Mr. Wrench and Mr. Toller, to whom he appears to be trying to overreach his station:

“I say the most ungentlemanly trick a man can be guilty of is to come among the members of his profession with innovations which are a libel on their time-honoured procedure. That is my opinion, and I am ready to maintain it against anyone who contradicts me.”

“My dear fellow,” said Mr. Toller, striking in pacifically and looking at Mr. Wrench, “the physicians have their toes trodden on more than we have. If you come to dignity it is a question for Minchin and Sprague.”

“Does medical jurisprudence provide nothing against these infringements?” said Mr. Hackbutt with a disinterested desire to offer his lights. “How does the law stand, eh, Hawley?”

“Nothing to be done there,” said Mr. Hawley. “I looked into it for Sprague. You’d only break your nose against a damned judge’s decision.”

What decision is this? Holloway again:

The first step came in 1829 when Chief Justice Best, in Towne v. Gresley, held that an apothecary might charge for his attendance, provided he made no charge for the medicines furnished. But in the following year Lord Tenterden ruled that an apothecary might recover for reasonable attendance as well as for medicines.

Per this judgement, there’s nothing stopping Mr. Lydgate from charging a consulting fee and also pushing lucrative potions on his patients. But he refrains as a matter of principle.

Perhaps an idealistic thinker of the Lydgate type will one day reform the automotive repair industry so that garages are no longer incentivized, as apothecaries once were, to over-prescribe service. A consulting mechanic would examine our car and determine which fluids really needed flushing, which gaskets really needed replacing, then write out a prescription which we’d take to a practicing mechanic up the road, who’d actually carry out the repairs. I’m sure the first such practitioner would arouse much resentment and resistance among his fellow tradespeople. It would make good drama for a novel. Not the main story, probably. A B-plot.


Do crosswalk timers cause more collisions, and if so, why?

Note: Here’s the fourth in a trove of unpublished blog posts I salvaged from an old laptop. The news story referenced is now a few years out of date, but it’s still interesting…at least to me.

crosswalk timer rear-end collision

In the Vancouver Sun a few weeks ago (April 2013) there was an article about how crosswalk timers – the walk signals at many intersections that count down the number of seconds till the light turns yellow – reduce collisions between vehicles and pedestrians, but increase collisions between vehicles.

Arvind Magesan, the University of Calgary researcher who discovered this phenomenon, theorizes that the extra accidents are caused by drivers speeding up to beat the red light:

“If a road is really busy and it’s slow-moving traffic, you can’t really use a countdown to decide to drive faster to get through a light. In places like that, it seems to have a positive effect. It reduces the rates of accidents,” Magesan said Tuesday.

“In places where a driver does have the opportunity to react to this thing – which they are not supposed to be reacting to in the first place – they use the information and accelerate,” Magesan said.

I never realized that drivers “are not supposed to be reacting to” these timers. When I took driver training, not so very many years ago, the instructor explicitly advised us to keep an eye on crosswalk signals to get a sense of when the light was about to change. The idea was that when we saw the blinking red hand, we should be prepared to slow down. But a more reckless driver will obviously take the red hand as a cue to make haste through the intersection.

It’s not only crosswalk signals that are interpreted in ways not intended by the designers. Recall that scene in the movie Starman, where Jeff Bridges’ stranded alien, having learned to drive by observing Karen Allen, interprets the meaning of the traffic signals as “red light, stop – green light, go – yellow light, go very fast.”

A crosslight timer is just a more explicit blinking red hand, which in turn is a kind of yellow light advance-warning. They all serve the same purpose; to tell us roughly how long until the light turns red. What we do with that information is up to us. Reckless drivers use it one way, cautious drivers another.

I was skeptical of Arvind Magesan’s crosswalk timer study, so I tracked it down online. Co-authored with Sacha Kapoor, the study is disguised under the unrevealing title Paging Inspector Sands: The Costs of Public Information. In supporting their findings, Magesan and Kapoor assert (citing earlier research) that “providing drivers with information about the time until a light change causes drivers to approach traffic lights more aggressively on average.” That on average is key. Some of us use the information the way my driving instructor wanted us to – to give us a little extra warning that we need to slow down. Others use the information to determine how much they need to speed up to avoid wasting time at a red light.

I would have thought the two effects would balance out – cautious drivers would avoid crashes by slowing down, reckless drivers would get into more crashes by speeding up, and the net effect would be a wash. But when you think about it, it makes sense that accidents would increase even if crosswalk timers didn’t, as the authors claim, make drivers more aggressive on average. Because you need both a reckless and a cautious driver to create the conditions for the kind of crash they describe.

