Kyle Chayka in The New Yorker puts a name to something I’ve felt for many years while attempting to navigate the pervasive recommendation machines of the internet: algorithmic anxiety. As he relays in the article:

“I’ve been on the internet for the last 10 years and I don’t know if I like what I like or what an algorithm wants me to like,” Peter wrote. She’d come to see social networks’ algorithmic recommendations as a kind of psychic intrusion, surreptitiously reshaping what she’s shown online and, thus, her understanding of her own inclinations and tastes. “I want things I truly like not what is being lowkey marketed to me,” her letter continued.

…

Peter’s dilemma brought to my mind a term that has been used, in recent years, to describe the modern Internet user’s feeling that she must constantly contend with machine estimations of her desires: algorithmic anxiety. Besieged by automated recommendations, we are left to guess exactly how they are influencing us, feeling in some moments misperceived or misled and in other moments clocked with eerie precision. At times, the computer sometimes seems more in control of our choices than we are.

Personally, this means being afraid to ever ‘dislike’ anything on Netflix or YouTube, with the fear that anything remotely related will now be banished forever from reaching me, or hesitating to like even the most enjoyable clips only to be inundated with identical clones. I’ve begun listening to mid-tempo synth music as background while working, and though I still prefer energetic indie rock, Spotify has now almost completely shifted its picture of my tastes toward retro paradise vibes. It’s now become a side job simply to manage a computer-generated picture of who I am and what interests me.

What are your strategies for optimizing how the machine will predict your tastes?

Are you doing a good job managing them? Are they delivering as a result?

What are the best examples of the algorithm nailing it for you, or totally missing the mark?

What are your alternative discovery methods to get out from the yoke of a digitally dictated taste profile?

When I was young, I thought sports — and especially school sports — were mostly pointless. A waste of time and money that could be better spent on other things, like more resources for education and the arts. I think this is a common stance for bookish teens, like I was back then, who cling to any ways in which they can feel superior to those who are actually good at sports.

But as an adult I grew to recognize that sports play a valuable role in culture, too. They’re a communal experience that unites people across dividing lines in shared rituals and a mutual pride in their cities. There’s a reason sports have been around since ancient civilizations. We may have invented basketball, but cheering for the home team is timeless.

My feelings towards sports in general evolved along with a growing love for my favorite sport, college football, which if you’ll quickly indulge me, I believe is objectively the best because:

One, It’s a lifelong loyalty that you personally decide to opt into, which is at least theoretically based on some set of attitudes or ideals, versus being determined purely by birth or proximity.

Two, college football is a precious limited resource. There are only about a dozen games per year, with maybe a few more if your team does well. That scarcity means that each game is a special event. Something to be relished. It also means that being a fan doesn’t come with the huge time commitment of any other sport. It’s a win-win for people with other interests, like, say, film or literature or the outdoors.

Three, football games are broken down into a series of discrete decisions that play out with a mix of strategic planning and luck, action and reaction, which to a nerd like me makes it the sport that’s most like a board game. Every play has clear intent behind it, with a setup and a resolution, and every game is a series of plays that add up to success or failure, making each contest exciting on both the micro and macro level.

Then this week I found out that, for the first time in my adult life, my favorite sport is just… not happening this year.

So whether I like it or not, I’m going to have to put that time and energy somewhere else until 2021. Which has me thinking again about my old idea… do we really need sports?

Especially when you zoom in on what also makes college football the most problematic of the major televised sports, it’s worth examining seriously: Here we have young, unpaid athletes risking permanent damage to their health for the enrichment of a league that exploits them, under the guise of school spirit and raising funds for educational institutions.

Is it not worth wondering if there’s a better way to entertain ourselves?

In favor of sports, of course, there’s the economic argument: that sports is an engine for billions of dollars and millions of jobs, from athletes to shoemakers, security guards to hot dog vendors. And there’s the local and cultural argument: that cities need something to rally around and cheer for as a collective. A logo to put on a hat to show civic pride. A broadly approachable common interest to bond over with neighbors.

And of course it’s obvious that we love, and maybe even need, competition. Humans have always wanted to root for their city, region, or country to win at things. But are there other things we can compete in that both provide entertainment, but also contribute more to life in our communities? Without all that money, manpower and attention directed to the massive sports leagues of today, what else could we turn into sports that leaves us better off?

