250 Words on A.I. Art

[I try to start my day writing 250 words on anything. I’ll post one every Tuesday until I run out of good ones.]

A meme I like* compares who write with A.I. to someone who wants to run a marathon but realizes that training takes too much time and effort, so they catch an Uber to the finish line then demand to be called a runner.

A.I. (which isn’t really artificial intelligence at all, but never mind) is here and it has a role. If you need to scrutinize a billion stars to find those that have planets, or analyze medical imaging to detect early-stage cancer, A.I. is a priceless tool. In education and the arts, I’m afraid it’s a crutch that erodes both mind and spirit.

Many A.I. proponents and users confuse creativity and learning for the destination when they're almost entirely about the journey. When you view Monet's "Water Lilies," you're not looking at one painting but at the decades of technique Monet mastered and all the decisions he made to create it. Likewise, the point of writing a paper about zebras is only partly to learn about zebras; it’s mostly about learning how to do research, organize your thoughts, and communicate your conclusions to others. 

Art is a process. People consume art to experience the thoughts and feelings of other people. I like the meme because the purpose of running a marathon is never to travel 26.2 miles—there are many easier, faster ways to do that. It's to dedicate the time and effort to become the sort of person who can run 26.2 miles. That's what we celebrate.

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I also like this one:

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What Disaster Leaves Behind

Here's a podcast I did with my friend Jennifer Gray Thompson about the firestorms of 2017, which destroyed my home among many others and which I wrote about in my graphic novel "A Fire Story." 

Jennifer heads a great organization called After The Fire USA, which was formed as a direct result of our fires. The nonprofit goes to communities after they suffer large-scale disasters like ours to share what we did right, what we did wrong, and what we've learned in the meantime to help them toward recovery. It also lobbies for legislation to help disaster survivors, and is in general a good resource for anyone who's been through something like we experienced.

Many thanks to Jennifer for having me on her podcast, and to her and After the Fire USA for the important work they continue to do! 

Maybe the Kids Aren't Alright

Old people love to complain about young people, and I always defend them. The kids I encounter are almost always smart, caring, involved, and everything you’d want future citizens and stewards of the planet to be. I have no qualms about turning the world over to them.

Well, most of them. I collected two data points on a train ride Karen and I took today that tempered my optimism.

Data Point One: The train was crowded and two 13-year-old boys stood in the aisle beside us. Their conversation went like this:

“This train is moving so slow.”

“I could run faster than this.”

(Editor’s note: the train was going about 50 mph.)

“Could not!”

“Humans can run as fast as a cheetah.”

“No they can’t!”

“Humans can run 45 miles per hour. Cheetahs run 75.”

“Forty-five isn’t as fast as 75!”

“It’s almost as fast.”

"Not even close!"

“I think I could catch a cheetah.”

Several minutes later, they moved to get off at the next stop. I caught their eyes and said, “Hey guys. Twenty-eight miles per hour.”

“Huh?”

“Fastest human on Earth, Usain Bolt. Twenty-eight miles per hour.”

One slugged the other in the arm and said, “See! I told you!”

Data Point Two: On the return train trip, a young man maybe 17 sat across the aisle from Karen and me, his phone on speaker and turned up for everyone to hear. He and a buddy were making plans to get super wasted smoking pot and then go ocean kayaking, which even he seemed to realize sounded like a bad idea. 

Then the kid on the phone said, “You ever bang any chicks?”

“Not for a while. But I've banged chicks.”

“It’s hella rad.”

“Yeah,” our trainmate agreed. “It’s hella rad.”

At that point, the conductor came by and told him to shut it down, which seemed to make some fellow travelers happy. Not me. I wanted to find out where this conversation was going. Instead, I nudged Karen with my elbow and in my most sultry, seductive voice whispered into her ear:

“Hella rad.” 

250 Words on Star Pitching

[I try to start my day writing 250 words on anything. I’ll post one every Tuesday until I run out of good ones.]

In the 1980s and ‘90s, the Star Trek spin-offs were unique in that they would consider story ideas from anyone. Other TV shows required writers to have an agent or be on-staff, but the Trek series—The Next Generation (TNG), Deep Space Nine, and Voyager—let outside writers submit scripts.

I discovered that policy in the sixth year of TNG’s seven-year run, and quickly sent off two screenplays. I heard back: they couldn’t use them, but they liked my ideas enough to invite me to pitch others. Over the next several years, I pitched approximately 40 stories to writer/producers of all three shows. I never sold one but learned much about storytelling.

First: stories are all about characters. You might expect a science-fiction series to want weird aliens, space-time anomalies, starship battles, etc., but producers had little interest in those. However, if I pitched “Our hero faces Dilemma A, battles Complication B, and in the end resolves Conflict C,” I had their full attention. Audiences care about characters; the fantastical trappings are just how we get to know them.  

