I'm going on a trip.  The primary destination will be Olympia, Washington.  I expect to be there a little over a week.

And yet, I will be away from home for most of August: not quite three weeks.  I expect to leave Marshall on Monday, 08-07, and get back on Sunday, 08-27.

Why Olympia?  The Pacific Northwest is usually a little bit cooler than where I live.  And I hope to visit Olympic National Park, and perhaps also make it to Victoria, British Columbia.

And why will it take so long to get from home to Olympia and back?  To me, that's not a bug, it's a feature.  You see, I'm a rail fan, and most of the miles will be covered by train.

More specifically, most of them will be on the Empire Builder.  That one train will take me from Chicago to Seattle.  And on return, it will take me from Portland (Oregon, of course) back to Chicago.

And the Empire Builder is the longest Amtrak route that I haven't traveled before.  So you could call it a bucket list thing.  Probably most people would think it eccentric to decide on that basis, but hey, it's a free country.  So far.

Well, this is a fine mess.  Not as bad as when Donald Trump was actually President of the United States, but plenty bad.  I refer to the fact that Trump continues to insist that he actually won the 2020 presidential election.

And so do a large proportion of the members of his party.  And quite a lot of the Republican members of the House of Representatives, too.  (Thankfully, this seems, at least at the moment, to be somewhat less true with regard to Republican members of the Senate.)

I don't know about you, but this situation gives me the heebie-jeebies.  And I know I'm not the only one who feels that way.  My primary news source is The New York Times, and many of the people who write opinion pieces for them have, since Trump left office, seemed concerned that our democracy is under threat.

Reporters, on the other hand, are not supposed to say things like that.  But they can interview people and report that many of those folk feel that way, too.  And they have done so.

Okay, many people, both pundits and regular folks, feel that way (that our democracy is under threat).  But is it that way?  For example, is there a substantial likelihood that, after the 2024 presidential election, some state legislatures will certify slates of electors backing a presidential candidate different from the one for which their own citizens voted?

And if so, is there a significant likelihood that we will, as a result, end up with a different president—different from the one who would have been inaugurated, if customary constitutional procedures had been followed?

In a word, no.  Some state legislatures might try it, but I just don't think that it's significantly likely that it would change the outcome of the election.  One way or another, I believe, the attempt would be stopped.

That's a pretty bold claim.  What evidence do I offer for it?

Not much.  Just an overall sense that there are too many Americans who wouldn't stand for it.  I am referring both to ordinary citizens, and to people in positions of power—including, but not limited to, judges.  Obviously, there wouldn't be unanimous agreement that this is just not right; I expect, though, that there would be close enough to a consensus to that effect.  Close enough so that, as I said earlier: one way or another, the attempt would be stopped.

As I said at the beginning, a lot of people are worried that something like this might happen.  Do I think that most of those people, if they read what I have just written, would suddenly stop worrying?

No, I really don't think so.  Heck, it isn't even enough to make me stop worrying.

At this point, some readers might be exasperated with me, and I couldn't really blame them.  They would want to say something like this: "Make up your mind, man!  Is this dreadful possibility actually likely enough to be worth worrying about, or isn't it?"

In fact, some might want me to do more than just "make up my mind."  All I've really done, above, in attempting to estimate the likelihood of such a political disaster, is to state my hunches—whether I "feel" that it is "significantly likely."  Before I expect people to take the time to read what I have to say on the subject, I should do more research, and be prepared to offer real evidence, one way or the other.

This would be an entirely valid criticisim … if what I were purporting to do here were: to provide a rational estimate of how likely it is that our democracy will break down.  Or, to be more precise, how likely that is, in the absence of more strenuous efforts to prevent it.  And unquestionably, such a rational estimate would be a good thing to have.

But that's not what I am doing here, nor even attempting.  (And I apologize for the fact that I haven't found a way to make that clear sooner.)  So what am I trying to do, then?

