I'm writing to think, learn, and remember in public. I'll be here everyday.
Ozempic is a problem.
However, the problem isn’t the drug, it’s stated intention, the people who use it, the mentality around it, the side effects, or the cost. The problem is it’s designed to keep you on it in perpetuity. That creates an incentive mismatch.
If you’re an executive, employee, or shareholder in Norvo Nordisk, what do you want?
If you’re a user of Ozempic, what do you want?
Those two wants don’t align.
Whether you’re building a house, making a spreadsheet, writing an article, or cooking dinner, it’s not for everyone.
That sounds obvious to your brain. But probably not to your heart. Your heart wonders why shouldn’t everyone love it? Why not?
That’s a trap. Because it’s not for everyone.
When soliciting feedback, start with who it’s for. Did I make this spreadsheet for a tax accountant or my mother-in-law? Is this article meant for my engineering team or my Church group? Are we serving this bread to our gluten-free friends?
Be careful, because even though that sounds simple and obvious, it’s not always. It starts with well-meaning people.
“I’d love to read it!”
“Can I try?”
“I’d be happy to give you some feedback on that.”
The sooner you get clear about who it’s for, the more useful feedback you’ll receive.
Getting useful feedback is an art.
As someone who has been building stuff for others to use for many years now, I’ve learned the following rules of feedback about the stuff I’m making:
As it turns out, these rules are pretty good for soliciting feedback about anything.
You’ve probably seen the photos comparing people on the beach in the 60s/70s versus now.
Not very flattering, for sure, and everybody’s got their opinion on why it is. Lifestyle, food, Big Ag, medication, Big Pharma, capitalism, racism, the income divide, America-the-evil, luck, etc. Pick your favorite political slogan.
How does one find the cause and then a solution for such a problem (ie, the kind of problem that didn’t exist but then shows up)?
In the engineering world, we use two concepts to find causes and solutions: white-box testing and black-box testing. White box testing requires a map and deep knowledge of what’s inside the box. Black box testing knows nothing of what’s in the box and focuses solely on the inputs and output. Black box testing is ideal when you know that nothing inside the box has changed, yet the results are different.
In this case here, we are the box. The human biochemical system today is the same as it was 50 years ago.
So what changed outside the box?
The beat writer observes. The coach participates.
The professor observes. The CEO participates.
The pundit observes. The Senator participates.
The parent observes. The child participates.
And also vice versa.
Doing both leads to better perspective.
I learned a long time ago that I listen to music wrong.
I have no idea what the singer is saying. Even if the title of the song is in the lyrics, I rarely pick it up. Yesterday, I had Chris Stapleton’s “Broken Halos” running through my head all day, but as it turns out, I didn’t know that was the name (or the chorus) because I was singing “Broken Arrows” in my head. Arrows vs halos makes no difference to me. The shape of the words and melody are unphased by the substitution. To me, arrows works just as good as halos.
That’s a mondegreen. That’s your word for the day. You’re welcome.
I hear the vocals as an instrument, much like the lead guitar or keyboard. Sure, I pick up a word or phrase here and there (often incorrectly, as above), but its just gibberish without any meaning. It’s just a sound. Broadway musicals make little sense to me because I can’t follow the narrative through the words of the singers.
My family thinks there’s something wrong with me.
I also did for a long time. But as it turns out, we have a whole tribe of people like me. We’re not the majority, but we exist. I can’t find a term for our condition, but I’m not the only one.
So I just coined a name for us. We’re the tribe of musical mondegreenarians.
You’re welcome to join.
Time seems to accelerate as we age.
One year for a 10-year-old is 10% of his life.
One year for a 20-year-old is 5%.
One year for a 40-year-old is 2.5%.
If you get to 80, it’s down to 1.25%.
Each year is less important in terms of percentage, but also, each year lived provides so many more opportunities. The 10-year-old just hasn’t enough years yet. The 80-year-old has had exponentially more.
What are you filling your years with?
The time is yours.