Could we replace baseball teams with squads of aspiring restauranteurs and make Top Chef a seasonal sport, where its participants go on to build up their city’s culinary industry? What could we create if we cheered for debate teams the way we do basketball players, while setting up rising stars to succeed in local politics? What if groups of young coders and engineers competed in an innovation challenge that we treated with as much importance and celebration as playoff season?

It’s a crazy notion, I know, but in a year where everything’s changing against our will, maybe it’s worth considering what we rebuild in the years that come after.

How would your life, and our society, change without sports as we know them today?

What would be a more productive alternative that still fulfills some of those same cultural needs?

If you could only keep one sport alive, which would you save, and why?

Palm Springs debuted on Hulu in July of 2020, in a time with little competition, because we weren’t allowed to go to movie theaters. But more surprising, even in normal times this might be my favorite movie of the year.

(Though Da 5 Bloods is also a huge achievement and definitely a must-see. Seriously, don’t skip it because it’s an hour longer and “serious” or you think it feels like homework — it’s a powerful, beautiful film.)

Why Palm Springs works so well is even more interesting. At first glance, it’s just a rehash of the Groundhog Day formula, but with a more modern sense of humor and a more straightforward romantic comedy setup. And since Groundhog Day is basically a perfect movie, of course its spiritual successor also works. But what does it do to deserve so much credit? Three huge, crucial story changes:

ONE: EDITING

This is the nerdiest structural critique, but also the bravest choice the movie makes. The original Groundhog Day runs about 1 hour 40 minutes, but takes the first full 18 minutes setting up the character and his predicament before Phil wakes up in his first time loop. We then spend the middle of the movie watching him figure out the “rules” of this world, and experiment with different ways to get out. Only after all that does he commit to a path of personal growth.

Palm Springs skips over the entire first two sections of Groundhog Day, dropping us in with a character already deep into his endlessly repeating purgatory. Nyles is past his ‘figuring out how it all works’ phase, so the movie kicks off with his general acceptance of being stuck, and what that means for him on both a practical and existential level.

He’s making the best of what his life has become, built some simple rules for how not to be an awful person in that world, but he’s lost any sense of meaning or purpose beyond that. This way, we get to spend the whole movie on his journey of emotional growth, when we get to the second big change that makes all the difference in the world.

TWO: COMPANIONSHIP

The biggest game-changer in this script is the introduction of other characters into the same repeating loop. Not only does this unlock a lot more potential for fun that the movie makes great use of, it opens up totally new emotional territory to explore. In a lot of ways, this is actually Sarah’s movie, with Nyles playing the mentor/companion as she goes through phases of denial, negotiation, and acceptance before coming out the other side and forcing both of them to grow and change.

Now, this isn’t a story of a man getting one day just right so he can earn redemption, which has always had a sort of creepy stalker implication in Groundhog Day, since our protagonist’s whole goal is to effectively trick the woman he desires into loving him back.

Instead, Palm Springs is a story about what it means to share a life with someone, even if that life, like most lives, is going to be a lot of the same thing over and over again. And the ability to make peace with that is beautiful in a whole new way from the original.

THREE: SETTING

The least consequential, but this update allows for whole new shades to the idea of getting stuck on repeat. A destination wedding in Palm Springs sounds pretty fun. In normal circumstances, this would be something you look forward to, and almost certainly post to your Instagram to make people jealous. It’s lounging and drinking and catered food with a picturesque backdrop. Who wouldn’t want more days like that?

But again, the movie both exposes how empty all that ultimately is, and pushes its characters to go beyond what we’re supposed to want out of life to find something deeper than the gram-worthy lifestyle that only looks good on the surface. Even the most idyllic, indulgent days lose their luster eventually, and at a certain point you want something more.

So even though Palm Springs pays great homage to its inspiration, with a few key changes it delivers a fresh, funny, and affecting look at how we spend our days and who we want to spend them with — which brings us back to questions we can ask ourselves about our own lives.

If you could choose one day of your life to live on loop,
which day would you choose, and why?

Where would you be, which people would you be with,
and why would you choose them?

How long could you spend living that same day, and
what would be the biggest reason that you wanted out?

Fast Company cites an interesting new way to think about why you like the music you like:

A new study out of Columbia Business School and Bar-Ilan University in the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology shows that you prefer the music of artists with personalities similar to your own. In other words, you like yourself.