I'm glad you asked.  I am trying to give you something that will be helpful if you find yourself in a certain state of mind, vis-a-vis the possibiliity of a breakdown of American democracy.  (Actually, it might be helpful in relation to other future possibilities too, if they share certain characteristics: it's a possibility about which we judge that it would be truly awful if it happened, but we lack real confidence in our ability to predict how likely it is.)  Here's a succinct description of the state of mind I am talking about: you are not only uncertain, but also ambivalent.

To expand on that: you are torn, and/or vacillating.  Depending on your mood, or other global aspects of your frame of mind, your thoughts on the subject change: maybe from day to day, maybe even from minute to minute.  And they don't just change in matters of nuance; whatever you find yourself thinking (and feeling) now, it flatly contradicts what you thought and felt a short time ago.

In short, you are trying hard to make up your mind, but you just can't.  You can't get to an answer that you feel comfortable with, sufficiently so to be able to let go of the question, and go forward based on that answer as your final one.

Here's an example of how one might describe this dilemma, so as to make it more specific.

On the one hand, you say: if I think about this in a rational way, it seems like a bad thing that could possibly happen … but not likely enough that I should continue paying attention to it.  There are lots of bad things that could possibly happen, and in my best judgment, this one is not the most important: not the one which most calls for my efforts to prevent or alleviate it.

On the other hand, having said that, you find that you can't put thoughts of this particular threat behind you.  You've told yourself that it's not rational to keep worrying about it, but you do so anyway.  And this worry is interfering with your ability to work on the problems, actual or potential, which you have judged to be more important.

If you're the sort of person that highly values rationality, you might judge yourself harshly for this, saying that the continued worry is a matter of emotion, not reason, and therefore, you should be better able to control your thoughts.  But in practice, so what?  If you can't control them, you can't control them.  And if they are really interfering with your work on other matters—those which your "rational" mind considers more important—then that's a problem in its own right, one which you are going to have to confront whether you want to or not.

So what do you do?

The only answer I have to offer right now is: stay tuned.  I have done what I can to state the (potential) problem clearly; now I must let the matter season, as we Quakers say, before I can formulate a solution … or even, less grandiosely, before I can work out something to say that is likely to be helpful to some readers.

Sorry about that.  I do think I can do it, and I will make a real effort to get it done in a week or so.

Besides, is the delay entirely a bad thing?  Perhaps not, if you're a thoughtful sort of person.  You might gain some real benefit from mulling the matter over yourself, in the meanwhile.  Who knows?  Maybe you'll come up with a better answer than I do.

Or one more helpful to you, at any rate.

Yesterday, I posted something in the Dreamwidth "community journal", "Talk Politics" (https://talkpolitics.dreamwidth.org/).  The title of my new entry is "Natural Selection At Work?", and you can find it here: https://talkpolitics.dreamwidth.org/2190622.html.

If you aren't a regular reader of Talk Politics, I invite you to do one or both of the following: become one, and/or follow the link to read my entry.

It's actually about the social effects of the current pandemic.  The briefest of summaries:

If people don't believe in the dangerousness of the virus, and therefore defy or ignore social distancing regulations, those people are likely to die, of COVID-19, at a greater rate than other people.  If this happens widely enough, then it could have significant effects on social phenomena, such as election results.

Edited 2020-08-18: Changed font.

I think it was some time after Donald Trump was elected, but before he took office.  I read an opinion piece in The New York Times, in which the reader was urged not to forget how abnormal it is to have a president like this.


The writer invoked the analogy of the frog in the pot of water.  You know, where if you increase the temperature of the water gradually enough, the frog will get used to it, and stay right there until he boils to death.  I scoffed: "Human beings wouldn't be that stupid."


It's an effective rhetorical device.  That frog came back to my mind recently, when I started to wonder whether I had been overconfident, earlier, about the ability of humans to perceive danger and respond to it.


And then, by pure coincidence, I stumbled across this Wikipedia page: "List of common misconceptions" (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_common_misconceptions).  Therein it is revealed, among many other fascinating factoids, that the frog story is just not true.  The experiment has been done (I'd like to read the grant proposal, wouldn't you?).  It turns out that, at some temperature well below the boiling point, the frog jumps out of the pot.


So now we know: if Donald Trump is re-elected in 2020, then the American people are dumber than frogs.


