2021 In Review

2021 felt like a sequel to 2020's slow-motion apocalypse: it recapitulated the main events of last year to diminishing effect and a tired familiarity. This was a larger reflection of many of our individual days, which seem to be copies of previous ones.

There were notable exceptions. One day I received a text message from a dear friend who told me they were in the hospital and not likely to survive the night. I called. We talked briefly, and they told me they loved me, and said goodbye. Mercifully, they survived. But that was 2021 for some of us.

Another dear friend had a similar situation with their children. Again, mercifully, they all made it, and we were able to celebrate survival and life in person.

Some of my other friends with serious illnesses continued to thrive, a miracle in itself. Some of my friends got COVID. Being vaccinated, they all survived 2021.  

But not everyone did. Saddest of all was the loss of 3 friends to suicide in the last 6 months (and a 4th in 2020). One from high school, one from my LA and early SF days, and one from recent times. I spent a lot of time thinking about them, and the families and friends they left behind. I fear this is something we may have to get used to.

As for me, my days felt like variations on a theme. I woke around 7, and had some coffee while trying to read as little news as possible. That news was also consistent: Pandemic grinds on. People don't want to wear masks or get vaccinated. Trump's insurrection reverberates with little consequence. The GOP continues its campaign of undermining democracy in favor of oligarchy. The Democrats continue to focus on mostly the wrong issues with the wrong strategies. The climate continues to cause problems. All presented in a way algorithmically designed for maximum emotional agitation. Then you can read or leave comments and further increase agitation and engagement. 

At 8, my workday began, videoconferencing for at least half of most days. Emails and documents and staring out the window, trying to get myself to engage and care, even as it sometimes felt pointless and silly. 

I ran in the park, managing somewhere between 15 and 20 miles per week, with just a few weeks out for overuse injuries. These runs kept me sane. Flying through tree-lined paths, leaving stress and worry behind, listening to music. I would dream about them on my good sleep nights. 

Or I would work out at home, lifting some weights in the garage and doing body exercises indoors. I managed to stay in decent shape this year, and my overall health is good for a man of my age. I do miss the equipment at the gym, and I wonder when or if I will find a new facility.

Evenings were simple -- dinner, some TV, some computer, a book, bed. Then do it all again. All contained within our humble but comfortable home. I found myself wishing for at least one big, open, empty room in which I could exercise or meditate.

That desire for space meant I also continued to contemplate leaving San Francisco, and perhaps the Bay Area. If one can "work from anywhere", why live in the most expensive city in the world, with all of its problems?

Of course, the answer is "work from anywhere" isn't really happening or reliable, and I still have hope life will return to something approximating the pre-pandemic era where we can see friends and eat inside without fear of dying. 

I finished up a new record this year -- a goth rock project -- which should be released in a few weeks. I am excited about this album. It sounds great, and I think the songs are good. It has had a long gestation phase that I think has been worth it. Special thanks to Christy for her patience and creativity. 

On the other hand, it has been nearly 2 years since I played live with The Pants. Our rehearsal room sits dark, with the rent about to significantly increase. For now, we will keep it going. I miss playing music with other people.

Song Club filled that gap a few times over the summer, either over Zoom or with a few in-person sessions during that brief moment when we thought the pandemic might be ending. I am particularly grateful to my songwriting friends, who inspired me with their creativity and helped me learn more about music in general. 

I also spent a lot of time checking in with friends both new and old. Even on days where my videoconference fatigue was high, even a brief talk with these people left me feeling energized and at peace. I do not know if these chats, calls, and emails were helpful for any of you, but they absolutely were for me. I even managed a few in-person lunches in outdoor environments.

I managed to see both my father and brother, who passed through SF with their families briefly. Special and memorable moments, over too soon. 

We managed a few much-needed upgrades for the house. The year began with a new furnace, which has kept us comfortable during the SF cold. We also managed to get a new refrigerator before our previous one failed. Given the supply chain issues, this was a significant accomplishment. We had our kitchen floor refinished, after a chemical spill damaged it. And had some (not all, unfortunately) gutters and drains repaired in time for the end-of-year big rains.