Researchers studied the public personas of the most famous 50 musicians in the Western world, including Paul McCartney, Bob Dylan, Elton John, Whitney Houston, The Rolling Stones, Beyoncé, Coldplay, Dave Matthews Band, Maroon 5, Taylor Swift, and Ozzy Osbourne. In two studies of over 80,000 participants, they found that the personalities of the musicians correlate with those of their fans. A third study of 4,995 participants showed that fans’ personalities predict their musical preferences as much as other strong predictors like gender, age, and features of the music.

Which not only explains some of the most-played albums in my music library (Weezer, Decemberists, Run the Jewels), but raises the question if this same finding would apply to books, movies, TV shows, etc.

Which of your favorite artists do you have, or think you have, the most in common with, personality-wise?

How does that factor into your love of their work?

How much of that connection is true to them as real people, or a result of the image they project as artists? How much is the real you, or the image of yourself you’d like to project?

In July of 2020, Harper’s Magazine published an open letter on “Justice and Open Debate”, signed by over a hundred writers, journalists, and thinkers — including big names such as Salman Rushdie, Margaret Atwood, and JK Rowling.

The letter itself is only three paragraphs long, and speaks mostly in broad strokes, arguing that we as a society must protect the right to discuss any idea, even those we disagree with, and particularly warns against punishing those who raise ideas that are unfashionable or supposedly dangerous with the loss of jobs or reputation. 

It goes on to say that even so-called “caustic counter-speech” must be aired and defeated in the public sphere, and a culture of limiting our freedom to debate them openly can be just as dangerous as the caustic ideas themselves.

The argument itself is so unspecific, it’s sort of hard to argue against on principle. “Free speech, we like it!”

But the response has shown that’s exactly the problem: in making such a broad argument, it comes off as naive and totally unhelpful. In a time where people without a voice are finding it in new ways, it feels out of touch. As a veiled swipe against “cancel culture” it seems to miss the point that free speech is exactly what’s being deployed, finally, to hold powerful people and gatekeepers to account for their words and actions.

That in reality, “cancel culture” should more honestly be thought of as “consequence culture”. Sometimes when you use your freedom to say things, everyone else uses their freedom to say you’re out of line.

This all comes just weeks after another Big Internet Discussion that sprung up following an editorial, written by Senator Tom Cotton and published in the New York Times Opinion section, arguing for the deployment of the military against protestors. 

In the blowback that followed, editor James Bennet resigned from the Times. He was not fired, fined or punished. But he did resign, probably under pressure. Which is important to the ensuing discussion around whether consequences like this are ultimately damaging to free speech in a broader sense.

In an interview with WNYC’s On The Media, Vox writer David Roberts discussed his response, in which he outlines how the farthest right thinkers are no longer operating within the bounds of good faith debate, particularly when it comes to free speech. (See video for excerpt.)

This is a helpful distinction: when we’re talking about what speech is “acceptable,” we aren’t usually talking about the concept of free speech in an absolute sense. We’re more often talking about which ideas get the benefit of certain platforms to amplify them.

Think of two extremes: in one world, everyone gets their own prime-time TV show. That’s crazy and impossible, because there aren’t time slots and studio spaces to make that real. Someone, somewhere, has to choose.

On another extreme: a guy in a park screaming that all left-handed people are witches who should be shot into the sun. Now, this guy is just a guy, given no resources or platform by anyone. But even so, if he did this day after day, his community would probably choose to keep him out of that park, eventually. His crazy, violent speech is baseless, disruptive, and harmful to the public good.

Neither extreme is realistic, but illustrates that either extreme is not the real point: not everyone gets unfettered access to a large audience, and not every idea is up for good faith discussion in public.

So what we’re really talking about are the basic rules we agree upon for public debate. And under those rules, for example, we might decide that lying conspiracy peddlers don’t get to have Twitter accounts because they spread misinformation, which hurts everyone. Or that White Supremacists aren’t appropriate to interview on live TV because their fundamental position runs counter to our shared ideals of equality, and so at their very core, they don’t deserve unfiltered distribution.

And especially when we’re talking about publication or broadcast, we can’t forget all the ideas that never get their turn on the stage to begin with, because the powers behind those platforms traditionally favor certain views or voices.

So, maybe it’s time to consider what the world could be like if there were a core set of principles that outline what’s suitable for public debate — either basic requirements, or possibly a few select restrictions.

Imagine the five rules for good faith public debate; 
what might they be?

How and where should they be applied, and what spaces, if any, deserve to be free of any and all restrictions?

How would applying rules like this make public discourse better, or potentially worse?