It’s my first time in San Francisco today, and waiting at SFO’s designated spot for my Lyft ride I am stunned — stunned, I tell you — by how many BMWs, Lexuses and Teslas are used for ride sharing. An interesting data point.
Currently reading: Talent by Tyler Cowen 📚 and so far the book is… reprehensible? If Cowen and his co-author Daniel Gross are serious about their recommendations on hiring then they are deserving of contempt — more on the specifics once I finish the book. But Cowen is a fan of Straussian readings; my Straussian reading of Talent is that people who take the book’s advice to heart without questioning its underlying premise are the contemptible ones.
Of course, that could be my own ego-defense mechanism talking. Surely I couldn’t have been reading and listening to Cowen for so long and not have realized that he was a sociopath.
The calendar is full again. Rejoice?
The Washington Post reports another wave of covid is coming to America. Well, it certainly came to our household. And much like the first time around, I got it days after a vaccine — just my luck. At least this time it’s only 3 days of sore throat and runny nose, and not a full week of high fevers.
Calendar interoperability is underappreciated. I use iCloud for home, Google for the University and Office365 for work, all from a single app, which also handles invites and scheduling. Other people can see my various calendars in their own software, seamlessly. We should make everything a calendar.
Feature suggestion for a microblogging service: a “Do Not Post” button. Get all those poison darts and built-up steam out of your system together with the satisfaction of a button click, without the anxiety or guilt.
Oh no, wait, it already exists.
My list for the year, ordered by similarity. All are physical prints already on the bookshelf, just waiting to be snubbed for whatever else catches my attention.
Here are the wishlists for 2022 and 2023, and the respective outcomes.
Luke Burgis on prolific Substack writers:
At some level, the pure volume of writing—especially if you’re halfway decent at it—is perceived by some people as actual knowledge, even if you’re not saying anything at all, or even if you’re making ridiculous arguments riddled with fallacies.
Every once in a while, some 6,000 word word salad will land in my inbox from a figure like Freddie deBoer or Matty Yglesias or Richard Hanania—and I stay subscribed, just so I know what’s going on (maybe I shouldn’t)—and I think, “Lord, have mercy. Who has time to respond to all of these things? Or who would actually want to make themselves that miserable? I sure don’t!” And then I get back to work.
Feeling the same, I unsubscribed from most newsletters long ago.
Writing and editing are distinct skills. As I gaze into a stream of text that someone else wrote and several more people edited, as I try to make sense of the reds and the greens and the teals of Word’s tracked changes stacked on top of the red squiggles and the double underlines, as the nested comments flow one after another until my (aging!?) M1 MacBook Air begins to stutter, I realize that, at heart, I am a writer.
Happy New Year!
At the beginning of the year, I set out to read 23 books. Mission accomplished? As expected, my favorite of the year was not on that wish list.
Here are all 23, ordered by some semblance of category.
Not too bad, considering we had a flooded basement and our second move in three years, with some writing wedged in between. And here is last year’s list.