As a child of the 70’s and 80’s, many of my inputs were curated without my having any control.
My parents, of course, were the initial curators of just about all inputs. Record labels and radio station programming directors initially curated my music, but then, luckily, my bass player and his infinite library of imported vinyl augmented that curation. The big three VHF stations and two little UHF stations curated my TV choices, then cable TV arrived in semi-rural Pennsylvania, and the curator list expanded greatly. The local newspaper and evening news show curated my current events inputs. The public school curated the 3 R’s and my history inputs. My mom’s cooking, plus the limited selection of restaurants in our geography, curated my food inputs. Any exposure I gained to inputs from other cultures, food, or worldviews came through our vacations or curated by my Dad’s adventures as a corporate pilot.
I don’t feel like I missed anything (important). I don’t feel like I needed more choice. But I also recognize that curation shaped who I was and am. Curation is important because curating your inputs affects your mental health, energy, perspective, knowledge, and outlook.
In today’s world, it’s harder than ever to curate your inputs, and it requires frequent attention. Plus, you run the risk of building an echo chamber around you.
Can AI solve the problem?
Oh, for sure, AI will be (already is) curating your inputs. If done properly, AI will definitely solve the problem. Let’s be careful, though. We need to follow the incentives.
Who’s incentivized? What are they trying to achieve? Who’s in control?
AI has no awareness. It doesn’t know what it’s doing. But it’s really good at curation.
My wife and I spent a long weekend in Austin last fall to celebrate our 30th anniversary.
We stayed in an Airbnb in a sleepy little neighborhood a couple blocks east of the famous Franklins BBQ. We’d walk back from the downtown area each night (not that late because we’re not that young) and see them cruising around. A pack of three. Tightly knit. Just spinning around the empty streets in the neighborhood. Coming back around every few minutes. Dutifully obeying all of the traffic rules like a newbie teenager with the instructor and his clipboard wearing a stern expression in the passenger seat. They never got in our way and even stopped noticeably short when we crossed the street in front of them. But it was disarming to see them.
Driverless cars. Chevy Cruise’s to be exact. Testing. Learning. Figuring it out.
Even if you know nothing of ChatGPT, you probably know about driverless cars. And you probably have an opinion. Most of the loud opinions are negative.
Maybe, “I’d never get in a car without a driver!”
Or, “Nobody’s taking the wheel away from me!”
Or, “Ain’t no way a machine can drive better than me!”
In 2023, fully autonomous, driverless (or, more accurately, AI-driven) cars logged 3.3 million miles in California alone. Waymo, the largest driverless car company, has logged 7.1 million miles since its inception. Over that time, it has recorded three minor incidents. If humans had logged those same miles in the same areas, we would expect around 13 injury crashes.
Testing. Learning. Figuring it out.
Fully autonomous cars driven by AI are coming. It’s not an if. It’s a when. Maybe not in my lifetime, but it’s coming.
For now, AI continues on the path of testing, learning, and figuring it out.
I hate cars.
OK, let me qualify that. I love life with a car — the freedom, flexibility, and utility that a car provides for me. I certainly wouldn’t want to have no car. At least not where I currently live. Also, the engineer in me really likes cars and all of their mechanisms and software.
But I hate cars. I hate shopping for them, buying them, selling them, registering them, fixing them, parking them, putting gas in them (or, if I had an EV, which I will someday, I’d hate charging them), and cleaning them. It feels like I spend all of my money on my cars.
And, unfortunately, I have a pile of them. Five to be exact. Ask me some other time.
Americans love cars, or rather, pickup trucks. Americans bought 15.5 million new vehicles in 2023, with the top three selling vehicles being the Ford F-series, Chevy Silverado, and the RAM pickup. The first EV, the Tesla Y, shows up at number 5, and the first car, the Camry, tops the list at 8.
Even though it feels like I spend all of my money on cars, I don’t. The average American household spent 12.8% of their income on transportation. I looked at my own data, and I’m right around there myself.
I guess its like so much else in my life. What it feels like and what the data says rarely align.