But through all of that, life has also been difficult. The ambient stress of the pandemic, environmental disruption, political chaos, and just getting by has been a lot to handle. 

Physically, I am still dealing with some after-effects of serious illness and some ongoing difficult-to-eradicate health issues. Sometimes even getting a good night's sleep has been difficult. I spent a decent amount of time in doctor offices this year. I managed to find a massage therapist and get a few sessions in before the pandemic clamped down.

I also made a lot of progress with my therapist. If the pandemic has one silver lining for all of us, it is that now, many therapists are set up for videoconferencing and are thus both more easily available and able to reach patients in far-away locations, which allows for some demand balancing. 

It has been extremely beneficial for me, if painful and difficult at times. If you are even considering it, I would encourage you to go ahead and find someone to talk with. 

2020 had some notable highlights -- We got all 3 of our vaccination shots, a medical miracle. My better half managed some travel before things got bad again. We have jobs that we can tolerate. There were a few beautiful hikes. Some sublime cups of coffee. Conversations with friends. 

But it has been difficult on every level. As the days drag on and repeat, there is also a slowly growing sense of pointlessness. I understand it, but it does not make it easy.

I am grateful for all of you. Perhaps 2022 will find me writing a bit more. I intend to invest a bit more time in creativity this coming year. See you then.

Dave Lampton (1969 - 2021)

My friend Dave Lampton died in December of 2021. He was 52 years old. 

I could not bring myself to write about it at the time. Dave was the fourth of my friends to die in the space of two years. Writing these obituaries is difficult. I also had concerns that the sheer frequency made them all feel less significant.

The circumstances of Dave's death and our relationship also complicated things.

I met Dave back in the mid-90s, when I was working at an audio technology company. Dave was hired as an intern, and his intern project was porting the DSP code for one of the company's technologies to a recording studio rack unit. Dave had studied this stuff in school. 

At the time, this kind of "load a plug-in" feature was new and exciting. Dave got it running easily. Since it was part of the pro audio business, it was part of my world.

I got to know Dave as part of my frequent trips to the Bay Area. He was roommates with some of my colleagues in that audio technology company. I slept on their fold-out couches on the nights I didn't make it back home to L.A.

Dave had a charming and easy smile, a slow, measured way of speaking, and a soft laugh. He loved music, and turned me on not just to grungy indie rock but also some great underground electronic stuff. His taste was broad, his passion for art deep, and his analysis of what made something good or bad was insightful.

Dave was one of the co-founders of TuneTo.com, the start-up which brought me up to the Bay Area, and which eventually produced Rhapsody/Napster. I was incredibly grateful to Dave and the rest of the team for that opportunity. 

When I moved to San Francisco in 2000, I only knew a handful of people. Dave was one of them, and I ended up finding an apartment just a couple blocks away from Dave. We occasionally carpooled to work. 

Dave was an inventive guitar player. We played music together a few times, and talked about starting some kind of band. At that time, I was still recovering from my pro years in L.A. and was reluctant to do anything with that kind of structure or commitment, but it was fun to think about, and Dave had written some good songs.

Aside from working together, we hung out evenings and weekends. We went to see bands play. We had some memorable nights at legendary San Francisco bar LiPo, with a lovely lady and another friend from L.A. in tow. 

But that was also where it became clear to me that Dave had some problems. Those problems became harder for me and Dave's other friends to ignore as his nightlife bled into the rest of his life. 

I eventually confronted Dave about those issues. He did not want to hear it at the time, and it damaged our friendship, and we stopped hanging out. I couldn't watch him destroy himself, and he didn't want anyone wagging their finger at him. 

It wasn't until many years later that he told me he was grateful for what I said. I only wish I had been more vocal, sooner, and that I had been more helpful. The regret made me vow to speak truth to my friends, even when (or especially when) they "don't want to hear it".

We fell out of touch, but Dave looked to have been doing well the last few years, with new jobs and some new stability in his life. Unfortunately, it appears his newfound balance was somewhat precarious and fragile.