 I have a question for you: what do you think are the most important three little words in the English language?

Now, because I used the phrase "three little words," it's likely that the first answer that came to your mind is "I love you."  But if you know me, you'll know that, precisely because I manipulated you into thinking of that answer first, it's quite unlikely that that is the "right answer" in my eyes.


By the way, it isn't my intention to minimize the importance of "I love you."  What I do want to do is to call your attention to the importance of these other three words -- which I'll reveal any minute now, I promise -- because I think they deserve more attention than they usually get.  Perhaps, indeed, my question would have been clearer if I had asked, not for the "most important" three words, but for the most underrated ones, instead.


So.  IMIHO (in my insufficiently humble opinion), the most important, and/or most underrated, three little words in the English language are ...


"I don't know."


What's so important about them?  Well, that's real simple. People make a lot of very bad decisions because they ask themselves "What will happen if I do <whatever>" -- and then, if they like the answer, proceed to do <whatever>, without ever thinking about whether their prediction was certain, or just likely.


Suppose, for example, you were to get into your car, and ask yourself, "Am I going to have an accident on this trip?"  And answer "no," because, well, you probably won't. But then, because the answer was no, you conclude that there's no point in fastening your seat belt.  That's irrational, for obvious reasons, right? (Please say yes.)


If every example of the importance of "I don't know" were like that one, then the importance of it would be one of those things which is true, but doesn't need to be said -- in this case, because it's so obvious.  But not all the examples are like that.


Suppose you are deciding who's going to get your vote for president of your country.  One of the candidate says things like "Only I can fix it." And he makes clear in other ways that, if elected, he will centralize as much power as possible in his own office.  His central message, perhaps not quite explicit, is "Trust me, and I'll take care of everything."


And suppose further you are, in fact, inclined to trust the guy.  Maybe because, unlike other politicians, he seems to be saying what he really thinks.  And so you decide to vote for him.


This, I submit, is highly irrational too, but the reasons why it is irrational may not be quite as obvious as they were in the seat belt example.  After all, you're supposed to make up your own mind, so, if your own gut feeling is that this is the most trustworthy of the candidates, then what's wrong with voting for him on this basis?


Fundamentally, in order to understand what's wrong with it, you need to realize that, no matter how strong your gut feeling is, you don't know for certain that this candidate will prove worthy of that trust.  And therefore, you need also to ask yourself: "What's the downside in case I turn out to be wrong?"


If this is also the one candidate who says he will be a "strong leader" -- will make the decisions himself, not let himself be ordered around by, say, Congress -- then the downside is considerable.  In such a case, it may be more rational to vote for another candidate, one whose record suggests that he will "play by the rules," as set forth in the United States Constitution, even if your gut feel rates this other candidate lower on the personal trustworthiness scale.


I am (perhaps exceedingly!) confident that this, the importance of "I don't know," is, in fact, the fundamental principle behind all the "checks and balances" built into our Constitution.  The people who wrote the thing went to a lot of trouble to (try to) make sure that no one person, or branch, had absolute power. Why did they bother? Because they understood that we can never know for sure who, if anyone, can be trusted that far.


So now you know the rest of the story.


This just in: the President of the United States is nuts.  I know, I know, it's a shock.  I mean, we all had no idea, right?  (Shut up.)

Now here's the bad news.  Just knowing he's crazy, that doesn't tell us exactly what his diagnosis is.  You see, there's more than one way of being crazy ... more than one way, even, of being crazy with the exact same symptoms.

To be able to talk about this more clearly, let's drop the word "crazy" and use "irrational" instead.  We call someone's behavior irrational when we think that it is -- in a way that should be obvious to a normal person -- ineffective in getting him what he wants.  In order to draw that conclusion, though, we have to know, or assume, what it is that he does want.  More often than not, we can't know; we have to assume.  Because more often than not, there's more than one answer to that question (what the person wants) that makes sense in the light of his observed behavior.  Faced with this ambiguity, we generally end up assuming that what the person wants is like what most other people want.