Let me explain. After I read the news story, but before I read the study, I assumed that the higher accident rate was caused by vehicles speeding through yellow lights and colliding head-on with vehicles attempting to turn left. This was consistent with Magesan’s assertion that it was at less busy intersections where the increase in accidents occurred. At busy, slow-moving intersections, vehicles are unable to work up a head of steam, so the crosswalk timer makes no difference. But at less busy intersections, drivers who see the timer from fifty or a hundred yards out might stomp on the gas to try and beat the light. Since less busy intersections tend not to get designated left turn signals, I reasoned, there are more likely to be vehicles waiting there to turn left on yellow, hence, more opportunities for smashes.

My assumption was wrong. The authors broke down the accidents by type, and it seems that collisions involving a “turning movement” increased only negligibly when the crosswalk timers were installed. The greatest increase was in rear-end collisions. What’s more, speeding wasn’t the major cause of the accidents. Tailgating was.

Consider that, in any given pair of vehicles approaching an intersection, there are four possible combinations:

1. Cautious driver following cautious driver.
2. Cautious driver following reckless driver.
3. Reckless driver following reckless driver.
4. Reckless driver following cautious driver.

In scenarios 1 and 2, the crosswalk timer ought to help cautious drivers more accurately gauge when to start slowing down. This can be useful, especially in slippery winter conditions (the study was conducted in Toronto) where braking distance might be three or four times longer than usual. You’d think some number of rear-end collisions would be avoided here.

In scenario 3, where a reckless driver follows a reckless driver, they should both zoom safely through the intersection.

The typical crosswalk timer-induced accident involves scenario 4, where a reckless driver follows too closely behind a cautious driver. The reckless driver sees the timer and concludes that if he sticks closely to the vehicle ahead, he can sneak through the light just as it changes. He reasons that if he can make it through the intersection on time, the driver ahead, who obviously can see the timer just as well as he can, has even less reason to stop. What he doesn’t realize is that the cautious driver ahead isn’t interpreting the signal the same way. The cautious driver hits the brakes just as the reckless driver hits the gas.

In this case, the added information provided by the crosswalk timer is making things worse by facilitating both the recklessness of the reckless driver and the caution of the cautious driver. The accident would have been avoided if the reckless driver had slowed down or if the cautious driver had maintained his speed.

Whatever behavioural mechanism is at work, it appears that offering too much information can in fact make traffic signals more dangerous. Does it follow that less information makes signals less dangerous? According to Wikipedia, the very first modern traffic light included a warning that the light was about to change – a buzzer, back then, rather than a yellow light. How would drivers behave at an intersection where there was no warning at all – no buzzer, no yellow light, just red and green, stop and go? It might lead to more running of red lights. Or it might make everyone more cautious as they approached an intersection, for precisely that reason.

If it turns out having some warning is in fact safer than having none, what’s the sweet spot, safety-wise, between not enough warning and too much? And what’s the tradeoff between that optimally safe arrangement and the optimally efficient flow of traffic? After all, the safest traffic condition is probably gridlock, where no-one can build up enough speed to hurt anybody else.

Recently a few blogs have featured this video of Poynton, England, where they removed all traffic signals from the central intersection. In order to navigate the new uncontrolled double-roundabout safely, drivers are forced to actually pay attention to pedestrians and their fellow drivers. The result, apparently, is a much safer and smoother flow of traffic than you might expect.

Predictably, most of the discussion of this innovation has occurred on crunchy-leaning urban design blogs, and is uniformly uncritical. On some forums you can find a few skeptical comments from cyclists and drivers who claim that the new configuration is simply shifting traffic problems to routes that miss the town. (Not that this is necessarily a bad thing.)

Me, I’m agnostic. I’m glad planners are trying out new ideas, but I wonder if the current mania for walkability, shared roadways, and related New Urbanist tropes will in the long run suffer a backlash just as the previous mania for Brutalist skyscrapers, vast concrete plazas, and neighbourhood-gutting freeways did. My impression of that bizarre double-roundabout in the Poynton video is that it looks pleasant enough for pedestrians, but as a driver I’d gladly go a few miles out of my way to avoid it. But then, I’m a North American, and we’re famously flummoxed by roundabouts.

Incidentally, Magesan and Kapoor’s policy recommendation is that crosswalk timers be replaced with audible countdowns that only pedestrians, and not drivers, can hear. If I were a policymaker I’d be reluctant to act on this until the study has been replicated a few times by other researchers in other places. Since many cities seem to be installing these timers, there should be plenty of data available.

As a fairly cautious driver, I’d prefer to keep the visible timers – I find them useful for regulating my speed when conditions are slippery, as they so often are in Canada. I suppose I’ll feel differently if I’m ever rear-ended at one of these intersections.