Thinking of Dave makes me think of music. Whenever I hear anything from Death Cab For Cutie's "We Have The Facts And We're Voting Yes", I see and hear Dave, who introduced me to the record and band. I wrote a song about our experiences on my album "Decayed, Decayed". I am currently working on a piece with one of our Li Po compatriots. 

I hope Dave hears it, wherever he is.

Misguided by the 405, 'cause it lead me to an alcoholic summer

I missed the exit to your parents' house hours ago

Red wine and the cigarettes

Hide your bad habits underneath the patio

Mike Hoffman (1985 - 2021)

My friend Mike Hoffman died a few days ago. He was 36 years old. 

I met Mike when I was working on PlayStation VR. His desk was right in front of my office. He was always there when I arrived, and always still there when I left. His long hours and good cheer made enough of an impression that I talked to his managers to acknowledge his efforts.

Mike genuinely loved his job, loved games, and loved his colleagues, particularly his pod of Nate, Josh, Annette, and Paul. They were a fantastic and funny group. Their banter often had me cracking up in my office, even contemplating writing a sitcom about them and their adventures. Perhaps something similar to Mike's beloved "Community".

I got to know Mike during my time at PlayStation. He was a kind man, and passionate about social justice issues. We frequently had lunch at the office cafeteria and talked about the world, life, and our respective creative pursuits. 

When he wasn't rhapsodizing about one of his favorite shows or movies, he would be entertaining us with terrible jokes, including his famous skateboard trick.

He was a good friend, and a rare combination of someone who is fun to be around, but who also wasn't afraid to engage on a deeper and more serious level. I wish I had more people like him in my life.

I met Mike for lunch in the city at the end of August, just about 6 weeks ago. He seemed in good spirits, and we had a wonderful catch-up, enjoying the blue San Francisco skies, a long and heartfelt conversation, and tasty food. We vowed to do it again soon. 

Mike, I am so upset it is not going to happen. I wish you could have reached out to any of the many, many people who love you, just for a moment.

Instead, we are now reaching out to each other, trying to help, listening, sharing memories. The sort of thing I think you would have done, had you been in our miserable, heartbroken shoes. 

As Anthony might say, "How dare you!"

I miss you.

***

Out of Time

Back in November, 2018 I was inspired by the 2018 IPCC report to write a series of blog posts asking if we were doomed -- between the climate and the internet, the answer I came to was "probably, unless we choose to make big changes soon". Gloomy stuff.

The latest IPCC report says there is no more time. You can take your pick of summaries, takes, and analyses. You should read a couple of them, if not the actual report. You need to understand what they say, and what it means for you and your family.

But they all say the same thing: It's hot, and will be getting hotter. 

This is not good news for anyone, but it is particularly bad news for the young. The next 20-30 years will be increasingly dangerous, with storms, fires, drought, and sea level rise. Nothing can change that at this point. But if enough changes aren't made, the decades after that will be exponentially worse. 

As dark as my posts were, the 2021 IPCC report is arguably darker. Yet the bleak IPCC report does offer some hope, some positivity -- but it comes with a price: massive, sudden societal change.

The only question is whether humanity will take immediate and collective action to prevent the worst and avoid total catastrophe, or whether we will continue to do something between making the problem worse and not doing enough to have material impact.

After watching the last few months of anti-maskers and anti-vaxxers prolonging and worsening the COVID pandemic, I am pretty sure I know the answer:

It is probably not going to happen. 

Billionaires in Space

Unless you avoid all news, you probably saw that Richard Branson made it to "space" a couple days ago, becoming the "first civilian astronaut*", or at least the first billionaire to commission a rocket(plane).

Richard Branson's public relations team did a full-court press over the last few weeks, and the media complied, running all sorts of stories trying to make him seem likeable, noble, and cool. Hey, he's dyslexic! He's quirky! He's doing this for you!

But let's be clear: that is public relations, which means it is so much dust and distraction, intended to shift our focus. 

Regarding this space stuff, all of these billionaires -- Richard Branson, Jeff Bezos, and Elon Musk -- are all pretty sickening. These guys are all doing this for the same reasons: dick-measuring, and trying to insure they're the first, and that they're in the history books for something other than being rich doofs. 