Second: ideas are common. Yours aren’t as original or outlandish as you think. I’d barely begun my first-ever pitch when the producer said, “I need to stop you. We’re shooting that episode this week.” When it aired, it was very much like the story I never got the chance to tell him.* Raw ideas are less important than how they’re executed. 

Third: nothing is a failure if you learn from it.
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*I saw it months later. If he hadn’t stopped me, I’d have thought they’d plagiarized it from me. 

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Chemophobia

It's 7 a.m. on a Sunday and I've already seen something that drew a deep sigh and eye roll from me.

This cartoon by Edith Pritchett in the Washington Post asks "How Many Chemicals Are In Your Food?" on a scale from "A Little" to "A Lot." I wouldn't normally pick on a fellow cartoonist, but one venturing into science shouldn't be so smug about being wrong.

ALL food is chemicals. I'm hard pressed to think of anything edible that isn't a chemical. An organically grown apple picked fresh off a tree contains the chemicals water, fructose, and sucrose. 

"Yeah, but you know what she means!" I do. But this cartoon reminds me of the stupid advice that you should never eat anything you can't pronounce, followed by a long list of scary-sounding chemicals. That organic apple has quercetin, catechin, epicatechin, and chlorogenic acid--natural antioxidants that are all good for you. 

To answer the cartoon's question: Your food is pretty much 100% chemicals. And so are you.  

The Mandalorian and Grogu and Storytelling

Karen and I saw "The Mandalorian and Grogu" a couple of days ago. I don't usually review movies, but this one inspired me to share some thoughts on storytelling.

We agreed that the movie was fine. Glad we saw it. A friend told me ahead of time that it felt like two TV episodes stitched together, and I wouldn't be surprised if that's literally what it is: Mando and Grogu go on one adventure for the first hour of the film, then go on a second adventure for the second hour. It has aliens and spaceships and explosions, so if you like that stuff you'll have a good time.

The question that occurred to me walking out of the theater was, "What was it about?"

The best stories have text and subtext. There's a plot, and then there's a deeper story that's often the reason we care about the plot. 

For example, "The Wizard of Oz" is about a kid on the verge of adulthood who yearns to leave her dull ordinary life and, with the help of colorful and sometimes magical companions, overcomes obstacles to earn her place in the larger world. That's also what the first "Star Wars" movie and many Disney Princess movies (Cinderella, Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast, Mulan, Moana) are about. Different texts; similar subtexts.

I have no idea what "The Mandalorian and Grogu" is about. Nothing, as far as I could tell. Mando and Grogu make a fun team and are devoted to each other, but we already knew that. Grogu is adorable but we already knew that, too. Neither character grows or changes, we don't learn anything new about them. They are assigned a mission--which they have no personal stakes in--then they complete the mission, and then the movie's over. 

Not every movie has to have deep meaning. I can appreciate a "summer popcorn flick" and, as far as it goes, "Mandalorian and Grogu" is a fine enough one. But if you ever walk out of a movie wondering why it felt flat or empty in a way you can't quite put your finger on, ask yourself that question: "What was it about?" If nothing comes to mind, you have your answer.

Squirrel Ahoy

Squirrel! 

For years, I've said that I'd know our neighborhood had recovered from our 2017 firestorm when I finally saw a squirrel in my yard. Squirrels require infrastructure: decent-size trees, stuff to eat, places to hide from predators. Barren land doesn't offer them much, but a suburban maze of fences and mature foliage is a squirrel paradise.

Today, 3,158 days after the fire, we saw a squirrel run along our backyard fence. So I guess we're all good now. Right?

(Photo is not of the squirrel we saw--it scampered away too fast--but it looked just like it.) 

250 Words on Practical Education

[I try to start my day writing 250 words on anything. I’ll post one every Tuesday until I run out of good ones.]

I took the usual mix of science, math, art, English, and history classes in school, some of them excellent. But as I look back, it may have been two electives that made the largest lasting difference in my life.

I studied electronics in seventh grade. The class covered everything from wiring a doorbell to acid-etching our own copper circuit boards. I learned how electricity works, and to respect but not fear it. 

As a result, I've always been adept at light electrical work: changing a switch or outlet, rewiring a lamp, soldering a splice, popping a new fuse into an appliance. I don’t mess with 220 volts, but I have a practical grasp of electricity that has served me well. 

I also took typing in summer school following my sophomore year of high school. I didn’t want to dedicate an entire quarter to it, but thought I’d see what I could learn in six weeks. I'll always remember typing a slow cadence in time to Elton John’s “Benny and the Jets.”

That class got me through a lot of papers in college and may have landed me my first job afterward. I suspect one reason I was hired to write for a newspaper was that I was a fast and accurate typist. Learning touch-typing changed my life.

As academically inclined as I was, I’ve always supported education in the trades and basic life skills. A diploma should certify that you have the tools to launch in whatever direction you choose. 

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