For example, suppose the president frequently says things that are so obviously untrue that hardly anyone is going to believe them.  In fact, it's so obvious (that he won't be believed) that we feel that he must be aware of it.  Or at least, he would realize this if he thought about it.

This is puzzling behavior, because, when a person asserts something, we usually assume that he wants to be believed.  This is a pretty safe assumption if he's telling the truth, or thinks he is.  But it's also pretty safe if he's lying.  What purpose could possibly be served by saying something when, not only do you know it's not true, but you also know that you won't be believed?  (Or "should" know: remember, we've already ruled out simple ignorance as the explanation.)

The behavior is puzzling because we usually expect, by default, that people will act rationally, and that doesn't seem to be the case here.  However, it can be irrational in more than one way.  I will mention two.

The first way we could interpret it is to figure that the president doesn't want what we originally thought he did; in this case, that he doesn't want to be believed.  Why wouldn't he?  Maybe he doesn't want to go on being president.  Maybe he's actually hoping that people will notice that he's acting irrationally, and rescue him from the job in which he feels trapped.

Interestingly, this is not just something that "someone might think": it has actually been put forward as an explanation of President Trump's recent behavior.  In the cases I've seen, the writer doesn't explicitly use the word "unconscious" (as in "has an unconscious desire to be removed from the presidency"), but I take it to be implied.  It's certainly more plausible that way.

But as I said, there could be a different kind of irrationality at play here.  This one's a little harder to explain, but that could be merely because we're not used to talking about it in such detail.

Under this theory, if you ask whether he wants to be believed, the answer isn't a simple "yes" or "no."  Instead, it needs to be something like this: generally, he does want to be believed.  And presumably, he would in this case too ... if he took the time to think about it.

But he didn't.  Someone said something negative about him.  That made him feel bad.  Snapping back and contradicting what they said will make him feel better, so he does that.  The reaction is so automatic that he literally never thinks about whether he will be believed.

This is called being impulsive.  And this, also, has, in the real world, been put forward as an explanation of some of Trump's behavior.  I believe that this is what people are referring to when they say Trump acts like he's nine years old (or thereabouts).

For what it's worth, this seems pretty plausible to me: more plausible, in general, than the theory that he has an unconscious desire to be removed from the presidency.  But that's not very important.  What matters is that both theories have some plausibility; each is sufficiently consistent with the observable facts that it can't be easily, and with certainty, ruled out.

So that's what I meant by different ways of being irrational.  Same observable behavior, different possible explanations of what's going on inside his skull.  What to do?

Perhaps we need to fall back to a behaviorist approach, also known as stimulus-response theory.  The basic idea here: since you can't directly observe what's going on inside the subject's head, don't even try to guess.  Just look for patterns in what stimulus produces what response.  If you think you see a pattern, then ideally, you should confirm it experimentally: predict the response to a new stimulus, apply that stimulus, and see whether your prediction was correct.

Here's a really simple example.  First, the observation from which you will be asked to infer a pattern.  (Normally, one would prefer to have many more observations, but in this case it hardly seems necessary.)  Stimulus: Trump learns that a number of people, who interacted with him one-on-one in the White House, have been saying that he's an idiot.  Response: he produces a tweet saying that he's a genius.

Now the test question.  How do you think Trump would respond if he were told that he is suffering from gravitosis (a disease which I just made up)?  The symptoms, we explain, are that the body feels as if the force of gravity were steadily getting stronger.  And it looks that way from the outside, too.  In a case like his, the prognosis is not good: chances are that, in about two months, he will no longer be able to walk.

What's he gonna do if we talk that way?  My own guess: the next morning, he will deliver himself of a tweet announcing that he can fly.

And then ... this is admittedly less certain, but maybe ... he will declare that he intends to prove it.  The following day at noon, he's going to jump out of Air Force One, from an altitude of ten thousand feet, without a parachute.

If this experiment were to be performed, and the result were to be as I have suggested, then what?  Presumably, everybody with half a brain would then agree that the man is not playing with a full deck.  (Um, right?)  And so someone would lead him away to a nice safe place.

What?  You were thinking of letting him go through with it?  You should be ashamed of yourself.


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