All these billionaires have thrived in the pandemic, becoming even richer. Even they recognize competing around wealth is absurd and pointless once you get to their level. So they are looking for other ways to stand out in their weird club.

Musk bought or connived his way onto Saturday Night Live, and that went about as well as you might expect.

Bezos has proven himself to be chock-full of human failings, even if his grotesque wealth has long since catapulted him out of the human race. Bezos is worth around $200 billion dollars. He could try to spend $4 billion dollars every year until he dies (if he dies) and would still have money left over. More than you or I will ever earn in a lifetime. 

Unlike Musk and Bezos' off-putting nerd vibes, Branson is charismatic and charming, with a winning smile and a knack for the kinds of stunts that make for good news.

Still, it is deeply disgusting to see these guys throwing this kind of money around when they could be working on issues that matter, like climate change, or helping the less-fortunate.

Brian Johnston (1969 - 2021)

My friend Brian Johnston died on Tuesday, July 20, 2021. He was 52 years old.

Brian Johnston, in a recent photo

Brian was an artist, making both music and visual works. He was also active in trying to reform and modernize his church, and started a site to help others struggling to reconcile their faith and their lives. While I am not religious at all, I deeply respect Brian's drive to make things better and provide support for others.

I met Brian at Langley High School when I was a junior. We bonded over music and synthesizers.

Brian had an Ensoniq Mirage, the first "affordable" digital sampler. I had a Casio CZ-101 and a drum machine. Together, we started a synth band project, called The Panther Moderns, the name stolen from William Gibson's "Neuromancer".

We got a spot in the high school talent show that year, and performed a cover of Faith No More's "We Care A Lot". It was my first time performing as a lead singer, and my first time performing in a rock band. It was a life-changing experience.

That one performance led to my being asked to join Darow Han's band. Brian would go on to join Jesus Wept. We remained friends through high school, hanging out, and going to each other's shows (when we weren't playing at the same ones!).

I remember Brian as a thoughtful and relatively quiet guy, with sad, expressive eyes and a kind of Nicholas-Cage-in-Valley-Girl charisma and emotional core. He was also very funny when he wanted to be.

The author (l) and Brian Johnston reprising "We Care A Lot" in 1987.

Over the last decade or two, Brian and I communicated once or twice a year, usually over email. A few years ago, we had discussed starting a new collaboration, an updating of our original synth duo project. Our responsibilities got in the way for both of us, and after some false starts, we reluctantly agreed it wasn't the right time. 

I wish I had more time with him, to hear more about how he was doing, to make more art together. I am grateful for the time I did have, and for his inspiration and life-changing impact. 

Thank you, Brian.

Brian is survived by his wife and six children. You can make a contribution here.

52

A lot can change in a year. 

The author, July 16, 2021

Today, July 16, 2021, we have vaccines, true miracles of modern science. We have a new administration.  Rather than uncertainty around lockdowns, we face uncertainty about what "re-opening" means, and what it looks like.

I can point to a few new decorations in the house, a place which I have never appreciated more than the last year. New bins to store my clothes, neatly folded. A shoe stand by the door, which makes me strangely happy. 

At a smaller scale, there's me. My hair is longer than it has been since 1988.  I have a job. I'm reasonably happy, particularly compared to how I was feeling last summer. I am in good, even great physical shape, even if the doctors want to adjust a few things. 

I have also been working on some longstanding personal issues, and making slow progress and gaining awareness. 

It has been an unquestionably productive year, filled with music and long conversations with friends. 

A year can also pass without much changing. 

Like many of you, the slow fade of the pandemic has meant a gradual change in the days, rather than some kind of abrupt snapping back to "normal". I got my vaccines as soon as I could, some months ago. Little has changed, other than me no longer worrying about dying from COVID.

The days are largely as they were last year: I get up, have some coffee and listen to music, get on a Zoom at 8 am, try to work, get some exercise (running 20 miles a week in the park! bodyweight exercises at home!), eat some dinner, watch a little video content, try to get to bed at a reasonable hour. Maybe there's some guitar or synthesizer in the mix. Repeat.

I try to avoid the shrieking of the news. It's just gonna bring us down, man. I read a few books, work on my personal issues. Maybe I write a bit, or even meditate. Talk to my friends. 

My daily routine became a work of art, with tasks polished and optimized, at times seeming like there are more of them than ever. I cannot recall going to sleep ever being so complicated (or so important).

The environment is still in big trouble. Arguably, so is American democracy. But the sky is blue (when it's not slate gray) and beautiful here in San Francisco.

52. 

I am consciously trying to move forward. There is no "going back" for any of us, no going back to before Covid or Trump or middle age or whatever. There is only "what are you going to do now, today?" What does the future hold?

It is starting to look like there will be no clear end to the pandemic. Between variants and the incomprehensible unwillingness of a significant minority to refuse vaccination, I suspect COVID will just keep going, like an underground coal mine burning or a a tire fire, for years to come. 

It is too soon to say how or if the changes to work, business, and life will persist, but it seems clear it will never be exactly like it was in the 2010s. That is not necessarily a bad thing. 

I look at the pandemic and think about what it might suggest for the future. If we cannot get people to take the simplest measures -- wearing a mask, getting a miraculous, free vaccine (we'll pay YOU to get it) -- to save themselves and their loved ones from something that could kill them and their loved ones in a matter of weeks, how will we get them to make more difficult sacrifices to mitigate or deal with climate change? I guess we will find out. 

The world turns. We move forward.

People think I really love the 80s. I guess I do to some degree. I have some fond memories of people, places, and music. But I feel the same way about the 90s and the 00s and the 10s. And even what I remember of the 70s. 

But I am really trying to love today, right now, this moment, and worry less about tomorrows to come.

I think about what I want to do, who I want to be. Who can I help? What can I make? How can I make a positive difference?

These are the things I am thinking about today.

Juul, The Box, and Your Choice

A few years ago, I got a call from a recruiter. I always take calls from recruiters. You should, too. You never know what they're going to be offering, and it is a chance to learn something and make a good impression.

But right away, I was suspicious. The cheery caller was asking me if I was "EXCITED TO WORK ON THE FASTEST-GROWING PERSONAL ELECTRONIC DEVICE IN HISTORY!!"

The combination of vagueness and hype kicked my cynicism and skepticism into high gear. Eventually the recruiter indicated the company was, in fact, Juul, and the "device" was their electronic cigarette/vape system. 

They were looking for a fairly senior product person. Unsurprisingly, they were having difficulty finding someone. For what I thought were obvious reasons.

This was a few years ago. Juul is back in the news today because they've just been hit with a $40 million fine. For a company that had been valued at $38 billion, this is nothing. It's a parking ticket. 

Read this great article from The Verge and you will understand what kind of company Juul was and is. The kind of company that brazenly ignores not just existing law (like, say, AirBnB, Uber, or the scooter goons), but the kind of company that ignores explicit directives from regulatory agencies, using the calculus of "we probably won't get caught, and we might get big enough that it won't matter if we do, and if we don't, we're probably out of business. So fuck it."

The kind of company that, it is alleged, knew its pods might be tainted, and sold them anyway.  

And then Juul decided to take money from the cigarette industry! Any notions of "we're the good guys" were cast to the wind as they aligned themselves with an industry that pioneered the kind of disinformation which will likely doom humanity to a climate apocalypse, and absolutely knew their business model included use by kids.

For their part, Big Cigarette (represented here by Altria), did about what you'd expect. In typical old, big, dumb, slow fashion, they underestimated the market, failed to compete effectively, and then just took the lazy approach of "let's just buy 'em!". And they somehow managed to screw that up, buying Juul's problems, but not keeping the people, signing a desperate, thirsty deal.

It has not gone well.

That story -- of an old, big, dumb, slow company whiffing an acquisition -- is hardly new. Nor is the story of a company selling out.

I'd rather focus on Juul itself, and the kind of people who went to work there. Everybody knew what their business model was: getting people, including kids, addicted to their proprietary nicotine delivery system.

Who thinks "yeah, I'm OK with that, as long as I get paid"? It turns out a lot of people were. They did well for themselves, and then split, cash in hand.

Those people can tell themselves they aren't actively contributing to the problem anymore. But they helped create a barely-regulated industry that has spawned a legion of bad actor companies. Coupled with the current "ignore the law" mindset in corporate American and the public at large, we now live in a time where it seems anything goes.

As for me, I told the recruiter there was no way I was going to go work for a company like Juul, whose business model was fostering addiction.

The recruiter told me the "real mission of the company was to help people quit!" I managed not to laugh, but I asked the recruiter if Juul's board of directors was really steering the company with the intention of seeing market size decrease quarter over quarter, year over year. If that was their guidance and their KPIs. If I would be rewarded for reducing usage.

I didn't have to listen for their answer. I already knew the truth: Of course not. All the investors and all the board members (and perhaps the employees) were banking on plenty of people including kids getting hooked, and monetizing the tar out of it. At every step where they could have done the right thing, they went for the money instead.

One wonders how they would feel if it were their spouses or children ripping hits of this garbage, unable to stop.

Juul is just one company, and between Altria's cluelessness and the exodus of talent, they will likely survive as an empty brand (perhaps for traditional cigarettes! Or flavored booze!), if at all. 

But their legacy and impact linger, like a ghastly cloud.

One day, it may be your phone or doorbell ringing. Maybe it will be a social media company. Or some kind of mobile gaming gambling venture. Or a new wirehead start-up. They'll offer you lots of money. An equity stake. A juicy title. Everything you want. You just have to overlook a few things, like how you feel, or your sense of right and wrong, or the people you will be hurting.

How will you respond?

Yeah, we all have to make a living. Is it OK to do it at the expense of everyone else?

I am reminded of the short story "Button, Button", its adaptation into a Twilight Zone episode and later, the great movie "The Box". Maybe you can make a million by painlessly, effortlessly killing someone you don't know, but inevitably, the shadowy man leaves, looking to find someone who doesn't know you. 

Image by Casey Chin, for WIRED magazine

+3

3 years later, I am still here, but I find myself in a very different world.

Enough has been written about 2020 that a full review is unnecessary here. However, between things including government problems, social unrest, the pandemic, climate change, and human behavior, the world isn't ever going back to how it was last year, or even in 2017. 

I have my own additions to that list of upheavals and shifts: a new job in a new industry, physical changes, and ongoing adjustments (and hopefully improvements) in my mental outlook. Everything is different now, like it or not. Of all the possible futures, this is the one I got.

It is not what I imagined. A year-long echoing reverberant pause. I am glad for it, if not the circumstances around it.

Yesterday, I was having a socially-distanced, masked walk with a friend through the park. I was talking about how my outlook on life has altered over the last few years. About how important it is to find a way to make your life bearable, pleasant, and fun right now, and not just plan for some future finish line.

The last few years and 2020 in particular have underscored the importance of planning for catastrophe, of being responsible and building a robust life prepared for bad things to happen. But they have equally highlighted the necessity of building a life you can enjoy every moment and every day as you journey through it.

Because there may not be a tomorrow, at least not one that you recognize. Today could be the best day of the rest of your life. 

I spent a lot of time thinking about that over the last 3 years, as changes big and small happened in my life. I say "happened" because much as I might aspire to some kind of control, most of the big ones weren't up to me. I tried to make the most of it all, even or especially the difficult changes.

Life is good, but it is also tough. For me, for you, for everyone. We are living through a global catastrophe on a scale not seen in a hundred years. Sometimes, reminding myself of that helps.

The enforced break has given me time to focus, to calm down, to take stock. I have a lot going for me. The work I've put in during the pandemic means I'm in great shape for a person of my age, if not in general. I have a job I like, and feels like I am making the world better (or at least less bad). 

But all this time has also underscored the routine in life, in every sense. As a function of age and the pandemic, I find myself distracted, unable to concentrate. Or wondering "Is this it? What is the point?" Even if today is a really good day, living it repeatedly produces diminishing returns. I doubt I am alone in feeling this way.

But even with all of that, I am more at peace than I have ever been (at least in some moments). And I am still here. For that, I am grateful.